11 - Margaret
Margaret woke to a room bathed in the soft, amber glow of a bedside lamp. For a terrifying second, her heart hammered against her ribs, the echo of the gunshot ringing in her ears, but then the smell of clean linen and lavender reminded her of where she was. She was at the farm. She was safe.
She sat up, the afghan still clutched around her shoulders.
The house was solid and quiet up here, but from downstairs, the muffled, melodic sound of women laughing and children playing drifted up through the floorboards.
Craving the anchor of other people, she swung her legs out of bed and slowly made her way downstairs.
She paused at the archway leading into the sprawling living room, allowing her eyes to adjust and her mind to process the scene before her.
It was a picture of beautiful, chaotic domesticity, utterly foreign yet strangely appealing.
A fire crackled in the massive stone hearth, casting a golden light over the three women sitting on plush sofas, nursing oversized glasses of red wine.
Toys were scattered across a well-worn rug, and the general air was one of comfortable, unpretentious ease.
Margaret’s gaze lingered on the scattered toys.
A quiet pang stirred within her as memories of her own children flickered to the surface.
Their lives had always been distant and orderly, so far removed from this warm disorder.
She straightened her cashmere sweater, smoothing an invisible wrinkle.
“Look who’s awake,” Flora said, her face lighting up with a warm smile as she spotted Margaret in the doorway. She immediately stood, grabbing a spare glass from the coffee table. “Come sit. I was just about to pour another round.”
Margaret offered a hesitant, practiced smile, one that reached her lips but not quite her eyes, and stepped into the room. Her stride was elegant, despite her weariness.
“Margaret, this is Elena, Mike’s wife,” Flora said, gesturing to a striking woman with kind, perceptive eyes who offered a reassuring nod.
Mike? Margaret’s mind flickered. She knew Dog, Bear, Moose, and Link. Had she missed someone? Had another man arrived? Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, a brief flicker of confusion in her wide eyes. She offered Elena a small, polite nod, the kind she gave to minor benefactors at galas.
Elena, seeing the subtle question in Margaret’s posture, chuckled warmly.
“It’s alright, Margaret. Mike is my husband.
You probably know him as Moose.” She reached out, taking Margaret’s hand in a firm, comforting grip that somehow cut through Margaret’s formality.
“Don’t worry, it’s all very confusing at first. We’re used to it. ”
A faint blush rose to Margaret’s cheeks, a genuine human reaction breaking through her carefully constructed facade.
“Ah, of course,” she murmured, retrieving her hand.
Moose. Right. Of course. She chastised herself inwardly for her lapse.
It was illogical to expect civilian names, given the other affectations.
Flora continued, pouring a generous splash of red wine into a fresh glass for Margaret, which Margaret accepted with a delicate grip on the stem. “And this is Noor. She’s Jonas’s, well, significant other for lack of a better term.”
Flora gave a wry, slightly awkward chuckle, swirling the dark liquid in her glass. “It’s a bit complicated. They’d be married by now, but technically, Noor is still legally tied to her past in Iraq.”
Noor’s gaze dropped to her lap for a moment, a fleeting awkwardness crossing her serene features. “My faith and beliefs take marriage very seriously. Jonas, whom you know as Link, is incredibly respectful of that. He wants us to do this the right way when we can.”
Elena chimed in with a dry, sympathetic smile. “And let’s be honest, Link can’t exactly pop a set of divorce documents into the mail to a man who actively wants Noor dead. The postal service in Basra is notoriously unreliable for serving warlords.”
“Yeah, well, no ring doesn’t stop them from making out in the kitchen when they think nobody’s watching,” called a teenage boy from the end of the sectional.
Margaret blinked, startled. On the far end of the sofa, trying to stay out of the splash zone of the toddlers, sat a teenage boy.
His leg was encased in a heavy cast and propped up on a pile of pillows.
He was absorbed in a tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration, but he flashed a cheeky, sarcastic grin toward Noor.
There was something about his features, the shape of his eyes and the curve of his smile, that reminded Margaret faintly of Noor.
A soft blush painted Noor’s cheeks, though she smiled warmly at the boy.
“That’s my son, Sammy,” she said, catching Margaret’s gaze.
