Monday: July 2, 2007
The next morning, John was up before the sun and headed into town in less than fifteen minutes, determined to keep his promise. The Blanding office was small but well kept by Mitchell Bailey, a crusty old bastard the Thorntons had known since before John was born.
"Have you met the fancy new lawyer?" Bailey asked, pouring another round of coffee as they began the tedious task of sorting through current contracts and expenses in order to put together a detailed budget report for Mr Bell.
"No," John tossed aside a stack of files and checked his watch. He figured Margaret wouldn't be awake for at least two more hours. Probably more. He shifted his feet, restless and antsy. It took every bit of his concentration to keep his mind on the task at hand rather than let it wander back to his wife. "Mr Bell goes through lawyers the same way he goes through women."
"Sure does." Bailey snorted and shook his head. "Some high and mighty hotshot from England this time. Harry or Henry Leonards or Leroy or something."
John grunted, "Good for him."
"I'll tell you what though. He's a royal pain in the ass. Called us six times last week to ask the same dumb-ass questions. I bit my own tongue out to keep from telling him to fuck off."
"You give him my number and I'll do it for you."
" 'Preciate that." Bailey grinned, "You know, I about ate my hat when I heard you got yourself hitched, Johnny. Never thought you had it in you, always working your ass into the ground too much to use it. Then you run off to that big city and found a wife. I hope she's pretty."
John stiffened as Bailey continued to jabber on. He was the only person who called him Johnny and got away with it. John cleared his throat, keeping his focus on the work in front of him.
"I suppose you was bound to trip into your own mess sooner or later," Bailey continued, adding more files to the pile spread out on the desk. He chuckled. "Too much like your old man. Did he ever tell you about his conversation with her daddy after he done knocked your mama up?"
"When did Jennings get back to you with the quarterly reports?" John ignored the cold pit rolling over in his stomach. He didn't want to talk about how similar his current situation was to his own father's mistakes. But Bailey was too old for John to tell him to shut up. at least not directly.
The older man raised his eyebrows, and shrugged, "He's taking his sorry sweet time about it. Won't be ready until after the fourth."
"Lazy bastard."
"If everyone worked the way you do, we'd all be in the grave before fifty."
"At least shit would get done," John grumbled.
"Are you taking the missus out to the carnival on Wednesday?"
"Maybe."
" You ought to bring her and that baby down here for good, Johnny." Bailey groaned as he lowered himself into a chair. "Get rid of that mansion in Milton and you could buy a house near the river, maybe. You're a southern boy at heart, no matter what your mama said."
John paused and pushed his hat back on his head. He'd moved to Milton for his mother and Fanny's sake but he'd never liked the city. It didn't take him long to give up on his mother ever returning to South Carolina. But Bailey was right. The idea worked it's way into the forefront of his mind and refused to be shoved aside. If he sold the big stone house in Milton, he could afford an actual house for Margaret and the baby in Blanding, instead of their shitty apartment. Fanny was old enough to blaze her own path, and if John's intuition was right, Watson would propose sooner rather than later. As for his mother, she might bitch and moan but she'd get over it. John realized he'd like nothing better than to have his own family and his own damn life, far away from Milton—away from everything he'd spent the last fourteen years trying to bury.
But what would Margaret say?
It was a half baked plan at best and he needed to think.
"I'll take these home," John picked up a large stack of files, "You work on the rest."
"All of them?"
"See you tomorrow, same time."
Bailey sighed but he nodded.
Margaret allowed herself a leisurely lie in, blinking awake when she heard the rumbling growl of John's truck. She slipped back into a dreamy doze, thinking he'd come find her once all his paperwork was completed for the day. But when he didn't appear, she crawled out of bed, showered, dressed, and went looking for him.
The kitchen table was littered with stacks papers and files. Margaret shuffled a few aside, glancing over the figures and charts, but they barely looked touched. The oven clock showed it was almost noon. Next to the stacks of files lay a pile of lightbulbs and a few empty packages. The bulbs were all blown. She frowned, set the papers aside, and continued her search. Margaret discovered John's tool kit out in the hallway, and a small step stool leaning against the wall. When she opened the large oak front door, the pronounced squeal from the old hinges was gone, the slippery smell of oil reaching her sensitive nose.
