Saturday : July 28, 2007
Hannah Thornton's hands never paused in their persistent work, even when hesitant footsteps followed the opening of the large front door. The late evening sunshine spilled into the parlor, tinting everything a brilliant rose gold. Hannah had long ago memorized the sturdy booming tread of her son and the quick dancing gait of her daughter. These footsteps were new to her still, but not unfamiliar.
"You ought to come in and sit instead of hovering at the door." She continued to stitch on the shirt in her lap.
"I don't want to bother you." Margaret said. She stepped into the room. "It's not my house."
"Just because you don't live here anymore, doesn't mean you're unwelcome." Hannah glanced up. Margaret was dressed in her work uniform and held a red book in one hand, hair spilling from a messy braid with dark circles under her eyes. "Sit down. You're tired."
The young woman flinched at the commanding tone, but she sank into the large arm chair—John's favorite chair—just to the left of the parlor sofa. She fingered the book in her lap. It wasn't one of John's ratty paperbacks and it definitely wasn't one of the books Hannah had lent her on labor and delivery.
"Well, out with it," Hannah said after a brief pause. She turned the shirt inside out and began attaching a patch to the elbow. "What's my son done now?"
"Nothing," Margaret blushed, running a finger over the leather spine. "How did you know I'm here about him?"
"You've never sought my company before, except when you have a problem with my son," Hannah smiled grimly. "I had hoped your honeymoon would help you both."
"So did I," Margaret admitted, "and it did help tremendously—"
"But?"
"But something—" the young woman frowned, picking at one corner of the book, "—probably several somethings—are bothering him. He's not been himself at all. I don't know what to do about it."
"Do you think he's angry with you?"
Margaret shook her head, "We haven't quarreled—not really. But I know he's upset, and I don't know why exactly. I think I can guess but he won't talk about it." Margaret stopped, pressing her lips together, as if trying not to cry. "We were doing so well and then Mr Bell—"
"Mr Bell?" Hannah dropped her work into her lap, her head snapping up. "Was he at Helstone?"
"The last day." Margaret brushed at her eyes, her face pale, "Mr Bell—he was all smiles and slippery charm but—the things he said—God, I don't think I can repeat what he said." She shuddered.
"You don't have to," Hannah remarked, her voice hard. "I imagine he had plenty to say to John and all of it unpleasant. He's always liked picking at my son—and everyone else." She chuckled but the sound was brittle and without humor. "You know, Adam Bell once asked me why I didn't divorce Jonnie and marry him instead. I was eight months pregnant with John, ashamed of my mistakes, and not certain how to be married to a Thornton."
"He didn't—"
"He did."
Margaret looked stunned. "Was he serious?"
"I don't know. Mr Bell is a selfish man, irresistibly charming when he tries to be, and he uses words to tie people up in knots. Jonnie was the same, in a way." Hannah pressed her lips together, but her hands trembled at the memory. "The only person who's ever puzzled Adam Bell is my son. Mr Bell is always trying to get a reaction out of him, with little success, but John's a difficult person to manipulate."
"What did you say? When he asked you to marry him?"
Hannah paused in her work and met Margaret's eyes. "I told him to fuck off."
"You—you didn't?" Margaret's mouth fell open and Hannah smiled a little.
"I said a few other things. I don't remember the rest exactly but Adam Bell got a tongue lashing to remember."
"Good for you." Margaret shivered. "I wish I'd done the same."
"What happened?"
"Most of what he said was nonsense, but then he started talking about your husband. All I could do was watch while he gutted John like a fish. And John just sat there and let him." She glanced down at her hands, "I always thought John didn't care what people said or thought of him."
"He doesn't." Hannah brushed a hand over the plaid fabric of the shirt she was mending. Her son had torn it months ago and she hadn't had a chance to see to it until now. "John only cared what one person thought of him."
Margaret laid a hand on the red book, "His father."
Hannah nodded. "As most boys do. I wish he didn't care, but he stopped catering to my wishes long ago."
"That's another thing I'm trying understand," Margaret said softly. She held the book out.
