John leaned against the concrete pillar, staring at the flight board, fidgeting with the wedding band in his pocket. He'd found the damn thing sitting in the middle of his desk the morning after Jack left. The kid must've missed it when he packed up. At first John pushed it to the side, and tried to work out the Pellor contract. Except he couldn't concentrate. He'd finally picked it up and shoved it into his jeans pocket, telling himself he'd stash it away somewhere when he got home that night. And it had stayed in his pocket for almost three weeks.

The board blinked, and John's eyes snapped to flight 4657 out of Boston Logan International.

On Time.

The concrete pillar dug painfully into his shoulder, but he ignored it. He'd spent two weeks digging through his email and all the papers at his office and their house, night after night, looking for anything that would point him in the right direction. It was a round trip. She'd told him that. But she'd also said it would only be a month.

When she first didn't answer his calls, it hadn't bothered him. She was pissed. She'd get over it. But he hadn't heard a word from her for almost two months. He kept calling her, kept digging, and as a last ditch effort he'd looked up every single flight coming from England to Boston Logan International with a possible connection to Milton in the next month. She'd agreed to be a bridesmaid in Fanny's wedding. She had to come back for that.

He'd gone to the airport to meet flight 6574, praying she was on it. He did the same for flight 5326, three days later. And flight 2383. Today was 8346.

On Time.

His sister's wedding was in less than a week. She was still pissed with him, but she would be here. So he waited.

Arrived.

Twenty minutes later, passengers trickled down the escalator. His eyes scoured the face of every woman with brown hair. When the last person left, he straightened and walked out, ignoring the building panic in his gut. There were still three more days, and there was one more flight tomorrow. She would come back. She had to.

The airport hadn't changed in sixteen years. It still reeked of bad floor wax, industrial strength cleaner, and the grime and sweat of hundreds of travelers. After his son left, it took one bad night's sleep for John to realize he wanted him to come back. He didn't realize how bad he wanted it until Jack called three days later. A tight coil of tension eased in his stomach as soon as Jack sheepishly announced he'd already booked a flight to America for the second week of August. He was coming and he'd stay until term started.

Arrived.

His fists tightened and he tried to ignore the small flair of worry in his gut. Fifteen minutes later, Jack's lanky figure came trotting down the escalator, bright red hat on his head and a large pair of headphones around his neck. John almost smiled, his body finally relaxing. He pushed himself forward to meet him, giving him a nod, arms hanging awkwardly at his side. "Hey, kid. How was your flight?"

"Hey," Jack yawned, "Not bad." He shuffled his feet as they stood there for another moment.

"Right," John took his duffle bag, "This it?"

"I've got one more on Baggage Claim A," Jack stretched, and pushed back his hat. "You can carry that one for me too, if you like."

"You got a hair cut."

"Well, aye," Jack shrugged, with a grin. "Mam said I needed one."

A corner of John's mouth twitched at the thought. At least she could agree with him on something. For once.

John unlocked his front door and pushed it open, hauling Jack's larger suitcase and duffle inside. He tossed his hat and his keys on the side table and then moved into the sitting room. "It's not much, but it's home."

"No complaints from me. It's bigger than our flat." Jack said, looking around. "It's nice. A little boring, like."

"It gets the job done," John dumped the suitcases on the floor by the bookshelves. "I've got the couch and a bed. Pick one."

Jack eyed the couch, "The floor." John raised his eyebrows. "I'm not taking your bed, and I hate when my feet hang off the edge, like."

"Get used to it, kid. We'll get you an air mattress tomorrow."

"Brilliant. You got a telly?" Jack threw himself on the couch. "Sorry, a television?"

"No." John trudged into the kitchen and filled two glasses with water. "I hate TV."

"That's rot. What about sports, and football, like? You like sports, don't you?"

"Football. The American kind." He handed a glass of water to Jack, "I go to a bar down the street if I want to watch."

"Suit yourself, mate."

"I usually do," John downed his water, and set the glass on the side table next to his chair. "You got a pair of boots, kid?"

He glanced down at his shoes, "No. Why?"

"You a size thirteen?"

"Dunno." Jack shrugged and checked his shoe, "US fourteen."

