The Station Pub was unusually quiet for happy hour. John considered finding some place where he wouldn't be recognized, but dismissed the idea the moment it crossed his mind. What the hell did he care if people saw him and his kid? They all knew about Jack in one way or another. Milton gossips couldn't keep a secret if their life depended on it. So far, Jack didn't seem to mind, his grin easy and relaxed. John braced himself when the owner of The Station did a double take as they walked in.

"Bill."

"John," Bill Sloane glanced at Jack again. "How's business?"

"Good."

"Table for two?"

"Please."

Once they were settled, Jack made quick work of two hamburgers, a plate of onion rings, and a full salad. They shared an order of fries, while Jack slurped a chocolate milkshake, and John allowed himself to finally order that drink. It was almost five o'clock and he didn't give a damn anymore.

"So," Jack said, still chewing, "Did mam ever send you—" he hesitated, then shrugged. "Did she send any papers?"

"Once," John kept his voice even. He knew he should probably eat something since he was drinking, and forced himself to grab a handful of Jack's fries. "I sent them back."

"Yeah, alright," Jack dunked fry into his milkshake and popped it in his mouth. He was trying to look careless, but John saw how he was watching him. Like a hawk. If a hawk could be bothered to care about divorce papers. "Why didn't you sign them?

"I didn't want to."

"But why?" Jack chewed slowly, his smile gone.

John had no idea why he'd sent the stack of divorce papers back to Henry Lennox's office in England, unread and unsigned. Hindsight and a month of near sleepless nights told him he hoped it would piss her off. Another part of him hoped she'd be so damn angry, she'd pick up the phone and finally talk to him. If she'd called, then maybe something would've change. But she never called and she never sent him anything else. Stubborn-ass woman. His decision to not get divorced also ruined his mother's plans to marry him off to Anne Latimer, who at the time was newly divorced herself. She'd married some high-power stock broker who'd cheated on her three times. He felt sorry for her, but you couldn't pay him to touch that shit with a ten-foot-pole. When his mother found out what he'd done, she'd been furious. It was the last time she spoke to him. It took him years to figure out her anger was misplaced love. But by then it was too late.

"You're a fool, John Seamus Thornton," His mother said.

"So you keep saying," He stared over her shoulder at a spot on the wallpaper, just as he'd stared dozens of times as a teenager when his mother was determined to have her say. He hated when she used his full name. It made him think of his dad and he hated thinking about that asshole.

"That woman—"

"Is my wife."

"She took your son."

"That's my business, Mother," John snapped, struggling to keep hold of his temper. He'd only yelled at his mother once since his dad died, and he'd promised himself never to do it again. "I'm not changing my mind."

"God damn your pride, you foolish—"

"She's my wife, he's my son, and this is my decision," John met his mother's fierce gaze. "Anyone who doesn't like it can go to hell."

He realized too late his mother thought the last comment was intended for her. She raised her chin, her hard eyes filling with tears she wouldn't shed.

"Get out of this house and don't come back."

"Fine."

He left. And he never went back until the day after she died, seven years later.

John grabbed a napkin and wiped his mouth, throwing three twenty dollar bills on the table.

"Is that it, like?" Jack sighed, and picked up his backpack, shoving a few more fries into his mouth. "Where are we goin' now?" Back in the truck, John steered towards the historic part of Milton. He hadn't been prepared for the direction this conversation was going. "Are you going to answer my question, or just ignore it like mam does when she doesn't like the answer?"

John adjusted his hat, keeping his eyes on the sparse traffic, "I never wanted to marry anyone." The light changed, and he turned left. "Except your mother."

"Before or after you shagged her?"

John narrowed his eyes, and checked his blind spot. "Both."

"Brilliant. What about now?"

"Once I make up my mind, I don't change it, kid."

"That's not a real answer, you know," Jack retorted. "What happened?"

"Hell if I know."

"That's not an answer either."

"It's all I've got, kid."

Jack shrugged, "Where are we goin'?"

"My mother's house."

"Wait," Jack sat up straighter, his eyes brightening. "I've got a gran too?"

"You did."

Jack's smile waivered. "Did?"

