“It has waited long enough.”
She fixed the pearl to the clasp, tested the hinge, and closed the bracelet around her wrist.
The pearls rested against the bruised skin.
Thomas stood behind her and met her eyes in the mirror.
“Your mother wore it when we met,” he said.
Margaret smiled faintly. “She wore it because she wanted to impress you.”
“She told me she wore it because you were the only man in the room who did not stare at it.”
“That was not what she told me.”
They shared a quiet laugh.
Daniel looked from one to the other. “How did you meet?”
Margaret touched the bracelet.
“We were at a train station. Your father had missed his train.”
“I had not missed it,” Thomas said. “It was delayed.”
“You were asleep on a suitcase.”
“I was tired.”
“You were nineteen.”
“And you were eighteen.”
“You offered me half your sandwich.”
“You had been crying.”
“I was not crying.”
“You were.”
Margaret’s smile grew warmer.
Daniel listened as though he had never heard the story before. Perhaps he had heard pieces, but not this version, with the little corrections and the fond arguments. Not the moment when a bracelet had first become part of a life rather than an object of value.
By midnight, the garden was empty.
The wedding cake had been moved into the kitchen. The flowers were gathered in buckets. The chairs were stacked beneath the terrace.
Thomas and Margaret walked outside together.
The rain had stopped.
Mud covered the place where she had fallen, but the roses above it were still blooming. Water clung to their petals, catching the light from the windows.
Margaret looked toward the bandstand.
“Tomorrow, I want the gardeners to replace that patch.”
