John stared at his ceiling as the early morning blue-black shifted to the lighter grays before sunrise. Four days ago, his sister and Watson had packed up their boys plus Jack into two cars and driven the seven hours to Blanding, South Carolina. Four days of eerie silence at dinner time, four days of distracting himself with grueling mindless work, four days of uneasiness. Without Jack hanging around blasting his dumb-ass music or asking his nosy questions or mouthing off to Williams and Higgins, or playing basketball with his cousins, everything felt flat and empty. Like before, but worse. John's small house was too damn quiet again and it was starting to piss him off.

He rolled over. He hadn't slept well since Jack had left. That pissed him off too. Fanny pestered him almost nonstop to come with them, but at last she gave up, telling him to call if he changed his mind.

"Please, John-John," Fanny rubbed her temples, leaning her elbows on his kitchen table. "You have to get out of Milton sometime."

"I have."

"Spending a few weeks driving to Canada and back doesn't count."

"It does." Leaving for a long haul was bad enough, but it had to be done. Once a year. No more.

She sighed, looking as old as their mother, "You can't keep doing this—"

"I said no," he shoved himself away from the table. "Leave it alone, Fan."

"Godammit, John, it's been five years," her voice broke. "You love Helstone." He bent over the sink, staring at the dripping faucet. He felt her hand on his shoulder. "She's not going to come back while you're gone."

"Fan," John's throat felt wooden, "I can't leave." He stiffened as she hugged him from behind. "I just can't."

Fanny promised they'd be back in two weeks. Two fucking weeks. He reached over to his bed side table and pulled out his phone. He thumbed through his contacts. It was stupid; he had them all memorized. He paused over the last entry.

Maggie

John tossed his phone down, rubbed his hand down his face, and sat up. He may as well get his ass to work. There was inventory to go over and three trucks slotted for a full inspection before their next hauls.

Margaret was greeted by an acrid blast of oppressive city air when she stepped out of the train station. It smelled exactly as she remembered. She pressed her eyes closed and took a long steadying breath. God, what was she even doing here? Her stomach rolled with waves of nausea and nerves, and she swallowed hard. She couldn't explain why she'd delayed her return flight. The maths conference had passed in a blur and now she was here. In Milton. Her stomach clenched. She would not be sick. When she felt more in control of her meager attempt at breakfast, she marched to the nearest taxi.

"Where to?" The cab driver didn't even look up as he settled himself behind the wheel.

She paused, and said, "Hilton Cemetery, please."

The roads passed in odd familiarity. The corner bakery with the best blueberry scones was still there. And the Cathedral. Everything was the same. Everything was different. The large oak tree at the top of the hill in the cemetery rustled in the bleak August wind, it's green leaves whipping up with the coming promise of rain. She tucked her hair behind her ears, and ran a hand over the gravestone. "Hey there, Bessie," she knelt in the grass, still clutching at the stone. "I bet you're wondering what I'm doing." She laughed, but it was a bitter, lost sound. "I wish you were here."

Margaret stared at her mobile as it buzzed, the familiar sarcastic face blazed across the photo ID.

"Marg, it's Bess. Pick up the phone, you ass..."

She called every single Friday, and she always left a message, as if Margaret weren't ignoring her, as if she hadn't abandoned her best friend, along with everyone else.

"If you don't get your act together and come home..."

The phone stopped buzzing, and Margaret reached out to pick it up. She'd only charged it to listen to Bess's message.

"Oh my God, Fanny is literally the worst. I hate you for making me be a bridesmaid with you. Solidarity my ass..."

To her surprise, her mobile started to ring again. Unknown number. She bit her lip, her thumb hovering over the screen.

"I will shoot your pain-in-the-ass husband again if you don't get on the next airplane. I swear I will..."

The phone went silent. A voicemail notification popped up.

"Marg, listen to me. To hell with your pride and hurt feelings. He's a fucking wreck. Please..."

She hit the voicemail button and listened.

"Margaret?" a new voice said, choking on barely contained tears. "God, I hope this is the right number. It's Mary Higgins, and Bess," the voice broke. "She's been in an accident."

