A/N: So happy to my readers Kymby, Elena, and Joel Shell! My enthusiasm levels are immeasurable, knowing you're still with me after all this time (and all these chapters!)
Margaret had changed into a simple black dress and low pumps, an outfit that was decidedly less formal than the red dress of Saturday, and yet it bested the blouse and pants she'd worn to their Sunday picnic. When Charles emerged from his chambers next door, his tie was gone and he'd changed his trousers, yet he was carrying what appeared to be a blazer under one arm.
"You look very nice," Margaret commented, eyeing him up. She hadn't expected him to be dressed so well for a dinner in the self-described dump that was Chelsea.
"I could say the same for you," Charles said, his tone restrained, giving her a little bow of the head. The deeply vulnerable man Margaret had encountered upon her arrival to Boston seemed to be rapidly fading away, replaced by a return to the Charles Emerson Winchester III of old, a man with more poise than candor. Strangely enough, the fact that he was apparently recovering from his anguish was both good and bad. The Charles Winchester of the M.A.S.H. 4077th was too self-important to concern himself with her, yet the broken Charles described by his sister Honoria, the Charles she'd known these last couple of days, the man who suddenly disappeared after this last embrace, was an entirely different man.
As they reached the Buick Roadmaster, Charles held out his hand expectantly.
"Considering that I grew up in Boston, I would be more than happy to drive us to dinner," he commented. "Besides, getting lost in Chelsea is often the advent of a missing persons case around here."
"Do you prefer steak or seafood?" Charles asked, briefly turning to address Margaret as they drove slowly along the cobblestone streets that characterized Beacon Hill. Her dress was rather plain but was surprisingly short, or perhaps it was due to the cross-legged way she was sitting in the car.
"I didn't think Chelsea had such options," she remarked with a shrug. "I guess I'd choose steak, if that's even possible. I've definitely had my fill of seafood—particularly sushi—for at least another year or so."
"Steak it is," Charles said with a grin. "I figured as much. I know just the place. Your taste buds will soon be crying out in ecstasy."
"In Chelsea? I thought if anything, I'd be crying out in terror there."
"You'll see."
"This isn't Chelsea," Margaret remarked, distinctly recalling that they would have to cross at least two bridges in order to travel to the Chelsea neighborhood on a due north course. And yet, it seemed as if Charles had made a very large circle without crossing a single river. In fact, they seemed to be flanking the fabled Boston Common of Charles's youth for the entirety of their short journey to the restaurant.
"Very perceptive, Margaret," Charles said with a grin, pulling his car along the curb. After putting the Buick in park, he pulled a tie out of his blazer and threw it about his neck to tie it.
"You just drove us in a circle, didn't you? We're only a couple of blocks from your house!"
"Nothing gets past you," Charles commented, his grin spreading. "We are in fact in the heart of Beacon Hill, my old stomping grounds. The Paramount there," he said, pointing to what appeared to be a small eatery with a red awning, "is a Boston tradition and has surprisingly good steak at a reasonable price point. Are you up to it?"
"Aren't you worried your surgeon buddies will see us here?"
"I considered that. Yet, as you can probably surmise from here, the Paramount has very little seating. Not only that, but its seating policy is something you've probably not heard of before."
"What's that?"
"We will in fact be made to pay first without being seated, and once our food is ready, a table will open up." He looked down at her feet, remembering yesterday. "I hope those shoes are comfortable."
"I'm surprised you would condescend to wait," Margaret replied, peering down at her pumps. "That doesn't sound like you."
"Yes, well, on occasion I like to commiserate with the less fortunate," he replied dryly. "Experiencing how others must subsist, albeit briefly, keeps me grounded."
It was the kind of statement Charles would have made in the throes of his egotistical rants, and Margaret frowned. Unnoticing of her expression, Charles continued speaking.
"Well, we should get in line if we hope to eat tonight."
The Paramount was a long skinny restaurant, cluttered with tables, with dim chandeliers serving as guides to help a patron walk to the back of the venue, which was set up like a bistro, with a large menu on the wall behind a counter. It was an odd place, appearing to be a fine dining restaurant upon entry to the building, but in fact losing its refinement entirely at the back of the building.
As Charles promptly pulled out a wad of cash to pay for the dinner, he'd reminded her of what she presumed he'd left behind in Korea.
"You put your wallet away this instant, Margaret," he insisted, gazing patronizingly at her as she'd opened her wallet. "A Winchester always pays for a meal."
"I told you I would treat us—"
"Nonsense," he said, handing over his cash. "You've many expenses in the near future—an apartment, furniture—with your first paycheck lagging a couple of weeks behind. I would like to lessen your burden, so to speak."
Margaret rolled her eyes, disliking Charles's new dismissiveness. Accustomed to getting her way, she had expected to pay for their meal as she said she would. Conventional machismo and vulnerability were mutually exclusive, so why was Charles behaving like this in light of what she'd told him?
Twenty or so minutes later, as Margaret sat at the small square table, she peered down at her sirloin steak and over at the same dish in front of her companion. Unlike their first Boston dinner at the French restaurant, Margaret now seemed to be sitting with an entirely different person: Major Ego, the purveyor of culture and sophistication. As edgy and unstable as he'd been at Marliave, the remarkably smug way he was regarding her now, with little backhanded compliments and haughty remarks as they'd waited for their food, was far more unnerving.
