9 | Signatures (Part 1 of 2)
Sixteen-year-old Margaret Hale squinted one last time at the marking on the inside of her wrist. Perhaps if she blurred her vision in her left eye a bit more than her right, the scribbled nonsense that was supposed to be the name of her soulmate might become a bit more legible.
It didn't.
"Oh for heaven's sake," she hissed at the scribbled mess, as if it could convey her displeasure to the still-nameless-bloke who was supposedly the love of her life. If she could have tossed her arm aside in anger without hurting herself, she would. Her cousin Edith loudly flipped the page of her magazine, decidedly not commenting. Margaret scowled again and pulled out her planner.
She'd spent most of her life pointedly ignoring the scrawled signature she'd been born with. Maria Hale had been more than happy to pretend her daughter wasn't one of those unfortunate people the universe bound to another unsuspecting person, for better or for worse. But when Edith had found out about Margaret's soulmark, there was nothing else to do but acknowledge the inconvenient fact.
"Let me see it, Migs!" She'd demanded that morning.
"Why?"
"Because I'm your cousin, that's why!" Edith had snatched at her wrist. "I've got the latest guide in interpretation and soulmate location too."
"How lucky," Margaret rolled her eyes.
There were more than a few experts out there claiming to be able to locate a person's soulmate simply by studying their handwriting. It was all nonsense of course, but it sold a lot of books and online courses in handwriting analysis.
"Please, darling, just let me-"
"Oh alright," Margaret sighed and extended her arm. Edith peered at the mark for a long moment, frowned, turned the wrist a bit, and pursed her lips. "I know," Margaret said flatly after another minute of awkward silence as Edith adjusted her arm yet again. "Well?"
"I do hope he can read, even if he can't write."
"Oh shut up, Eds," Margaret jerked her arm away, suddenly defensive. "Of course he can read."
Edith made a noncommittal sniffing noise that only annoyed Margaret further.
"At least I've got a soulmate," Margaret grumbled. "All you've got is whats-his-name."
Edith had sucked in a breath, the remark clearly hitting a nerve. For the remainder of the day, she'd pointedly kept the conversation revolving around her fabulous boyfriend James Lennox, which only made Margaret more keen on deciphering the puzzle of her soulmate. She wasn't normally jealous of her cousin and shouldn't be. She had a ruddy soulmate and that was something. But the whole thing had bothered her all day and that annoyed Margaret almost as much as Edith's despairing comments about her soulmate's handwriting. Now they sat in Margaret's tiny bedroom, the dirty window leaking garish orange light from the street lamp into the cramped space. The sounds of New York City drifted in, highlighting Margaret's frustration as she tried to concentrate.
Edith flipped another page of her style magazine. Margaret snapped open her planner to a blank page and glanced at her wrist again. She was a fairly confident the first letter was a 'J'. Since the name was also fairly short, that further limited her options. Margaret chewed her lip, writing quickly. There were only so many short male J-names weren't there? The second letter was either an 'o', or possibly an 'e'.
Joel. Josh. Jose. John. Joey. Jeff. Jerry. Jed.
Margaret squinted again. She supposed the second letter could—with a little imagination—be an 'a'.
Jake. Jace. Jack.
It wasn't really much, but it was a start. Margaret sighed, scratched out 'Jerry', 'Jed', and 'Jace', tossing her pen aside. Edith flipped another page, clearing her throat with a delicate hem-hem. Margaret ignored her and shoved her planner under her pillow. As much as she hated it, Edith was right. It didn't matter if Margaret had a soulmate or not if she couldn't even read his bloody handwriting.
"Jackass."
John Thornton shook the newspaper he was reading, doggedly continuing with the article on the rising prices of gasoline. He ignored the determined pair of eyes staring at him from the other side of the paper. He also ignored the annoyed huff of air and the sound of a throat clearing.
"John."
His eyes followed the printed words with a practiced indifference. Nothing drove his little sister crazier than being ignored.
"John-John!"
His jaw tightened at the use of her stupid-ass nickname from their childhood.
"Fine, have it your way, you big ass,"Fanny snapped, exasperated, snatching at the newspaper.
"Fan!" John barked as the top portion of the paper ripped away in her fist.
"Are you going to answer me or not?" She demanded, crossing her arms, the bit of newspaper crumpled in her hand.
He growled out a sharp curse and tossed the paper down. "No."
"Lord Almighty, John, you've got to—"
"No, Fan," He shoved himself to his feet, yanking his hat in place and knocking back the rest of his coffee. It burned all the way down.
Fanny scrambled towards the back door, reaching it just before he did and wedged herself in the frame. "You've worn that damn watch every single day since daddy gave it to you—"
"Shut up,"John grabbed her elbow and tugged her off balance.