"Good enough," John opened the coat closet and grabbed his old steel-toed boots. They'd be a little big, but they'd do the job. He tossed them onto the couch next to his son. "Put those on." Jack flicked his eyes from the boots back to John. "I don't have all day, kid."

"Why do I need boots, like?"

"I've got work to do. And you've got a plane ticket to earn."

"Good for you, like," Jack folded his arms. "What's your work got to do with my plane ticket?"

"I own a business, kid. You work, I pay."

"You want me to work for you?"

"Sure."

Jack looked skeptical, "How much?"

"Fifteen an hour."

He considered this for a minute, and then shrugged, "Yeah, alright." He yanked off his sneakers and pulled on the boots. "What am I doing?"

"You're a gopher."

"A what?"

"You do whatever needs doing."

Higgins let out a snort as he handed Jack the large broom. The boy's scowl was a dead ringer for the Master, made a lot less intimidating by his lazy slouch, the lack of beard, and the headphones slung around his neck. Master stood about fifty feet away, checking over a rig with Williams, but Higgins knew he was watching them carefully. Higgins jerked a thumb at the parking lot. "That lot won't sweep itself, boy."

"Gopher, my arse." Jack's frown deepened but he tugged his hat around backwards and followed Higgins out into the truck yard. He glanced over the expansive black top and sighed, "Yeah, alright, so I just sweep the giant car park, yeah? Mint."

"What'd you expect? Special treatment?" The kid shot him another dark glance, rolling his eyes. Higgins barked out a laugh. "Don't you worry, you'll be bossing the likes of me around soon enough."

"But?"

"But when you work for your dad, you do it right. Everybody starts at the bottom and works their way up. If you're lucky, he'll let you wash the trucks in a few weeks."

"Brilliant." Jack grumbled as he started pushing the broom. "I don't see him sweeping a bloody car park, like."

"Master's swept this lot more than all of us put together," Higgins rubbed his patchy chin. "Nobody works harder than your dad, boy."

"What is it, Slick?" Master didn't look up from the engine he was working on. Higgins wondered if he'd allowed himself a break at all today. Or this week.

"It's past eleven."

"Go on home."

"I was going to tell you the same thing." Higgins held out his hand for the wrench as Master pulled his head out from under the hood. "Your wife needs you. More than that truck." He frowned when Master threw the wrench down on the ground, instead of telling him off. "Work is easy," Higgins picked up the wrench. "Wives are fucking hard. Besides you're no picnic either. "He stuck his head under the hood and whistled low. The engine was a goddamn mess. He looked up, hoping his begrudging pity didn't show on his face. "Go home, John."

"Have fun, boy," Higgins said, clapping him on back. He strolled back into the bay and paused when Master walked over. They watched Jack put on his headphones and start to sweep with a vengeance, dancing around his broom, beating his head to the rhythm and mouthing the words to whatever song he was playing. Higgins chuckled. The kid might look like his dad's walking double, but Jack had a spark of lighthearted fun that reminded Higgins of Miss Margaret. She and his Bess were the same that way. "You didn't think she'd let him come, did you?" He asked.

Master didn't saying anything, but his face said everything. He hadn't let himself hope for anything good for a long time. It made surviving easier. Now that his kid was here, in the flesh, he didn't know what to do with himself. So he was doing the one thing he did best—work. "Don't bust your ass his whole visit, Master," Higgins said gruffly. "Enjoy him while he's here."

John grunted. But he never took his eyes from his son.

"Fan's invited us for dinner tonight." John said as they drove out of Marlborough Shipping that evening. "And pretty much every night you're here."

"She's forgiven you has she?"

"Not yet." John rolled his throbbing shoulder. It was going to storm later. "She will eventually. Do you want to go?"

"Well aye," Jack straightened up, his face bright. "Aunt Fan's got kids, yeah?"

"Five boys."

"Bloody hell," Jack grinned, "That's mint. I always wanted cousins."

"Doesn't Edith Lennox have a kid?"

"Sholto," Jack rolled his eyes. "Bit of a tosser, that one."

"Is that bad?"

"We don't get on," Jack shrugged. "Probably because I landed him a facer a few years ago."

"A facer?"

"Fist to the face." Jack held up his fist with a sheepish grin. "Mam was furious."

"Did he deserve it?"

"Said my dad was a chav," Jack's leg started bouncing, and he rubbed the back of his head. "So, yeah, I hit him."

