The first weeks of the Harrows' marriage involved neither hotels nor days alone in a secluded lakeside cabin, but instead were lived in the guest room of the Darmody beach house and consisted of comforting Tommy and helping Jimmy. Some nights, when Clara lay alone in the guest bed listening to Jimmy talk to her husband she longed for the weeks spent at Richard's, weeks where she wore nothing to bed and didn't have to share his attention.

And nothing was resolved. Her father wouldn't even speak to her. She'd called the house and sent a note. Margaret had replied, sending best wishes and a lovely pair of silver candlesticks. Nothing, not even screaming, from her father. Even as a child Clara had particularly hated when her father punished her by ignoring her existence. Clara sighed. Silence was better than some of the alternatives, she thought. For weeks Richard and Jimmy had been searching for the butcher without luck and surveying the Klansmen. She knew what was coming. It must be done, she told herself as she bathed Tommy and burnt meals and tried to work out how households ran. Honestly, it would have been easier to take over running the entire Ritz (well, when there wasn't a strike) then trying to run one single house. But there was goodness in the difficult days, and moments of happiness in the difficult, grief soaked days.

Still, she feared what she knew was coming and the things that were only real in her darkest imaginings.

When Jimmy and Richard went to leave that August morning she could feel how far away Richard was from her even as he said goodbye and knew today was the day. Come back, she thought as he walked away. I don't care about the rest, just come back.

She was grateful for the inescapability of housework and Tommy's needs. They went swimming and played in the sand. Once more she made ham sandwiches and made Tommy drink milk and eat an apple to relieve some of her guilt over what she fed him, although she didn't refuse either of them Oreo cookies for dessert. Swimming wore him out, so he went down easily for his nap. Clara escaped to the sunroom to write while he slept. The deadline for her new Ruth Fielding novel loomed, but instead of focusing on Ruth's adventures she stared out the window and worried about what Richard and Jimmy were doing. The KKK. Clara knew they were made up of the baker, the paperboy, and the telegraph operator but she also knew they were crazy. Why else would they run around in sheets? Newly intimate with the struggle of laundry, Clara shuddered at what keeping those ridiculous outfits clean must entail. And then they were going into Chalky's territory, and...

Stop, she told herself firmly. Stop. Richard and Jimmy are more than capable. What must be done must be done. The strike must be brought to a close before the entirety of the summer was lost, before Jimmy lost all control of the city. He was going to try and save Father, save Eli once he made things right with Chalky White. And killing those horrid Klansmen could never be wrong, could it?

Clara tried to push away the image of her father and uncle being strapped to the electric chair. Or, her heart quickened, what if this all went wrong and it was Jimmy or Richard? The prosecutor's voice was back in her head, asking if every man she loved was a murderer. People like the prosecutor, life must be so easy for people like them, she thought. So black and white, so completely lacking in shading or complexities.

Jimmy and Richard were trying to save them all. That was what was important, she decided. That, and waking up with Richard's legs entwined with hers while Jimmy woke in the room down the hall from his son. That's what she held dear. That's what mattered. Everything else was just detail.

Tommy would be up soon, she thought and forced her mind to consider Ruth's most recent predicament. No more had she hit her stride than she heard Tommy's feet coming down the stairs. With a sigh, she covered her typewriter. She'd barely written a quarter of what she set out to write. Before she could do anything else, the messenger from the stationary store came with her order. Rose must be the first person she wrote using her new stationery, she'd write to her tonight, Clara decided.

Errands, chores, and snacks took up the rest of the day. She started by gathering the laundry to take to the laundress. Richard had gathered his clothes and Tommy's, but she had to get the linen and Jimmy's. Clara sighed. Jimmy's room was a disaster. Tommy went and got a new box from the service porch, and Clara began throwing the rubbish in it. Countless empty bottles, and more of those damned paper packets. Ashes in everything but ashtrays. Empty matchbooks and cigarette packs abounded. Jimmy's clothes were everywhere, and his undershirts, shirts, and sheets were all stained by the oozing blood of his wound. Shouldn't that be getting better, Clara thought. She should probably make Jimmy send for the doctor.