She stepped out onto the porch and inhaled deeply, enjoying the cozy warmth of the bright sunshine. No wonder John loved this place. The fresh air and the silence suited him far more than the grey hustle and bustle of Milton. She wandered around the side of the house, towards the fenced swimming pool. The cover was off and neatly rolled out of the way, the water had been cleared of leaves and debris, the net dripped steadily from its hooks, the electric vacuum was running along the bottom of the pool, and the chemist kit sat on one of the tables.
"Good heavens," Margaret muttered, and rubbed her eyes.
John was always up at ungodly hours, and he clearly hadn't taken a break all morning. But where was he? She returned to the house and methodically checked each of the rooms. When a soft sound from the library finally reached her ears, Margaret's heart skipped a little bit in her chest. A strange nervous feeling spread over her stomach, her skin rippling with goose flesh. In spite of the loveliness of the day before she felt oddly shy being here alone with John. It felt—almost normal—like a proper family.
She shook herself and peered through the half open library door. Neat stacks of leather bound books littered the hardwood floor, the cozy leather chairs, and several small marble topped tables. John stood with his back to her, his hat turned around backwards, rearranging the top shelf of the built-in bookcases lining the expansive room. Margaret let her eyes travel over him as he worked, smiling to herself. He crouched, his knees popping a little, shifted through the stacks at his feet, swore under his breath, and stood, his arms full of books.
"You really are bad at this aren't you?"
John glanced over his shoulder, "Bad at what?"
"Taking a holiday." Margaret wove through the stacks of books, shifted a pile out of the way, and settled into the corner of the old fashioned leather couch, yawning. "In the last six hours you've gone in to work, started the budget report for Mr Bell, replaced all the blown out bulbs, oiled the squeaky door hinges, cleaned the pool, and now you're reorganizing the library."
John shrugged. "I told you I hate doing nothing."
"But we're on our honeymoon," Margaret stretched. "You're supposed to be enjoying yourself not playing librarian."
"These books were a damn mess," John replied, turning back to the shelf. "Whoever Mr Bell hired to arrange this library doesn't know shit about organisation."
"Just because you find a problem, doesn't mean you have to be the one to fix it, John Thornton." Margaret retorted, rolling her eyes. "Starting now, you're going to have a proper holiday."
"Doing what?"
"I don't know. Put those down," Margaret hauled herself to her feet and began taking the books out of John's arms, setting them aside. "What do you do for fun?"
"Work."
"Fun, John." Margaret crossed her arms, irritated by his cheeky response, "No work allowed."
"Shooting."
"No guns, please."
"Fishing."
"Boring."
"Swimming."
"I didn't bring a bathing suit."
John raised an eyebrow, "Why not?"
"I've never been much for swimming," Margaret said, blushing a little. She'd never liked herself in a bathing suit and hadn't bought one in over five years. She doubted the ill fitting purple nonsense at the bottom of her closet would've been much help. "Besides I look horrid in a bathing suit."
"Bullshit," John took her hand and began gently towing her after him.
"What are you doing?" Margaret demanded as he swiped his keys from the hall table. She tried to pull her hand back but he didn't let go as he led her out the front door.
"We're going swimming."
"But I don't have—"
"We're going to buy one."
Blanding, South Carolina was the kind of city that felt like a cozy American town, with quaint little shops and restaurants but with the added amenities of a well-developed college city. John parked the truck along a charming little street and led the way into a small clothing store.
"Pick one," he gestured to the display of bathing suits.
"I can't just pick one," Margaret crossed her arms. "It's not 'one-size-fits-all', you know."
"Maggie, this isn't rocket science."
"No, but it's also not that simple." She gestured to her rounded belly, "This baby won't fit into any of those. And maternity wear is ugly and expensive."
John glanced at her stomach and then back at the display. When he shot her a sly look a moment later, she shifted warily.
"What?"