"Oh," John blinked, shaking off a warm twinge in his chest. He almost smiled. "Then what?"

"Cousin Edith had a fit, and I haven't gone to Christmas dinner since. Doesn't matter. I hate parties."

"Me too."

"Yeah?" Jack's smile widened. "All work and no play, are you?"

"Someone has to work, kid," John replied, keeping his eyes on traffic. "Speaking of, how'd you like your first day?"

"Do you make everyone sweep the car park?"

"Sure do."

"Do you ever have any fun," Jack asked, crossing his arms, "or do you work all the bleedin' time, like mam?"

"Not all the time," John slid a glance at his son, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Open the glovebox."

Jack leaned forward, popped the compartment open, and then let out a low sound of surprised disbelief. "Bloody hell. Does mam know you have this?"

"She knows," John said, checking over his shoulder before switching lanes.

Margaret jumped as he set his handgun on the bedside table. He didn't stow it in the drawer like he usually did. After the strike, it was always loaded and within arm's reach. Just in case.

"John—"

"No."

"It's not necessary—"

"It is."

"Would you please just—"

"No."

"I won't have it in the house when the baby comes."

"Yes, you will." He held her hard glare until she sighed in disgust and looked away.

"Sometimes I hate you."

"I don't give a shit."

The odds of any disgruntled strikers coming after them was unlikely, but he wasn't about to take that chance. She could bitch all day about it, but he'd be damned if he let anything happen to her or his kid.

"Will you teach me to use it, like?"

John nodded.

"That's mint," Jack laughed, stamping his feet like a little kid at Christmas. "The lads will never believe me, like. God, I love America."

"Just don't tell your mother."

"Not a chance, like."

John chuckled to himself and made a mental note to take Jack to the firing range before the week was over.

Fanny Watson watched her brother closely as he wrestled all five of his nephews at once. Even Matthew, who was almost thirteen, was in on the fun. John had been wound tighter than a tangled fishing pole ever since Jack's first visit. Her brother was still too stern, too serious, too quiet, but something had finally shifted. Dinner was a raucous affair, with everyone talking and laughing at once. Jack took it all in stride, a wide goofy grin on his face. It was a strange thing to see him, looking like a happier, lighter version of her brother, before the whole world beat him into the ground. As soon as the dishes were pushed aside, four-year-old Mike had demanded a wrestling match.

John bent down until he was on the boy's level, and tugged his hat around backwards. "Bring it on, kid."

Her heart warmed at the rare sight of her brother's almost smile and she thanked God Jack had come back when he did. All five Watson boys had tackled John, and chaos ensued. Her boys could never resist the temptation to dogpile their uncle into submission. But John was a force to reckoned with, and they had yet to succeed in the attempt.

Mark fell backwards into the side table and her favorite lamp teetered dangerously. Jack jumped forward, at the same time she did, and he caught it before it hit the floor.

"You've got quick hands."

"I'm goalkeeper at school," Jack smiled, but it wasn't his bright easy grin. There was a hunch in his shoulders and a strange longing look in his face as he watched his dad and cousins rough house.

She slid an arm around his waist and forced herself to smile, "How does an after dinner coffee sound?"

"Brilliant. Dinner was mint, Aunt Fan."

"I hope that means it was good."

"The best, thanks."

The noise from the den lessened as the swinging doors closed behind them.

"So what's wrong?"

Jack gave her a startled look, tilting his head to one side, "Do you always just jump right in, like?"

"Someone has to mind the men in this family. There's only one of me and too many of you."

"There's mam," Jack said softly, turning to lean back against the counter. He pushed his hat back on his head. "She's a Thornton too, yeah?"

"She is," Fanny acknowledged, studying him. She dusted her hands and clicked on the coffee maker. "How is your mom?"

"Fine. Works too much, but you know, that's mam."

"Is she happy?"

He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable, sticking his hands in his back pockets.

"What's bothering you, Jack?"

"Well, aye," He looked up quickly, "I want to be here, Fan. I really do."

"But?"

"But I don't know how I fit in with you lot."

"You mean, with your dad."

He nodded. "I've still got loads of questions, but my parents won't say nothing about it, and it pisses me off. They've got their fight, haven't they? Probably should leave it alone, but I can't."

"Are you angry?"

