Works For Me ( The Ryhthm of Life : Chapter 7 | John Teaches Margaret to Make Coffee)

Saturday: August 27, 2006

"Dad?" Margaret poked her head into her father's room after knocking softly.

Her father sat in the shabby arm chair facing the large bay window of his room. His eyes seemed to follow the movement of life on the street below—the neighbor's dog chasing a cat up the maple tree, the three children screeching as they raced through a makeshift sprinkler, or the wind-tossed leaves just starting to hint at the coming autumn season. Margaret doubted if he saw any of it. Ever since her mother had died, her father had seemed to fade into a flat colorless version of himself. In an act of sheer desperation, Margaret had telephoned John Thornton at his office for help. She hoped that he would succeed in drawing her father out of himself where she had failed.

"Dad," Margaret said again, laying a gentle hand on his arm, "John—Mr. Thornton is here."

"What's that, my dear?" Her father blinked and turned to stare at her. "Who's here?"

"John Thornton," she said, her smile growing wider. Her plan was working. "Come downstairs, Dad. I'm making lasagna."

"But—" Richard Hale's hands drifted aimlessly over himself, running over his wrinkled pajamas and dressing gown. "John's here? What for?"

"I invited him," she helped her father to his feet and nudged him towards his closet. "There's a laundered jacket in your closet."

"But—But you don't like him, Margaret."

"I—well, I do like him," she admitted. "At least—I like him enough to be civil."

"Civil?" Her father collapsed back in his chair, looking tired. "You must be kind, Margaret."

"I am," she blushed. "He lent me a book, Dad, and I promised to read it. He's going to help me."

"I'll be just a moment," her father nodded, searching through his pockets. "Just a moment."

"No rush, Dad."

"Have you seen my pipe?"

"In your sock drawer."

Margaret padded softly back down the stairs, her heart nearly jumping out of her chest. Her father hadn't shown so much enthusiasm for weeks. She paused in the doorway and studied John as he sat silently at the table, the paperback novel in one hand, the chair tilted back on two legs, his black hair sticking straight up from where he'd run a hand through it.

Margaret hadn't known what to expect when she'd rung John earlier in the evening. Instead of one of their usual strained exchanges, John had been kind, asking after her and her father. And when she asked him to come, he hadn't hesitated. He must be busy, but here he was. An intense wave of gratitude washed over Margaret; for his unassuming manner, for his willingness to do a favor for his friend, and for his comfortable quiet presence that brought a spark of life back into their house.

She was so relieved, she could kiss him.

Margaret blinked, blushing furiously as she realized what had just run through her head. But rather than disappearing in flash of frustrated annoyance, the idea lingered like a delicious smell, a shadow of a wish she couldn't seem to chase away.

The oven beeped and Margaret flinched, hurriedly sliding the tray of frozen lasagna inside. She did not want to kiss John Thornton; she was just relieved. Margaret occupied herself by tidying the counters as much as possible, and then with arranging plates and cutlery on the table, and then with the presentation of the salad bowl. John continued to read, his steady silence making Margaret feel oddly comfortable, just like he had at her mother's funeral. He never forced her to make small talk or to entertain him in any way. She liked that.

"Coffee?" Her voice slid over the silence and pulled John's eyes up from his book. Margaret cleared her throat as she held his gaze. "Would you like some coffee?"

"Please."

She nodded, still staring at him. He stared back, his head tilting slightly to one side, a small quirk of his lips making her neck itch.

"What?" She demanded.

"Do you even know how to make coffee?"

"Of course I know how to make coffee," Margaret rolled her eyes and turned sharply away, a guilty blush colouring her cheeks.

She didn't actually know the exact procedure for concocting the awful stuff, but how difficult could it be? It was like tea, except one steeped ground coffee beans in hot water rather than tea leaves. Margaret rummaged through the cupboards until she located the grounds and filters. The instructions on the coffee tin were rather vague and unhelpful. Margaret finally shoved the tin aside and used her own better judgment, dumping grounds into the old machine haphazardly. She added water and flipped the button, breathing a sigh a of relief as brown liquid began to stream into the pot.

Once the machine was done, she poured a tall steaming cup and carried it carefully over to the table. John didn't even look up as he took the mug, his hand half covering her own. Margaret sucked in a small breath, her hand burning, but whether it was from the near boiling liquid in the cup or the fact that she was almost holding John's hand, she didn't actually know.

"Sorry, I—It's hot and—"

"I got it." John cracked a grin. "You can let go."

"Right, just don't drop it on me," she laughed, carefully withdrawing her fingers. "Go on then."

John took a large swallow and, to Margaret's horror, promptly spit it back into the cup.

"Is—is it bad?"

"Yes," He stood, walked to the sink, and dumped it out.

Margaret blushed when the rest of the coffee in the pot followed, "That's not very nice."

"Your coffee's shit." John stated, emptying the grounds into the bin. "And you're a liar."

"Are you always so rude?"

"Only to you," John raised an eyebrow, but his eyes sparked with mischief, "You said you knew how make coffee. You lied."

"I—" Margaret shrugged. "I did lie. But I was trying to be nice to you, as a thank you for coming for dinner and all that. Next time I won't make you any."

