31. Epilogue
Epilogue
Boston, Massachusetts
Six months later
The rain pitter-pattered gently on the roof, a soothing rhythm that eased Margaret’s mind as she hummed softly, snipping the bottom stems of her roses at a precise diagonal.
Silvery droplets trailed down the windowpane in veined patterns before pooling on the sill.
Margaret found evenings exhausting after a long day of work at the flower market down the street, but arranging flowers in the quiet of her home had never felt more relaxing.
Margaret exhaled deeply as she carefully placed the roses into the vase alongside sprigs of potato vine, trailing ivy, and soft peonies.
She carefully lifted the blue ceramic vase and brought it to the mantle where a fire crackled beneath it, drying Margaret’s coat hanging above that had been soaked by the rain.
Walking in the rain hadn’t been part of her plan, but it never troubled her the way it did most of Boston’s citizens.
While others scrambled for cover, she strode confidently down the slick sidewalks, her head held high, savoring the fresh, earthy scent that only rain could bring. Oh, how she adored that smell.
Pausing, she leaned in close to the flowers, breathing deeply of their sweet fragrance.
With her eyes closed, she could almost imagine herself back at Ivy Hill.
The memory of that place tugged at her heart.
She longed to return someday, but for now, Boston was her home, and she would embrace it, rain and all.
Margaret’s gaze drifted to her wedding photo next to the vase. The black and white photograph made the scene stand still, like a capsule in a bottle, but the day still remained in Margaret’s mind like yesterday—every color, every sound, and every emotion as though it had happened only yesterday.
Her fingers lightly traced Roger’s face, lingering on the faint curve of his lips, where a smile teased at the corners.
Margaret could almost hear the photographer, urging them to remain still and not move a muscle, and Roger couldn’t obey.
He had been all smiles that day, so there he stood, a smile that would never wash away.
They had said their vows under a sweetgum tree in the meadow, with a few rows of chairs in the distance—with Sidney and Graydon being the only guests besides Margaret’s family.
The wedding was too last minute for an extravagant wedding gown like Marjorie wanted for Margaret, but the white blazer and flowy skirt, along with the wide-brimmed sun hat had been perfect.
Margaret remembered feeling like a bride, and unlike her last engagement, it felt right.
Margaret could still feel the soft green grass beneath her feet as she walked down the makeshift aisle, her father at her side.
She had been anxious—not with doubt, but with an eager longing to hold Roger’s hands and vow to love and honor him forever as his wife.
When she met Roger beneath the sweetgum tree, she knew in her heart she had made the right choice.
Margaret smiled, running her hands through her waist-length hair, just like she had before the photo was taken. On her wedding day, she refused for her hair to be styled, only allowing it to cascade down her back and blow freely in the cool spring wind.
She wanted Roger to see her exactly as she was, to give herself to him without pretense or alteration.
He would have all of her—her untamed hair, her stubborn spirit, her quiet timidity, and even her faults.
She hadn’t needed to mask or polish any part of herself.
With Roger, she was wholly accepted, loved for every imperfection that made her who she was.
Their apartment door clicked shut, causing Margaret’s heart to race in excitement.
Unable to contain herself, she ran to her husband, her arms wrapping tightly around his frame.
Roger’s coat was soaked, rainwater dripping onto the floor and seeping into her dry dress as she pressed against him.
But she didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was home.
She tilted her head to meet his gaze, catching the warmth of his familiar smile.
Roger pulled her closer, his embrace chasing away the chill of the rain.
“You weren’t even going to let me take my coat off first, were you?” Roger teased, his voice husky and low.
Margaret giggled, removing the coat from his broad shoulders. “Sorry, I was just too excited.”
Roger leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. “Don’t apologize,” he murmured. “I like it when you’re excited to see me. It gives me something to look forward to after a long day.”
Margaret carefully hung his coat next to hers by the fireplace, then turned to face him.
Her eyes traced the familiar lines of his face—his coffee-brown eyes, the curve of his smile, the strong jaw, and the cleft in his chin that she had come to adore.
She loved everything about him, and each time she studied him, she had more of him memorized, unlike the times before when she couldn’t read him at all.
Now, she knew him inside and out. However, tonight something was different.
She could see it in the way he grinned, his dimples deepening as he looked at her.
