“Never again.”
“No warning me you’ll be old?”
“I reserve the right to complain about my knees.”
Margaret smiled.
“Yes.”
Thomas froze.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
She stepped forward.
“You can put it on now.”
His hands shook slightly.
Margaret noticed.
She said nothing.
He slid the ring onto her finger.
Perfect fit.
Margaret looked at it.
Then at Thomas.
“You measured one of my rings.”
He looked guilty.
“Ruth helped.”
“I knew she couldn’t keep secrets.”
Thomas pulled her close.
Margaret smiled against his mouth.
They married in February.
Snow covered Durango.
The church filled anyway.
Half the town attended because they loved them.
The other half attended because curiosity was free.
Margaret wore deep green.
Not white.
She had no patience for symbolic expectations that did not interest her.
Thomas wore his best black coat.
When she walked toward him, Thomas forgot every face in the church.
For one moment he saw Eleanor.
Not standing there.
Not replacing Margaret.
Simply part of the life that had brought him to this one.
He felt no betrayal.
Only gratitude.
Margaret reached him.
Thomas took her hand.
She whispered:
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Reverend Cole began the ceremony.
Their wedding night belonged to them.
No audience.
No commentary.
No arithmetic.
Margaret had moved into Thomas’s house gradually before the wedding, bringing books, kitchen tools, ledgers, quilts, and approximately one thousand opinions regarding how badly he stored flour.
After everyone left that evening, Thomas stood in the bedroom doorway suddenly unsure of himself.
Margaret sat at the vanity removing pins from her auburn hair.
One by one, the curls fell across her shoulders.
Thomas watched.
Margaret saw him in the mirror.
“You can come in.”
“This is my room.”
“Our room.”
Thomas smiled.
“Right.”
She turned.
Her green dress had been loosened at the shoulders.
Nothing improper showed.
Enough to make Thomas look away for a second.
Margaret smiled.
“Are you nervous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Thomas closed the door.
Margaret stood.
She crossed the room slowly.
Thomas’s hands rested at her waist.
“Are you?”
“A little.”
He searched her face.
“We don’t have to do anything tonight.”
Margaret touched his cheek.
“I know.”
“That matters.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
“But Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“I did not spend three years bringing you pie so we could spend our wedding night discussing restraint.”
Thomas laughed.
Margaret kissed him.
The rest remained private.
Tender.
Mutual.
And far less complicated than all the years Thomas had spent imagining why happiness at his age ought to be difficult.