"Half the time, I don't know who to be mad at, like." He shrugged. "It's not really my business, is it?"

"Like hell it isn't. You deserve some answers," she pointed to a high shelf. "Grab us some mugs. I want to show you something."

Jack obliged her without a word, the tension in his shoulders relaxing a little. Once they had their coffee, she led him up to the third floor. She pushed open the first door off to the left and motioned for Jack to step inside. He pulled the string for the attic light and paused. The room was stacked with boxes, a clothing rack, and a few framed pieces of art.

"Most of the stuff in here is your mom's," Fanny said blowing on her coffee. "All the things she left behind."

Fanny pushed open the door to John and Margaret's small bedroom and swallowed a gasp. Boxes littered the room. Her brother sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall where the clock had hung. He looked so old. She hadn't seen him look like that since the day their father died. She stepped into the room and glanced inside one of the open boxes on the dresser. It was full of Margaret's math books and other school supplies.

"What are you doing?"

"Get rid of it," he said. It was a demand and a plea. "All of it."

"John—"

"Please, Fan." He rubbed his face with his hands, "I can't do it."

It was the first time in a long time her brother had asked her for anything. She couldn't say no. Watson helped her load every single box into their car. Fanny angrily wiped at her wet cheeks as they drove away. After six months, John had finally given up. But she couldn't bring herself to throw it all away. Not yet.

Jack handed his coffee to Fanny and opened the closest box. He pulled out a polaroid camera and blew off the dust on the viewfinder. She smiled at it, even though it hurt.

"We didn't know your mom wasn't going to come back." She explained as he shifted some of the items in the box. "I'm not sure she knew either."

Jack set the camera aside and turned to another box, tugging the flaps open. It reeked of mothballs. He fingered the soft browns, grays, and purples of Margaret's old clothes. He pulled out an armful of dark green satin and taffeta. "What's this?"

"That's her wedding dress."

"A green wedding dress?"

She chuckled, "My mama said the same thing when she first saw it."

Mrs Thornton commented on the color of Margaret's wedding dress more than once. Fanny thought it was perfect, even if it was green. Margaret was resplendent. She stood like a statue as Bess Higgins made the last adjustments to her hair. The pale roses fairly glowed against it. She could've been the queen of England.

"Bess," Margaret's voice shook. She looked up into the mirror, her blue eyes wide with panic, "I—"

A soft knock preceded Richard Hale's pale face, "Margaret, are you ready?"

Fanny reach out and squeezed the small trembling hand. She didn't know Margaret Hale all that well, but she hated the frightened look in her face. "Do you need another minute?"

"No," Margaret glanced at her own reflection once more, squared her shoulders, and gave a tiny nod. "Alright."

Fanny took a sip of coffee, collecting herself. "Your mom made that dress stand up and sing the Hallelujah Chorus, let me tell you. I thought your dad would die right then and go to heaven when he saw her." She laughed softly, "Either that, or throw up on the preacher." Jack glanced at her, his face troubled. "You don't believe me," She nudged him. "Why?"

"I'm just wondering, like," he stopped, pressing his lips together. "If he did, if my dad fancied her so much," he cleared his throat, "—then why—why did mam—" Jack sighed, hands full of the past, his face grim and serious and sad. "Why would she do that to him? What did he do wrong?"

"Where the fuck is Corfu?" Her brother's voice cut across the babble of conversation. Fanny turned.

"Shut up." Margaret was white, glaring at him with a panicked fury.

"Answer the damn question," His face was dark as a thundercloud, anger rippling in every line of his body.

"Son," Mrs Thornton said sharply. The baby shower fell uncomfortably silent as everyone awkwardly tried not to stare. "Not here."

"Greece." Margaret raised her chin, but her hands were trembling. "I'm Edith's maid of honor —"

"You're not going to Greece. No fucking way. "

"Shut up, John-John," Fanny hissed, her face flaming. "Talk about this later."

"She won't talk to me at home—"

"Because you're never there, are you?" Margaret interrupted. She turned and fled into the hallway, John on her heels, their angry argument still audible "All you ever do is work—"

"What the fuck do want me to do? The Depot is barely holding on. "

"It doesn't matter. You clearly don't care—"

"I don't want my pregnant wife flying halfway around the fucking globe."