Mrs Thornton glanced at the red volume before taking it gingerly in both hands. It belonged to the Helstone library and she knew what she'd find on the inside cover. "Where did you get this?"
"Helstone. Mr Bell gave it to me."
"He must like you," Hannah opened the book and ran a trembling finger over the scribbled note. She'd had known about her husband's notes for John. She'd caught him at it once, and it had given her hope for her husband and son. They were so often at odds. When Jonnie died she'd been too proud to ask Adam Bell if her boy could have those books. John did inherit some paperbacks and other worthless volumes, but the real treasures had remained hidden at Helstone.
"I don't know why," Margaret said softly. "There are dozens of these in that library. John sorted them all out while we were there, but then Mr Bell turned up," her hands curled into fists, "and John didn't even get to read through them. I know he wanted to. So maybe that's part of what's eating at him. And then there's this," She dug into the pocket of her bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper scrawled all over with John's handwriting.
Hannah carefully unfolded it on top of the red book, smoothed it out, and read a few lines.
"He wants to move," Margaret said, crossing her arms. "He wants to sell this old house and move our family to Blanding. But he hasn't said one word to me. It's not just his normal quiet either—he's been like a bloody ghost for nearly a month, working himself to death and—" she choked on her words. "I don't understand why. Why won't he tell me? This baby will be here so soon, and that's bothering him too, I just know it, and—" Margaret rubbed her forehead. "Why must everything fall down on him, all at once? And why won't he say anything? I don't know what to do when he's like this. I—I'm sorry. I don't want to complain or whine. I didn't even want to come here at all but—" Margaret pressed her lips together, twisting at loose piece of thread. "Everything was so lovely at Helstone and now—now I feel lost. I need him and I feel like he's miles away, trying to carry the whole bloody world all alone."
Hannah let her fingers run over the crinkled paper while she considered what to say. John's writing was almost identical to his father's except for the letter "g". There was too much here, even for her. She'd told Fanny back in January that John's path was with Margaret now. She'd known it would be difficult, full of ghosts. She just hadn't realized what the heartache would look like when it came.
She folded the paper again and held it out to Margaret, "When John was about four years old, he got a nasty splinter in his foot running around Helstone without his shoes on, like he always did. It was long, it was deep, and would take some doing to get it out. He didn't cry or fuss but he wouldn't let us touch it." Hannah fingered the wedding band on her left hand. "I'll never forget what Jonnie said to me when it happened. 'If you force him, you'll hurt him more. Leave him be and he'll come to us'." She picked up her sewing again. "I was furious with Jonnie and worried. I wanted to help, but my son wouldn't let me near him. He soldiered on, as stoic and serious as a four year old boy could be. Jonnie laughed at him."
"What?" Margaret looked horrified. "How could he laugh?"
Hannah shrugged, "That was who Jonnie was. After two or three days, John couldn't even walk. So he crawled."
"He would do that," Margaret said softly. "Impossible man."
"My husband did many things wrong, but he was always right about his son. Somehow he knew how it would be. It was a week and a half before John came to his father for help. We soaked his foot and Jonnie nicked it with his pocket knife and barely pushed; well, that splinter near jumped out on its own."
Margaret shuddered.
"It hurt him but John never did cry. It was at least another week before that foot was normal again." Hannah looked pointedly at Margaret. "I can no more tell you what's going on in his head than I can say what's going on in yours. But what I do know is when John feels the most, he says the least. It's how he's always been. If he won't talk, whatever it is, is deep and will take some doing to get it out."
"What do I do?"
"Nothing."
Margaret frowned. "Nothing?"
"You're seeing John at his worst. It's maddening to watch." Hannah tucked the folded bit of paper into the cover of the book and held it out, "My advice is the same as my husband's. Leave him be. It will come out, when John is ready. But until it does, you have to love him through it."
"Love?" Margaret swallowed hard, her face white, hands trembling as she took the book. "How can I when he's pushing me away?"
"I'm not talking about romantic love," Hannah said. "I'm talking about kindness, patience, humility—forbearance. It's a different kind of love but just as vital in any relationship. Frankly, I think it's far harder than being in love. If you care for him at all, you must let him be. John will sort himself out and when he does, he will need you."
