The funeral of Maria Hale was a subdued occasion. Although she had never been a churchgoer, she had always appreciated the gothic architecture and stained glass artwork of an enormous basilica in the oldest part of Milton. Having little family and a solitary nature her mourners were few, barely filling the first three pews, but the loss they felt was monumental. After the brief service, John marched downstairs with the rest and tried very hard to disappear into the wood paneled wall. The only people he wanted to talk to were Richard and Margaret, but they had been surrounded thus far.
"Hey, John." He'd been so distracted he didn't notice Dixon joining him. Both men were tall enough to feel claustrophobic under the low ceiling but had very little in common aside from their height. John decided that this man was the least bothersome of all the vaguely familiar faces in the room and welcomed his company under the circumstances.
"Hello, Dixon," he returned the greeting with as much warmth as he could manage. "Have you moved to your next position yet?" John asked after they'd dispensed with the usual pleasantries.
"No, I'm going to stick around for a bit. I'm worried about Richard."
"Me too," he admitted. Mr. Hale looked to have aged ten years in the last four days. Margaret must have been concerned as well because she was never far from his side. "How's Maggie holding up?"
"She's doing okay," Dixon said, giving the man a look to indicate that he thought John would know better than him. "She's tough, she'll make it."
John wasn't so sure. He couldn't stop himself from making a comparison between the girl across the room and the one he'd met almost a year ago. That first day, Margaret almost cracked her skull on the pavement trying to protect her beloved camera and few nights before, John watched her smash it to pieces. He knew she wasn't all right. What eluded him, however, was what he should do.
"Dad, you should eat something," Margaret urged from over her father's shoulder. Ignoring the plate she put in front of him, he dismissed the suggestion and stood to refill his coffee cup for the fourth time. In his absence, Mary Higgins approached to offer her condolences.
Margaret thanked her graciously, but was sidetracked by the three children that shuffled along in her wake. The two girls looked nearly identical, but must have been a year or two apart in age, which she guessed to be 7 and 8. The boy, who might have been 13, was much taller, although the hem of his pants suggested that the growth spurt was fairly recent. "Who do we have here?"
"This is Emma," Mary introduced from shortest to tallest, "Maddie and Logan…Boucher."
"Boucher?" Margaret blurted out, unable to hide her surprise. "Why… wh-where are their parents?" she asked in what she thought was a discreet whisper.
"No one knows where Mr. Boucher is," the girl replied lightly, "and Mrs. B asked me to watch the kids while she… er—dealt with some family matters."
"Two days ago," interjected the sullen teenaged boy. "Connie's not coming back."
"Shut up," squealed the older of the girls. "Mom wouldn't leave us!" The boy jeered something back causing one sister to kick him in the shins and the other to run away in tears.
"Emma!" Mary called out. "I'm sorry, Maggie. I'll get them out of here," she said, dragging the other two away sternly.
"Noah!" Nick's familiar voice drifted over in the grave whisper that every parent uses when trying to discipline a child in church. "Maggie, could you—"
"Got him!" she declared, scooping up the toddler before he had the chance to bolt past. He squirmed, but she held him easily, and when Nick caught up the boy went slack in peevish contrition. "Another one of Boucher's?" Margaret guessed, awkwardly transferring him to the arms of his gruff babysitter.
"Noah's the youngest," he nodded.
"How long will you be looking after them?"
"Until Boucher decides to darken my doorstep…" Nick shrugged in irritation. "Or we go bankrupt," he went on, "You won't believe how much Logan eats."
"How's the job hunt coming along?"
"It's not," he said flatly. "Crickets so far." Margaret tried to reassure him but he refused her words of encouragement. "I've got my hands full anyway." He hoisted Noah a few inches higher as proof, but there was an acrimonious note in his speech.
"Did you apply at Malborough Electrics?" she asked, unable to stop her gaze from sliding to a certain long legged manufacturer.
"I applied there, I applied everywhere. 'No positions currently open'," he recited dismally.
"Maybe you should try again," she suggested cautiously. "If you talked to John—uh, Mr. Thornton," Margaret corrected a second too late. Nick raised his eyebrows at her familiarity with the man, drawing the same conclusion at everyone else in Milton.
"If you talked to him personally," she pressed on, casting her eyes down to study her hands, "I think he would help you. He's a much kinder man than anyone gives him credit for."
"You want me to beg?" he questioned stiffly. Nick set the little boy on his feet but kept a firm hand on his shoulder to prevent him from fleeing again.
