Margaret stared absently at the scone on her plate, and sipped at her tea. She couldn't remember exactly when she'd started having breakfast every Monday morning with Henry Lennox at the corner bakery. She frowned and nibbled at the scone, more polite than hungry. The smallest hint of banana in the glaze turned her stomach. She grimaced and nudged her plate away, glancing at Henry. She also couldn't remember exactly when she stopped enjoying his company. Henry had always been polite, even attentive. Edith had hoped their acquaintance would grow into something more, but it never had. Yet somehow, he'd become a habitual presence in her life, neither interesting or annoying. Simply there.
Most of the time, she told herself she wasn't really drawn to Henry because she felt no need for an intimate relationship with anyone. Henry was a nice enough man, abstractly attractive, as he always had an odd date or two, but she was fine as she was. When she was overworked, hormonal, and slightly drunk, Margaret knew without doubt she wasn't attracted to Henry at all, or most other men in her circle of acquaintances, because none of them could hold a ruddy torch to her black-haired, blue-eyed American— with his deep growling voice, a perpetual frown, and a cocky mischievous smile he saved just for her— who stole her sanity and her virginity almost seventeen years ago.
"What can I do for you, Ms Hale?"
Her skin rippled as his gaze traveled slowly over her. He was smiling, a wide almost wolfish thing. "What," she swallowed, "are you staring at?" She tried to sound annoyed, but failed, the sentence coming out in a breathy tumble.
"You."
They were standing far too close.
"Didn't your mother ever teach you it's rude to stare?"
"She did."
Margaret raised her chin, "So you're being rude on purpose?" His smile widened and her temper boiled over. "Mr Thornton—"
"John." He folded his arms, his face still sparking with mischief. "My name is John."
"I'm aware. I—"
"Would it kill you to use it?"
"Are you always so rude?" she demanded.
His gaze traveled over her again, "Only to you."
"Impossible man," she snapped, pushing past him, ignoring the prickle of nervous heat that ran down her skin. She was here to see Bess, not him. " Stop smiling like you've said something astronautically clever."
Instead of snapping back with some sharp biting reply, he simply laughed at her, the deep rumbling sound sending new, uncomfortably delightful, ripples over her. And then he walked away without a second glance. Bloody hell. She grit her teeth and forced herself to walk the opposite direction. He was absolutely the most infuriating man. She absolutely loathed him. And his bloody stupid smile.
She blinked. Henry had stopped talking and was staring at her with a look of mild frustration. He must have asked her a question.
"Sorry, what?"
"Margaret, are you listening to anything I've said?"
"No," she admitted, suddenly feeling very tired. She sighed and twisted her rings, "Not really. Sorry, Henry."
"Thinking about Jack again?"
"Can't help it," she shrugged. "He's my son."
"He's almost a man, you know," He brushed the crumbs of his breakfast sandwich from his fingers. "You ought to try treating him like one."
"Jack is sixteen, and that's still very much a young boy." She frowned, and wiped her lips, sneaking a glance at her wrist. "And I do try." The hands on her watch didn't seem to be moving at all.
"You're worried about him being in America, aren't you? With," Henry let his sentence end noncommittally. His dogged determination to ignore her husband grated on her. At first, she'd been appreciative of his tact, but now it felt oddly calculated. "Margaret?"
"No," she muttered. "Well, yes, but not in the way you think. I trust Jack, and I trust," she paused. When had it become so hard to say anything about him? Even the true things? "He'll be well looked after, and he deserves to know his father."
"You don't seem keen on it."
"I wasn't at first."
"Perhaps it's for the best," Henry surprised her by laying his hand on hers. "With Jack in America, we could—"
"Henry, please," She pulled her hand quickly away. "Don't."
"If he stays a while—"
"He's visiting, not staying." She scooted her chair backwards, but Henry grasped at her hand again.
"But, Margaret, if he did stay for a while, it could give us a chance."
"A chance for what exactly?" She demanded. "We've had almost twenty years of chances, and they've all come to nothing. Because I don't—"
"All I'm asking is for one more, please," he said, looking at her very hard. "I think you just need to get away from him. We need it."
"We?" She stared at him, blinking in shocked surprise. "What's the matter with you this morning? Why on earth would I want to get away from my own son?"