He took her hand and pulled her around the first display to a second, larger display of bikinis.
"Oh no—"
"Hell yes." John grinned, pleased at his own quick thinking. "Baby problem solved."
"I might as well swim naked."
His smile grew wider his imagination took off with that pleasant thought, "That's not a terrible idea—"
"No." Margaret turned and then sucked in a sharp breath. "Oh John, look."
"What?"
"They have little baby ones," Margaret gushed, pulling out a small blue pair of trunks from the rack and held them over her stomach. "They're so tiny and cute!"
"And expensive," John grabbed the tag. "Shit. That's almost as much as an adult pair."
"Let's get one."
"Why? The kid's still in the cooker, Maggie."
"First, these are darling." Margaret held up the trunks. "Second, we're on holiday. And third, our baby is coming out eventually."
John made a face. "We don't even know if the kid's a boy or a girl."
"So we get one of each," she smiled, bouncing on her toes. "I chose the trunks for a boy. You pick something for a girl."
"They'll be a year old before they can even wear it."
Margaret rolled her eyes, "That's why they come in different sizes, love."
John snapped his eyes up from the baby swimsuits to look at his wife, feeling like she'd smacked him with a two by four. Margaret continued talking, oblivious of what she'd said. Or maybe he'd heard her wrong. He wasn't sure with the sounds of the crowded store mixing with the constant stream of pop music blasting from the radio.
"John, are you even listening?"
He swallowed, his pulse quickening. His ears were sharp as shit and always had been. He'd bet the whole damn farm he'd heard exactly what he thought he heard. "Yes."
"Liar." Margaret smiled, her eyes dancing. "You obviously missed what I said."
"I don't think I did," John stomach lurched a little. A tiny spark of hope ignited inside him and he smiled back. "But you can say it again."
"I said," Margaret turned and marched back to the rack of bikinis. She glanced over them, pulled one out, and held it up. "I'll get this if we get the baby swimsuits too. What do you think?"
John stared at the dark purple bikini she held, a sudden twist of frustration winding around his gut. He hadn't heard that bit. She stood waiting, her face expectant.
"You should try it on." John said, his voice pitching oddly. He cleared his throat. "Make sure it fits."
Her face brightened, and she nodded.
John paced outside the changing stall, unable to keep still, his thoughts tumbling over each other too quickly. He didn't even know if he could pin down everything churning around in his mind. Margaret called the Boucher children 'love' sometimes, especially Lilly, but not all the time. Did she even realize she'd called him that? And if she did, did she mean it or was it just British slang? Like an American calling someone 'pal' out of habit? But she'd never called him that before. It meant something. He just didn't know what.
"It fits," Margaret poked her head through the curtain. "Did you pick one?"
He held out the tiny purple bathing suit he'd chosen. Margaret made a happy squealing noise and John chuckled in spite of himself, shoving his mess of thoughts aside.
"It's so darling," Margaret beamed up at him, "It even matches mine."
"Let me see."
"Not here—"
"Yes, here," he tugged at the curtain. "It's just me."
"I'm too bloody big to be prancing around in a bikini in public."
"You're not that big, Maggie."
"I look like a swallowed a bloody beach ball."
"So? I like it."
She stared at him, her face incredulous, "You can't be serious."
"Trust me," John grinned and stepped closer, holding Margaret's gaze. "You're curvy in all the right places."
Her face turned scarlet but after a moment she sighed, and pulled back the curtain.
As his gaze slid over her, John promptly forgot about his nagging question of Margaret possibly being in love with him—and everything else weighing him down. He was lucky his lungs remembered to breathe and his heart continued to beat, because he couldn't do anything but stare at Margaret with his mouth hanging open like a damn idiot.
"What's wrong?" she hissed, crossing her arms. "Is it alright?"
"It's—yeah, it's—it's fine," his mouth tripped over the words and John ran a hand through his hair—or tried to. He was still wearing his hat and the motion sent it flying off several feet behind him. Margaret snorted as he scrambled to pick it up, along with the two baby swimsuits he dropped in the process. John straightened but he couldn't say anything else.
"So, you like it?"
