13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Margaret felt sore the next morning, likely from being tense dur ing the motorcar rides and after Mr. McKinley’s daring rescue.
While taking a relaxing lavender-infused bath that morning, she noticed two bruises on her back.
They were tender to the touch, but thankfully no one would see them to ask questions.
The last thing she wanted was her grandmama forcing her to stay home.
Remaining at Maplebrook meant suitors, and constant suitors would mean explaining the will to her sisters.
They couldn’t know about it; it was her decision alone.
When Margaret arrived at the office, it hadn’t taken long to organize the files Mr. McKinley had pressed her to finish the day before.
What she was surprised about was they were already balanced.
Instead of wondering why, she arranged them alphabetically in each cabinet.
The rest of the day, she answered phone calls and scheduled appointments.
Four arrived that morning, and two came in the afternoon.
Her father seemed to have been overly exhausted.
His under eyes had darkened and sagged. She had made him a cup of coffee, but it didn’t work its magic of keeping him steady and focused.
The poor man. He had left the business industry to help others and start a new life for his family, and now he was back where he started.
Mr. McKinley took some appointments off Daddy’s hands, and he was still stressed.
However, Mr. McKinley didn’t seem stressed.
Yet he was a difficult man to read anyway.
He wore no signs of emotion whatsoever. Margaret didn’t believe she had seen him smile once.
He wore neutral expressions and spoke with an apathetic tone—unless he was shouting at Margaret, which was the day before.
Today he seemed different. Mr. McKinley was quieter; he wasn’t orderly or sending her cold looks. He never came near her, not even ten feet in her direction. He never gave her a glance. What had Margaret done to keep him beyond arm’s length? Mr. McKinley hardly gave her personal space yesterday.
When the clock struck five, Margaret gathered her things.
Her father was in his last meeting and wouldn’t be out for quite some minutes, so she took her time.
She reorganized her desk and started sweeping the floor.
She had become so distracted that she didn’t notice Mr. McKinley walk past her.
The door closed, and he set off down the sidewalk.
Margaret observed her reflection through the mirror behind her and fixed a loose strand of hair.
She had a sudden urge to follow the man.
If she had offended him, she needed to apologize.
Margaret retrieved her purse from her desk and followed Mr. McKinley.
Shoulders slumped, he walked slowly in the direction of his motorcar, lacking the purpose he’d had the day before.
“Mr. McKinley!”
He turned, pausing in his path. He didn’t open his mouth to speak or say something bland; he just stared.
Margaret gave him a friendly smile. “I have been meaning to speak to you.”
“Why?”
Margaret gripped her coat sleeves as awkward tension lingered between them. His cold stares nearly knocked the breath out of her.
“I was wondering if I had offended you.”
“How?”
Margaret shrugged. “I don’t know. You have just been distant since . . . you know.”
“You must be tired, Miss Nicholson.”
Margaret’s eyebrows perked. “Why would I be tired?”
“You speak nonsense.”
Margaret huffed. “I am not speaking nonsense.”
“Good day, Miss Nicholson.”
“Talk to me, Mr. McKinley. What is ailing you?”
His eyes pierced. “Perhaps you need to learn to stay out of other people’s affairs.”
He turned around to walk away, but Margaret was insistent. “Mr. McKinley, please tell me what is wrong.”
He paused and glared at her. “What is wrong? What is wrong is that you believe you own the right to interfere with my business. You are—”
Mr. McKinley’s sentence was cut short by a thunderous boom.
He flinched, his breath hitching as he bent forward, his shoulders hunched defensively and hands behind his head.
Color escaped his face and his eyes held a look of wildness.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed Margaret's arm with a grip that was both forceful and desperate.
“Go! Go!”
He yanked Margaret behind the solid brick wall of the loan office.
Her breath caught in her throat as Mr. McKinley pushed her back against it and shielded her with his body.
Margaret’s heart thundered in her chest, and her mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening.
What on earth? Her instinct was to push him away, to demand answers, but the urgency in his eyes, the desperation etched into his features, held her in place.
What was that deafening noise, and why did it have them huddled in this defensive stance?
An imprint from Mr. McKinley’s strength was revealed on Margaret’s arm, but she ignored it and peeked from the wall’s corner.
A motorcar was parked by the side of the road, smoke billowing from its engine.
An angry driver stepped outside the vehicle, slamming the door.
He threw his hat on the ground and slapped the car’s hood.
The engine had misfired.
Margaret gently shoved Mr. McKinley’s body off hers. “It’s a misfire.”
Mr. McKinley pulled himself from her, standing with his back against the wall. He breathed heavily, both hands over his ears. His eyes were closed, and he was whispering gibberish. Margaret softly touched Mr. McKinley’s arm.
“Mr. McKinley, are you all right? Shall I fetch a doctor?”
He shook his head and dropped down, sitting on the asphalt.
A sudden realization came over Margaret.
She had seen the same look on Mr. McKinley’s face and the same reaction before.
She remembered the many weeks she spent at the hospital when her father was injured.
The men acted the same way Mr. McKinley did when a loud noise erupted.
Even her father had that look once he came home.
A wildness had gleamed in his eyes, too.
Margaret sat next to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “It was just an engine misfire. Everything is going to be fine.”