"Because," he sighed, his grip tight on her hand. "Every time Jack walks into a room he brings that man with him. You're never free of him."
"That's none of your business," she snatched her hand away and signaled the server. "Excuse me," she stood and tossed down enough cash to cover the cost of her untouched scone. "I've a plane to catch."
"A plane? A plane to where?" Henry asked, his eyes growing wide. "Where are you going?"
"That's also none of your bloody business."
"Margaret, wait." He opened his wallet, added two more bills to the table, and hurried after her. "Please let me explain—"
"You want to explain yourself?" She demanded, turning. "Alright, then. Explain to me why you never once told me my husband contacted you looking for me. Repeatedly. Or why you let me believe he could take my baby from me?"
His face paled, "I—"
"Or perhaps you could explain exactly why you pretend to like my son." She crossed her arms. "Please. Do explain."
"I do like Jack," He looked uncomfortable. "Some of the time. It's just he's—"
"He's too much like his father, isn't he?" She finished icily. "God," she shook her head, her face burning with shame. "He was right."
"Well, he's not my son, is he?"
"What?" Her mouth fell open, "This conversation was never about my son, was it?"
"Margaret—"
"It's about my husband."
"He could be your ex-husband," he said, stepping closer.
"Oh my God," she started walking again.
Henry followed her, "If you'd just let me prepare more papers. He'll sign them—"
"He sent the papers back once, and he'll just do it again." Her voice shook. She didn't know what he would do if she ever sent the papers again. Maybe that was why she never did.
"Margaret, please stop."
She turned, "Why didn't you tell me he rang?"
"You've never liked him, and I thought—"
"You thought you'd tell him off, didn't you? What did you say to make him stop?"
"It was a long time ago. I was trying to protect you."
"Protect me?" She rolled her eyes. "Bollocks."
"My interference was unprofessional, but you could've called him yourself, Margaret. And you didn't. Why not?" His words cut at her. Because they were true. No matter what Henry or even her aunt had done, she'd been too proud, too cowardly, to pick up the phone for herself. He took a step closer, "Don't you want to know what life is like without him?"
"I—" she blinked back sudden tears, anger and regret churning her stomach. "I already do." She looked up, "and I'm not sure I like it anymore."
"Don't say that," he reached out to brush at her tears, but she turned away, walking quickly towards the street, hailing a cab. "You're going to see him, aren't you?"
Her hand paused on the door handle of the black cab, and she turned, her teeth clenched together in her effort to control her temper. "So what if I am?"
"My God, Margaret. Think. Don't you remember what it was like being married to that man?"
"John," she snapped, yanking open the cab door. "His name is John."
"Wait, please," Henry grabbed the top of the door. "He was a mistake. You said he was a mistake."
"I said a lot of things," she replied, shoulders slumping. She was so bloody tired. "But I don't know which of them were true. It's time I find out."
"Oi, mate, are you comin' along, or not?" The cabbie looked irritated.
"He's not coming," she said firmly, and looked pointedly at Henry.
"Don't go back."
"Goodbye, Henry."
John walked into his office and stiffened at the sight of Adam Bell sitting behind his desk, absently flipping through a file. "Thornton, there you are," Mr Bell stood and sauntered around the desk, perching himself jauntily on the edge. "Just the man I was looking for."
John shut his eyes and cursed silently. He hated Mondays. "Mr Bell, what are you doing here?"
"Your dear sister and I have been planning an end of the summer soiree, you know. And I—"
"Dad, Wolf sent me for the extra spark plugs for the engines. I looked in the machine shop but I—" Jack stepped into the office and stopped. "Sorry, am I interrupting something important, like?"
"Well," Mr Bell's eyes narrowed, and a wicked smile broke over his face. "Dear Fanny mentioned your son had finally made his long expected appearance, and I must admit, I had my doubts, Thornton." He straightened, his eyes still fixed on Jack, a merry little note of amusement in his voice. John steeled himself. "I suppose a paternity test really is unnecessary." He sighed dramatically and extended his hand. "Adam Arthur Bell."
"Pleasure," Jack wiped his hands on his jeans and took Mr Bell's hand. "I'm Jack."
