Saturday : May 5, 2007

Margaret sat on the back steps, blinking into the cold grey sky, humming soft and low as little Lilly Boucher finally fell asleep. She didn't know exactly what time it was, but she guessed it was close to sunrise. A twinging ache ran down Margaret's lower back and into her bum. Lilly shifted in Margaret's lap, shivering and hiccuping in her sleep.

"It's alright, Lilly-love," Margaret murmured, low and soft. "You're alright."

Margaret brushed a red curl out of the girl's eyes and sighed. Lilly had crawled into bed with Margaret around three in the morning and cried her heart out, huge gasping sobs shaking her little body, until Margaret was frightened. When Lilly's crying grew more desperate, Margaret abandoned the bedroom and wandered the house, awkwardly carrying the six-year-old in her arms as if she were baby Pete. After hours of pacing, Lilly's cries softened. Margaret had slipped out the back door, desperate for some fresh air and hadn't moved for fear of waking her. Lilly pressed her tear stained face into the soft folds of Margaret's night shirt.

John's shirt.

Margaret raised her sleeve, breathing in the smell of petrol, cheap soap, coffee and cologne that always clung to John's clothes. Had he felt like this when his father died? Margaret shuddered, remembering the aching loss of her own mother, and her arms tightened around Lilly. She was too young for such senseless heartache.

Margaret blinked as light spilled over them from behind. She turned, squinting in the harsh brightness. Hannah stood in the doorway, arms folded, her face a stern indecipherable mask.

"Is she asleep, Miss—Margaret?"

"Did she wake you?"

"Several times," Hannah leaned down and put a hand on Lilly's forehead. "I'll wager you've not slept at all."

"I'll live." Margaret suppressed a small smile as John's favorite retort sprang from her lips.

Hannah's eyebrows quirked a tiny bit, her expression otherwise flat and unwavering. Lilly shivered and Margaret started to rock slowly from side to side, humming softly.

"Fanny cried like that when her father passed," Hannah said suddenly. She gazed out at the sky. It was a lighter grey now, edged in pink and orange at the horizon. "I'd never heard anything like it—as if a part of her was—was dying. And I couldn't stop it."

"What did you do?"

"I couldn't stop it," Hannah murmured again. "Tears don't change anything." She glanced at Lilly, her face hardening. "You ought not be out here. Come inside." Hannah commanded. "It's damp and you'll both catch cold."

Margaret swallowed her own sharp retort. Hannah's apology the day before was still fresh in her mind, but it didn't change the fact that neither of them was terribly fond of the other. But this wasn't the time for quarreling—not with Tom's death hanging over them all like a shadow. Margaret pressed Lilly closer as an ache spread throughout her body—but whether it was the fresh grief for the Boucher children, the loss of her mother, or a new longing for John—Margaret didn't really know. All she really wanted was for him to be here to pull her close and tell her everything would be fine.

But he wasn't here. Not yet.

John hadn't said when he'd come, only that he'd come in the morning. He was certain to be up and already working, and when he did get here, he'd need coffee at the very least. Margaret shifted Lilly and stumbled to her feet, squaring her posture as best she could. There was work to do and when Margaret thought of all the details and planning necessary to bury Tom Boucher, her stomach grew queasy. Her father would help if asked, but Nicholas and Bess were too proud to ask. Margaret doubted Nicholas had the capacity to manage such a task today, hung over as he was. Mary already carried far more than she ought, which left only Bess. But how could she do it while driving a long haul?

Margaret stepped slowly through the kitchen and up the stairs towards his—no, their —bedroom. She stood aimlessly in the large room, empty except for the giant bed which still needed to be moved to their new flat. Moving out seemed impossible now, with everything else swirling around her.

"Don't be selfish, Margaret Ann," she scolded herself. "The Bouchers need you more than you need a private flat."

Margaret tucked Lilly in a cocoon of blankets and picked up her mobile, flinching as the baby shifted and kicked. Her thumb hovered over the buttons. John had come to the bar when she'd asked. Would he help her a second time? Her bitter words to him the night before echoed again and again in her mind.

Margaret sighed. There was too much to do and not enough time to tell John everything she felt she wanted to say. Not today, anyway. But still—

She hit redial, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood.

This is John Thornton. Leave a message.