There was a secret there, something he was holding back, and though he tried to mask it with his smile, Margaret could feel it—something important, something he was almost bursting to share.
“What is it?” Margaret asked, her curiosity piqued. She stepped closer, her hands resting on his forearms. “Tell me before I burst!”
Roger smirked, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Give me a kiss, and I’ll consider it.”
Margaret shook her head, laughing softly. “All you had to do was ask,” she teased, her fingers tracing the damp fabric of his shirt. “I’d have given it to you as soon as you walked in the door.”
He bent down, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was tender yet intense.
As Margaret wrapped her arms around his neck, he pulled her close, his strong arms encircling her waist, holding her so securely.
When he finally pulled away, Margaret’s world seemed to blur around her.
A soft dizziness settled in, her thoughts momentarily scattered.
She could never quite understand why his kisses had this effect on her—why they left her weak in the knees, breathless, and lightheaded as if the air itself had been stolen from her.
“Now,” Roger said, standing tall. “How would you feel if I told you I got a promotion?”
Margaret’s brows shot up, her pulse quickening. “It depends on what kind. Does it involve moving away?”
Roger tilted his head, humming in deep thought. “That depends,” he said, his grin widening. “A publisher in New York loved my poems. He wants to publish an anthology of mine.”
Margaret stumbled back, her hands flying to her mouth. “What? Are you serious?” Her heart raced wildly, each beat louder than the last.
“I’m going to be a published author!”
Margaret couldn’t help but squeal, leaping into his arms. Roger caught her effortlessly, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around in a whirl of laughter.
“I can’t believe it!” Margaret shouted, her voice filled with pure happiness. “I’m so proud of you!”
Roger set her down, his eyes sparkling. “It’s really happening.”
She placed a hand on his stubbly cheek. “I told you that you could do it. I will always believe in you.”
He wrapped her again in a hug, burying his face in her neck. “I love you, Margaret. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Margaret blinked back tears. She could hardly believe her husband was about to become a published author, though deep down, she had always known he would.
Roger was an extraordinary poet, and anyone who disagreed was a fool.
She cupped his face in her hands, her fingers brushing his warm skin, before pressing a kiss to his lips.
“We should celebrate. How about a special dinner tomorrow night? I confess, all I planned today was leftover meatloaf.”
Roger beamed. “I have a better idea.”
“What is that?”
He removed her hands from his face and rubbed them gently with his thumbs. “Let’s go to Charlottesville, just the two of us. We should tell our family this wonderful news in person.”
Margaret’s breath caught in her chest. “What?”
“I’ll take next week off, and it’s not like we won’t be able to afford the trip. We need a break.”
Margaret’s lips curled into a grin, making her cheeks ache. “Let’s do it. We can surprise Mama and Daddy. They won’t suspect a thing.”
Roger chuckled. “We know how much they love surprises.”
He pulled away, making his way to the corner of the living room where a small wind-up gramophone sat on a table.
Roger selected a shellac record from its paper sleeve, centering it on the turntable.
With a few turns of the crank, a soft crackle filled the room then faded as the familiar melody of “The Sunshine of Your Smile” flowed out the horn.
Margaret’s core warmed, and a smile spread across her face.
It was their song—the one Roger had played on their wedding night and begged her to dance to under the soft glow of the candlelight.
No matter how many times Margaret had heard it over the years, she had never loved it more than in that moment.
Roger extended his hand. “May I have this dance, my beautiful bride?”
Margaret placed her hand in his. “Of course you may, husband.”
He pulled her close, his arm slipping around her waist as she rested her hand on his shoulder. Their fingers intertwined as they swayed together, moving to the slow, melodic voice of John McCormack.
Roger’s gaze never wavered from hers, glistening as tears formed in his corners.
“Roger, what is it?” Margaret asked, her heart thumping.
“You chose me,” Roger said softly, barely above a whisper. He swallowed. “I don’t deserve you at all.”
Margaret gently removed her hand from his shoulder to trace her fingers along his jaw “And I’d choose you all over again.”
She placed her head against his chest as he held her close, the thumping of his heart pounding against her. Like the photograph on the mantle, this memory would be etched in her mind forever—slow dancing with the man whose heart beat only for her, just as hers beat for him.