"I want you not to lose your house!"
"Nicholas, thank you for coming," Mr. Hale returned, addressing him fondly, unaware of the mounting tension. "Maria was so proud of you and your transformation," he effused, his voice cracking with emotion. "Any luck finding work?"
"No, not yet," Nick muttered, softening in the presence of Richard's grief. "But I've still got a few leads to run down." He fell silent and allowed the new widower to offer words of advice and reassurance.
Feeling that her father was sufficiently diverted Margaret took the opportunity to slip away. She felt marginally better after a slight emotional collapse in the bathroom and a splash of cold water on her face, but any good was undone when she ran into Hannah Thornton.
"She said what to you?!" Edith was appalled when Margaret rehashed the funeral with her cousin a few days later. She'd been deferred by a sick baby and was trying to make up for it by calling continually.
"She didn't use those exact words," she admitted, pinning the phone to her ear with her shoulder while she made her father's lunch. "…but she implied that with a deceased mother and a bereaved father, I should never be outdoors after dark and certainly not with a man." In the moment Margaret had been furious but in retrospect she had to laugh at the absurdity.
"Then, she had the nerve to say that she was scolding me out of duty to my mom, like I'm some girl-gone-wild and St. Maria's last wish was for me to shape up." If anything, the opposite was true. Margaret's biggest regret about that night was that she didn't have the chance to tell her all about the bar fight her children were involved in. She would have had such a good laugh at that.
"Has she ever met your mom?" Edith sputtered. "I should have been there! As soon as this baby stops leaking green sludge out of his face, I'd like to have a little chat with that old bag."
"Stand down, Eddie," Margaret soothed. "The sad thing is she really thought she was doing a good deed."
"Oh, god…What would she have said if she was trying to be mean?"
"I don't even want to know."
"I've got to go, Mags. Charlie just sneezed and I think I might throw up." Edith was frequently guilty of oversharing. "How is it possible that the stuff coming out of his butt is less disgusting than the stuff coming out of his nose?"
"I don't know but I'd rather not get into while preparing food. I'll talk to you later," she promised, pulling the phone away from her ear as the baby wailed in the background.
A knock on the front door hurried their goodbyes.
"You'll call if you need anything," Edith commanded. "I mean it, anything. I could send you a pizza every four hours like clockwork!"
"Tempting." Margaret didn't know what she needed but was fairly certain that it couldn't be delivered to her door, no matter how old the Lennox's money was. "Get well soon, Charlie! Bye, Eddie."
Abandoning the sandwich, she rushed to the door. What she absolutely did not need was another potted plant with a sympathy card attached. She'd killed two orchids already and it was doing nothing to improve her mood.
"John," she exclaimed in surprise. Something inside her brightened at the sight of him, but dimmed just as quickly. She couldn't explain things to John any more than she could to his mother and therefore had no hope of repairing their stormy relationship. "Come in," she said unable to meet his eyes. "Dad'll be glad to see you."
"How is he?" he asked, following her into the kitchen where she started searching the pantry for anything to add to the meager attempt at lunch on the counter.
"He's not eating, barely sleeping." Margaret didn't look like she was faring much better. John wondered what Dixon would consider doing terrible if this was 'okay.' Noticing the way her hands shook, he picked up the tray before she had the chance and made his way upstairs to Richard's study.
"I'd offer you something to eat but," she said trailing in his wake, "that plate represents the last of our supplies until Dixon gets back from the store." Passing her door, he couldn't resist a peek inside. An unmade bed and a cluttered desk, nothing out of the ordinary. "Unless you count the casseroles my aunt Linda made before she left."
"Which I don't," Richard chimed in, having heard their conversation from down the hall. "No meat, no dairy, no gluten. What does that leave?" he grumbled from his desk. "Bird feed!"
"It's very healthy," Margaret supplied as consolation, moving around John to clear a space for the tray. Her father seemed flustered by her rearranging his work but gave up trying to stop her. They'd already had this fight at breakfast. She wasn't going to let him starve whether he liked it or not.
"All I'm saying is if there's no cheese, no meat and no noodles you can't call it lasagna. Call it something else so I don't get my hopes up." He sounded tired and irritable however, in greeting his friend his tone warmed considerably. John tried to converse normally, managing to get Richard started on the subject of his work which promised to keep him distracted for at least an hour. Although he seemed content to lose himself in debating the merit of the required reading for today's junior high schools, he hardly touched the food in front of him.