"Delightful." Mr Bell's eyes glinted as he shook the boy's hand. "That's a family name, isn't it? Jack?"
"Yeah, it's Dad's name," he said, letting the words form into a small question. "John, originally, but Mam preferred 'Jack' for everyday. 'Course, I'm John again, if I'm in trouble. like."
"John Seamus Thornton," Mr Bell said slowly, twirling the words slowly on his tongue. "The sixth, I believe. Isn't that right, Thornton, or have I lost count?" John's shoulders stiffened.
"The sixth?" Jack glanced at him, his grin incredulous and puzzled. "I'm a bloody sixth? What, did you people run dry on baby names, like?"
"Tell me why you're here, Mr Bell," John grumbled, ignoring his son's question. He'd always hated his full name, and part of him was pissed that his kid was saddled with it. The other part of him didn't know how to feel about it. "We've got work to do."
"I've come to properly welcome your son into the family, of course." Mr Bell's smile sharpened. "If you recall, I was denied that illustrious pleasure sixteen years ago."
"Mr Bell is here," Fanny tried to smile.
"Now?" Mrs Thornton shot a glance at her son, then turned to Fanny. "Have cook set another plate for dinner."
John only half heard them. He didn't know what the hell he was doing here. But it was Sunday, and they always had lunch on Sunday. He was too tired to care.
"There you are, Thornton."
He frowned when his father's former business partner and friend stepped into the parlor. "What the hell are you doing here?" He demanded.
"I've come to meet the newest member of the family, of course. Your mother invited me weeks ago," Mr Bell rubbed his hands together. "Now, where is your pretty wife and that new baby? I had hoped you would name him after me, but I'd wager half my property you've given him the Thornton family legacy, eh?"
John shoved himself out of his chair so hard, it toppled over. A moment later, the front door slammed, and the chandelier in the foyer shook with the aftershock.
The pencil in John's hands snapped. He stood and marched to the coffee machine as Mr Bell made a little extravagant bow to Jack. "Your aunt and I have come up with a delightful plan for you and your father to visit Helstone—"
"No," John interrupted.
"Well, aye," Jack glanced between the two men. "What's Helstone then?"
"A family estate. Or it was, until I bought it from your grandmother, shortly after your grandfather passed away."
"I said no," John barked, and turned to Mr Bell, all thought of coffee abandoned. "He's here to see me, not you."
"Come now, Thornton. Don't you think the boy deserves to know more about his father's family history?"
"I've got work to do," John growled. "You can see yourself out." He walked to the silver key box behind his desk and grabbed a set of keys. Then he marched himself out of the office, without another word. He pulled truck seventeen into the machine shop and popped the hood. It needed a full combing over. He stripped off his shirt, and started with the oil.
"It's up to you to take care of them, my boy." John tried not to fidget as Mr Bell studied his black suit. "Fourteen is old enough. You're the man of your family now."
"Mr Bell," John swallowed, ashamed when his voice cracked. "I don't know what to do."
"Of course you don't," Mr Bell put his hand on his shoulder. "The secret is to never let anyone else know that." He gave John's shoulder a squeeze. "Chin up, Thornton. No tears, soldier on. Alright?"
John tried to nod.
"Good lad."
He followed Mr Bell into the church, stood by his mother, held Fanny when she cried, and didn't shed one tear as they buried his father. But inside he felt like he was dying.
"Dad?" Jack ducked into the machine shop. He handed John a rag. "So what's the story with Mr Bell?"
"Give me the screw driver." John took the rag, rubbed his face, and shoved it into his back pocket. "The flat one, there."
"Do you always just ignore shit you don't like?" Jack asked, holding out the requested tool.
"Leave it alone, kid."
"If you don't tell me, I'll just ask Aunt Fan," he folded his arms. "But I'd rather you did."
John grunted and continued working on the engine.
"Is that a no, then?"
"I don't know, kid." His shoulders slumped and he pulled his head out from under the hood, leaning against the front of the cab. He tossed the screwdriver at his tool bag. "If you want to go visit Helston, I won't stop you. It's a nice place and you probably should visit. But I can't."
His mother sat in Helston's old stone kitchen and didn't move for three days. John didn't know what he should do. He did his best to keep Fanny fed and occupied but all she did was cry for Daddy.