"Stop. Swearing."

The front door slammed and the party ended shortly after. Two weeks later, Margaret was gone.

"I don't know," Fanny said honestly. She handed him back his coffee. "But I do know my brother. John is," she struggled to find the right words, tears building in her throat. "Lord, he's stubborn, almost to a fault. Once he makes up his mind, it takes an act of God to change it." She shook her head, and managed a grim smile. "Life's been hard for him, and he's learned to survive by sheer stubborn willpower." She sighed and sat on the top stair, patting the spot next to her. Jack sat. He was holding his mother's old camera. "He doesn't talk very much, and when he does, it's all prickly, and gruff, and often painfully honest. He's been that way a long time."

"But?"

"But it makes him almost impossible to live with sometimes. He's also got a damn short fuse, and it was much worse when he was younger."

"Well, aye," Jack muttered. "I've got a temper too, yeah?"

"You come by it honestly," she chuckled. "John always called Margaret a firecracker, and she was. Every time they got near each other, sparks flew. The bad kind and the good."

"Yeah," He glanced down, scuffing the lower stair with his boot, but he was smiling. "That must've been some show, like."

"It was." She rolled her eyes, "It was entertaining as hell, but the way I see it, the cards were stacked against your parents before they even began. My brother has a funny kind of language all his own. It's hard to know what's going on in his head. It's not an excuse, it's just how he is. I think your mom gave up because she didn't know how much he cared. He didn't make it easy for her either. He doesn't buy flowers, or write gushy notes, or make grand gestures. He says 'I love you' and he expects you to believe him. He also expects the same kind of honesty in return. And he hates being lied to."

"Mam lies all the time," Jack said, his face troubled. "Mostly to herself, like. Not because she's a bad person."

"Most people do." She sighed, "I don't think my brother ever fully trusted her, and that made everything worse."

"Did he even love her? Or was it just that he had to marry her? Because of me?"

"He loved her." Fanny choked a little on the words. John had never loved anyone the way he loved Margaret Hale. She wasn't sure he'd ever stopped, but she couldn't tell Jack that. "Whatever your dad feels, he feels deeply, but he never says a goddamn word about it. It's almost like he can't." She let out a hard laugh. "Our daddy dying probably has something to do with it, but John doesn't talk about that either."

"It were a suicide, yeah? Your dad?"

She nodded. "My brother grew up too fast, and too hard, without help. Nobody should have to live through that."

"You did."

"I did," she blinked back tears. "But I've got my own demons, Jack."

"So, is that it then?"

"No," she paused. "Your dad has lived with his shit for a long time. Maybe too long."

Jack nodded, like he understood. But how could he? He wasn't even seventeen. He barely knew his father and what he knew was a shadow of who John had once been. It wasn't fair. "Fan," he seemed to gather himself, "What about me?"

"What about you?"

"Did he—does my dad— like me? Or am I just some kid he—"

"Jack," she interrupted and laid a hand on his arm. Buried behind his easy confidence was a flash of fear. He didn't really want to know the truth he was so desperate for, scared he wasn't wanted, wasn't enough. "He wanted you more than he wanted anything. Don't you doubt that for a second." Jack needed to hear this from his father, but right now she was all he had. "I used to think my big brother was invincible. That nothing could stop him or hurt him. Sometimes I wondered if he even had a heart under that thick stubborn-ass skin of his." Her grip tightened, and he finally looked up. "I saw what losing you and your mom did to him. He's got a heart, and it was broken in two."

"So why he didn't come after us?" It was an anguished angry question. "They're still married, Fan. He could've, like."

"Only your dad knows the answer to that question." She placed a gentle arm around her nephew's shoulders, "Our mama told my brother to fight for you, but he chose not to. Mama stopped speaking to him after that."

"That's fucking rot," he said, his voice suddenly thick. "Bloody fucking rot, like, and I think I hate him for it." She nodded and let go, giving him a moment to compose himself. She'd been furious with John for giving up on Margaret. But it was his decision, and he hadn't been the same since. After a minute, Jack cleared his throat, and tried to smile. "Sorry. I don't really mean it, like. He's alright."

"He's not going to let you go again, you know?"

"Well, aye," he glanced down, still embarrassed and uneasy. He turned over the camera in his hands. "Can I have this?"

"Course you can. You take anything you want."

