28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A week later, Margaret sat on Evie’s bed next to Marjorie, fighting back her tears.
Evie folded her final dress and closed the suitcase.
As soon as it clicked, her departure became a reality.
Margaret had never predicted that the timid Evie would be the first to leave the nest, but there stood the nineteen-year-old, glowing with excitement, dressed in her Sunday best. Her blonde hair was neatly styled in marcel waves, soft ringlets peeking out from beneath her cream cloche hat.
Evie sucked in a breath, then released it. “Well, I believe that is everything.”
“Are you certain you have to go now?” Marjorie whined, wiping a single tear from under her eye.
“My first term starts next week.”
Margaret could no longer contain herself. Before Evie could take her next breath, Margaret wrapped her arms around her, enveloping her in a deep hug. Evie embraced her back, making it harder for Margaret not to cry.
“It’s all right to cry, you know,” Evie assured as if she had read Margaret’s mind.
“I will never cry . . .” Margaret stumbled, her throat tightening. She pulled away, pressing her palm against Evie’s cheek. “Because this isn’t goodbye.”
“Just a ‘see you later,’ huh?” Evie smirked.
“Exactly.”
“Make sure you say hello to Grandmama for me,” Marjorie interjected, standing up from the bed.
The Medical College of Virginia had room and board for its nursing students, but on the weekends Evie wanted to visit Grandmama—mostly Sidney.
Margaret was excited for her sister to go out into the world and experience all its adventures.
Sometimes Margaret was jealous, but she’d have to wait for her destiny.
When the Lord revealed her purpose to go elsewhere, she’d go, but for now, she wasn’t planning to go anywhere.
Charlottesville was her home—the mountains, the meadow, the fresh air, and her family.
“I can carry your things,” Marjorie said, picking up the suitcase. “Goodness, you travel light. You’re just bringing one suitcase?”
“Why do I need more than that? I’ll be wearing a nurse uniform for most of the time.”
“I hope Mr. Agnes likes nurse uniforms,” Margaret teased with a wink.
Evie blushed, twirling a ringlet. “I hope so, too.”
Mama peeked her head through the door after a knock. “Evie, Mr. Agnes is here.”
Margaret and Marjorie made funny faces, and Evie giggled, rubbing the back of her neck. “He’s just my ride.”
“Sure, he is,” Marjorie pressed.
When they went downstairs and then outside, Mr. Agnes’s car was present. Evie sighed. “There’s my ride.”
Sidney exited the car, taking Evie’s bags while she hugged Mama and Daddy goodbye.
Sidney opened the passenger door for her, and she waved once more.
Margaret managed to hold back tears, but Mama couldn’t.
As they drove away, Daddy wrapped his arm around Mama’s shoulder as she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Our baby girl is all grown up,” said Mama.
Daddy kissed her temple. “She’ll be back. Don’t you worry.”
“From the look on Mr. Agnes’s face, it looks like we’ll have a wedding to plan before long.”
"Hey.” Daddy gave her a stern look. “Let’s not think that far ahead."
Marjorie looked back at Margaret, and they both giggled. No one could deny that their father knew it was true.
“Oh, Margaret,” Daddy said, digging into his pocket. “A letter came for you. It’s from Boston.”
He handed it to Margaret. She held it in her hands, her heart beating ever so fast. This would be the response to her letter to The Boston Globe, asking if they’d consider hiring Roger after sending a few of his poems. Her hands trembled and her heart hammered, eager for the results.
Daddy went inside with Mama as she cried against him.
“Who were you expecting a letter from in Boston?” Marjorie asked, peeking over her shoulder.
Margaret didn’t answer, but that didn’t stop Marjorie. She quickly snatched the letter from her hands, reading the envelope with curiosity. “The Boston Globe?”
“Just trying to help a friend.”
“Is the friend Mr. McKinley?”
Margaret snatched back the letter. “How did you know?”
“Oh, come on. You don’t have many friends. Also, we all know Mr. McKinley is unemployed. Are you trying to get him a job in Boston?”
Margaret nodded, rubbing her forearms. “I submitted some of his poems to The Boston Globe.”
Marjorie covered her mouth and gasped. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Mr. McKinley hasn’t written poetry in years. Graydon said so himself. Why would you do that?”
Margaret broke the seal. “Because I’m trying to help him. He needs this job to heal. You know he likes to be busy.”
Marjorie fell silent as Margaret read the letter.
Dear Miss Nicholson,
I trust this message finds you well. I would like to extend my gratitude to you for the poetry of your acquaintance, Mr. McKinley.
I have had the opportunity to peruse his work, and I find it both intriguing and inspiring.