"He's not coming back," he shouted, something inside him cracking, shaking her. He was scared and didn't know what else to do. "He left us."
His sister stared at him, her round face red and swollen from crying. "I hate you," she tried to push him away. "I do, I hate you."
"I'm sorry," he picked her up and held her close, stroking her blonde curls. "I'm sorry." She was only eight. She didn't understand any more than he did. "Dad had to go away, Fan," he murmured. "I'm sorry."
"John-John, is Daddy coming back?"
"No," he cleared his throat and swallowed hard. The word cut him. "But I'm here. I'll always be here." He held her until she cried herself to sleep. He put Fanny to bed in his room and then marched into the kitchen. His mother still sat there, like a statue, more dead than alive. "Go to bed, Mother." She blinked and stared at him. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. "It's alright," he said, remembering what Mr Bell said. "I'll take care of you."
"Can't go or won't?"
John shrugged. "Both."
"Bad memories, like?"
"Something like that."
"Your dad?"
"You saw the obituary?"
"Yeah. Fan told me." Jack scuffed his boot. "It's a house, right? Helstone?"
John sighed, and turned, "There's a house, a big horse farm, tobacco, corn, the works. My family owned it for over a hundred years."
"What? Dad, that's brilliant."
"Not really."
"Did you grow up there?"
"Yes."
"Well aye, that explains all the plaid," Jack said, grinning. "I wondered why you wore so much of it. Proper southern bloke, yeah?"
"Shut up."
"What happened then?" Jack pressed. "Why'd my gran sell the place?"
"Look, kid," John sighed. He didn't want to dig up these ghosts. Not when he'd worked so damn hard to bury them all. "Do you want to go with Fan or not?"
"Well, aye. I'm curious, yeah? I don't know nothing about your family and it's better than working here, like."
The words stung more than John thought they would. "Smartass." It came out harder and sharper than he intended.
"Come off it, Dad. You sure you can't come?" Jack rubbed the back of his head, and shrugged. "Could be fun, yeah? A— a family thing, right?"
"I can't." John folded his arms. "Sorry, kid."
"Yeah, alright." Jack frowned, his easy tone at odds with his stiff posture. "Suit yourself, mate."
Margaret left her spare key with her neighbour, set up her out-of-office email alerts, and wandered over the flat once more, switching off outlets, picking up any rubbish. She paused before the open door of Jack's room. His absence ached in the center of her chest. She stepped inside and sank onto his bed. She pulled his pillow into her arms, holding it a moment, resting her face in the cool cotton.
"Why you hugging your pillow, Mummy?"
Margaret smiled and looked at the pillow she was clutching to her chest. "I was thinking about my dad, little-love, and how much I miss him."
"Did you pretend to give him a hug?" Jack asked, climbing up next to her. He was almost seven, his dark hair looking more blue than black in this light.
"Yes," she admitted. Then she leaned closer and whispered, "And sometimes I even give him kisses." She kissed the pillow. "Just like that."
He smiled, "Does he feel them? In Heaven?"
"I hope so."
He picked up the other pillow on her bed and squeezed it to his chest, giving it a big kiss.
"Who do you miss, Jack-love?"
"I miss my daddy," He said, his eyes dropping. "Just like you do."
Margaret swallowed. She fluffed the pillow and leaned over to put it back into place. Her foot bumped Jack's chest of draws, knocking an old shoe box to the ground. The box ripped and pictures inside slopped out. She pushed back her hair as she knelt down, shuffling through the pile of Polaroids. Her breath caught sharply in her chest as she looked at the stacks of pictures she'd taken in her early college years. She'd given them to Jack ages ago, but she didn't expect him to keep them all. Most were of Milton and her friends there. But the rest were of him.
"Mam," Jack stood, holding a box of rubbish in his arms. "Can I ask you a question, like?"
"Yes, darling. What have you go there?"
He held out a picture, "Is this my dad?"
She took the polaroid, and studied it, a hand pressed over her mouth. "I thought they'd all gone," she murmured.
"Mam?"
"No," she gave the photograph back. "That's your Uncle Fred." She put it back in the box and then picked through the pictures a moment before she found the one she was looking for. "This is your dad."