"Thanks."

"Give it time. Get to know him." Fanny stood and ruffled his hair, "You'll find your way. Thorntons always do."

John looked up from his book. It was Friday night. Jack was lounging on the couch, pretending to listen to his music but his leg kept bouncing up and down at a nerve-wracking pace. In less than a week, John had learned his kid had intense, almost boundless energy. But he'd bet the farm it got worse when something was on his mind. John had been the same as a teenager, driving his mother to the very edge of her patience.

"What is it, Jack?"

He looked up too quickly, like something had bit him, and shrugged.

John closed his book, "Spit it out, kid."

"Well, aye, I was just wondering," Jack rubbed the back of his head. "What should I call you, now that I'm staying a while?"

John sat up straighter and scratched his chin, "What did your mom call me?"

"She never talked about you," Jack said slowly, looking at his hands. "Not much, anyway."

Of course she hadn't. He'd guessed that was the case, since Jack hadn't even known his name, but it still felt like a punch to the lungs. He couldn't help wondering what she had eventually told their son. He swallowed a sigh and stretched.

"Darcy always calls you 'the American'," Jack glanced up, a smile brightening his face, "You'd like her."

"Who's she?"

"Mam's best mate. Curly redhead. Loud. Loads of fun. Aunt Shaw hates her."

"I'll bet she does," John growled, his jaw tightening.

"They call you 'that man.' Aunt Shaw and Edith, and the like. Took me a while to figure out who they meant."

"I'm calling for Margaret Thornton," John said, forcing himself to be calm. But he'd called and called and called. Every time it was the same runaround. Some stupid-ass person promised to relay the message but nothing had changed.

The woman on the line sniffed, "And who exactly is this?"

"John Thornton. Her husband."

"Oh," the woman made a small noise in her throat. "That man."

He shoved down his temper, and took a deep breath, gritting his teeth, "Please." If he had to beg, then he would beg. "My wife—"

"Ms Hale doesn't wish to speak to you. I'd advise you not to call this number again."

The line went dead. He cursed, threw his phone across the room, and raked his hands through his hair. A week later, the phone line was disconnected, leaving him with another dead end.

He rolled his stiff shoulder and looked at his son, who was watching him with that hawk-like intensity again. The kid's stomach growled loudly, but he didn't seem to notice. " "Call me whatever you want."

"Don't you care?"

John paused, frowning. "Not really."

"Liar." Jack said. His eyes sparked with a challenge.

"I'm not lying kid."

"What about 'asshole'?"

"You wouldn't be the first person to call me that," John said, folding his arms. "And you wouldn't be the last."

"Did mam call you that?"

John flinched, but he ignored it. "Do you think I'm an asshole?"

"Not really, but I don't even know you, like."

"Fair enough," John pushed himself to his feet, and walked into the kitchen. He grabbed one the giant apples Fanny always bought him, held it up and then tossed underhand it to Jack. He caught it, one-handed, without even looking. John grabbed a second apple and took a bite. "What do you want to know about me?" He asked, his mouth full.

"Everything," Jack bit into his own apple.

"Ask whatever you want," John made quick work of his apple and tossed the core into the trash. "I don't care."

"You'll tell me anything?" Jack sounded like he didn't believe him. For some reason, it rubbed John the wrong way. But what reason did the kid have to believe anything he said? "Even if I ask about mam?"

"Not that."

"Why not?" Jack demanded. John crossed his arms and his son mimicked the movement. "You think I care about your favorite color, or holiday, like?"

"Smartass."

"Well aye, you aren't the first to call me that," Jack's eyes snapped with mischief. "Probably won't be the last neither."

"Shut up," John chuckled softly, and shook his head. "What do you want to call me?"

"Dad."

"Works for me, kid."

"So, Dad," Jack said with a sly lopsided grin, finishing his apple. "What's your favorite color?"

John narrowed his eyes, "I don't have one."

"Come off it. Everyone's got one, yeah?"

"I don't."

"What's mam's?"

"No."

"Come on, Dad. Take a guess."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "You're a real pain in the ass, kid."

"Like father, like son, yeah?"

John snorted, but for once his smile felt easy, "Purple."

"No," Jack frowned. "Mam likes yellow."

"Trust me." He sat and picked up his book, "It's purple."