The raw and unique nature of his writing has captured my attention, and I believe it would bring a distinctive and enriching element to the literary prospects of The Boston Globe.
Therefore, I am keenly interested in exploring the possibility of engaging Mr. McKinley’s services for our esteemed publication.
I kindly request your assistance in facilitating communication with Mr. McKinley at your earliest convenience.
I am eager to discuss potential collaboration opportunities and further explore how his creative contributions can be incorporated into our magazine.
I look forward to hearing from Mr. McKinley soon and appreciate your support in this matter.
Yours respectfully,
William O. Taylor
“Oh my goodness!” Marjorie squealed. “They want to publish his poems! The infamous Taylors?”
Margaret pressed the letter against her chest, her excitement leaving her breathless. “This is unbelievable. Do you know what this means?”
“He’s going to be rich and famous!”
Margaret shook her head and laughed. “Oh, Marjorie. He’s going to have the job he’s always dreamed of.”
“And he’ll have a lot of money.”
Margaret folded the letter. “We will have to see about that. It all depends if Roger will accept.”
Margaret walked towards the house.
“Do you think he will?” Marjorie asked, linking arms with Margaret as she joined her side.
The very thought frightened Margaret. She didn’t know how Roger would take this news, but she hoped it would give him a little motivation. Despite his pause in his literary creativities, it didn’t mean it was permanent. With the right encouragement, he could write again.
When they entered the home, Roger wasn’t around. Margaret observed the parlor and found her father seated next to her mother on the sofa. Mama leaned against him, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Daddy, have you seen Roger?”
Her father sat up straighter, rubbing Mama’s shoulders. “Why, yes. He just left out the back door. I believe he was going for a walk.”
Margaret strode purposefully to the back door, fixing her eyes on Roger’s retreating figure ahead.
He moved steadily towards the meadow and watching him go there of his own accord sparked a flicker of hope within her.
Maybe he was healing, finding the same peace in Charlottesville that she had discovered.
But the letter she held tightly in her grasp would be the true test.
“Roger!” Margaret called after him. He turned around, and she ran after him. With his hands in his pockets, Roger walked towards her, meeting her halfway.
“Is everything all right?” Roger’s eyebrows arched, and his forehead creased, displaying a look of concern.
Margaret couldn’t help but smile. “More than all right. I have news!”
“Oh?” Roger said. “Happy or sad?”
“The happiest in the world!” Margaret handed him the opened letter. “This is for you.”
Roger’s expression remained blank as he extended his hand towards the letter.
He removed it from the envelope, and as he began to read, Margaret’s heart raced wildly in her chest. She rocked forward and back from the balls of her feet to her toes, her excitement mounting.
However, as Roger glanced up at her, her anticipation deflated.
His face was pinched—taking her back to their first meeting—and he crumpled the letter into a tight fist.
“I can’t believe you!” he exclaimed, holding up the balled-up paper. “I gave you those poems in confidence, and you defied my trust!”
Margaret’s gut twisted in knots. “I . . . I thought you’d be pleased. They . . . The Boston Globe wants to publish your poems.”
Roger glared fiercely at her. “Another man’s poems! I’m no longer that man!”
“You can write new poems,” Margaret said gently. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The Taylors are—”
Roger huffed and threw the letter on the ground. “You don’t understand, do you? I don’t want this! I’m done with it all! Can’t you see? I’m damaged goods, Margaret!”
“I believe in you,” Margaret squeaked, her throat dry as cotton as she held back her tears.
Seeing Roger in this manner, truly seeing his pain, brought her to her knees.
She went too far with this idea, and she knew that now.
She should have waited. She should have asked him as Marjorie said.
But she wanted to help him. She couldn’t stand another moment, watching him suffer in silence.
“I know you can write again. The Roger from before is still in there. I know it.”
“You know nothing,” Roger hissed. “I thought you, of all people, would understand me.”
Tears welled in Margaret’s eyes. “I did it because I love you.”
“That’s your first mistake,” Roger snapped. He wiped his face, pressing his lips together. “You and I were never written in the stars like those precious romance books of yours.”
Margaret’s heart shattered. Salty tears streamed down her cheeks as she managed to speak. “Then I defy the stars,” she croaked. “How hard is it to accept that I want to be with you?”
Without another word, he turned and walked up the hill, leaving Margaret standing alone, her tears watering wildflowers at her feet.
She sank into the tall green grass, wishing it would enfold her completely, hiding her from the world and her heartbreak.
Her body became numb as reality sank in; a future with Roger was now impossible.
She was certain of it. Roger no longer loved her—or had he ever?