Margaret fell into one of the comfortably worn chairs while John leaned against the desk, paging through one of Richard's books. He intended to disregard her completely, not wanting to admit how much the current state of their relationship bothered him. Despite this personal oath, he couldn't help but be pleased that Margaret seemed somewhat recovered since he'd arrived. When answering the door she looked strained to the point of breakdown. Now, hugging her knees, her head lolled back and she dozed off, the solid set of her jaw relaxing for the first time in days. No thanks to the stranger, John mused triumphantly.
Richard noticed too, dropping his voice to a rasping whisper.
"John, you'll take care of Maggie, won't you?" he requested quietly. "Just promise you'll look out for her."
"Of course," the younger man replied without a second thought. "I promise."
"Less talking," Margaret mumbled, startling both of them. "More eating." Her eyes remained closed but John was certain her mouth curved slightly. Her father's retort was interrupted by another knock on the door. "Place your bets, boys," she said, springing up faster than seemed possible. "Will it be lilies or roses?"
In the end it was neither. It was not a delivery man at the door, but a detective. He introduced himself, flashing a badge and asked to come inside to ask a few questions. Margaret nodded, too shocked to speak, and led him into the kitchen knowing anything in the living room would be overheard upstairs. Her head spun with terrible possibilities as she offered him a cup of coffee. Even though he politely declined she set a pot to brew anyway, hoping to disguise her nervousness within the familiar motions.
"Is something wrong, Miss Hale?" Detective McShane asked, perceiving her unease without difficulty.
"My mother," she stammered, "she passed away. The funeral was Saturday. We're still…adjusting. My father isn't taking it very well."
"I'm so sorry," he said, seeming genuinely apologetic. "I'll try not to take up too much of your time."
"What is this about?" she asked, alarmed by how shrill her voice sounded.
"On the evening of the 14th, you were involved in an incident at The Blue Goose." He looked down to consult his notes. "Can you tell me how the fight started?"
"I wasn't there," she lied. Suddenly remembering all the threats Leo made if Fred slipped up, Margaret decided in that split-second that she wouldn't let it come to that. With her mother's departure still fresh, she was fully committed to doing whatever necessary to protect her brother. "The 14th? That was Tuesday, right? That was the night my mom died. I was at the hospital."
"You weren't there? I have a witness that says Erik Boucher was talking to you before the fight broke out. Are you sure you're remembering the date correctly?" He was skeptical but remained considerate to her recent loss.
"What does Boucher have to do with this?"
"So you know him?"
"Yes, well—I've met him." Under his penetrating gaze, she couldn't stop herself from rambling on. "Nick Higgins and his daughter Mary are friends of mine. They live across the street from him… They're watching his kids while he's…away."
"So you've heard that he's missing?"
"Mary told me at the funeral."
"His body was found in the river yesterday." Margaret couldn't breathe. "The last place he was seen alive was that bar and, according to my source, the last person he talked to was you."
"It wasn't me. I wasn't there," she repeated hollowly.
"You're certain? You weren't there at all?" She nodded resolutely. Turning back, she meant to show him the door, but almost collided with John instead. "What are you doing here?" the detective questioned in surprise.
"Just stopped in for lunch," he replied carefully. He'd heard half the conversation, knew Margaret was lying but couldn't understand why. He walked to the cupboard having learned long ago where the coffee mugs were kept, and poured himself a cup.
"We're out of cream," Margaret informed him numbly.
"I'll survive," he muttered. "What's going on, Ross? Does Margaret need a lawyer?"
"I don't think so. I'm just trying to get some facts straight here." The man's voice became more natural in talking to John. Margaret couldn't decide if the obvious rapport between the two would help or hurt her. Her mind raced, her heart pounded, and she couldn't feel her fingers, but on the surface she appeared simply exhausted and a little annoyed. Both of which seemed understandable.
"You're actually next on my list."
"Chips told me you called," John confessed. "I didn't realized it was official business. I would've called you back." He thought it was about the weekly basketball game they played on Sunday mornings.
"That's okay. It's just about that mess on Tuesday night."
"At the Goose?"
"So, you were there?" John nodded and stole a glance at Margaret over the brim of his cup. "And, Miss Hale wasn't with you?"
"No, I was there to see Sparky. He helps me out with my bike."
"Isn't it time you put that thing out of its misery?" the detective joked. "Were you involved in the fight?" he asked, shifting back to matter that brought him.
"You could say that…" John replied, rubbing his knuckles against his jaw sheepishly. "I just tried to break it up."