She was also slowed down because she couldn't find the burlap sacks for the kitchen laundry anywhere. Another box had to be procured. Tommy had a meltdown as they prepared to leave, and it occurred to her he was probably hungry so she made a piece of bread with jam and let him take it with him. She sent a silent apology to Richard about what was about to happen to the car. At the library Tommy chose a stack of picture books while Clara sought out books about housekeeping and raising children. After all, there must be somehow, she reasoned, to arrange Tommy's schedule and handle the house and still have time to write and time to think. Richard helped more than most men, she'd already hired a laundress to take care of that dreadful chore, and they'd found a woman to come in and take care of the heavy cleaning once a week...and even with that, which was far more help than Angela had, she felt like she was drowning. How had Angela ever had time to paint or spend afternoons talking to her?

Back at home Clara had to face her least favorite task, lighting the oven. Lighting the burners wasn't terrible, but she couldn't shake every horror story she'd ever heard about people blowing up their houses just by lighting their oven.

Richard had shown her how to use kitchen shears to cut up the chicken into pieces, but the feel of the scissors slicing through the meat made her think of the Commodore and made her hate the task even more. Giving into Tommy's entreaties to help her, she sat him on his knees in a chair and he dipped the chicken pieces in flour and seasoning. After she put the potatoes on to boil she remembered no bed had linen, so she and Tommy went upstairs to remake the beds.

Tommy put clean towels out in the bathrooms while Clara put clean sheets on the beds, pinning the corners into place because she couldn't figure out how to make the sheets stay in place otherwise. By time time she remembered dinner the potato water had boiled away. It didn't help, Clara thought bitterly, to try and do things efficiently. The potatoes weren't yet stuck to the pan, something that had happened a few nights before, so she added more water and hoped for the best.

Tommy played with his soldiers while she finished dinner. Clara leaned against the doorway and watched him for a moment as he told his soldiers some complicated tale that sounded like a compilation of her own stories about the mermaids of Atlantis, the book they read last night, and the war stories Jimmy told him. He really was such a darling boy, she thought, even if he ate all the time, had an amazing instinct for interrupting her private moments with Richard, and said her name at least ten thousand times a day.

"Dinner is ready, go wash your hands," she told him.

"Will it be as bad as last time?" Tommy asked seriously, and Clara winced as she remembered the abomination she'd served two nights ago.

"Hopefully not," she answered, not making any promises.

She watched Tommy carefully try the chicken (dark meat only, off the bone, cut into pieces), the peas, the potatoes, and the tomatoes. Nothing was touching anything else. She had learned that lesson.

He looked up at her and smiled. "It's not awful!"

High praise, she thought and started eating her own dinner.

Tommy was eating strawberries and cream for dessert while Clara attacked the astounding pile of dishes they'd created in one day. One. Tomorrow they'd be another pile of dishes. And there was the whole kitchen to wipe down, she had to remember to set out the milk jugs for the milkman, and as always there was sand everywhere.

A noise startled them both. Clara turned and thought she saw someone in the yard. Was it the butcher, still looking for Jimmy?

"Tommy, go play the game," she whispered. Out of fear when they moved back into the beach house, she'd impressed on Tommy the importance of the game of hiding until only she, Jimmy, or Richard told him to come out.

As he ran up the stairs she grabbed the shotgun from the service porch and quickly loaded two shells. Her heart was pounding so loudly she couldn't hear anything else.

The silhouette grew clearer. Someone was definitely outside. Clara cocked the shotgun.

"Clara? You inside?" A familiar, young male voice called from the window. "I'm not sure what door to use?"

"Willie?" Clara asked, her heart in her throat. It was Eli and June's oldest boy. What was he doing here? "Come around back."

Clara sat the shotgun down, horrified that she almost shot her cousin.

"Hey, Clara. My mother sent a letter to you."

"Tommy, come down!" Clara called up. "Everything is okay."