"Didn't you read her obituary? It was in your stack of papers. At the end."

Jack shook his head. "I saw them but, I didn't really look too close. " He glanced out the window. "Sorry, I—"

"You didn't know."

"Been a lot of that goin' round."

"It's not your fault." John tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Fanny had been after him to stop by for weeks since he got back from his long haul to Canada. She was always fussing, and she wouldn't quit until he gave in. He probably should've called ahead, but it was too late for that. She'd be pissed, but she'd get over it. Jack whistled appreciatively when John pulled up to the old stone home. It was more of a mansion than a house.

"You lived here?"

"Used to." John put his truck in park and shook his head, "Fan lives here now."

"You asshole," Fanny struggled as John unceremoniously shoved her out of his bedroom. "I know you made out with Margaret at the Latimer's New Year's Eve party." She giggled, in spite of her persistence to wrangle back into the space. "Did you finally get laid or not?"

"Go away."

"God as my witness, John-John, I will ask mama if I have to."

John swore. Sometimes he hated living with his mother and sister. "If I tell you will you please let me shower?"

"Oh my God, you did, didn't you?" She gaped at him. "Did you—do it here?"

"Good bye, Fan," he started to shut the door,

"Wait just one darn minute. Why was she crying today?" His sister jammed her shoulder between the door and the frame. "What the hell did you do to her?"

He glanced down. "I—" The words stuck in his throat. His sister wouldn't forgive him. Not after—

"John?"

"I knocked her up."

"You what?" She paled and took a step back. "Why did you do that?"

"I didn't do it on purpose, Fan," He said, his voice gentle. The silence hung heavily between them, full of an old unspoken misery they'd both rather stayed buried. He sighed again, "I asked her to marry me."

"I knew it," Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. "I knew you would marry her. I knew you would!"

"She didn't say yes."

"Not yet," Fanny gave him an over-exuberant hug and kissed his chin, "But she will. You wait and see, big brother."

John and Jack climbed out of the truck and walked up the steps, John letting them in through the mud room on the south side of the house. He nearly jumped out of his skin when they stepped into the kitchen and Fanny let out a piercing scream, dropping her load of freshly folded linens. He reached for his gun out of habit, but quickly redirected his hands and shoved them into his back pockets. Shit.

"Fan." He should've called.

"Oh. My. God," She stumbled forward. "John—Is that—"

Jack gave a little wave, "Hello there."

"Oh my God." Words were pouring out of her mouth, her breathing sharp and fast. "Oh my God, John, it's him. That's him isn't it?" She grabbed Jack's hands and shook them with a happy squeal, laundry forgotten. Then she grabbed his face and kissed both of his cheeks. "You beautiful, wonderful boy. Look at you."

"Fan," John set a hand on her arm. "Let him breathe."

"You," she turned and slapped him in the chest. " You. Absolute. Asshole." Fanny punctuated each word with a sharp whack to his chest, her southern twang deepening. "You couldn't take five damn minutes to call me? And let me know that your son was in town? Good Lord, John Thornton, I could've died of a heart attack." She turned back to Jack, who was trying not to laugh. "I can't believe you're actually here. Can I please hug you?" Jack didn't have time to answer before she pulled him into a tight hug, still squealing, rocking him back and forth, "I can't tell you how happy I am that you're here. I knew you'd be handsome and tall, I just—" she broke off and pulled back. "You're huge."

"I'm still growing, like," Jack pointed out, smiling as Fanny let go. "Sorry, but, what should I call you?"

"Whatever you're comfortable with," She suddenly paled. "Oh my Lord, I don't even know your name." She whirled and glared at her brother. "God Almighty, you could've had the decency to tell me his name before you got here."

"Fan—"

"Not one word out of you," She said, fire in her eyes. "I can't believe you sprang this on me and I intend to remain pissed at you for at least a week. You can do your own grocery shopping from now on, thank you. And you're uninvited from Sunday lunch. For a month."

"It's not his fault, actually," Jack spoke up, blushing. "He didn't know I was coming, so maybe you might let that go, yeah? And I'm Jack."