"It doesn't feel as if he needs me."
"Tell me, Margaret, does my son love you?"
She nodded slowly, "Yes."
"How do you know?" Hannah pressed. "How many times has he told you?"
"Just once."
"Do you need him to say it again? Would saying it more make it any more true?"
"It would be lovely if he said it more," Margaret admitted, rubbing her belly. "But I don't think he's stopped."
"Love makes us vulnerable in the most painful way. Trust that he needs you more than anyone else, even if you feel he doesn't." Hannah smoothed the shirt in her lap again. "Whatever is bothering my son is much more than just Mr Bell saying what he shouldn't or moving to Blanding or the birth of your child or even these notes from his father. Right now, loving John means being patient with him."
They sat in companionable silence for a while, Hannah steadily sewing, and Margaret chewing on her thumbnail, thinking.
"Mrs Thornton," Margaret's voice was gentle as it broke through the silence. "May I ask one more thing?"
"Certainly."
"Did John's father really miss his birth?"
Hannah paused and looked up again, "He did."
"You were alone then?"
Hannah nodded once. "There were the nurses and the doctor but my parents didn't come and Jonnie disappeared."
Margaret took several slow breaths, picking again at the book in her hands,"Why didn't you just … leave him?"
It was a fair question, one that she knew her son, and probably Fanny too, had wondered but never asked.
"Because I loved him." Hannah knotted her thread and trimmed it. "And he loved me, in the best way he knew how."
"Were you ever happy?"
"Sometimes. I suppose we could've been happier," she folded the shirt slowly, carefully, and held it out to Margaret, "if we had tried."
"What do you mean?" Margaret took the folded shirt, her eyes never leaving Hannah's face.
"Watching you and John is like watching ghosts. Perhaps that's why I hated you so much at the beginning. Don't ever stop trying."
"Did you stop?"
"I did, and I have regretted it for the last fourteen years." Hannah watched the girl's eyes fill with tears. "Tread carefully, Margaret. Count every step forward as a success, no matter how small. The path you walk will either be the making or the breaking of you both." Margaret swallowed hard as Hannah cleared her throat and straightened. "For what it's worth I'm glad he married you."
Margaret snorted. "Are you really?"
"I am."
"You've a funny way of showing it," Margaret said, wiping a few stray tears from her face. "Honestly. All you Thorntons are backwards, dysfunctional, and frustrating."
"And you Hales are not?"
"I suppose we are … in our own way." Margaret made a face, but then she smiled a little. "Everyone has their own little slice of Hell."
Hannah raised her eyebrows and Margaret chuckled, blushing.
"Just something John said. I need to go, but—thank you. I didn't expect us to ever be friends, Mrs Thornton, but I'm glad we talked."
"Are we friends now?"
"Well, no. I suppose we're … friendly. For John's sake."
Hannah nodded stiffly but she was satisfied.
Friday: August 3, 2007
John took off his hat and tossed it on his desk, staring at his calendar. The red circle around September 23rd constantly demanded his attention these days. He couldn't shake the haunted nagging feeling that followed him around since he'd gotten back from Helstone, like someone breathing down his neck. What little time he had was spent working his ass off to try and catch the Depot up as much as possible.
He picked up the ultrasound picture. The days were slipping away like water between his fingertips, with too much to do and not enough time to do it. And he still didn't have a goddamn clue what to do about the birth of his kid. A sudden flurry of knocks made him jump.
"What?" He scowled when his sister bounced into the office. He tossed the ultrasound aside. "Go away, Fan."
"Where's Margaret?"
"Not here."
"I thought she was working with you now."
"That's Saturdays." John grabbed a random file, doggedly pushing through the lines of text. "Today is Friday. Get out."
"But I need to talk to her, John-John—"
"So pick up a damn phone. I've got work to do."
"Well, I need to talk to you too. Since I'm here."
"You get thirty seconds."
"The baby shower—"
"Nope," John stood and steered his sister towards the door. "I said I wasn't going and that's it, Fan."