Mr. McKinley looked up into Margaret’s eyes. The wildness was still there. “I-I” He stumbled on his words.
“You were in the war, weren’t you?”
He nodded.
“That misfire made you think about it.”
He nodded again.
“My father was in the war, too. He used to react the same way when he heard loud noises.”
Silence stood between them again. Mr. McKinley’s breathing slowed after a while, but his body still quivered.
“I understand what you are going through is hard, but—”
“You know nothing!” Mr. McKinley snapped. His eyes glared at her. His body grew tense, and he removed her hand from his shoulder. “You know nothing of pain nor fear. You don’t know what it’s like to witness death before your very eyes.”
Margaret’s jaw tightened. She took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. She couldn’t go on like this—letting Mr. McKinley bully her. Her blood boiled. This man had no right to judge her!
“I do know about pain and fear,” Margaret chided. “I may not have been in the war, but I have been fighting a war of my own for years.”
Mr. McKinley rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. Her Highness has been searching for the shoes she lost.”
Margaret’s anger stirred more, ears burning hot as coal.
“You say I’m the nosey one, but you are the most judgmental man I've ever met! I’m here trying to offer you comfort and kindness, and all you do is treat me as an entitled brat!
” Margaret stood and brushed the dirt off her skirt before she stormed away.
“Wait.” Mr. McKinley’s gentle voice made her pause. “I’m sorry.”
Margaret turned towards him. He patted the ground. “Please don’t go . . . I beg you.”
Margaret set her purse down and sat next to him again. Mr. McKinley was indeed hard to read. Had he just apologized? Begged her to stay? Who was this man? If everyone’s character could be described in one word, what would Mr. McKinley’s be? His unpredictability drove her insane.
“What were you trying to say?” Mr. McKinley asked, scooting closer.
Margaret breathed deeply, trying to gain composure as she relived the night she tried to forget.
Tell him, her soul screamed, but the thoughts .
. . the flashbacks. They were too much. She exhaled.
It was now or never. She needed to let the past go.
And doing so, she had to do as Mama advised her to do—face her fears.
Her fear held her captive as she kept that night buried beneath her thick layers.
It tormented her, and she was tired of it.
“I’m frightened of the dark,” Margaret started.
But suddenly she felt self-conscious, keeping the pause so long without explanation.
She seemed like a small child compared to the war veteran beside her.
“I have been since I was sixteen. If you don’t already know, I never finished college.
Before my father joined the war, I went to William and Mary.
I lived there, and I made plenty of friends.
I have always felt isolated at our country estate. ”
Margaret paused and continued as she prepared to talk about the moment she longed to bury.
“I roomed with three girls that I grew close to during my first year there. My father made me promise to not go anywhere after dark and stay out of trouble, but I didn’t listen.
We were going to a nightclub. But the driver we hired was drunk .
. . we crashed.” Margaret tried to hold her tears back, but they started to flood.
“I remember being conscious for a short moment after the crash. The driver’s eyes were staring back at me with no recollection of life.
I had never seen so much of the color red at one time.
But then I lost consciousness. When I woke up .
. . I couldn’t see. I was completely blind. ”
She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths as she shuddered.
Speaking was different than remembering.
Margaret could turn away her memories, but speaking about them made it seem more real.
Margaret remembered her father’s hands on hers.
She had been worried what he might think, how he might view her.
She had thought about him being disappointed, but her father wasn’t. He remained by her side.
“I lived in darkness for two weeks, and it was a miracle I regained my sight . . . But even if I didn’t have my sight, I’d still be living those terrors. I saw it all.”
Mr. McKinley stayed silent. He looked down at his hands that were no longer shaking. “I-I had no idea. Forgive me.”
“You didn’t know,” Margaret squeaked. “There’s nothing for me to forgive.”
Mr. McKinley stayed silent again. He twiddled with his thumbs. “I lost my brother . . . in the war.”
“I’m sorry.”
A tear glistened in the corner of his eye.
“I was there. I saw it happen, and I couldn’t save him.
He didn’t need to go to war. I told him not to go, and when I enlisted, I wasn’t there to stop him.
” Mr. McKinley peered into Margaret’s eyes.
“I paid for him to go to the university, and I left to fight because I was the eldest. I had a responsibility.” Mr. McKinley sniffed.
“I should have been harder on him. He was only nineteen . . . not much younger than you.”
Margaret’s heart shattered, seeing the man who had been cold to her now broken and vulnerable, something she never expected. There they were, two people who despised one another, now revealing their deepest fears and regrets.
“I’m sorry I bothered you with this,” Mr. McKinley said, wiping away his tears.
Margaret shook her head. “No, you haven’t bothered me. Speaking with you has helped me open up about parts of my past I leave buried.”
A slight smile curved in the corner of Mr. McKinley’s lips—the first Margaret had seen. “It feels . . . rather good, doesn’t it?”
Margaret nodded. “It does.”
She no longer felt trapped in her own consciousness.
Margaret had put everything out in the open, every bit of it.
It was all raw and real. But was sharing enough to help them overcome their troubles?
It had been three years since the war, and Mr. McKinley hadn’t gotten over his past. It had been five years since the accident, and Margaret still was still afraid.
Was their conversation progress, or was it something to destroy one another with?