John glanced up from his book and squinted into the growing light as the sun licked the horizon. Time to get moving. He marched to the threadbare couch, hauled Nick Higgins to his feet, and shoved the man into the cramped bathroom. He flicked on the cold water and pushed Nick under, a fountain of curses pouring out of the old truck driver. John let the water run a full minute until Nick steadied on his feet, scowling.

"Get your shit together, Slick." John growled, slapping the water off and throwing him a towel. "We've got work to do."

"We?" Nick grumbled, scrubbing his face. "ain't no 'we', Master."

"There is now."

John ducked out of the bathroom, pulled out his phone, and grabbed the list of tasks he'd scratched out. First he called the morgue at Saint Anne's Hospital, taking a quick mess of notes. Then he called Richard Hale, filling him in as best he could.

"How can I help?"

"I need a ride. Maggie needs a change of clothes and an extra set of hands. Can you come now?"

"Of course."

When that was done John tossed his hat on the card table and rubbed his face. The rest of his calls would have to wait for regular business hours. Besides, there was more than enough work waiting at the Depot and he didn't have time to waste. John's eyes flicked to his phone and his fingers twitched. Margaret would still be asleep but—

John spent most of the night playing and replaying their argument in the back of his mind, unable to shake the sinking feeling of her words as he worked. He had to make this right—for her and for these kids. John grabbed his phone.

"Did Mary call you?" Nick reappeared, his face dark and thunderous.

"No," John sighed, switched the phone off, and folded his arms. "Maggie did."

"She would be tangled up in this shit," Nick slumped in a chair across from John, sweat building on his forehead. "For the record, I told your wife to stay away weeks ago."

"Did you?"

"You got enough problems of your own." Nick swiped at his face, grimacing, his skin gray, "Figured you don't need ours dragging you down."

"If you puke on this floor, you'll clean it up." John snapped. "And the next time you decide to tell my wife what to do—don't."

"I didn't want trouble."

"You've got it now."

Nick grunted, pressing his eyes closed. "Why're you here, Master?"

"There's a funeral to plan."

"There's little enough money for it. God knows the bastard don't deserve it."

"Maybe not," John tucked his notes into his shirt pocket. "But his kids do. Cremation is cheapest. They'll get him in the ground by Sunday if we skip the rest."

"They?"

"I called Saint Anne's. They'll make arrangements with the funeral home."

"Which one?"

"Pick one."

"Why're you doing this?"

"Somebody has to."

The bedroom door creaked open and the oldest Boucher appeared. He needed to wash and shave.

"Go shower, kid," John said, standing. "Get your brothers up and dressed."

"Go to hell."

"Do what he says, Tommy," Nick snapped.

"Or what?"

John studied the boy for a moment. The boy's face seemed permanently twisted into a scowl. John folded his arms and held the glowering stare until Tommy Boucher dropped his eyes.

"Mouth off to me again, and I'll give you something to cuss about," John stepped closer. Then he dropped his voice so only Tommy could hear. "Your dad is gone, kid. Bitching and swearing won't bring him back."

Tommy's eyes darkened and his face reddened.

"Keep your head up. Take it one day at a time," John said his voice still low. "Your family needs you."

"What the hell do you know about it?" Tommy snapped, tears filling his eyes.

"Too damn much." John swiped up his hat and tugged it into place, glancing at his watch. Richard Hale would be here any minute. "Get your brothers."

Hannah could see the weary lines of tension in John's face when he stepped into the kitchen. He held a little boy by the hand and directed two older boys to sit at the table. Hannah nodded a greeting to Richard Hale as the old vicar appeared behind them. Mr Hale set a small duffle bag by the door and began to help Mary settle the Boucher boys around the table, passing out bowls of oatmeal and orange juice.

John glanced at the doorway. She sighed, handed her son a cup of coffee, and murmured, "She's awake."

He scowled over his coffee, his eyes shooting to the clock. "Already?"

"I don't think she slept much," Hannah said. "The littlest girl kept her up all night."

"Is Maggie upstairs?"

Hannah nodded, "What really happened last night, son?"

John set down his mug and ducked out of the kitchen. Hannah pressed her lips together but she didn't say anything. The more tired he was, the more impossible he was. Richard Hale would tell her everything she needed to know.

John took the stairs three at a time. The sound of crying jerked him to a halt. The low guttural wails dug down into his memories and cemented his boots to the carpet.

"Fan," the whispered word slipped out between his lips.