"And I said you weren't invited anymore," Fanny wedged herself in the door, twisting in John's grip. "Let me go."
"If you don't leave, I'll carry you out of here."
"Don't you dare, you big ass. I just wanted to ask you some questions for a little game I'm planning for the shower. And I need to know if you've picked a name yet—"
"No."
"You do know that babies don't name themselves, right?"
"Shut up," John growled. "We'll pick a damn name when we pick a name and not a second sooner."
"What the hell has bitten your grumpy ass, John Thornton?" Fanny blew her hair out of her face, glowering up at him. "You've been about as cuddly as a grizzly bear since the day you got back."
"I'm working—"
"You're always working."
"Go," John maneuvered her into the hall and pushed the door shut with a thud.
"Asshole."
John leaned against the door and scrubbed his face with his hands. He wished he could blame his bad mood on Mr Bell and all the shit the old bastard dug up but his conscience wouldn't let him. He knew it was his own damn fault. He moved back to his desk, his eyes flicking from September 23rd to November. Margaret hadn't given an exact date for when she planned to visit her aunt with the baby so he'd just underlined the entire last week in red.
John wanted to talk to Margaret about it but every time he tried, he couldn't find the words he needed to convince her to stay. And if he couldn't do that, what the hell was there left to say? So he said nothing at all.
The clock ticked relentlessly, the harsh sound reminding him that he was running out of time. John swore, slamming his fist against the wall, feeling the drywall give just a little. He sucked in a sharp breath and shook his hand. Bitching and moaning wouldn't help. He forced himself to take a deep breath and sit back down instead of ripping the damn clock off the wall and tossing it out the window.
Fanny heard John swear followed by the dull thud of something—probably his fist—hitting the wall. She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. "Moody bastard."
"Fanny?"
When Fanny turned she saw Margaret walking towards her, a concerned frown on her face and a brown paper bag in her hands. Margaret paused at the closed door.
"What are you doing here?"
"Getting yelled at," Fanny huffed, crossing her arms. "I don't actually hate my brother but sometimes I really hate my brother."
"Is he alright?" Margaret shifted the paper bag in her hands, her frown deepening.
"I guess," Fanny shrugged and smiled, a little surprised. She'd never seen Margaret look so worried about John. Not that he deserved it. She flipped her hair out of her face, and gave Margaret a little hug, "How are you, Margaret Ann?"
"Hot and huge and tired of being pregnant." She glanced at the door again.
"I hope he's being nicer to you than to me."
"He's been working too hard to be nice to anyone."
"Well, he's got his panties in a twist over something. Not that he tells me anything. Honestly, sometimes he's worse than a menstruating woman." Fanny said. "Forget about John for a minute. I came to talk to you anyway. I thought you might like to look over the guest list for the baby shower before I sent the new invitations tomorrow," Fanny hesitated, her neck suddenly feeling hot. "I didn't really think it would matter before but—well, someone mentioned I should probably ask you first."
Margaret smiled, a flash of relief in her face. "That's very kind of you."
"It is, isn't it? I also have a list of questions I need you to answer," Fanny pulled several folded sheets of paper from her purse and scowled back at John's office door. "Both of you if you feel like braving the lion's den. It's for a game." She handed the papers to Margaret. "Let me know about the guest list before tomorrow?"
"I will."
John stiffened when two soft knocks fell on the office door. He knew who it was even before Margaret peered into the office.
"Is Fanny still out there?" He asked, too tired to try and sound indifferent.
"She's gone."
"I yelled at her."
"I know." Margaret smiled a little. "She's been extra fussy about the shower this week. I think she's called me half a dozen times. If you didn't snap, I would've eventually."
John frowned. He'd expected Margaret to be irritated with him for losing his temper, but all she did was close the door gently and walk over to his desk, setting down a paper lunch sack. He glanced at it, his shoulders slumping.
"You didn't have to bring that."
"You need to eat," she insisted. "You get cranky when you're hungry."
John opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He leaned his elbows on his desk and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. His right hand still hurt like hell from hitting the wall. "You're right," John sat up and tossed his hat aside. "I'm sorry."