Jack set the box on her bed and studied the picture, scowling. Margaret would've laughed except the little frown between his eyebrows made her stomach tightened. When had he started making that face?
"There's a lot of him in here."
"Where'd you find them?"
"Aunt Shaw tried to throw them out." Margaret stiffened. He looked up, his expression hopeful and cautious, "Can I have them, like? To keep?"
She wanted to say no. She didn't know what made her nod. "All except that one," she took the picture out of Jack's hands. "That's my favourite."
Margaret stood, shaking herself. She had to hurry or she'd be late for her flight. She glanced down once more, and quickly sorted out half a dozen photographs. She didn't know why she wanted them, and she couldn't let herself think about it. A flash of white stopped her. She plucked the familiar battered business card free from the popped seam of the box. How long had it been there, hiding, waiting? Her hand shook. The clock chimed in the hall, and she gasped. She shoved it into her purse, along with the photographs, and trotted down the stairs.
John sat spinning a pencil between his fingers, staring at the wall clock as it marched its way towards evening. Williams didn't bother to knock at the end of shift. He walked in, carrying two mugs and a bottle of bourbon.
"Not tonight," John jerked his head over to the corner futon where Jack was fast asleep. Even curled into a lanky ball, the kid barely fit.
"Doesn't mean I can't have one, even if you can't." Williams pulled up his chair and sat, "I heard Mr Bell came by."
John shrugged. "So?"
"So are you going to finally take a damn vacation?"
"No."
Williams poured himself a drink, and took a small sip. The clock ticked loudly. Then he sucked in a breath, "Have you called her yet?"
"Who?"
The old man jerked a thumb at Jack, "Her."
"Go home, Williams," John snapped, turning back towards the spreadsheet on his desk. "And mind your own damn business."
"He's got her number, Master. He'd give it to you if you asked."
"Get out," John growled, grabbing the nearest file and flipping it open. "Before I kick your ass out."
Williams shook his head and slowly stood. He finished his drink and picked up the bottle, pausing at the door, "I've been divorced three times, John. It's really not that hard. In fact, it's probably too damn easy."
"What's your point?"
"Point is," Williams said slowly. "Why the hell are you still married?"
John glared at him but he couldn't answer. He'd never let himself think about it long enough, and he sure as hell didn't want to now.
"I thought so." The older man chuckled, "You always were a damn fool for her."
"She's not even here."
"No, but I've a pretty good feeling she'll turn up sooner or later."
"You're drunk—"
"I've had one drink," Williams snorted. "Everything she loves is here in Milton."
"You mean Jack," John snapped. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. She'd made her real opinion of him clear over and over again. "She's not coming back." He spat out the words even though he hated how his gut still turned over at the stark truth. "The kid will go home and that'll be that."
"Maybe," Williams shrugged. "Then again, maybe not." He shut the door before John could reply.
John was tempted to throw something at the door. The clock ticking its mindless grating rhythm. He'd lied to himself once, hoping she'd change her mind. He wasn't foolish enough to do it again. He shoved himself to his feet, grabbed his keys, and walked over to the futon. He studied his son for a minute, taking in the boy's large lanky frame. But this time all he could see was her; in the kid's quick smile, in his love of stupid pop music, his sharp-ass wit, and his easy sense of humor. Jack was more hers than his, no matter who he looked like. John thought he'd made peace with that, sixteen years ago, but tonight it cut deep. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired. The kid shifted and a book dropped onto the floor. He'd fallen asleep reading the battered paperback John gave him when he first showed up. John picked it up and rubbed a smudge of dirt off the corner.
"What's this?" Margaret turned the book over in her hands, frowning.
"It's for you."
"What for?"
John rolled his eyes, "For reading."
"I don't read novels," She tossed it aside. "You know that. I tried it and I didn't like it."
"You never finished," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "It's got a great ending." He picked it up and held out, "Trust me."
She sighed, and took it, rolling her eyes, "Impossible man."
He flipped it open to the last page. Scribbled in the space under 'The End' was a messy note in red pen. He still wasn't sure why he'd written it. Or if she'd ever found it before she left.
I love you,
John
His fingers itched to rip the page out, shred it, and bury it along with everything else. He closed the book gently, shoved it into his back pocket, and shook Jack's shoulder.