"Next time, you'll do it right." John motioned for her to join him at the counter. "Because I'm going to show you how."

"Shall I take notes?"

"If you want," He grinned, cracked his knuckles, and filled the pot with water, replenishing the reservoir on the machine.

His arm brushed against hers and she felt her flesh ripple with heat at the contact. Her eyes slid down his forearm, the hair and muscles making for a rather pleasant sight.

Margaret forced her attention back as he replaced the filter. She cleared her throat, and picked up the coffee scoop, "The tin said it's a two to one ration of water and grounds—"

"Sure, if you want coffee flavored water," John interrupted, his right hand snatching her left wrist before she could scoop out any more grounds.

"And what do you want?" Margaret asked. She held the scoop and he held her wrist. "Liquid tar?"

"Something like that."

"It sounds awful."

"It grows on you."

He still hadn't let go and Margaret's body flushed as he edged a little closer. He took the scooper from her hand and began dumping coffee into the machine—more than double the amount she had originally added. "My father won't drink that if it's too strong. It'll keep him awake half the night."

"We'll drink it."

"We?"

"You and me."

"I don't drink coffee," she murmured.

"Don't knock it 'till you try it."

"I—Mr. Thronton—"

"I have a name."

"Yes, I know," Margaret blushed. "Look, I appreciate you coming and—"

"Then use my name," John insisted, shifting a centimeter closer, "and we'll call it even."

He was so close Margaret could smell the mixture of cheap soap, coffee, and cologne with an undertone of petrol that always clung to him. And for some reason it made her entire body flush as the thought of kissing him resurfaced and demanded her full attention.

"Why—why are you still holding my wrist?" Margaret demanded, suddenly irritated at her inability to control herself or what her body was deciding to do without her asking it to. "Why did you even come here if all you're going to do is insult my coffee making skills and hold my wrist like I'm a naughty child."

John glanced down. But instead of letting go, he slid his hand over hers, lacing their fingers together.

"What—are you doing?"

"I'm not here for your dad," John looked up, holding her gaze as Margaret swallowed.

"I know."

She did know. Margaret had heard the concern in his voice when he asked her how she was doing. And she'd seen his face when he arrived at the door asking if this was a date. He'd played it off like a joke, but she'd known he wasn't exactly joking. For all their bickering, somehow it had become more.

"Maggie," John said, his voice dropping a little. "If you don't throw me out, I'm just going to kiss you."

"But you—you can't."

He frowned, "Why not?"

"You're too tall," Margaret blurted and almost groaned. She couldn't have said anything more stupid. Except her mouth hadn't caught up to her brain and it continued to ramble on, spewing stupidity left and right. "Besides I know less about kissing than I know about coffee and you've already had my coffee and you saw how that turned out and my father will be coming down any minute and—"

Margaret squeaked as John rolled his eyes, slid his hands around her waist, lifted her onto the counter, and cut off her stream of words with a very firm kiss. For a moment, Margaret didn't move. And then her hands slid up his arms, and she kissed him back. She barely registered the three steady beeps from the coffee machine or the soft foot falls coming steadily down the stairs. All Margaret could register was soft black hair, burning blue eyes, a scratchy stubbled face, large gentle hands, and firm coaxing lips.

Bloody hell, she was kissing John Thornton. Like, full-on proper snogging, and it was heavenly.

A throat cleared and Margaret jerked back so quickly she banged her head into the cupboard behind her. John tried to swallow a laugh, ducking his head.

"John?" Her father asked, a tiny hint of amusement in his voice. "Margaret?"

"Dad—sorry. We—we were just—"

"Making coffee." John leaned back against the counter, his arms folded, as smooth as if he weren't just sucking face with his friend's daughter.

"Of course."

Richard nodded and Margaret gaped at him, then at John, who winked. He reached around her and pulled the pot off the burner, pouring himself a cup. Then he retrieved a second cup, filled it, and handed it to her.

"How are you, John?" He father asked, settling himself at the kitchen table, still looking a little amused, but he managed to suppress a smile.

"Busy."

"I'm glad to hear it." Her father picked up the book John had left on the table. "Margaret said you're helping her read through a novel? Is this it?"

"Are we all really going to sit here and pretend that didn't just happen?" Margaret demanded, setting her coffee down with a firm crack. She hopped down from the counter and folded her arms.

"For an hour or two, if you can manage it, my dear," Her father said, flipping through the book in his hand. "I'd like to eat my dinner and have a chat with John. And then you're more than welcome to continue where you two left off."

"Works for me," John said. He sat and took a long slurp of coffee.

"Well, Margaret?" Her father asked, his eyes dancing.

"Yeah, alright," she sighed, glancing at the clock. "Two hours and no more."

John chuckled into his coffee.

"Shut up." Margaret snapped, jerking the oven door open. "Drink your coffee."

She could wait two hours.

AN : Been down for almost two weeks with covid, mates. It's not an experience I'd recommend. This is the first decent writing I've been able to manage. I'm happy to say I'm on the mend, and wracking my brains for the next chapter of "After All We've Done". Cheers.