A shadow of worry crossed her face, quickly replaced by fierce pride.
“He is healing well. He was with Dog and the team when their helicopter was shot down a few weeks ago.”
Margaret nodded, feeling a little less lost. The strange tangle of military pseudonyms and complex family dynamics was slowly unraveling.
Flora, handing Margaret the wine, winked playfully. “And my husband, Stephan or Bear, is in there with them too.” She gestured vaguely down the hall.
Margaret took a slow sip of the wine. It was a perfectly respectable Cabernet Sauvignon, robust and comforting.
She took another, allowing the warmth to spread through her.
The labels might be different, but the intent felt the same: connection.
Unfamiliarity still buzzed around her, but for the first time since she’d entered this house, the rigid tension in her shoulders began to ease.
Noor offered a soft, gentle smile, her movements careful.
Margaret noticed her lower arms were wrapped in soft splints, barely visible beneath the loose sleeves of her tunic.
Despite whatever injury required them, Noor exuded a quiet, profound grace.
Her dark eyes held a calm depth that immediately put Margaret at ease.
“It is so good to meet you,” she said softly, her voice carrying a faint, melodic lilt.
The wine was deep and velvety, with notes of black cherry and subtle hints of oak that lingered on her palate. As she took a sip, a sudden blur of motion zoomed past her knees.
A sudden flurry of motion disrupted the calm as two older children, a boy and a girl, darted through the living room, their excited shrieks echoing off the high ceilings.
Hot on their heels was a dog, mostly black with a fine sprinkle of white across its chest and muzzle, panting happily as its claws scrabbled for traction on the hardwood floor.
“Rhys! Kenzi! We do not run in the house!” Flora’s voice cut through the air, sharp and clear, losing all trace of her earlier gentle demeanor. It wasn’t shouted, but it carried the absolute authority of a drill sergeant, leaving no room for argument.
The command had an immediate ripple effect.
Near the fireplace, an older girl paused her game, her hand hovering over a wobbly tower of wooden blocks she had been building with two little girls.
The trio had been laughing hysterically just moments before, but at Flora’s tone, the two youngest jumped and fell instantly silent, their wide eyes darting to their mother, Noor, for reassurance.
Meanwhile, the two runners froze mid-stride. The dog skidded to a clumsy halt right beside them, his tail dropping as he let out a soft, confused woof.
The taller boy, Rhys, Margaret gathered, dropped his gaze in genuine contrition. “Sorry, Mom,” he mumbled. Glancing apologetically at the women in the room, he reached out and gently pulled his sister close. “Mom’s big rule, no running.”
“Salty, come,” Elena commanded smoothly.
The dog’s ears perked up, and he immediately abandoned his playmates to trot over, settling comfortably at Elena’s feet.
She scratched him affectionately behind the ears, offering Margaret a fond, apologetic smile.
“He’s mine, and he always lets the kids rile him up. ”
Without another word, Rhys guided his sister toward what Margaret assumed was the door leading to the yard. Flora’s single, raised eyebrow was her only acknowledgement as they left.
As the room settled back into its comfortable hum, Margaret realized she now had a much clearer sense of the quiet strength and disciplined warmth running through this family.
“We all have our scars here, Margaret,” Elena said gently, reading her expression. “Mike saved me from a gang set out to kill me.”
Then Margaret’s eyes widened as a dawning horror crept into them.
She looked around at the women beside her and suddenly realized the serene, protective bubble of this farm was maintained by souls who had survived unimaginable nightmares.
Elena’s strong, kind face showed the burden of having experienced terror firsthand.
Noor’s melodic voice masked unspeakable scars. Flora’s calm was a hard-won shield.
Elena’s words seemed to loosen something in Noor. She shifted on the sofa, her movements careful, drawing Margaret’s attention once again to the soft splints visible beneath the loose sleeves of her tunic.
“These,” Noor said softly, catching Margaret’s lingering gaze with a sad, understanding smile, “are a parting gift.” A faint scent of fresh mint drifted from the cup she cradled.
Her voice grew smooth but distant as she lifted the steaming tea to her lips.
“When Jonas and Sammy rescued me from Iraq, I didn’t know how to be in the world anymore.
I had been held captive in Basra for fifteen years. Sold like property.”