"I shouldn't have done it." She leaned her head against the stone, letting her tears flow freely, "I should've been here. For everything." She sat in the shade of the tree and cried until she had no tears left. "I don't know, Bessie. I wish I could talk to you. I have no idea what I'm doing anymore." There was no easy way forward, and no one to tell her what she should do. She could still leave, if she wanted. No one would know or care. Thunder rumbled in the distance, angry grey clouds building at the horizon. Margaret stood and marched back to the waiting cab.

"Where to now, sweetheart?" The cabbie politely ignored her blotchy face.

"Marlborough Shipping Depot, please," she said, pressing a hand to her stomach. "Off Manchester Avenue."

"You got it."

Mr Bell shook out his newspaper, yawned, and set it in his lap. It was much too early for the rather boring article on the Morten Mathematical Group he'd been perusing. Young Jack Thornton sat at the kitchen table, ignoring his breakfast, fiddling with an old polaroid camera he'd disassembled into over a dozen pieces. The morning was unusually quiet, all the Watsons absent for a day trip to a nautical museum. Mr Bell scratched his chin, watching the boy carefully. On first acquaintance he'd found Thornton's son moderately amusing, for all he was a carbon copy of his father. But the boy had been positively glowering for four days.

"You know, I didn't invite you to Helstone to sit about and skulk."

"Well aye," Jack didn't even look up. "Why did you invite me?"

"I've a promise to keep." The boy raised his head. "Has your dear aunt shown you Helstone's portrait gallery?"

"The what?"

Mr Bell stood, paper tucked under his arm. As a general rule, he left most people to their own idiotic devices, but he was nothing if not a man of his word. "Come with me."

"Right now, like?" Jack scowled, an action that made Mr Bell shift uncomfortably. He couldn't imagine how the boy's mother had managed to live with her son all these years and not feel haunted. Served her right too. Mr Bell kept walking, and Jack reluctantly followed. When they reached the well-lit room on the second floor, the boy's eyes widened in begrudging awe. "Bloody hell."

The walls were line with golden framed photographs and painted portraits. "Allow me to introduce you to your family." Mr Bell beamed with a proprietors' sort of pride, and gestured to the nearest portrait, an extravagant hand-painted thing, commissioned long before his old friend ruined himself and his family. "Your grandfather, Jonnie Thornton." Jack stepped closer, his expression one of cautious curiosity.

"Oi, he's a blonde?"

"Astute observation," Mr Bell resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. Young people. "I believe your Aunt Fanny takes after him quite a bit. In colouring and temperament."

"So that's my gran?" Jack studied the equally extravagant portrait of a much younger Hannah Thornton. "She's well fit, 'n all."

"Hannah Elizabeth Thornton nee Livingston."

"Fifty bucks says I can steal a kiss before you."

Adam narrowed his sharp eyes at his new friend. Jonnie Thornton stuck out his hand, a mocking smile brightening his whole face with renewed energy. He was a cocky, cut throat sort of chap, and the most charmingly manipulative man Adam had ever met. Besides himself of course. He hated him and was fascinated by him. Of course, he could never turn down a wager. Hannah Livingston was formidable, iron willed, but still the prettiest debutante of the season. He shook Jonnie's hand. "Make it a hundred, old chap."

"Done."

It was the first and last time he'd ever lost a bet. Jonnie got his one hundred dollars, a new wife, and a son—nine months later.

"Indiscretion runs in the Thornton blood," Mr Bell said jovially. "In for a penny in for a pound, so they say. Poor Hannah. But he married her all the same. It was probably the most honourable thing he ever did."

Jack frowned, "So, my dad," he didn't finish.

"Is guilty of nothing more than being exactly like his father. For all he tries so bloody hard not to be." Mr Bell chuckled and moved to the next portrait. It was a black and white photograph of John Thornton, just eighteen, and already too much a man. There was a hard fiery anger in his eyes. Probably because Hannah had made him wear a suit, and pose. "I've never liked your father, Jack. He's too bloody serious, even when he was young. At least Jonnie knew how to laugh." Jack didn't answer. He stared at the picture of his father, his expression hard, sullen. "What do you think of him?"

"Didn't learn much from his maggot dad, did he?"

Mr Bell raised his eyebrows. "How remarkable ungenerous."