"Yes," he forced himself to put a coherent sentence together. "Maybe we should just skip the swimming."
"No, John," Margaret's tone told him she knew exactly where his mind had gone. "We can do that later."
"Why not now and later?"
"Buying this bathing suit was your idea and I plan to use it, thanks. You can wait."
"How long?"
"We had sex yesterday." Margaret snapped the curtain shut. "More than once."
"That was yesterday. Now it's today."
"You're impossible." She tossed the bikini over the curtain.
He almost groaned, the air slowly escaping from his lungs as he picked the suit up, his mouth suddenly dry as sand, "I need some sort of time frame, Maggie."
"Go buy the bloody bathing suits, please."
Wednesday: July 4, 2007
For the third day in a row, Margaret stared at the kitchen table, still piled high with papers and files, shaking her head. Once again, John was nowhere in sight.
John is monstrously bad at relaxing
She'd added the note to her running list on Monday. The swimming (and her bikini) had occupied him for a few hours, but he'd gone right back to the library after she'd fallen asleep on one of the deck chairs. He'd managed to completely rearrange one of the eight large bookcases but he wouldn't leave the job unfinished no matter how hard she tried to convince him otherwise. On Tuesday morning, John spent over an hour in the garage, the push mower scattered around him in a dozen pieces, repairing a rusted fuel line. After he finished putting the mower back together, they'd explored more of Blanding at Margaret's request. But John was back at work in the library before the day was over. Margaret had given up scolding him about it. His complete inability to just sit and enjoy himself was annoying, amusing, exhausting, and endearing all at once. But it wasn't just that—something important was on his mind, and Margaret couldn't quite nail down exactly what it was. In their brief months of marriage, she'd learned enough about her husband to know he always kept himself busy when he was thinking through a problem.
John might be worried about the Depot, but in spite of all his burning energy, he wasn't making much headway on the budget report. It wasn't like him. She'd tried helping him yesterday but he couldn't seem to keep his mind—or his hands—on task whenever she was nearby. They'd managed about fifteen minutes before the work was shoved aside and all but forgotten.
Margaret sorted through the papers on the table, picking up a handful of note paper, covered in John's terrible handwriting. 'Move to Blanding' was scrawled across the top. Margaret tried to decipher the long list of notes but John must have been distracted when he made them. His handwriting was practically illegible when his thoughts began moving faster than he could get them on paper. She managed to pick out one sentence at least.
Good private schools for the kid.
Margaret ran her finger over the words, her sleepy thoughts suddenly focusing on the implication of the words. Was this what was bothering him? And did he really want to move? She'd never thought about moving since marrying John, but he was clearly considering it. A soft thump from the yard drew her eyes and she peered through the large bay windows that opened onto the back garden. She set the papers down and stepped outside into the blazing sunshine.
The thumping sound came again and she carefully picked her way through the yard towards the outbuildings along the west side, her mind a jumble of thoughts. The idea of leaving Milton for good struck her as terrifying and tantalizing—a chance to make a proper place for themselves. She rounded the corner of the tool shed and stopped short at the sight of her husband, shirtless and covered in sweat, ax in hand, carefully positioning a large log on a chopping block.
He shifted, raised the ax, and brought it down hard, the log flying apart. Margaret sighed a little, smiling in spite of herself.
"You're absolutely hopeless, John Thornton."
He turned, swiping at his face with his arm, repositioning the log and brought the ax down again. "Morning."
"Do I even want to know why you're chopping wood on our honeymoon?"
"It's the Fourth of July," John brought the ax down again with a satisfying snack. "Thorntons have a bonfire on the fourth. It's tradition."
Margaret eyed the growing pile of wood, "Is all of this for one bonfire?"
He shrugged and split another log. Then he swung the ax down onto the chopping block, lodging the head in the wood, and gathered the pieces of logs scattered around him, stacking them neatly in a large pile.
"Did you always have a bonfire as a child?" Margaret asked, deliberately shoving aside her nagging questions on moving. John would tell her when he was ready. Besides, she needed time to think about it on her own.