Tommy hesitantly peered down the stairs and then ran down and attached to her leg. She knew he wouldn't let go for the remainder of the evening. Willie ate the rest of the dessert before he left, and she put the leftovers from dinner into the icebox and forwent finishing the dishes or sweeping sand off the floor (no matter how much she swept there was always more, she thought bitterly).

"How about I put you down in our bed and Richard can carry you to your room when he and Daddy come home?"

Tommy nodded, but by the time Clara got him bathed and into pajamas he was sobbing for his mother. Her head was slamming against her skull, and worry for Richard and Jimmy was souring her stomach and making her regret eating dinner. She lay next to Tommy, rubbing his back and telling him about the adventures of the mermaids until he finally fell asleep clutching his stuffed cow. She locked the bedroom door, and placed the shotgun under her side of the bed.

From the sunroom she'd brought up her manuscript and the new box of stationary. She sat in bed and handwrote revisions and outlined the rest of the chapters until her hand ached. What she wanted to do was pace, and being trapped in the bedroom with the sleeping Tommy made her feel like a caged animal. She picked up a notecard to write to Rose, but couldn't think of what to say that wouldn't worry her.

It was well after midnight when she heard familiar footsteps on the porch. She lifted the shotgun and silently made her way to the bedroom door.

"Fuck a bear," Jimmy's voice drifted up the staircase. Clara wasn't going to classify what he was doing as singing.

"Clara?" Richard called out, hearing the bedroom door open.

"Just making sure it was you." Clara bit back a sigh. "Tommy's in our bed. When you come up, will you carry him to his room?."

First, she forced herself to be grateful they were back and well. Hopefully they accomplished what needed to be accomplished. That feeling lasted a few minutes.

We haven't even married a week, Clara thought as she flopped down on the bed. So sure, I'm absolutely thrilled about my husband spending even more time with Jimmy, instead of coming upstairs to be with me. It's just perfectly fine. I absolutely wanted to spend the time we should be on our honeymoon cleaning house, cooking, taking care of Tommy, and being sent upstairs like a child while the men talk. It's exactly how I imagined these days would be. How many nights have I already gone to bed to the sound of them talking downstairs?

You are being unfair, she told herself. Jimmy's mourning Angela. Richard's being a good friend, he's just so loyal, he's just...

He's just not necessarily the most loyal to me, Clara thought and the idea burned at her. It was one of things we needed to talk about, but instead, we got married. I still don't know where we are going to live, or how? Do we leave and start a new life, or is he forever going to be Jimmy's point man?

Tommy kicked her as she considered. She moved his legs away from her and fixed the pillow under his head. Oh, poor kiddo, she thought. How could she leave Tommy?

Shamefully, Clara felt hot tears slide down her cheeks. She looked at the wall, beyond which her friend-Jimmy's wife, Tommy's mother-had been slaughtered. A better person would be crying for her friend, Clara realized, for the child next to her, for Jimmy downstairs.

Downstairs Jimmy poured two more bourbons as he continued to tell war stories. The good ones, about the hijinks in the trenches. The ones where he told the center of the story but not the edges, not telling that as his friend sang Jimmy's feet were rotting from trench foot or all of their fingers were covered in rat bites from the rodents that snacked on them whenever they grabbed a few minutes of sleep.

"I'd be alone. Mmm. For days on end. Going from blind to blind. Just water. Rations. Rifle. And then I'd go back. To camp. And the boys would be joking. And I'd think. This is where I'm meant to be."

Jimmy stared down at his friend. Fuck that. The whole goddamn war was a mistake. The bodies in the trenches, the boy caught in the barbed wire, Clara under a table thinking she was going to die, the piece of his thigh that was now a permanent resident of France, the half of Richard's face that never came home. All a mistake. All things that shouldn't have happened.

"Nobody was meant to be there," Jimmy said, tossing back the rest of his drink.

"But that's. Where we were." Richard looked down at the floor for a long moment, testing out what he wanted to say. "We're still there. Aren't we?" There's still blood on my hands, Richard thought. You tell me to kill someone, I do it. Avenge Pearl, keep Clara safe, end a strike, right a wrong, benefit a liquor deal, I do what I must to protect you.