"Did you see how it started?"
"Boucher was drunk. He was bothering a girl—"
"Not Miss Hale?" Margaret stiffened, wishing she could run. She might have, except she wasn't positive her feet would come with her.
"No." Until then he'd told the truth, in a roundabout way, but with that single word he dove headfirst into her deception. "I didn't recognize the girl or the man with her."
"Could you hear what they were saying?"
"It was Boucher's usual rant. I don't think it had anything to do with the couple." John shrugged casually. "Near as I can tell, the guy asked him to step back, maybe pushed a little and Boucher, being that he was sloshed, fell."
"That's it?"
"The guy went to help him up, but Boucher took a swing at him."
"And, did you see the couple after the fight?"
"No, they were gone before it was over. Boucher was there 'til bar close though," he added helpfully. "Do you really think those two had anything to do with his death?"
"Mainly just ruling things out at this point," Detective McShane said, scribbling more notes. "He had some issues with a bookie a few weeks ago, I thought maybe the tussle had something to do with that." Flipping his notebook closed, he looked up, shaking his head in frustration. "It's looking like he walked home, three sheets…fell in the river. What a waste…
"I'm sorry to have bothered you, Miss Hale," he apologized. "The witness was so sure it was you." It took Margaret a moment to realize he was talking to her again and when she tried to respond no sound came out.
"I'm sure they recognized me," John interceded. "Must have assumed…brown hair, about the right height… had to be Maggie with me." He moved to her side, slipping his arm around her rigid shoulders as if he'd done it a thousand times. If he was surprised by how much she leaned into him he didn't show it. Looking down, he raised one dark eyebrow hinting that she should say something now.
"You didn't tell me about a fight," she murmured hoarsely.
"It didn't seem important…considering everything else."
"Well, I'll be going," McShane announced, suddenly feeling like an intruder. "Thank you for your time and again, I'm sorry for your loss." He nodded to Margaret and shook John's hand before showing himself out.
Once alone, John dropped the arm that encircled her, expecting Margaret to extract herself from his hold as soon as possible. Except she didn't move. If anything, she leaned more heavily against him.
"Maggie?" he uttered, reestablishing his grip upon seeing the color drain from her face. The figure in his grasp went limp, her head falling against his chest as he supported her. Her nerves were the only thing holding her together at that point and in letting go of her momentary fear Margaret lost herself completely.
It didn't last long. She came around a few seconds later. Her body straightened up but she didn't pull away. As she always seemed to in moments like this Margaret found his collarbone, resting her forehead there as tears of relief spilled from her eyes.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid…" she babbled over and over again. "So stupid. Why did I do that? I thought that was it…that he'd be ruined…but it was nothing…" she went on breathlessly. "It was all for nothing…"
"Who would be ruined?" John demanded quietly. "Maggie, why did you lie? Who was that man with you?" He held her at arm's length, forcing her to look up at him.
"It—"she started to explain, prepared to tell him everything, but just then the back door opened and Dixon burst in with four grocery bags hanging off each arm. They jumped apart, Margaret hastily wiping her cheeks and John clearing his throat. Both tried to greet the caretaker naturally but the man wasn't fooled. They were alone again when he went back for another load, however the air between them had changed. Margaret's defenses were back up and John's jealousy toward the stranger she would lie for overtook the concern that engulfed him a minute ago.
"Maggie?" Richard called down from the top of the stairs. "Is someone here?"
"Just Dixon with the groceries," she yelled back, grateful that he couldn't see her. "You can't tell him," she whispered to John hearing the descent of footsteps. "Please, I'm begging you! Not a word!" She clutched his sleeve desperately, knowing that her father's constitution could not bear a worry about Fred. Even one that turned out to be unfounded.
"Do you love him?"
"What?"
"The guy at the bar, at the hospital? Do you love him?" he repeated bitterly.
"Well—yes, but you don't understand!" John eyed her intensely, pulling his arm away. She knew he had every right to be furious, but couldn't see that it was only hurt and disappointment in his eyes. "I can't explain…just please, don't say anything to my dad!"
John didn't even hear the end of her sentence. He strode to the door without a word to Margaret and, tossing a quick farewell to Mr. Hale as he passed, was gone.
Although he'd walked away from her so many times, this one felt different. It stung. Like never before she wanted to chase after him when he left.
Her father stopped her, not intentionally or even knowingly. He needed her and it was a call Margaret would never ignore.