"Yep," He took off his hat and ruffled his hair. "It was the one thing my dad never forgot, no matter how bad things were."
"Were things really so bad?" Margaret asked softly.
"Sometimes. Things were never quite right for my parents, not even after Fanny was born."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be," John yanked the ax out of the chopping block and carefully cleaned it off. "We've all got some piece of hell hiding in our closets. That's just mine."
Margaret immediately thought of Fred and she shifted on her feet. She'd never mentioned her brother to anyone except Bessie and Mary. And for some reason it felt wrong not to have told John.
"Do you want to know mine?" she asked. John looked up, his face unreadable, but Margaret soldiered on. She wanted him to know. "My parents divorced because my father has a son. Fred. He's a rotten little tosser, always mixed up in drugs." Margaret folded her arms. "That's my hell."
"I know."
John turned and replaced the ax in the tool shed, closing the door and snapping the lock back into place. Margaret frowned as she watched him. He grabbed his shirt from the fence and slung it over his shoulder.
"Did my father tell you?" She asked as they ambled back towards the house.
"Yes."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
John glanced at her. Then he reached down and took her hand, "The same reason you don't talk about my dad."
Margaret nodded slowly, "Why don't you have any pictures of him? Of your dad?"
John studied her for a moment, his face twitching as he thought.
"I've got one," he said at last. "But I don't keep it out. My mom has a few too."
"She showed me. You don't look like him," Margaret said softly. "But Fanny does."
John smiled a little, "I look more like my great grandad."
"Can I see?"
After John's mother sold Helstone to Mr Bell, the old bastard hadn't changed a damn thing. Which meant the old family pictures were still in the library. John wiped his face and hands with his shirt, tossed it aside, pulled down a wooden box from a topshelf in the library, and handed it to Margaret. She sat on the floor, surrounded by the stacks of books he'd yet to sort through, and shuffled through the old photographs. She gasped a little when she found the photograph of his great-grandfather.
"You weren't lying. All that black hair and stern eyebrows," she breathed, fingering the edge of the picture. Margaret chuckled softly and looked up at him, "All you need is a cravat and some sideburns, love."
John's stomach pitched, just like it did ever damn time she called him that. He still hadn't found the courage to actually ask her what the hell she meant by it. But he couldn't just ignore it either. Each time was like a knife, gutting him open. Margaret sighed, closing the box.
"Do you wonder—I mean—it's silly, but—do you ever think about what our children will look like? Who they'll be?"
John blinked. He hadn't let himself think much beyond the one kid in the cooker. But now that the idea spilled from Margaret's mouth, John let himself imagine a bunch of his kids running around this old town, making messes, getting in trouble, bickering, laughing and playing.
"John?"
He stared down at Margaret.
Our children.
Did she really mean that? The new flicker of hope that sparked inside him two days ago grew and refused to be crushed no matter how hard he tried to be rational. In spite of all their blundering and mistakes, they could have a real life together, a real family, here in Blanding.
"John, what is it?"
"I—" he shook himself, "I wanted to ask you—Maggie—" he cleared his throat, the words suddenly sticking to his mouth. "There's a fair just outside of Blanding on the fourth—every year."
"A fair?"
"Like a carnival. The whole town shows up. There's junk food, games, fireworks, rides, families and—do you want to go?"
"Yes, if it means you'll stop working and actually enjoy yourself." She smiled a little but it faded when he didn't respond. "Are you alright—"
John grunted and turned towards the door, "Give me ten minutes to shower and change."
"Maggie, I'm going to lose circulation in my hand."
"Your fault, not mine," she gasped.
For some mad reason, Margaret had let John take her on the Ferris wheel as soon as they arrived at the fair.
"Afraid of heights?"
"Shut up," she hissed and clutched his hand tighter. "I think I hate you now. If I fall—"
"You won't fall," John's gruff voice lost its teasing edge, turning serious. "I won't let you."
She buried her face in his shoulder and nodded. "Just tell me when it's over."
Margaret breathed easier once her feet were back on solid ground. John kept hold of her hand.
"Do you want some cotton candy?"