Fanny latched onto his upper arm and curled her legs around both of his, "—and you wear it on your right wrist, which is pretty suspicious—"
"—It's my watch."
"—because you're right handed!"
"Get. Off." John growled, prying his sister's hands loose.
"I'm not stupid, you know."
"Could've fooled me."
"You've got one, don't you?" Fanny was panting, fumbling at the faded brown strap of John's watch.
John raised his right arm over his head, feeling Fanny's grip break as the strap snapped. The watch fell to the floor with a dull thud, exposing the pale skin— and the mark etched into it—underneath.
"Oh my God," Fanny squealed, her hands flying over her mouth as her eyes widened. "I knew it. I was totally right! I knew you had one!"
John ignored her and bent, fishing the watch off the floor with another growling curse.
"Let me see it—"
"No." John slipped his father's old watch into his pocket.
"Oh come on, John-John. You have a soulmark, for God's sake—"
The word made John's skin crawl a little and he shoved the feeling aside, walking resolutely out the door, Fanny following close behind him.
"Have you seen a handwriting analyst or registered your mark yet?"
"Goodbye, Fan."
She gave him a withering look as he slammed his truck door in her face and started the engine.
The skin on the inside of his wrist itched as he drove, his hand resting lightly on the top of the steering wheel. He'd spent as little energy as possible considering what the delicate cursive signature on his skin meant. There were all sorts of theories on soulmarks; why they appeared and how; why some people had them and why others didn't. There were also all kinds of scams and con artists out there claiming to be able to help. Most countries had publically funded registries where people could upload high-resolution photographs of the signatures scrawled across their skin in hopes of finding their soulmate. John never bothered with any of it. The stupid mark was there and it didn't change a damn thing. His chances of finding her weren't great and that was that. Still—
John turned his wrist over and frowned at the looping signature.
Margaret
At least her signature was legible. He snorted at the thought of what his scrawling chicken scratch must look like. His Margaret would have a hell of a time trying to figure that out. John shifted awkwardly in his seat and flicked his attention back to the crawling traffic.
His Margaret?
He shook his head sharply.
Not his Margaret. 'Margaret' could be anyone. But his girl was someone else. Someone special.
"Maggie."
He didn't know why he'd said it aloud, but it sounded right.
John threw his suit jacket onto his desk, his temper boiling. He'd had enough of Boucher and his drunken ass. He ought to have fired the son of a bitch a year ago when the man's drinking starting bleeding into his work. John growled and yanked open the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, tossing his gun inside.
"Was that necessary?" Williams leaned against the door frame, his posture easy but his voice hard.
"Yes," John spat out a curse. "I'm lucky I had my gun."
"Are you going to fire him?"
"I should," John snapped, slamming himself into his chair and rolling up his shirt sleeves. He ought to go home and change. His mother would complain about him working in his best suit but he'd wasted enough time today. "Give his next two hauls to someone else."
"You really want to kick those coals?"
"Do it."
Williams shrugged and turned to go.
"You get that girl taken care of?"
"She left."
"Good." Everything had been fine until that damn girl had turned up, trying to put herself between his gun and Boucher's face. Idiot woman could've gotten herself shot—or worse. John felt his temper bubble again. "Who the hell was she?"
"Said her name was Hale," Williams grunted. "Margaret Hale."
John's hand froze as he reached across the desk to grab a stack of reports. The skin around his wrist itched. He twisted his hand sharply and shook himself. He could feel Williams' eyes following his every movement.
"You know her?" The old man asked.
"Maybe," About a month ago his friend Richard Hale had mentioned having a daughter who might move to Milton. John assumed the elderly man's only child would be in her late thirties and promptly forgot all about it. He frowned.
"She's a fiery little thing."
"And stupid."
Williams scratched his beard. "Mighty fine to look at though, ain't she?"
John scowled.
"Frown all you want to, Master, but I saw you looking twice. Pretty sure we all did."
"Shut up, Williams."
John ignored the old man's teasing chuckle. He forced himself to grab a pencil and opened the first report, his eyes flicking over the printout. The skin on his wrist still itched but he ignored it. He'd wasted enough time on—John's fingers twitched—
Margaret.
He shook his head again and deliberately pushed her from his mind. There was work to do and mulling over some girl wouldn't change a damn thing. When he found himself thinking about those bright blue eyes over the next few days, John ignored that too.
Margaret stared bleary-eyed at the scrawling mess of notes littering her first peer reviewed paper and tried for the fifth time to decipher some kind of meaning from them.
"Good heavens, is this even English?"
"What?" Bess Higgins, looked up from her own work.