John seethed all the way back to his office. Where was he? Where was that spineless jerk? It was bad enough that he wasn't there for Margaret at the funeral but to make her lie for him? Letting her fall apart on his behalf? John found it unforgivable.
"Come in!" John shouted in response to the timid knock on his office door.
"Did you go home at all last night?" Mr. Chipping asked worriedly, forgetting the obligatory 'good morning.' A mumbled snarl was the only reply. He placed a cup of coffee on the desk and walked to each of the windows, opening the blinds and ignoring the string of curses from his boss. "There's someone here to see you."
"Who?"
"A Mr. Higgins."
"What does he want?" he snapped.
"Says he needs to speak to you. He's waiting outside." John pushed himself up and, tucking his shirt in as he went, stalked to the small lobby outside his office.
"Higgins?" He recognized him from Maria's funeral and guessed by his name that this was Bess's father.
"Mr. Thornton," Nick said, standing hastily.
"What is it you want?" asked John tiredly.
"A job," he replied, sensing that the man's mood would only tolerate simple answers. Turned out, John's mood couldn't even cope with that.
"I'm not in charge of hiring. You want Stew Osgood. Chips can pass your résumé to him if you want." He turned back in dismissal, but Nick intercepted him.
"I already did that," he countered.
"And?" John was growing more impatient by the second.
"He said there's no positions open," the older man admitted. "But you don't understand. I need a job!"
"If Stew said there's no openings, there's no openings," John shrugged, pushing past him.
"If it was just me…fine," Nick acquiesced. "But, I've got four kids at home," he pleaded.
"This is a place of business, not a charity!" John slammed his office door with enough force to rattle the frosted glass. He ordered Chips out a moment later, telling him he'd be fired if he let anyone else in without an appointment.
It took John a few hours of mind numbing paperwork to cool down, then a few more to work up the nerve to ask forgiveness of his assistant.
"Yes, Mr. Thornton?" Chips answered, the formality of previous years returning to his voice.
"I'm sorry, Felix." He rarely used the man's first name, but thought it important now. "I was out of line earlier. I shouldn't have shouted at you. I hope you'll accept my apology," he said, hand to his heart in sincerity.
"You should eat something, John." It was after two and he hadn't had a speck of food all day. "And, get some sleep. You look terrible."
"Not a bad idea," he agreed wearily. "Why don't you go home early today?"
"No arguments here." Chips went to the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. "What do you want me to do about Mr. Higgins?" he asked, nodding toward the waiting area.
"He came back?"
"He never left." John cringed, hating himself even more.
"Go home, Chips. I'll talk to him."
"See you in the morning."
Nick sat up a little straighter as John approached but stared at the carpet stubbornly. The younger of the two collapsed into a seat a few chairs down from the elder.
"Why did you come to me?"
"I'm a man. Why do we ever do anything we don't want to?" he asked rhetorically. "A woman." John nodded in consensus.
"Margaret?"
"She said you're a kind man, that you'd give me a chance."
Kind? He'd been called many things in his life, usually expletives, but never kind. Where does that get me? John wondered cynically. Not into the girl's confidence nor her arms. He didn't care that she expected him to lie for her. With recovered composure he knew she must have a good reason, never doubting her morality. But, why couldn't she explain it to him? Doesn't she trust me? After everything that's happened, doesn't she know that I would never do anything that would hurt her?
"So what sort of work can you do?" he enquired not wanting to dwell any longer on Margaret's lack of faith in him.
"Any work that needs doing," Nick replied confidently. "I'm a fast learner and I can fix anything, but I'd be happy to sweep the floors." He began to sound more desperate as he continued.
John sighed scanning the résumé extended his way but, thinking of Bess. He only met her a few times and was unaware of the extent of her health issues. Even in ignorance though, he always found her sharp and exceptionally positive. He wondered what kind of void that left in this man's life now that she was gone. He thought of Richard too, having to adjust to a world without Maria. Recalling his childish behavior that morning, he couldn't help but feel ashamed.
Maybe Maggie's right. Hot-headed and arrogant, I really am a horse's ass, he conceded. But, she'd also called me kind…
"One of our conveyors is broken," John disclosed, rising and walking to rummage in a nearby cupboard, "Can't get a repairman here until Friday." He returned with an operator's manual twice the size of Milton's phonebook and lobbed it into Nick's lap. "If you can fix it before then, you've got a job."
The machinery was back in working order by the time John arrived for work the next day. As promised he put Nick on the payroll.