"Yes, please."
"Did you ever do things like this as a kid?"
John had to shout a little over the cheery raucous of the carnival music as it blended into the laughter and general chatter of the crowds of people milling about.
"Never," Margaret tried to look at everything all at once. She'd never experienced anything quite like it. "My mother hates crowds. They make her—made her nervous. And I was never with my dad long enough to do much of anything."
"What about family vacations?"
"We took one Christmas holiday when I was five to London, to see my aunt and cousin." Margaret shrugged, picking at her share of the candy floss, "When things got stickier between my parents they sent me to live with Aunt Shaw for a while."
John frowned, "How old were you?"
"Nine." She shivered, casting about for anything to help change the subject. She didn't like talking about her time in London, especially not with John. "Are those real guns?"
John glanced at the booth up on the right, licking the sugar from his fingers, "Air-soft. You want to try?"
"Absolutely not."
"Come on," John tugged her gently after him and pulled out his wallet. "If you knock down all the targets you get a prize." He handed the man a five dollar bill and turned to Margaret. "It's fun."
"You know I hate guns."
"They aren't real, Maggie—"
"No."
"You made me go swimming."
"I didn't even want to swim. I just wanted you to relax for a bloody minute."
"And I want you to relax," John handed her the plastic gun, "and play a game with me."
"With you?"
John picked up the second gun laying on the booth counter. "Ladies first."
"You know I've got terrible aim—"
"Shoot the damn gun, Maggie."
"Fine," she grumbled, taking aim. Her shot went wide. "Asshole."
"Your fault, not mine," John aimed and fired, the cardboard firework falling flat.
Margaret's second shot missed, "Aren't your suppose to be a gentleman and let me win?" She blew her hair out of her eyes, shooting him a dark look.
"Hell, no," John knocked down another target. "I play to win."
"Is that a Thornton family trait?"
"Yep."
"Brilliant." She set her gun down. "So when our children are all bickering over some silly game I'll blame you, yeah?"
She watched John's grin widened as he quickly shot down the remaining paper targets. He turned, "Best two out of three?"
"Haven't you won a prize already?"
"That's some fine shooting," the man running the booth said, setting up the targets. "But he's got to do it again if you want a prize, young lady."
Margaret glanced at the string of stuffed animals hanging from the booth. She shook her head.
"Which one do you want?"
"Don't be silly—"
"Pick one, Maggie."
She pressed her lips together and studied the prizes again, a slow smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "The bulldog."
John picked up the plastic gun and winked.
"Thank you for my prize," Margaret said for the third time, smiling at the stuffed bulldog. "He's absolutely lovely—"
"And ugly."
"No," Margaret elbowed him, "He's darling and I love him."
John rolled his eyes but he couldn't stop himself from smiling like a damned fool.
"We should name him."
"We should eat," John grumbled, scanning the different food tents. "What do you want?"
"I think 'Herald' is nice."
"It's a cheap-ass toy, Maggie."
"Or 'Reginald'."
"It doesn't need a name," John pulled her into a line. "Our kid needs a name."
"I know," Margaret sighed. "I've been avoiding the topic."
"Me too," John admitted. He placed their order. "I'm not naming our kid Herald or Reginald."
"Philistine." She huffed, but her eyes flashed teasingly. "Must we decide a name now?"
"No, but knowing us, we're going to argue about it. " John shrugged. "We might as well get it over with before the kid pops out—"
"We don't argue that much—"
"Maggie," John gave her a flat look. "It's us."
"You say that like it's a given. You might be an asshole about some things but—"
"Our arguing is not all my fault."
"Fine," she nudged him with a playful little grin, "My father did say if you were the pot then I was the kettle."
John chuckled, "I've always liked your dad."
"Do you like him enough to name our baby Richard?"
"Only if you're willing to name her Hannah if it's a girl."
Margaret looked horrified, "That's not fair. My father adores you, and your mother hates me."
"She doesn't—"
Margaret shot him a blistering look.
John heaved a sigh, "I'm not really a fan of Hannah for a girl, but keep that to yourself."