"He had his dad," Jack shrugged, his face darkening. "I didn't get mine, yeah?"

"John was fourteen when his father killed himself. What he did have of his father wasn't much. Jonnie provided for his children, but he never knew what to do with them. He was mercurial, with a terrible temper. I do think they were happy for a short time, until," he paused and cleared his throat. Even he had felt pity when the daughter between John and Fanny was delivered stillborn. "Every family has its skeletons."

"What do you care?" Jack's scowl deepened. He was still staring at the picture of his father, his fists tight at his sides. "You don't even like him, yeah?"

"Do you?"

"I don't know him," Jack muttered. "Can't really know someone who's never around, can I?"

"And who's fault is that?" The boy shrugged again. He folded his arms folded across his chest, a very Thornton-like glower on his face. "Really, I expected you to be cleverer than this." Mr Bell sighed and sat down on one of the cushioned benches with a flourish, laying the newspaper beside him. "Do you know Henry Lennox?"

"How do you know him, like?"

" Adam, please." Hannah Thornton set down the envelope with trembling hands."Tell me what to do."

He opened the letter, glanced over it, and looked at her sharply. "Where did you get this?" Mr Bell said, uncharacteristically stern. Shame flickered in her eyes. Mr Bell blinked, then dropped his eyes to the legal letter in his hands, quickly glancing over it again. He noted the law office, and frowned. Lennox & Fitzwilliam. It was a warning, nothing more. If John did nothing, perhaps— He shook his head, folded it back up, and held it out. "Divorces are unpleasant, but custody battles are nasty affairs. Should this go to court, he doesn't have the resources to fight back."

"What then?" She said, a thin desperation seeping into her words. "We let her just keep the boy without a fight? This is his son—"

"And his decision." Mr Bell said firmly. Her eyes hardened and she snatched the letter from him. "You'd best pray she doesn't pursue it further."

"Why?

"Fathers almost always lose."

"I make it my business to know everything," Mr Bell waved a dismissive hand. "Your father contacted Mr Lennox, in October, the year you were born."

The boy turned, his face an angry mixture of disbelief and fury. "He what?"

"Thornton was told, in no uncertain terms, to leave Margaret Hale alone."

"And he listened to that mindgebag?" Jack exploded. "Well, aye, I fucking like that. What kind of a pussycat lets good-boy-Henners bully and boss him around, like? God, it makes me sick. Mam too," He kicked at wall. "They gave up, didn't they? They fucking gave up and what did I get, yeah? I got nothing for sixteen years," His chest was heaving. "Nothing but silence and a handful of pictures. I'm bloody right here, and he's not. Why am I even here, like?"

Mr Bell regarded him for a moment, before saying calmly, "Your father was placed in an impossible position." Jack opened his mouth to respond, but Mr Bell held up a hand. "Imagine falling in love—hard—with a spitfire of a woman, barely nineteen. You get her pregnant, marry her, and then," he snapped his fingers, smiling as Jack flinched, "she disappears, taking your unborn child with her. You try to find her, but she never responds to your calls or emails. Years pass. Then you're served divorce papers and threatened with losing all rights to your child. Do you really think picking a fight is the best move?" Jack stiffened, and Mr Bell continued. "Her family hates you, the law is against you, and you have no money for an expensive custody battle you'll probably lose. What's a man to do?" Jack looked away, uncomfortable. "What would you do?"

"Break a couple of heads," he muttered, "but I wouldn't let nothing stop me. Not like him."

"Would you bankrupt yourself? Gamble on a judge ruling in your favour? And destroy what little remained of a family you've always wanted but never had?" Mr Bell sighed, "Your mother took everything from your father and left him to make the hardest decision of his life."

"She—" the boy looked stricken, almost sick. "Mam isn't a bad person." His voice was shaking.

"No, but even good people do terrible things."

"I—That's not—" Jack almost choked, face turning red. "Dad gave up, like a bloody Jessie. If he'd just talked to her—"

"Your father is many things, Jack," Mr Bell interrupted. "But he's no coward. Your mother, however, is."

"Leave her alone."

"Why should I?" Mr Bell crossed one leg over the other, linking his hands over his knee. "Your father left her alone for sixteen years," Jack glared angrily at the floor, refusing to answer. "Is she happy?"