"Jack," she gave him one final squeeze and then stepped back. "I need to look at you a minute, if that's okay." She wiped at her face as she began to cry. "I'm sorry, we just—we've been waiting for you for a long time. Are you hungry? I made banana bread and there's tea and coffee."

"Thanks, but we ate at The Station. I'll take a cuppa."

She tilted her head, frowning, "Do you mean coffee or tea?"

"Either. Not picky."

"Sweet tea? Or hot tea, like Margaret?" She sucked in a small breath, her frown deepening at her slip, and blushed. She avoided talking about Margaret because John did. It had just made things easier. But nothing about today was easy.

"Whatever's on hand's fine," Jack said. "No trouble."

"Sweet tea it is," Fanny wrapped an arm around his waist like he was one of her boys and led him to the kitchen table. "You sit here where I can see you. And you," she whirled on John, "you can stand in the corner and starve for all I care. Hell, why don't you go back to your truck until I've had time to calm down."

"I love you too, Fan," he bent, kissed her cheek, and sat next to Jack.

"I like her," Jack said under his breath. "Lots of spunk, that one."

John chuckled, "Then you would've loved my mother."

"Would she have liked me, you think? My gran?"

John glanced at him and nodded, once. "Yes."

"Does Aunt Fan really buy groceries for you?"

"Fan does whatever the hell she wants, whether I want her to or not."

"Because you don't know what's good for you," Fanny retorted. She set a tall glass of sweet tea and a thick slice of banana bread in front of Jack. "You go on and eat this, Jack. We need to put some meat on those bones of yours."

Jack smiled and picked up the tea, "Thanks."

"You gonna eat that?" John asked, eyeing the banana bread. Jack didn't even touch it, even though the kid seemed to be a regular vacuum cleaner when it came to food.

"I hate bananas."

John grunted, picked up the bread, and ate it in two bites.

"Is this her?" Jack pointed to the portrait of Hannah Thornton. "My gran?"

They were standing in the large hallway that lead from the formal dining room to the front door. The front stair case swept up one side of the foyer and was lined with family photographs.

John nodded, "She died four years ago."

"And this is you?" Jack pointed to a picture of a much younger John and Fanny, looking very uncomfortable in their Easter Sunday clothes. "What are you wearing, like?"

"I hated those Easter dresses," Fanny huffed. "That pink and green tartan made me look like a stuffed peacock at Christmas."

Jack snorted. "Could be worse, yeah?"

"Not much."

"Look," Jack smiled tightly, and shifted his feet. "Thanks for everything, but I've got to get back to catch my train."

"Oh, but you haven't met Watson or the kids yet. They'll be home from soccer practice any minute."

"I wish I could stay, honest."

John pulled out his keys, "I'll drive you."

"Thanks," Jack turned to Fanny and gave her a hug, "Nice meeting you, Fan. I'm really glad I came."

"You come back any time you want, Jack. Don't you be a stranger, you hear?"

"I'll do my best. No promises, mind."

Fanny gave him another hug and scowled at John as he followed his son out the front door. He sighed and shrugged at her. He'd be putting out this fire for weeks.

The night was cool and they drove in silence, the truck rumbling over the dark dingy streets to the train station. John put the car in park then took out one of his business cards from his wallet. He scratched his cell number on the back and handed the card to his son.

"Only six people have that number," John said, pointing at the card. "You make seven."

Jack turned the card over in his fingers, glancing up, "Is mam one of those seven?" John didn't say anything and his son smiled. "She is, isn't she?"

"Shut up, kid," John shook his head, one corner of his mouth twitching. "You call if you need me."

"Yeah, alright," Jack slipped the card into his jeans pocket. "When?"

"Any time you want."

"Really?"

John nodded and shifted. He cleared his throat. "Would you like to come back tomorrow? Maybe help Fan forgive me?"

"I really can't," Jack frowned. "We're not supposed to leave the travel group and—"

"You played hooky?"

"Yeah. My mates are covering for me, but, " Jack scratched the back of his head. "But I'd like to come back, if that's alright, maybe to visit longer. Proper, like? If you want me, that is."

"You come anytime you want. I'll be here to pick you up."