"Now, Margaret," he said patronizingly, peering down at the way she was holding her knife and fork, "there is a reason for why the silverware is positioned where it is. The knife is for the right hand—and that is in fact a salad fork you are holding. A reminder that this is Boston," he chuckled. "and not Korea, or some Army base in the boondocks."
Her eyes shot up immediately at the comment, a sour taste in her mouth. She'd convinced herself that Charles Winchester was harboring deeper feelings for her, but it simply could not be; their worlds were too different. Unbeknownst to him, Margaret had driven into Chelsea today to get her refund from the Stanley Hotel today, and was surprised to not find the dump that Charles had described it as being. In fact, she felt far more at ease than she'd ever thought possible as she spotted people much like herself moving about the neighborhood: people driving Fords, Chevys and Buicks, people striding along in last season's hats and worn shoes and wrinkled pants.
"Oh, is that right?" Margaret shot back, promptly stabbing a piece of steak with the knife and lifting it to her mouth as he winced with embarrassment. "Why bring me here, then?" she added. "I would've eaten in Chelsea. Clearly I'm not high-class enough to be seen in Beacon Hill and with a Winchester, no less."
"As a surgical nurse at Boston Mercy, there will be times when you will be invited for soirees with colleagues," he replied. "I am simply coaching you on proper dining etiquette, to prevent any sort of faux pas on your part."
"I guess all that time I spent making all new friends at school every two years when my family moved to the next base should have been spent practicing holding forks then, huh?" she snapped back, the volume of her voice rising.
"I'm sorry, Margaret," Charles muttered, hoping to not exacerbate her growing anger. "I misspoke. You are in fact left-handed, are you not? In that case, you would, in fact, be holding your utensils correctly—"
"Aren't there more important things to talk about than this?" she interrupted. "I don't give a damn how you hold your fork. I really don't."
"I would argue it's because it doesn't inherently attract attention when held correctly. But I can understand that a change in subject is—"
"How can you be so—yourself?" Margaret spat. It certainly hadn't come out the way she'd meant it, but she hoped its intentions were clear.
"I'm not certain what you mean," Charles replied, a look of concern, of hurt, in his eyes.
"I'm saying, the man I was with on Saturday and Sunday is not the man sitting here now."
For several tense moments, Charles didn't know how to reply. He could only gape at her, having frozen his hands in place hovering over the steak in preparation to cut the meat.
"Are you referring to me, or were you also out with some other—"
"This is what I'm talking about!" Margaret exclaimed, throwing her arms up in frustration. "What kind of comment is that, anyway? Ugh!"
"Margaret, let's not play coy here," he murmured lowly, leaning forward conspiratorially, "you are enamored of the opposite sex and you tend to fall head over heels with incredible rapidity."
"Oh, is that what you think?" she spat, leaning back and crossing her arms. "Well, you are—whatever the opposite of that is! Now, the Charles from this weekend, now that version of you was…." she trailed off, having caught herself in the midst of a reverie.
"Surely you realize, Margaret, that it is your presence here that is in fact healing me, as my sister Honoria intended when she contacted you. Ergo, I become more and more like myself."
"Healing you? Making a big scab, is more like it," Margaret huffed.
"A scab?" Charles said in a loud whisper, his pretentiousness fading, the distress in his face obvious. "Are you calling me a scab?"
"Take it as you will," she replied. "Now that I've seen you—really seen you—I realize all of this—" she said, gesturing at him and his tie and the restaurant, "—is just a façade. A big crusty scab hiding the real you, the Charles I was with this weekend."
"Are you saying you prefer me to be broken, like some kind of… retired polo pony?"
"Not broken—genuine."
"Genuinely deranged, is more like it," he snorted with a roll of the eyes, simultaneously revolted and amused by Margaret's confession. His hands had finally become unfrozen and had begun cutting his steak again. "I am surprised at you, Margaret. The best I have to offer as a colleague, as a friend, is the experience that hundreds of years of good breeding has afforded me. And as a soon-to-be permanent resident of Boston, it would only benefit you to know someone whose family in fact is one of only a small subset of influential families that made Boston what it is today."
"I'd have to disagree with you," she responded, shaking her head. "That's not the best of what you have to offer. In fact, I wouldn't even call it an asset."
Now he was chuckling, his face expressing bemusement.
"Surely you jest."
"Do you ever wonder why we didn't really hit it off when you first arrived at the 4077th?" she asked. "Besides the fact that I was still married to Donald, of course."
"I would think that reason alone is good enough."
"It was because of your ego. You constantly had to remind me of our difference in status, in breeding, in everything. I couldn't stand it."
"Well, it certainly wasn't intentional, Margaret," he responded, taken aback by her commentary. "I thought we had quite the… collegial relationship."
"Yeah, well, that's all it ever could be."
Now Charles was swallowing, his eyes wide with apprehension. The Margaret who'd been so patient with him, who'd packed him a picnic and taken off his shoes and socks, the Margaret who'd willingly fallen asleep next to him along the esplanade, the Margaret who'd hugged him with such warmth and enthusiasm not once but thrice—was that the last he'd be seeing of her?
"What are you saying?" he said, beginning to sweat. "I'm having difficulty understanding what exactly it is you are implying."
"I'm glad you feel you're getting better, I really am," she began, touching his hand. "I'm glad my being here is healing you. But I'm also sad."
"Why?"
"Because I had only just gotten to know you… and now you're gone."