She looked at him.
“And if I am difficult?”
“I expect you will be.”
A small laugh escaped her.
“And if I disagree with you?”
“I’m beginning to enjoy it.”
“And if I want to travel someday?”
“Then we’ll travel.”
“And if I want to work outside the home?”
“Then you will.”
“And if I never become the kind of wife you imagined?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t want the woman I imagined. I want you.”
Her composure broke. She turned away, pressing her fingers to her lips.
Eli did not pull her closer. He waited, giving her the freedom he had promised.
After a long moment, she turned back.
“I want to stay,” she said. “But I want us to do it slowly. I want Clara to understand that I am not her mother, and I want her to know that she never has to choose between us. I want to keep my own money and my own letters. I want to have a say in this house, not merely a place in it.”
“You shall.”
“And I want to be loved when I am tired, or angry, or unable to make things easier.”
He nodded.
“You shall.”
“And I want you to speak of Anne without looking as though the words will break me.”
He swallowed.
“I’ll try.”
“Not just try.”
He met her gaze.
“I will.”
Margaret studied him for a long time, then placed her hand against his cheek.
“I love you, Eli Mercer.”
He closed his eyes.
The words were not a cure. They did not erase the years of grief or turn the past into something simple. But they opened a door he had believed was permanently shut.
He leaned forward and kissed her.
It was gentle, tentative, and full of all the things they had not yet learned to say. Margaret’s hand rested against his cheek, and his arm came around her shoulders. For a moment, the world seemed to hold still.
Then the porch door burst open.
“Papa!”
They sprang apart.
Clara stood in the doorway, clutching her quilt.
“Are you kissing Miss Margaret?”
Eli closed his eyes.