John shook himself. Fanny hadn't cried like that in years, but his stomach still churned as he moved closer towards the bedroom door. He heard singing. The song wasn't one he recognized but Margaret sang and sang and sang until the animal quality of the crying child lessened.

"Hey, Lilly-love," Margaret murmured, still in a sing song tone. "I'm here."

John swallowed and turned. As much as he wanted—needed—to see Margaret, it could wait. His mother shot him a questioning look when John returned to the kitchen, picked up his coffee, and grabbed the truck keys from the back hook.

"Is everything alright, John?" Richard asked, standing. "Is Margaret—"

"Tell Maggie I'll be back late."

John started his truck, escaping into the early morning. Margaret's singing haunted him, tangling itself around the memory of hollow cries he couldn't ever forget. He jerked out his phone and dialed his lawyer, forcing himself to focus. John briefed him on the situation and the man started spitting out instructions almost before John finished. Steve Pearce talked a mile a minute, leaving John irritated he couldn't really take notes.

"I doubt Boucher has a will or a trust, Steve, but I'll have his next of kin look."

"Do what you can and make certain you get plenty of death certificates." Steve said. "It's a real bitch to go back and—"

"I'll get them."

"Good. Anything else?"

"Not today." John pulled into the lot at the Depot and killed his truck engine. "Thanks for taking my call. I know it's early."

"You pay. I work."

John grunted and hung up. He pulled the list from his pocket and scratched out the next line, then added everything he could remember from Steve's instructions. John shoved the truck door open and dialed the next number on his list.

"Watson, I need a favor."

"If this is about the bed, the answer is no."

"You owe me."

"Since when?"

"Since I covered for your drunken ass at that dinner party last March."

"Do you ever forget anything?"

"No."

Watson sighed, "Fine."

Bess lay on the very top of her trailer, arms and legs damp with the morning chill. Sunrise was her favorite time of day, the sky painted from gray to blue-pink then orange and gold. Her cell phone was ringing in the cab but she didn't have the energy to move, let alone talk.

It was Margaret calling. Bess knew her sister couldn't carry their shit this long without help. Mary always went to Margaret. Bess blinked, a shaft of sunlight breaking through the new spring leaves, warming her clothes. The ringing stopped. They'd probably found her dad by now, sloshed and out for the count. The phone began to ring again.

Bess closed her eyes. Margaret meant well but she didn't understand. Nobody could understand hell unless they walked through it. But she would try and she would keep calling until she got her way. Stubborn ass woman. Bess almost smiled. Margaret really was perfect for John Thornton. She'd enjoyed watching John and Margaret falter and fumble the moment they laid eyes on each other. The smile refused to come and Bess stopped trying. Lately it seemed to her their story was unraveling too fast to see where it would end. Life could be a real bitch. Maybe Margaret understood a little bit of hell after all.

The radio crackled in the cab.

"Master To Milker, What's your twenty? Over."

"Shit."

Bess scrambled to her hands and knees, shimmied from the trailer roof onto the cab, and hopped down to the hood. She jumped to the asphalt, stumbled, and then clambered inside, snatching the handset.

"Milker to Master, ETA eight hours. Over."

"Get your ass on the road. Over." John's voice was stern over the radio.

He knew—about Tom, about her dad—everything. Bess swore. Nothing she'd ever told her best friend was sacred now. Stupid married people.

She clicked the radio. "Are you going to fire my dad?"

There was a long stretch of silence and Bess's stomach lurched. She already knew the answer. How were they going to scrape along on one lousy income? Forget birthdays and Christmas. They'd be lucky to afford enough food. Still the radio remained silent. Then she realized her mistake.

"Over."

"Not today." The connection popped, cutting out for a moment. "I'll take care of things on this end. Williams will keep you up to date. Get to work, Bess. Over and out."

Bess slapped the radio receiver into place and leaned back, sitting in stunned silence. For the first time in her life, her boss had done the unexpected and she didn't know what to think. John Thornton never allowed his private life, or anyone else's, to interfere with his work and yet—

"What have you done to him, Marg?"

Bess doubted even John could answer that question. She sighed and started her truck, a stab of guilt making her grimace. She owed Mary an apology. And a hug.

Margaret forced down another swallow of cold coffee and gagged, her eyes heavy with fatigue. She'd finally coaxed Lilly to sleep again, but it hadn't lasted. The little girl clung to Margaret as if she were an anchor. Now Lilly was dozing at the table, her face splotched and swollen from crying, her little hand still in Margaret's. Her father had taken the boys and Janie out to get ice cream. Mary was upstairs napping with baby Pete. Even Mrs Thornton had gone.