"Eat, and I'll forgive you," Margaret dragged a metal chair around the desk and sat next to him, stealing a handful of carrots off his desk as John picked up his sandwich.
"You'll be happy to know Mary Higgins is doing splendidly with the office work. She's a quick learner," Margaret said. "She'll keep this place running smoothly when the baby comes."
John nodded. He only half listened as Margaret tried to talk about a half a dozen topics only to have them fizzle out again as the strained silence grew thicker between them. Finally she brushed off her hands and gathered her bag.
"Before I go, Fanny has a list of questions she needs you to answer. For a shower game."
"I don't have time for that shit," he growled.
"I have the list here," Margaret set a sheet of paper on the desk, and laid a hand on his arm. "It'll take five minutes, love."
John flinched, but he set his last sandwich down and picked up the paper. It had a dozen questions, all of them about Margaret. He sighed and grabbed a pen, scribbling his answers in less than a minute.
"See? That wasn't so bad."
"Anything else?"
"Well, no. Not really."
"Spit it out, Maggie."
"It's just—I was thinking. Our baby still doesn't have a name and we ought to talk about it. Not today, but soon."
John stiffened, his control on his temper almost snapping again. "No."
It was the only thing he could manage to say. He immediately braced himself for her sharp retort, his chest tightening. Why the hell couldn't he just keep his damn mouth shut? But Margaret didn't snap or stiffen. She just sat for a moment and looked at him. She was hurt but there was something else in her expression—something soft that made John feel ashamed.
"Alright," Margaret stood, her voice shaking a little as she tried to smile. "I won't ask you again until September and I'll tell Fanny to leave it."
John blinked. Then he leaned forward and rested his face against her, winding his arms around her, all his tangled thoughts and fears twisting into a burning knot in his gut. He knew he was being an ass but Margaret didn't push him away and she didn't say anything. She just leaned her cheek on his head and curled her arms around his neck. The baby kicked and the knot in his gut tightened. He had to figure his shit out. He couldn't do this to them—he couldn't fail.
"Maggie,"
"What is it?"
John sat back, her arms still around his neck, "I have to go back to Blanding."
"When?"
"The 30th," John brushed a hand over her stomach. "I never did finish that report so now there's a few more snags Mr Bell wants to talk through."
"Can't you just ring him and be done with it?" Margaret demanded. She folded her arms, not bothering to hide her irritation.
"It's my fault for leaving the report unfinished."
"Not entirely your fault," Margaret insisted. "We didn't exactly spend our time concentrating on work."
John's lips twitched. Their honeymoon felt like a lifetime ago but he didn't regret a single moment spent with her. Even if it did mean he had to make an extra trip back right before the baby was due. "It'll be one maybe two days. My phone will be on the whole time if you need me—"
"I won't." Margaret interrupted. "We'll still have three weeks and your mother said most first babies come a few days late. It's fine."
"Maybe," John felt his jaw muscle twitch at the nagging memory of his own father completely abandoning his mother but he shoved it away. "I want you to stay with my mother while I'm gone. Just in case."
"No, John. I can manage."
"You don't have a car—"
"And I'll be perfectly fine." She shouldered her bag. "I don't need a babysitter."
"Maggie—" he growled, pushing himself to his feet.
"Don't 'Maggie' me, John Thornton. It's two bloody days and I'll be perfectly fine alone. I've managed to survive nearly twenty years without you, I think I can handle a day or two."
"Do it anyway."
"Why?"
"Because I asked you to." John snapped, his words hard and cold.
"This isn't asking, this is commanding, and it's absurd—"
"Damn it, Maggie, just do it!" John almost bit his tongue at the harsh sharpness in his own voice. Her face paled and he swallowed, taking a measured breath. He waited until he could speak evenly, "I'm sorry. I—" John pressed his eyes closed, his next words tasting like acid in his mouth, "I know you're fine without me."
"John—"
"Please," his voice dropped to a soft rumble, "do it for me. For my sanity."