"She's miserable, like," he snapped. "Living under Aunt Shaw's thumb," The boy looked like he wanted to spit. "You don't understand nothing."

Mr Bell raised his eyebrows. "If she's unhappy, it's because she chooses to be."

"You didn't see what I saw growing up. What do you know about it, like? "

"I know she has your father's mobile number. He never changed it. She has his address and keys to his house. He never moved. She also has access to his bank accounts, when he had every right to cut her off."

"Bloody hell," Jack look stunned. "How the fuck do you know that?"

"I told you I know everything. Well, the important things, anyway." He waved his hand dismissively. "Your father deserves more."

"You don't think I know that? God, I hate this. All of this. Mam won't grow a bloody fucking backbone. She's dying in England, and she don't even know it. She hates it and now—I came here because I wanted his side of things, yeah? I'm here but Dad's just as bad as Mam. Both of them, mithering on and ignoring the obvious, like." With that, all the fight seemed to drain out of him and he slid down until he was sitting on the floor. "I think I hate them both."

"Quite," Mr Bell picked at an invisible piece of lint on his trousers. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Me?"

"Do you want things to change or not?" Mr Bell stood and walked over to John Thornton's portrait. He chuckled at the fierce iron expression. "If anyone understands anger it's John Thornton. He buried his father, paid back his debts, dropped out of college, saved Fanny from her own self destruction, struggled to rebuild his family name, nearly bankrupted his business, and then lost his wife and his son. Life is hard on all of us, Jack." The boy stared at him, looking far older than he had a moment ago. Poor sod. "Do you want to know the real reason I dislike your father?"

"What's that?"

"He's Jonnie Thornton's son," he smiled thinly, "and yet he became an honest and admirable man. It's rather nauseating." Jack didn't say anything, his face troubled. "He's not here because ever since your mother left, he refuses to leave Milton. Perhaps you can guess why. A fools hope, but," Mr Bell pulled his wallet from his inside jacket pocket and removed several bills. "Call him right now, and ask him to come. I'll wager you one hundred quid he's here by morning."

"He won't do it. Helstone reminds him of when his dad died. He told me, like."

"It's not Helstone," Mr Bell replied. "I'm the one that reminds him of his father. Now are you going to call him or shall I?"

"Oi, what game are you playing at?"

"I'm not usually one to meddle in other people's affairs—"

"But?"

"But we all need a little push in the right direction now and then, don't we?"

"Well, aye," Jack said warily. "What d'you mean?"

Mr Bell picked up the newspaper and held it out. "Your mother is in Boston."

Jack snatched the paper from him, his eyes tearing over the article. Mr Bell's smile widened when the boy's shoulders stiffened. "Bloody hell. How did you—I—I can't." Jack pushed back his hat, and began pacing. "They'd never forgive me, like."

"Do you want their forgiveness?" Mr Bell challenged. "Or do you want them to be happy?"

"I—I can't ask them to do this."

"Why not? I'd say you're in an excellent position to make extravagant demands, wouldn't you?" Mr Bell held up the money. "Do we have a wager?"

Jack frowned, chewing his lip, weighing his options. The money really wasn't the point, but Mr Bell wasn't about to take a chance. Finally the boy nodded and dug his mobile from his pocket. "Yeah, alright."

John's cell phone buzzed once, twice, three times before he noticed. He snatched it up, "Jack?"

"Hey, Dad."

"What is it?"

"I have a favor to ask you."

He frowned at the odd strained quality in his son's voice. "I'm listening, kid."

"I know you don't want to, but, would you—would you come to Helstone?"

John's grip tightened on his phone. "Jack—"

"I know you said you can't, but this is important."

"Why?"

"Because." The line was silent for a moment. "Because I want you to." More silence. "Please, Dad. Do it for me, yeah?"

John took a long breath. He couldn't ignore the the edge of hope in the kid's question. He sat for a minute.

"Dad, did you hear me—"

"I heard you." He sighed. The kid didn't know what he was asking, but John couldn't say no. "I can't stay more than a couple of days. Three at most."

Jack let out a whoosh of breath, "Well, aye, that's alright."

