Margot rolled her eyes. “You and that chicken coop. Thank goodness she had more of a sense of romance than you.”
“You don’t think the chicken coop is romantic?” I slapped a palm to my cheek. “I’m shocked.”
“No, I don’t.” She poked me in the chest. “Now go on.”
“About what?”
“The proposal!” She slapped my shoulder this time, rolled her eyes. “Sheesh!”
“Oh, right.” But I was distracted by the way she kept touching me. “Uh, she asked me at the cabin. Brought me breakfast in bed on my birthday and there was a little note on the tray that said ‘Marry Me.’”
Again she put a hand over her heart, and her expression went wistful. “So sweet.”
I felt some heat in my face, remembering how things had gone after that. I’d said of course I would—promised to love her and take care of her forever, the way she’d been taking care of me. We’d made love over and over again that day, on the bed, on the floor, in the shower, on the kitchen table. I never felt safer or more sure of myself than when I was lost inside her. I missed that feeling so much. And I missed taking care of someone. “Yeah. It was.”
“Was she your first love?”
I hesitated before going on. It felt a little odd to be talking about this with Margot, but it was also kind of nice. And as long as conversation stayed on the topic of Steph and our marriage, I was safe from other, less honorable thoughts. “Definitely. I was a typical guy in my teens, totally uninterested in any emotional attachments. But when I joined the Army, it kind of forced me to reevaluate what mattered in life. I realized what I had in her. And when I got out…” I paused, nervous to reveal too much of myself but unable to deny that it felt good somehow. Just keep it focused on Steph. “I kind of struggled to adjust, and losing my dad made it worse. Steph was there for me. She pushed me to get better.”
“She must have been really special,” Margot said softly.
“She was. She saved my life, I have no doubt.” I took a long drink. “But I couldn’t save hers.”
Margot’s face fell, and she studied the base of her wineglass.
I groaned and set my bottle down. “What the fuck—I’m sorry, Margot. I didn’t mean to unload that on you.”
“No, no, it’s OK,” she said, touching my arm. “I’m glad you did. I’m sorry if asking about her made you sad.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you asked. You know what?” I ran a hand over my scruffy jaw, wishing I’d trimmed it up a little. “No one does. No one ever talks about her in front of me.”
“Maybe they’re worried it’s too painful.”
“I guess. But I’d much rather talk about her than myself.” I looked at Margot and realized I’d monopolized the entire conversation. “Actually, I don’t want to talk at all, I want to listen. Tell me about you.”
She smiled. “What do you want to know?”
I thought for a second. “Tell me about the horse you had growing up.”
Her eyes lit up, and she told me about Maple Sugar, the thoroughbred she’d owned from the time she was eight years old until she left for college. When she teared up, she apologized and said it was silly to get sentimental about a horse she hadn’t seen in more than ten years, but I understood the bond between humans and horses and told her so.
I learned about her family, her father’s Senatorial race, the company she’d started with her friend. “Did you always want to go into marketing?” I asked.
“No. Not really.” She smiled. “Actually, I’d have liked to be a social worker, but Muffy said that was out of the question.”
I made a face. “Muffy?”
“My mother’s nickname. You see, all the first-born daughters in her family, the Thurbers, are named Margaret or some variation thereof, the middle name has to be her mother’s maiden name, and woe to anyone who tries to defy this tradition.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. You can go traditional, like Margaret or Marjorie. French like Margot or Marguerite, and you can even get away with changing up the spelling, like M-A-R-G-R-E-T, but don’t you dare get cutesy and American and do something like Maisie or Maggie or Greta, at least not on the birth certificate. My cousin Mamie named her daughter Marley, and Great-Grandma Thurber died before she spoke to her again.”
“Wait.” I put out one hand. “Mamie and Muffy are OK, but Marley isn’t?”
She giggled, flushed from two glasses of wine. “Mamie and Muffy are only nicknames, not on the birth certificates. We have to have nicknames, see, otherwise it would be mass confusion all the time. Plus WASPs love nicknames.”
I propped my arm on the bar. “What’s yours?”
She brought her hands to her mouth, laughing uncontrollably. The sound was girlish and playful, and sent a wave of heat rushing through me.
“Come on, tell me,” I said, unable to keep a smile from my lips.
She dropped her hands in her lap and tried to keep a straight face. “It’s Gogo.”