Margaret stared at the floor for a tense moment, her shoulders and back rigid with frustration. "Do you always yell like this when you're cross?" She asked, folding her arms around herself.
John raked a hand through his hair but he didn't answer. He felt like punching the wall again.
"You know," Margaret said at last, "you don't have to yell to make yourself heard, John. All you have to do is talk to me." She pointed to the remaining half eaten sandwich. "Eat that, or I'll be cross with you."
"Maggie—"
"Try to come home before midnight, please. For my sanity."
John nodded and watched her leave, his eyes following her from the window as she walked up the drive to the bus stop. He hated that she still had to take the bus because they couldn't afford another car. It was just one more thing to add to his shit pile. When the bus pulled away John turned back to his lunch, dutifully eating every last crumb. At the bottom of the sack, stuck to a large peppermint chip cookie wrapped in plastic was a purple stickie note.
I miss talking to you. Maggie.
He ran a hand through his hair and read it a second time.
"You're an asshole, John Thornton."
Then he carefully stuck the note next to the Polaroid of Margaret he kept on his desk.
John moved as quietly as he could through their tiny apartment, the blueish glare of the oven and microwave clocks lighting the space just enough that he didn't knock anything over. It was late but at least it wasn't midnight. He tossed a large stack of files onto the table and heard something fall. He frowned and picked up several paperbacks that had been stacked too near the edge of the small table.
"What the hell?"
He flicked on a lamp. The table was covered in dozens of his books. He shuffled through a stack squinting in the low light—Steinbeck, Faulkner, O'Henry, Milton, Hemingway, Lewis. John slapped the paperbacks down, and snapped the lamp off. Margaret didn't read fiction so why had she pulled his books out?
John moved carefully in the dark cramped apartment into their bedroom. The night sounds of the city drifted in through the window Margaret left open a crack. He sat heavily on the bed and stared at the glow of the street light as he undressed, listening to Margaret's steady breathing. The electric fan whirred softly, oscillating back and forth. The AC must still be busted, the heat in the room just south of miserable. The fan helped—but not much. Normally John would have added the broken window unit to his mental list of things to do, but for the first time in a long time he didn't think he could take any more.
Not with the Depot barely scraping by, the possible move to Blanding, his god-awful temper, his upcoming meeting with Mr Bell, the baby coming, Margaret leaving—
He swore under his breath, shoving the cascade of thoughts aside. Margaret's breathing shifted and she sighed, grunting a little as she tried to roll over.
"Want help?" John reached over and let her use his arm to pull herself up.
"I'm tired of being a bloody whale," she grumbled, trying to find a comfortable position. "What time is it?"
"After eleven." John stretched himself out. "Go back to sleep."
"It's too hot in here to sleep."
A strange sort of quiet settled over them, a brush of air moving over them every few seconds. He glanced over to where Margaret had one arm slung over her eyes. John rolled over until he was facing her.
"How was the rest of your day?"
Margaret moved her arm from her face. "Fine. Why?"
"What did you do?"
"Fussed about the apartment."
"I saw the books."
"I'll put them back. Apparently pregnant women like to fiddle with their things as a way to prepare for birth. Your mother's pregnancy manual call it the 'nesting' instinct."
"Like a bird?"
Margaret shrugged, "Sort of."
"So you spent the afternoon shuffling books because you're pregnant?"
"I also helped Fanny finish the shower invitations. I think it's going to be lovely in spite of being a tedious gathering of gossips."
"When's the shower?"
"The day you leave for Blanding. The 30th. You actually have a real reason not to go this time." John said nothing and she scooted closer, frowning a little. "What is it, John?"
"You were right. Today." He turned onto his back. "Our kid needs a name."
Once it was out, the words hung in the air like a sharp scent. Margaret pushed herself into a sitting position but she didn't say anything.
"Do you," John drew in a slow breath, and let out in a rush, keeping his focus on the ceiling. "Do you really like my name the best?"
"John, we don't have to do this now," Margaret said carefully.
"Yes, we do."
"You clearly don't want to—"
"I've been an asshole about it and you let me."
"Is that an apology?"
"Answer the damn question."
