A/N: I've always wondered why stories so often end at a point where characters are in a position of truly having the best conversations of the book. I forgive Mrs. Gaskell, of course, but it seems to be a common narrative ailment in romance novels. My personal views, of course.

July, 28th

John:

At around 10.00 PM my phone buzzes with a message from Margaret asking if I'm awake and requesting permission (permission!) to call me. I don't grant it; I phone her myself.

The conversation is sweet, a little rambling, and finishes with me just packing my suitcase and going to her home. She said she had slept soundly since early afternoon and now was famished, and even though I had already eaten there is no argument deterring me from having a second dinner. As the taxi rides through the streets of her neighborhood I whistle and let my gaze go to the starry sky of this warm summer night. I'm happy.

She opens the door wearing a different dress, one I seem to recall from Milton. I tell her so and she's delightfully stunned that I remembered and noticed. I think it still hasn't dawned on her that I've been in love with her pretty much since the first time I laid eyes on her, that day of September almost two years ago.

We cook together; the menu is penne alla vodka. I strain the pasta while Margaret stirs the sauce, working side by side, joking lightly. She points me where the dinner service is and I carry it all to the table on the balcony, where we sit and eat. Margaret brings a small bottle of fruity red wine; I soon learn she does have a fully equipped bar but it's meant for guests and cooking only, a wine that compliments the meal wonderfully, and we talk, lovers' talk about everything and anything and nothing at all.

-"When is your birthday?" this has turned into a very important piece of information I cannot not know any longer.

-"Twenty-four of June", she replies smiling. "Yours?"

-"Mine too!" Go figure, out of three-hundreds and sixty-four days we picked the same one. "I'm named after Saint John, actually."

-"What year?" Margaret asks now, that wicked smile dancing in her eyes. "I don't think we share that one".

-"Seventy-six. You?" How old is Margaret? I've always thought somewhere near thirty.

-"Eighty-eight" she replies and boy does it shock me. She's just twenty-four. Not a child, by any means, but so young!

-"You don't mind about that, do you?" she asks looking positively worried now.

I snap out my stunned state and shake my head vigorously. But she was only twenty-two when we first met, at my party, at that game of volleyball, at the parking lot. Wow. I try not to dwell on that fact because she still looks mortified.

-"It's just that I have this idea that women of twenty-two being immature, but it's... nonsense" I try to reassure her. "It's just that I had imagined you and I being closer in age" now it's my turn to get a little worried, "Do you mind?"

She lets out a relieved laughter and throws her head back slightly.

-"No!", and chuckles a little more. "I'm quite used to age gaps, actually. I have eight years with my brother, and had forty-five and forty-seven with my parents" she looks down at her fork and adds, "but sixteen with my birth mother" and raises her eyebrows slightly.

-"Do you know who's your birth father? Have you ever met him?" I don't care about the answer itself but I'm under the impression that we won't talk about this again, and I want to know how Margaret feels about it.

-"The rapist? No, nor I have any interest" her gaze is suddenly harsh but I know it's not against me, "I only know he was someone of Sylvia's entourage and when confronted to the pregnancy" and here she points at her chest, "claimed something to the effect that he had been seduced and accepted no liability. Sylvia's family disowned her, kicked her to the street at fifteen, pregnant and with nowhere to go."

Margaret's views become a little clearer to me now, shedding light on the motivations behind a few arguments we've had. While I don't regret having different points of view I understand her a little better.

-"Fortunately a friend came forward and took her in... but there's a thing I've never understood, one thing that makes me regret I didn't get to know Sylvia better" she leans forward as she says this. "Why didn't she get an abortion?" The question just shoots cold shivers through my spine. "I am grateful she didn't, of course..."

-"And so am I, and your parents, and everyone who's met you" I interject almost against my will.

-"Yeah, but..." she doesn't finish the sentence. "I'm not against abortion, you know? I think... I wonder if she really chose to complete the pregnancy and give up the baby or if someone else made those choices for her. If her life had been better, if..."

This conversation is making me really uncomfortable.

-"Margaret, you don't know that. Sylvia had you, gave you in adoption to people who loved you and then left you her money" I try to say this softly and it comes out the way I intend it to. "Everyone's lives hit a hard patch here and there, but her own life had some good things too," she nods at this, "from what you said she found love and pursued an artistic career. I don't mean to belittle the traumatic event but..."

-"Yes, you're right." She too seems eager to finish the topic. "You cannot compare one life to another, that's correct. You know, sixteen seems to have been a turning point in some of my closest people's lives" she smiles and continues, "I was almost that age when I met Sylvia - I should have been eighteen but it happened a little earlier; and Bessy Higgins was sixteen when her boy was born, and you were sixteen when your father died. Sixteen is not an age for the faint of heart, is it?"

We laugh as we start eating dessert, which consists only of fresh fruit. We talk business, of her reticence of mingling with the Mills' management, of her idea of giving Bessy Higgins a scholarship so she studies and can advance in her career, on how I plan on getting the Mills back on track. Unlike this noon at the restaurant she seems to be following me perfectly. We finish our meal and bring everything into the kitchen, clean and leave everything in order. We seem to have similar views on housekeeping, I think as I smile to myself.

Later I keep the promise I made in the morning, to make love to her again, and I don't remember whether this was said or not but the mood hasn't worn off, and the wee hours of Sunday find us in each other's arms while sleep ignores us for a second night in a row.

July, 29th

Margaret:

John is going to leave tomorrow and we'll be in touch but we're still not sure when we'll see each other again. Maybe next weekend, maybe a few days later. I asked him to take me to Milton with him but he refused with a smile. "You need sleep and you need time", he said and added, "it worried me when you said you were overwhelmed. I don't want to overwhelm you" said as he stood behind me by the bathroom's mirror, draping his big arms around my chest, his right hand on my hip and his left on my ribcage.

Seemed quite overwhelming but I see his point. The rest of Sunday is spent eating, talking, making love and sparingly, resting (but not too much).

Aloud I plan on breaking the news to my family, that I'm not single anymore - tell the world that I'm in love with John Thornton and never been happier. John says he'd like to tell my brother himself, which I find hilarious and old fashioned and very endearing. But it doesn't really matter how on when.

What matters now is that John and I are together. Life is unspeakably kind.

Note: "Life is unspeakably kind" is a wonderful line from a wonderful book, "Fools rush in" by Kristan Higgins.