Tears of exhaustion and frustration leaked down Margaret's cheeks and she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to swallow more coffee. She'd missed John and the empty house taunted her. A familiar flare of anger—that he'd come and gone like a ghost without even trying to find her—washed over Margaret and mingled with a disappointment so sharp it almost hurt. Was he still angry with her?

Margaret shoved her own anger aside as the tumbling list of things she had to do ran through her mind. Planning her mother's funeral was a nightmare but she'd had Henry Lennox to help sort out the money and legal details.

Now she had no one.

Margaret grimaced, and swallowed hard as her stomach rolled. She rushed to the sink, vomiting the coffee and the small meal she'd managed to choke down earlier. Her stomach continued to heave even when it was empty. Margaret trembled, lowering herself to the floor when she finished. A soft small hand slipped into hers.

"Does it hurt to have a baby inside you?" Lilly asked, leaning her head against Margaret.

"No, not exactly," Margaret said, still shaking. "It doesn't hurt."

"Do you like it?"

"Not today," Margaret tried to smile. "Sometimes I like it."

"When?"

Margaret thought a moment, rubbing a hand over her rounded belly. The baby shifted and kicked.

"When my baby moves."

"Does he like being in there?"

"This baby likes rolling around like a little puppy." She smiled, placing Lilly's hand over the spot as the baby kicked again. "Isn't that lovely?"

Lilly's face didn't change, her eyes too serious and sad for a six-year-old girl, "Will you like being a mommy?"

"Yes," Margaret tucked a red curl behind Lilly's ear. "Would you like to be a mummy?"

"I don't think my mommy liked it at all,"Lilly said softly and she pulled her hand away.

"Neither did mine."

Margaret shivered as she allowed herself to whisper the horrible words. They weren't exactly true but they weren't entirely false either. Maria Hale endured a difficult life, peppered with nothing but sickness and hardship. Margaret pressed her eyes closed, trying to wrestle down her thoughts and fears and grief.

She desperately needed sleep but it would have to wait. She also needed to be making arrangements for Tom's funeral, but Lilly couldn't be left alone. And she needed John. The thought slammed into her so hard Margaret raised a hand to her mouth. She glanced at the door, as if she could force him to walk through it. A small bag sat by the door.

She stood, curious, and picked up the bag, examining its contents. Inside was her favourite dress, fresh under clothes, and a few other necessities. Lilly poked the bag.

"What is it?"

"Clean clothes." Her father must have brought them from his house. She started crying again. He never thought about things like this. Margaret could have kissed him. "Shall we get dressed, Lilly-love? Won't that be nice?"

Lilly nodded.

The phone on John's desk rang three times before he noticed. He set his coffee down, ended his call with the funeral home, and picked up the handset.

"Marlborough Shipping Depot. John Thornton speaking."

"This is Janine Bailey with social services. You may not remember me, Mr Thornton, but—"

"I know who you are. You work with my mother."

"I do. She called me about the Boucher children."

John swallowed a curse, and sat heavily. He didn't need another problem to solve right now.

"Nicholas Higgins is under investigation by—"

"Janine, you can't put those kids in foster care." John tossed his hat on his desk. "Not right after their dad killed himself."

"My hands are tied, John. It's less than ideal—"

"It's fucked and you know it."

"The court will review their case on Tuesday. Make sure Higgins is there. Officers will—"

"Leave them with me and my wife," he interrupted. "At least until Tuesday."

"That's generous but you're not a great candidate for guardianship."

"Like hell I'm not," John retorted. "I've got connections all over this town. I've got a job, a wife, and a kid. I attend Saint Peter's Anglican Church. What else does the judge need?"

"You also live in a tiny one bedroom apartment, your business is two steps from going under, and your marriage was a hasty bandaid for an indiscretion with a barely consenting teenage girl." Janine fired back. "Besides all that, court approval can take weeks, sometimes months."

"Fair enough," John clenched he handset in his fist, trying to wrestle his temper under control. "I might be one step from hell but I'm better than foster care."

"I know," She snapped. "Look, I got the judge to issue orders for the Boucher children to remain with your mother until the hearing on Tuesday. I just got off the phone and she's agreed."

"My mother," John leaned slowly back in his chair, "agreed to keep Boucher's kids?"

"Until Tuesday."