"I don't want to have to walk on eggshells just to talk to you about something so bloody simple as our baby's name."
"Damn it, Maggie—I'm trying—"
"I know." Margaret interrupted. She took his hand, "I'm trying too, love. But you're making it impossibly hard."
John pulled his hand away and sat up.
"Is this about your dad?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what is it?"
"I—" John rubbed his face with his hands, his stomach tightening. He couldn't talk about his dad. Not now. Not like this. Even if he could it wouldn't change a damn thing. "This whole thing is fucking stupid," he growled.
"Which part?"
"Mostly me." He sighed and turned to face her. "Are you sure you like my name best for a boy?"
"I really do," Margaret said, fiddling with the end of her braid. "It was the first thing I actually liked about you."
John felt his mouth go dry, his mind latching into the word first. If that was the first, did that mean there were other things she liked? He wanted to ask, but couldn't make the words come out. Liking wasn't love, but it was better than where they'd started.
"Why do you like it?"
"It's a good name," she reached out and placed a hand on his cheek, brushing her thumb against the scratchy stubble he hadn't shaved. "And you're a good man."
"I wasn't today. Or yesterday. Or the day before—"
"So you were in a temper. It happens—"
"It shouldn't." John snapped. "You deserve better."
"Then be what I deserve," Margaret said. "Because you're what I've got." She took his face in her hands, "I don't give a toss if you have a temper. So do I."
"Maggie—"
"And for the record, Mr Bell is a twat."
"I don't care about Mr Bell." John grumbled. "He knows I don't. It's why he's always slinging shit."
"What then?"
John's tongue suddenly felt like lead, the whole tangled web of his worries and fears refusing to be put into words. How could he tell her he was scared shitless of everything collapsing around them? Of failing his kid—and her.
He felt Margaret's hand on his cheek again as she turned his face back towards her, "I also like the name George."
John's chest heaved liked he'd been running. He stared at her and then cleared his throat. "I could live with George."
"What about you? What do you like?"
He brushed at the loose hair falling across her face. He had to say something, something to fix this.
"John—"
"The first thing I liked about you were your eyes."
"I meant names, love."
John ignored her, "I liked your mouth too."
Margaret raised her eyebrows, brushing a finger over his lips, "My eyes and mouth? What, not my breasts?"
"They came in a very close second."
"You're such a liar." Margaret pushed his face, "Cheeky tosser. Give me a name or else your opinion is forfeit."
"Walter."
"That's an old man's name."
"So is George." John retorted. "That's all I've got, Maggie."
"Fine," she snuggled down onto the bed, pulling him with her. "I still like John best."
"Can we wait until the kid gets here and decide between the three?"
Margaret nodded, "And for a girl?"
"Rose."
"Or Jane."
John tugged her close against his chest, soaking in the feel and smell of her. "That's an old woman's name."
"So is Rose." She wriggled trying to get comfortable. The baby kicked and she rubbed at the spot. "Do you really have to go back to Blanding?"
"Yes."
"Try not to punch Mr Bell while you're there."
"I make no promises."
Margaret elbowed him, "Don't you dare. I want to be there when you do."
John allowed himself a small smile. It was nice having Margaret on his side for a change.
"Will it really make you feel better if I stay with your mother?"
"Yes."
"Fine," Margaret huffed. "I'll call her tomorrow.
A cord of tension relaxed in his gut. He didn't know why she was being so damn reasonable, but he was grateful. He didn't deserve it, but he wasn't going to argue. The baby kicked again under his hand and John held Margaret a little tighter.
"I love you, Maggie."
She sighed a little, a soft lilting sound, already fast asleep.
AN: Happy last day of Christmas everyone. Here is my Epiphany present for you all. I worked so hard to get this ready and I hope you love it.
I'm particularly fond of this one, probably because of Hannah's contribution. She's such a deep and interesting character. So many people simply hate her, but I always think that difficult characters often have a reason for their behaviour and I enjoy figuring out what that might be.
I love hearing all of your thoughts so please do drop a review if you've got the time. I always look forward to them.
Anyways, have a wonderful rest of the week. Cheers.