Margaret looked relieved. "Alright, what do you fancy then?"
"I like Rose."
"That's a lovely name," Margaret ran a finger over the bulldog's face. "I like Eleanor or Mercy."
"Mercy's not a name."
"Yes it is—"
"It's a virtue." John insisted.
"People have named their children after virtues for centuries." She wrinkled her nose as the vendor handed him a large paper plate. "What's that?"
"An elephant ear."
Margaret gave him a dubious look as he handed her a plastic fork. "What is it really?"
"Fried bread. With sugar on top."
She poked at it, "Must you Americans fry everything?"
John cut off a piece and popped it in his mouth, holding Margaret's stare as she watched him. "Don't knock it till you try it, Maggie."
"I'd rather not die of a heart attack, thanks."
"Says the woman who ate most of the cotton candy."
"I like candy floss."
"And you'll like this," John held up a bite. "I promise."
"How about boy's names?" Margaret tossed her hair, her eyes flashing defiantly. "James and Arthur."
John held the fork a little higher. "Try it."
"You're going to hold that there until I eat it, aren't you?"
He gave her a slow sly smile, "One bite."
"I hate when you smile at me like that," she grumbled.
"Liar." John said before he had time to stop himself. "You love it."
He thought he saw Margaret's face go a little pale as she glanced up at him.
"Maybe I do," she murmured, taking the fork from his hand. She ate the bite of bread, chewing slowly. "That's ridiculously delicious."
"Told you," John stomach pitched wildly as his heart slammed into his ribs. He had to ask her. This stupid dance he was doing wasn't doing him any favors. "Maggie—"
"What about John for a boy?"
He scowled, taken aback. "For the kid?"
"It is a Thornton tradition—"
"No." John growled. He turned on his heel and pitched the rest of their food into the trash.
"Why not?" Margaret scrambled after him, and grabbed his arm. "I like your name—"
"I said no, Maggie. That's all."
"That's not all. Would you please stop?"
"I don't know if you've notice but my kid already has a pretty fucked up family history and I won't saddle him with the name that goes with it."
"And what if I want our son to have your name?"
"You didn't know my dad—"
"I don't give a toss about your father," Margaret insisted, holding his glowering gaze. "I'm talking about you, love. Not him."
John bristled and shrugged her hands off, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
"We only have two more months—"
"You think I don't know that?" He shouted, whirling around to face her. "You think that due date isn't the first thing I think about every fucking morning?"
"Don't you dare yell at me, John Seamus Thornton." Margaret stood, arms crossed defiantly. "He's going to be your son no matter what we name him. Not your father's son or my father's—yours."
They stood there for a moment, the noise of the carnival folding over them like a blanket.
Margaret lifted her chin. "Say something, please."
"I told you we'd argue about the kid's name."
"God, you're such an asshole," Margaret let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing her eyes.
John could see the hurt in her face and posture, and hear it in her voice. He kicked at the dirt. "Damn it," He growled and closed the distance between them, yanking her into an awkward hug. "I'm sorry." Margaret resisted for a moment and he swore under his breath. But then curled her arms around him and John let out a sharp breath. "Listen, Maggie," he said, his voice low, "can we just shelve this?"
"For how long? Until he's born?"
"It could be a girl."
"Smart ass," Margaret squirmed but she didn't let go.
"Please."
"Alright."
John couldn't explain the intense relief that washed over him, but he tightened his arms around Margaret, shoving the roiling mess of emotions aside. There was too much to think about—the Depot, moving, the baby's birth, and the very real possibility of his wife falling in love with him. He didn't have the energy to dig around in his past. At least, not right now. He'd deal with it all later.
AN : First, to all the people still reading this (very long) story, THANK YOU. My apologies for taking forever to post. Also, this chapter was hella-long. Sorry.
Second, I thought maybe this story just ought to be shelved for a while BUT I have the most lovely ending planned, so I'm still here pounding away. If you're tired of this, please tell me. If you're in this until the end, tell me.
Third, to every single person who continues to leave reviews and be ridiculously kind, you're absolutely brilliant. Cheers, lads.