"It's time to come home, Richard."

"How?" Richard whispered. Upstairs, Clara lay waiting, expecting him to pick up Tommy and carry him to bed. The last skin he'd touched was that of the men they'd tied up, tossed in the truck, and delivered to Chalky White, so how could the next flesh under his hands be that of an innocent child or his wife? He'd shot a man, threatened to shoot more, but it was those he trussed up who were in his mind tonight. Scalping Jackson Parkhurst had been his slowest death. He liked to be quick, just get the job done. The men they'd delivered to Chalky were going to die slow, were probably still dying. It wasn't even part of his job to decide if they deserved it.

Fuck, Jimmy thought. "I don't know. But promise me you'll try." He was silent for a moment.

"They need you, Richard," Jimmy said, and then motioned with his jaw towards the second floor. "Sometimes I think I should tell you to take them and run, go buy a hardware store and change your names and never tell me or Nucky where Clara and Tommy are. Angela...I never came back. Even with Pearl..."

It was the way Richard looked at him that made Jimmy think about Memorial Day. How Richard looked that night, Jimmy's decision to send him to Clara after they did away with Parkhurst. I owe you, Clara, Jimmy thought.

"You can't go away from her. Her mother did that. Long before Clara found Mabel on the bathroom floor, her mother abandoned Clara little by little. Don't do that. It'd kill her, Rich."

Jimmy kept Richard talking for longer, even though he knew he should let him go upstairs to Clara, because Jimmy knew what was waiting for him. The silence. The darkness. Nothing to hold back his guilt, nothing to stop him from thinking about Angela, about Pearl, about Gillian. Even in death, he couldn't bring himself to be faithful to Angela. But also his guilt about the rest. What happened with Nucky. The images of the war. His growing acceptance that he no longer had a future.

The gambit tonight needed to work to free Clara and Richard, to ensure Tommy's safety, even if his own life was already forfeit. Jimmy had made his peace with Chalky White. Now he had to jpray Chalky would convince Nucky to see him.

When Richard went upstairs he found Tommy asleep with his feet against Clara's hip. Moonlight glinted off something on the floor, and he saw the shotgun laying where Clara could easily grab it. The hairs on the back of his neck raised. Something had badly scared Clara.

When he lifted Tommy off the bed the boy curled against him. It's why he and Jimmy did what they did, he thought as he settled Tommy into his own room. Afterwards, he tried to scrub the feel of the night off his skin. Coming back into their bedroom he picked up the pile of papers and pencil Clara had fallen asleep with and placed them on the dresser. A cardboard box sat there, the lid askew. When he went to close it he saw it was some kind of fancy paper. The variety of paper Clara used always fascinated him. What sort was this? He knew he was delaying getting into bed with her, but he was also interested. Lifting one, he saw they were made of the heavy, creamy paper all of Clara's stationery was made of, but instead of her name they were engraved with the letters R, H, C.

Clara wasn't certain what time it was when she felt the bed dip and heard the familiar sound of tin striking wood. Still half asleep she rolled towards him.

It was like rolling into a marble statue. He was absolutely rigid and she could feel the tension rise when she pressed against him. Still lost in a fog of sleep, her mind leaped to the idea he no longer even wanted this from her. She pulled back like his skin had scorched her.

Clara stretching across his side felt normal, like any other night. It wasn't, though, and he couldn't bear for her to touch him. He had bathed and was wearing clean linen. There was no outward sign of what he did, he knew, but the night after a kill was always tormenting. These nights invited the darkness back, darkness he knew he deserved. He didn't want the darkness touching her. Still, when Clara pulled away it felt like a slap. She knows, he thought, and now can't bear to touch me.

Waking up fully, the realization hit her like a gut punch. Oh, he's killed someone tonight, she thought, and remembered what he'd looked like when he showed up at the Ritz Memorial Day night. Was he like this after he'd saved her from the d'Alessios? She had been so out of it she couldn't recall. When he and Jimmy had gone to Philadelphia to take care of the rest of the d'Alessios he had largely avoided her until Thanksgiving.