Chapter 26: Margaret's Toast
I drifted on the tide of it, my ring catching the light with every hand I shook, every cheek I kissed. Somewhere between the church woman who had brought me that first casserole and a red-faced deputy whose name I kept forgetting, I found myself standing beside a young woman about my apparent age, with auburn hair and a sheriff's department windbreaker draped over her chair.
"You're the one who fixed up that old Ford," she said, and it wasn't a question. "I'm Dana. I work dispatch. Allan talks about that truck like it's his firstborn."
I laughed. "It's mostly his doing. I just hand him the right wrenches."
"That's not what he says." She grinned. "He says you rebuilt the carburetor from memory. Says you've got grease in your blood."
The words landed oddly, a reminder of a life I couldn't claim. But the warmth in her voice smoothed it over. "I had a good teacher once," I said. "My father. He was a mechanic."
It was the cover story. It was also, in its way, true. Justin's father had rebuilt engines in a garage off Fullerton Avenue, and I had learned the feel of a distributor cap before I learned my multiplication tables. The memory was real even if the story around it wasn't.
Dana was saying something about the county fair demolition derby when a sharp clink cut through the murmur of the room. I turned to see Margaret standing by the mantelpiece, her glass raised, her silver hair catching the light like a halo. The chatter died around us, faces turning toward her, drinks lowering.
"I won't keep you long," she said, and her voice carried that warm, commanding quality that made you want to sit up straight. "I just want to say a few words about the two people we're celebrating tonight."
Allan's arm came around my shoulders, and I leaned into him. His hand settled on my upper arm, a quiet anchor. I could feel the steady beat of his heart through the flannel of his shirt.
Margaret looked at me, and her eyes were bright. "When Allan called me two months ago and told me he'd met someone, I thought, well, here we go again. He's brought girls around before. Never serious, but he's a polite boy, and I knew my manners would be required." A ripple of laughter went through the room. "But then he told me her name. And he told me he wanted me to meet her. And there was something in his voice I hadn't heard in all the years since his father passed."
She paused, her gaze moving to Allan. "I knew the moment I walked into this farmhouse that night that something had changed. I met a young woman who looked at my son like he was the answer to a question she hadn't known she was asking. And I watched my son look at her the same way." Her voice softened. "All I ever wanted for my boys was to find what I had with their father. That kind of love that carries you through the hard years and the good ones. The kind that makes the ordinary days feel like gifts."
I felt Allan's arm tighten around me. I pressed my hand over his, and my eyes began to sting.
"When I met Sabrina, I didn't just meet a girl my son was sweet on," Margaret went on. "I met a woman with a good heart. A woman who's been through things I won't pretend to understand, and who came out the other side with her kindness intact. A woman who makes pie crust from scratch and cries when she calls me Mama by accident and looks at a rusty old truck like it's a treasure." Her voice cracked, just slightly. "That's the kind of woman you build a life with. That's the kind of woman you hold onto."
The room had gone very quiet. Someone sniffled off to my left.
"So when Allan told me he was going to ask her, I said, son, you'd better do it right. You'd better do it like you mean it, because that girl is a once in a lifetime." She raised her glass higher. "To Sabrina and Allan. To the love they've found. To the family they're building. And to the years ahead, may they be full of gardenias and rebuilt engines and the kind of quiet happiness that doesn't need a spotlight."
"To Sabrina and Allan," the room echoed, and glasses lifted in a cascade of clinks and murmurs.
I blinked hard, and a tear slipped free down my cheek. Allan's arm tightened around me, and he pressed a kiss to my temple. I couldn't speak. I couldn't have found words if I'd tried. I just stood there, held by him, wrapped in the warmth of a room full of people who had welcomed a stranger into their hearts.
Margaret crossed the room, and she took my hands in hers. Her eyes were wet, and she smiled at me, that soft mother's smile that made my chest ache.
"Welcome to the family," she said, her voice low, just for me. "For real this time."
And I burst into tears again.
The tears came again, hot and embarrassing, and I buried my face in Margaret's shoulder while the room applauded and whooped. She held me through it, her hand stroking my hair, and when I finally pulled back, sniffling and wiping at my eyes, she just smiled and brushed the dampness from my cheeks with her thumbs.
"Every time I think I've got my composure back, you go and say something like that," I managed.
"Good," she said. "You should be wept over. It's good for the soul."
The party resumed around us, the murmur of conversation swelling back to its earlier warmth. I drifted through it on a pleasant haze, refilling glasses and accepting congratulations, the ring a constant small weight on my finger that I kept glancing at like I couldn't quite believe it was there. Allan stayed close, his hand finding the small of my back whenever I drifted more than a few feet away, and every time it landed there, I felt a quiet thrill run through me.