"Are we talking about the same Hannah Thornton?"

"Her volunteer work with our offices and the hospital makes her an excellent choice. The judge wasn't difficult to persuade."

"I'll be damned."

"I'm honestly more surprised by your offer than your mother agreeing to keep them," Janine said, her voice shifting from a professional tone. "But then you always were unpredictable."

"Do you need anything else from me?" John shifted in his chair. "I've got a shit load to do and not enough hours in the day."

"I'll be in touch."

Hannah Thornton watched silently as Margaret and the small Boucher girl—Janine had said her name was Lilly—wandered from room to room in the large house. Margaret was talking, low and quiet, a constant soft stream of words that seemed to relax the little girl. Margaret pointed to the pictures on the walls and explained who was in them and where they were taken. She talked about the piano and the potted plants and the rugs, Hannah's crosstich—everything and anything.

At least the child was no longer crying. Hannah shivered and pushed herself to her feet. The rooms upstairs needed to be rearranged now that the children were staying. Janine Bailey was on her way with the paperwork. The funeral was set for Sunday afternoon. There were still flowers to order, clothing for the children to clean, and food to arrange. Something bumped overhead and Hannah frowned. The sound of voices came from the front hall along with more thumping.

"What on earth?"

Hannah hurried into the foyer. The front door was wide open, a spare key sitting in the lock. Only two people had a key to the Thornton home outside the family. Hannah marched up the stairs, straight to John's bedroom where she found Watson and four of his younger brothers crouched around the bed, drills in hand, making quick work of the four poster frame. The mattress was leaning precariously against one wall, a bundle of linens next to it.

"Watson, why are you in my house?"

"Afternoon, Miss Hannah,"

His brothers added their greeting to his. Hannah nodded stiffly.

"Would you care to explain what you're doing?"

"Moving the bed," Watson stood and shoved a fistful of screws into his jeans pocket. "John called."

"Why now?"

"He wants the bed moved in by tonight." Watson and his brother Judah lifted the headboard between them. "And I owe him a favor."

"Everyone owes John a favor," Jed quipped.

Hannah digested this information as the men ferried the pieces of the frame and the mattress from the empty room. She'd refused to talk to John about his plans to move, even as she'd watched him pack up his and Margaret's belongings. Maybe she'd hoped he would change his mind. A foolish hope. Nothing could change John Thornton once he'd decided what he wanted.

And what he wanted was a home of his own.

Margaret allowed herself to chatter about the house to Lilly even as she tried to process the last few hours. She'd called the funeral home, the hospital, and even the bank where Mary said her uncle kept his money. But each time she was met with the same response. Everything regarding Tom Boucher's affairs was being taken care of. The funeral home had even provided Margaret with the time of the burial service the following day and asked if she wished to send a card. Margaret rubbed her eyes. Someone must have called before her, but her tired mind refused to do anything except be relieved. Perhaps Nicholas wasn't as unreliable as she supposed.

"This is my favorite room" Margaret said, pushing open the door to the abandoned study.

"Why?"

"It's quiet and it's practically made of books."

Lilly surveyed the cramped and crowded space with wide eyes. For the first time all day, she let go of Margaret, stepping towards the oak roll top desk in the corner where a dusty old typewriter sat.

"Is this yours?" Lilly asked, eyes still glued to the typewriter.

"Not mine. It's probably Mrs Thornton's."

Lilly snatched her hand away.

"It's alright, Lilly, you won't hurt it," Margaret frowned as the little girl pressed herself into her side. "Besides, I'm a Mrs Thornton too. So maybe it's mine after all."

"How?"

"Mr Thornton asked me to marry him." Margaret held out her hand where her rings sat, "He gave me these. Aren't they nice?"

"Did he give you that?" Lilly pointed at the typewriter.

"No, but I'm sure he would if I asked."

"Because he loves you."

"Yes," Margaret swallowed. "He does."

Lilly nodded, "And you love him."

Margaret sat heavily on the old sofa. She couldn't bring herself to contradict Lilly's pronouncement, but it left a wary uneasiness in her chest. She jumped as the door opened. Lilly shrank back against the wall, white and trembling as Mrs Thornton appeared.

"I thought you might be here," Hannah said.

"We'll go if—"

"These books need to be packed." The older woman produced a stack of flattened alcohol boxes and a roll of tape. "John will want them."

"The—the books?" Margaret repeated, glancing at the walls. "All of them?"