Margaret tossed the paper at her new friend and watched her closely. Bess snorted and shook her head, giving Margaret a wry smile. "How did you get stuck with Thornton as a critique partner?"
"God knows. The worst ruddy luck on the planet? Can you read it?"
"Nope."
"Don't you work for him?"
"Yeah, but he doesn't exactly write me love notes, does he?"
Margaret rolled her eyes, "You're not helping."
"He likes you."
"Shut up."
"He does—"
"Well, I don't like him and never will, so will you please drop it?"
"No,"
"I hate you."
"I think you're meant to be." Bess grinned at Margaret's sour look, "You're welcome."
"Is that man aware he has the handwriting of an illiterate Tyrannosaurus rex?" Margaret demanded, trying not to think about the scribbled mess on her wrist. "How the bloody hell am I supposed to improve my writing if I can't even read his comments?"
"You could go ask him. In person."
Margaret scowled at her friend. The last thing she wanted to do was have John Thornton tell her, to her face, why he thought her argument was rubbish. She already had to endure that three times a week in the classroom.
"Come on, Marg. I bet he'd say yes. And by the look of this thing you need all the help you can get."
"I'd rather flunk than ask that man for help," Margaret snapped, and snatched her paper back, shoving it into her bag. She paused as her eyes fell on a scribbled word that looked oddly familiar. Margaret shivered, the skin on her wrist suddenly itching.
She grit her teeth and jammed the paper as far down into her bag as possible and zipped it closed with a determined jerk of her arm, the bracelets that covered her right wrist tinkling with the sharp movement. Lots of people had rubbish handwriting. She shook the itching tingling feeling away and marched out of the library, determined not to waste any more time on a dinosaur like John Thornton.
John didn't even bother reading the notes meticulously added to his first paper for Richard Hale's Ethics class. John was a damn good writer and his critique partner definitely wasn't. He stood suddenly and stalked to the coffee machine, the skin underneath his leather watchband itching like it always did when he thought of Richard Hale's daughter. She was a royal pain in the ass, spouting off mindless platitudes as fast as she could draw breath. Still it was his favorite kind of fight—intense, sharp-witted, and bold as brass. He smiled in spite of himself, pacing the length of the room several times before he could force his feet to stop.
Margaret Hale was something else and he liked it. He liked her. He hadn't expected that.
John glanced down at the paper in the center of his desk and snatched it up. The cursive was deliberate, delicate, and neat, every stroke making his skin crawl. Not many people had handwriting like that these days. He locked his office door and sat heavily in his chair. The clock on the wall thundered on for a minute and a half before he slipped the watch off his wrist, setting it gently on his desk.
He might like her, but she didn't like him. He knew that. Besides, it could just be a coincidence but— he shook his head. He had to know. John took a steadying breath and looked first at the signature on his skin, then the writing on his paper. His stomach tightened as he studied the formation of the letters, eyes flicking between his skin and the paper.
"I'll be damned."
He'd found her.
"Is that the post, Margaret?" Richard Hale called from his study.
Margaret glanced up from her Calculus homework and checked the time. She was a little surprised her father had heard the mail slot. He was usually so lost in his own world he barely registered the rest of the world. "I'll get it." She picked up the small pile of envelopes and began flipping absently through them. "Are you expecting something other than bills, dad?"
"No," Her father smiled at her and set his book aside, taking the letters from her. "Oh, I think this one's for you." He held out a long white envelope.
"Are you certain?" But Margaret felt her stomach clench as she reread the scribbled writing.
"John's writing. I'd know it anywhere."
Margaret let out small derisive huff as her father pushed the letter into her hands. She squinted at the scrawled mess on the white envelope. She supposed it could be her name, but why on earth would John Thornton send her a letter?
"Are you alright, my dear?"
"Fine," She tried to smile at her father as she turned and scrambled up the stairs. Margaret sat absently on her bed and stared at the letter. Her skin itched in that annoying way it always did when she saw his handwriting, but she shoved the feeling aside and carefully slit the top of the envelope.
The letter was short. Pathetically so. And she couldn't read a word of it. Margaret ground her teeth, her temper spiking, tempted to crumpled the sheet of yellow lined paper into a tight ball. That man was always doing things simply to make her angry. Her fingers tightened on the paper. But then she saw the signature.
"Bloody hell."
She didn't need to read the letter to know what it said.
AN: It's been too long since I've written or posted anything. You lot have been so patient. Thank you for that and for your kind encouragement. There has been a lot going on in my life. I won't share details but I will say it's been quite hard. I'm glad to be back and I hope you'll forgive my long absence. I promise I'm still working on "After All We've Done" and "Fake It Till You Make It."
I hope you enjoy this chapter and leave some comments! I love to to hear from you all. Cheers.