I showed up an hour early for Thursday’s handbell rehearsal. Not because setting up the tables and pads and bells took so much time. Not because I had much office work to take care of before we got started. I couldn’t even blame it on a recovering Parsley’s need to curtail the long walk we often took before heading into the parish house.
I vibrated with my desire to see Margo.
The woman intrigued me. I couldn’t say if she was much different from when she was a teen, cause all I really remembered about her back then was how deeply she’d impressed me on her way out St. Pat’s door. But I’d done the math, and that had been seven years back, making Margo twenty-four.
I’d flung myself into marriage at twenty-two. A decade ago, I’d been convinced I was adult enough to make a life-long decision. Positive my ex and I could manage, together, any growing up either of us still needed. Turned out we did need to mature, but we didn’t do it together. I’d been divorced almost as long as I’d been married. I understood now how I’d been clinging to the illusion of stability I thought marriage would be. If my parents weren’t interested in giving their oddball son a safe harbor, I could just make my own, right?
Not right.
But Margo didn’t seem as foolishly young as I had. Her self-possession and determination and the way she held her head high; I hadn’t embodied any of those qualities at her age.
I knew Margo wasn’t in Rockport for good. I’d looked back at her application and she—or, rather, Cole—specified she was only available throughout Advent, not that I needed the corroboration. I only pulled it up because I was adding the new players to my contacts.
In case of handbell-related emergencies.
When she arrived, she was nine minutes early. The Graces were, too, and others trickled in soon enough, but none of them zapped my heart when they walked in.
Margo did.
Her confident entry threatened to drop me to my knees, as if I were in the presence of something new to worship. Which was ridiculous, given our actual location. She wore leggings and a long sweater with some kind of bird on it. A robin, maybe? Her ponytail almost hid that beguiling orange streak in her dark hair. But there was something about her. Something unearthly, like she might fly away if the winds suited her.
I cleared my throat and stood straighter. “Okay, everyone,” I said, clapping once as I mounted my podium. “We’ll start with some rhythm warm-ups today.”
The Graces weren’t wild about my plan for a processional, and while I stopped them from derailing rehearsal with their concerns, my gaze kept returning to Margo. The way she kept my brain fizzing was deeper and wilder than with any of the women I’d dated in recent years. It reminded me too much of the pining daydreams I used to have, when I thought the best life would involve being with someone who understood my love of music. Growing up, home had been full of the chaotic, competing energies of my sporty parents and siblings. I’d dealt with it by hiding my thoughts behind noise-canceling headphones, then escaping into college, and then marriage.
Enough. I wasn’t that isolated teen anymore. I pulled my focus back to finishing up rehearsal on time. Arranged rhythm patterns and bell assignments into a processional plan that suited everyone’s talents and abilities. Smoothed out the syncopation in O Come, O Come, EmmanueEmmanuell. Reminded the Grace named Matt to please not wear his Chucks on Sunday, cause they very much, contrary to his opinion, clashed with the choristers robes.
Thanked Margo for taking on four-in-hand with only the briefest of refresher lessons.
Offered to let her stay on a bit late if she wanted to practice once everyone else had left.
Her raised eyebrow and smothered smile told me I was completely transparent. But it worked.
When it was just the two of us, I got certifiably awkward. Once I’d tidied up as many things as I could and run out of useful bell-ringing guidance to convey, it … was just the two of us. And Parsley, napping in her favorite corner. Which didn’t do anything to ease me into conversation.
“So. Thanks. For coming back today.”
She nodded. “Made a commitment, didn’t I?”
I cleared my throat. “Right. Well, I wondered.”
“Because we kissed.”
A flash of that juvenile passion went straight to my overheated cheeks. “Because we kissed.”
“I meant what I said. I’m leaving in January.” Her words weren’t encouraging, but she took a couple of steps towards me, smiling.
My voice deepened. “I know.”
“And yet, here I am.”
“Here you are.”
Our eyes locked. I swallowed. “Any chance we can kiss again?”
“Even though I’m leaving in January?”
I shook my head, noting once again how quick and sure she was. Every time we talked, even during Sunday’s confrontation, she never hesitated. Never stumbled over words like I did, never seemed at a loss. And it wasn’t just being skilled at social interactions. We’d gone deeper than I’d have ever guessed, talking about the problems from St. Pat’s, and at all times, Margo spoke her truth with conviction and confidence and never a hint of contrition.
And at some point during rehearsal, she’d released her hair. I itched to catch at that orange streak flowing behind her ear. To twist it in my fingers.
I reached towards her, saying, “Even though you’re leaving in January, I want to kiss you.”
She surged forward, grabbed at my shirt, and pressed her mouth against mine. When I’d first touched her, I’d thought she would be somehow ethereal, but no. I’d been galvanized by that brief press. Now, she was somehow more solid than I could have dreamed, and so very alive in my arms. She kissed me with energy and enthusiasm and, God help me, I couldn’t get enough. Her full lips moved against mine, her fists knotted against my chest, and I wanted to keep her forever in my arms.
I slid my hands around the curve of her back and held her to me.
She sucked in a breath. “Okay. This is weird.”
I pulled back, reluctant. “What is?”
“We’re at church.”
I tightened my hold, smiling down at her. Ridiculously proud of the flush across her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes. “You’re the one who kissed me.”
“It’s still weird. I don’t think I can make out with you here.”
But she didn’t move away. She still clung to my shirt. I planted a trail of kisses across her brow and down her cheek. “Well, do you think you could make out with me somewhere else sometime?”
The moment her body softened against mine, I was rejoicing. Maybe I shouldn’t have been. Maybe our age difference was too great, or I was setting myself up to be hurt when she left town, or St. Luke’s Church Council would get sniffy and my job would end in shambles.
But maybe all that mattered was the joy that suffused me when she said, “I think that’s an excellent plan.”