"I'll be there in the morning."

"Brilliant. Yeah. See you then."

Mr Bell suppressed a triumphant smile as Jack fell back against the wall. The boy blinked very hard several times, glancing away.

"Good men never really give up, you know," Mr. Bell said quietly, making certain not to look as Jack composed himself. "Make sure you ring your mother too. Best wait until evening, though. Tired people are much easier to manipulate."

Jack's mouth fell open a little. "You're mad, you are." He looked impressed and horrified all at once. "Absolutely bonkers, like."

"Yes, of course. All the best people are." He folded the money back into his wallet and straightened his jacket. "You owe me a hundred quid, by the way," and he sauntered towards the doorway.

"You're not serious?"

"Never bet a man who knows everything, young Thornton." He winked.

"Finally taking my advice, are you?"

"Shut up, Williams," John ignored the older man's smug look as he left a brief set of instructions for while he was gone. "I'll be back on Monday at the latest."

"You don't have to be."

"Make sure we double check inventory for the Pellor contract. I don't want them barking up my ass again."

"You go on, Master," Slick interrupted. He stood grinning in the doorway. "We'll hold down the fort."

They practically pushed him out the door, ignoring any more last minute requests. He could've sworn he heard the lock turn as soon as the door shut. John walked slowly to his truck, and stood a moment, hesitating. For sixteen years, he'd stayed in Milton, waiting. But for what? He knew it was a damn fool's hope. "Fuck." He was losing his damn mind. He scowled and yanked open the truck door. The drive to Helstone was a good seven hours and if he didn't go now he never would. He started the engine, shifted it into gear, and pulled out onto the street.

Margaret sat on the kerb by the old bus stop, her suitcase next to her, less than a block from Marlborough Shipping Depot. She told herself she deserved a moment of peace. She told herself her nausea was a result of the train ride followed immediately by a twisting cab ride. She told herself she was mad for coming. She told herself she would not vomit when she saw him again.

"Oh God," she whimpered and leaned over, retching hard into the sparse half dead weeds. "I can't do this."

Why was she doing this? Her hands shook and she clasped them together, twisting the rings on her left hand. She didn't know why she was even wearing her wedding rings. She blinked back more tears, stomach still churning.

Margaret touched the ring with the tip of her finger. It was simple, small, and the most beautiful ring she'd ever seen. She felt the sudden confusing sting of tears. She quickly closed the box. "Did Fanny help you?" She asked, tucking the box into her jacket pocket. He shook his head. She frowned, "You just picked it on your own then?"

"Do you like it?"

"It's quite lovely, yes." Margaret smiled a little. "Thank you. You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to." He ran his fingers absently through his hair, making it stand on end. "It looked like you."

The stone was a small amethyst set in rose gold. She'd always liked it. Maybe that was why she couldn't bear to get rid of it. Margaret slipped off her rings and tucked them into the inside pocket of her purse, pulling the zipper firmly closed. Then she forced herself to stand on shaking legs. The walk to the truck yard was familiar and strange. Nothing about Milton seemed to have changed, yet she felt like an imposter. She swallowed hard when Marlborough Shipping came into view. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other, let herself through the front door, and stood trembling in the tiny reception area. A wave of familiar awful smells crashed over her; cigarette smoke, lemon air freshener, and the burnt insides of a vacuum cleaner. The air conditioner kicked off and the overhead lights buzzed in the sudden stillness.

"Hello?" Her voice was barely a whisper. She stepped into the hall, and walked slowly towards the back office.

"Excuse me, ma'am," a familiar deep voice said. "Can I help you?"

Margaret jumped and turned, staring into the stunned face of Tucker Williams. "Oh," the word left her mouth in a whoosh of air, her heart thundering in her ears. "Hello, Tuck."

"Holy shit," the old man breathed.

"I—sorry I—"

"No, I'm sorry," Williams snatched off his hat, blushing bright red all the way to his ears. "You just surprised me is all."

"It's alright, Tuck. Really." She swallowed, gripping the handle of her suitcase. "Is he— is he here?"

"Oh shit," Williams paled, and shook his head. "He's gone to Helstone, with Jack and Fanny. Left almost an hour ago."