John wasn't surprised to see Fanny sitting in his own living room when he got home from the train station. She had washed, stacked, sorted, and folded every stitch of his clothing she could lay her hands on. It wasn't much.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"What kind of a sister would I be if I didn't look after my big brother?"

"I'm not five." He pulled down the scotch and poured them both a drink, "What happened to being pissed at me for a whole week?"

"I am livid, but you need clean clothes."

"I can do my own laundry, Fan." He handed her a drink and collapsed into his armchair. It had been a long day. And it would be a damn long night. All he really wanted was to have a drink and sit in silence.

"Do you want to talk about him?"

"No."

"John—"

"I just got my ass dragged through memory lane," He leaned his head back and shut his eyes, rolling his stiff shoulder. "I can't tonight, Fan. Leave it the fuck alone."

"Don't swear."

"Fan—"

"You're allowed one drink in peace," She said taking a sip. "And then we are going to talk, John-John."

She would talk at him, whether he wanted her to or not, and he would get through it. He always did. He pulled his hat over his face, and decided to drink his scotch very slowly.

"This is what we're going to do." Williams set a half empty bottle of whisky on John's desk followed by two dingy coffee cups. "I'm going to pour us a drink, and then you're going to tell me what the hell happened between you and your wife."

"No." John glared at the older man as he dumped whiskey into both cups and pushed one across the desk.

"Start talking, son."

He didn't know what made him spill his guts to Tucker Williams that night. When he finished, the bottle was almost empty. Williams let out a long whistle and sat back in his chair. "Goddamn."

"I know."

"You've got yourself one hell of a mess."

John grunted.

"So, do you think she'll come back to America?"

John set down his cup, but he couldn't say anything else. He didn't know. He'd tried everything and nothing was working. He had nothing left. Williams stood and clapped him on the shoulder. John couldn't decide which was worse. Failing, or everyone else watching with pity in their eyes. He didn't sleep that night.

John soldiered through his sister's volley of questions, not really answering, letting her process out loud. There wasn't much to say. After an hour, her cell phone rang, and she looked guilty when she hung up.

"I forgot to tell Watson I'd be out late," She stood and walked over to his chair, setting her glass on the table next to him. "Promise me you'll try and sleep."

"You know I won't."

"Try anyway."

"Why?"

"Promise me."

"Fine," John grunted when she bent and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"How's your shoulder?"

"Goodnight, Fan."

He let the silence sink over him before he pulled off his boots and shoved his socks inside. He switched off the lamp and trudged up the stairs. Habit took over; he set his hat on the dresser, tossing his keys, cell phone, and pocket knife inside, his mind churning. He walked over to the bed, carefully removed his gun and wallet, setting them on the side table. Then he yanked off his shirt, threw it over the footboard and collapsed onto his bed, rolling on his back. He stared up into the dark, hearing the rumble of the train as it passed through the city.

John shifted, trying to get comfortable in the big empty bed. Margaret was working on some damn math analysis, or whatever she said it was, and hadn't come up to bed. Again. He told himself she could stay up all night, if that's what she wanted. She obviously didn't want to be in bed with him. But that meant he wouldn't sleep either. He hadn't slept well without her since New Year's Eve. He growled in frustration and pushed himself out of bed. He moved easily through the dark stairwell back down to the living room. His anger faded when he spotted her on the couch. She'd fallen asleep, her math book open on her lap, her hand resting on her growing belly. John knelt, and ran his hand lightly over her stomach, something she didn't like him to do when she was awake.

" Hey kid," he whispered and kissed her stomach.

She didn't wake up when he gently picked her up and carried her back to bed. He could feel himself falling asleep as soon as he laid back down. She snuggled closer to him in her sleep and John smiled.

"I love you."

John sat up and switched on the lamp. Opening his wallet, he took out the folded sheet of paper, like he did every night before bed, and studied the grainy printed picture. He'd memorized the gentle curve of her face and the lost look in her eyes years ago. He ran his thumb over her face. Then he looked at the fluffy black hair and the large baby yawn, face scrunched. Jack. A tired ache throbbed in his chest and shoulders. He'd waited sixteen fucking years for this day. Somehow it didn't make a damn thing better. When he couldn't look anymore, he carefully replaced it in his wallet and switched off the light.