"They're his books and he'll want them," Hannah repeated. She set down the packing materials, her face and posture rigid. "It's long past time John had his own home."

"It's just a flat."

"It's a start," Hannah folded her hands. "Pack what you can and Watson will take them with the bed."

"The bed?"

"Watson is here moving the bed to your apartment."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

Margaret blinked back sudden tears, a surge of relief washing over her. "That's very kind of him. Please tell him thank you."

Hannah nodded and left. Margaret stared at the shelves for a long moment. She didn't know if she loved John—not like Lilly thought—but for the first time since their marriage, Margaret wished she did love him. And that almost made her feel worse.

She grabbed the tape and a box, "Which books should we pack first, Lilly-love?"

Lilly thought for a moment, finally stepping out of the curtains where she'd hidden herself, "His favourite ones."

Margaret nodded, sliding two volumes of Plato off the shelf.

By the time John finished the last of the day's work, it was long past midnight. The big stone house was dark, stern, and silent, except for a single lamp. He sighed and roughed his hair. He'd spent the whole damn day talking and wrangling with people. John didn't think he had enough energy left to manage his mother.

He leaned against the door frame, watching her sew steadily.

"Sit down," Hannah said, hands still working. "You're dead on your feet."

"We're not staying." John said, keeping his voice low and firm.

"I gathered as much," Hannah finally looked up. "She's in the study."

He nodded, bent down, and kissed her hair, "Go to bed."

John moved through the dark house, listening to the building shift and sigh around him. He'd carried Margaret to bed every night after their fight about Edith's wedding. He shoved aside a nagging sensation of dread and pushed open the study door. This time was different. Margaret was curled up on the sofa, buried under an old quilt, sleeping soundly. Stacks of books and boxes were scattered around her.

John scooped her up, and walked silently back to his truck.

Margaret's eyes refused to open, even when the grating rumble of an engine suddenly died away. Lilly was fine. Mary had taken her after dinner. Margaret was too tired to get up and check. She was warm and cozy. The muffled sound of footsteps and someone breathing washed over her as the warmth shifted. She snuggled closer, comforted by the familiar smell of petrol, soap, coffee, and cologne. It was a safe smell, like home.

Like John.

Margaret blinked heavily, squinting against the glaring light. John was carrying her, slowly and steadily, up a flight of stairs. She blinked again at the ugly painted walls. He paused, shifted her in his arms, jabbing a key into the lock of a black door. The brass number on the door glinted in the harsh light.

Their flat on Drapers Street.

John kicked the door shut, plunging them into merciful darkness, and turned the bolt. Margaret stayed still as he carefully maneuvered through the tiny apartment into the only bedroom and set her gently on the bed. Their bed. He slipped off her shoes and pulled her quilt around her. And then he ran a hand lightly over her stomach,

"Hey kid."

When John turned and started to empty his pockets onto the bureau, Margaret sat up slowly. She heard the clink of his keys, the slap of his wallet, the thump of his pen knife. The bed shifted as he sat, yanking off his boots and setting them aside. His socks would be next, followed by his shirt, undershirt, belt, and trousers—everything deliberate and carefully done.

Margaret pressed a hand over her mouth. It wasn't Nicholas who called the hospital, the funeral home, or the bank. And it wasn't her father who remembered her clean clothes or Watson who arranged to move the bed to their flat. It was too ordered and rational, too careful and deliberate. Like everything John did. The dull clank of his gun startled her as he set it on the nightstand. She could hear John's breathing change almost instantly as he lay down. Margaret scooted closer—before he drifted off, before she lost her nerve—and kissed him, long and slow and deep.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," he grumbled, pulling her closer.

"I'm not tired."

"Liar."

Margaret brushed a thumb against his scratchy cheek. Even though she'd promised herself she would try to love him, she'd been so afraid. But now? Margaret leaned down and kissed him again. They were both exhausted and worn thin and she was still frightened, but right now she just didn't care. And apparently he didn't either. It was quick but intense, and she stayed curled up next to him after, unwilling to move. Margaret might not be in love with John, but—

She wanted to be.

Could she really try to fall in love with him? Was love even like that?

She hoped so.

AN : You lot are fantastic. Thanks for being so patient. I wrote three different versions of this chapter trying to get it right (and got distracted with my "Cut to the Chase" one shots. Check them out!) I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. Drop a review and let me know. Thanks for reading. Cheers.