The night enveloped the modest two-story frame house, its white paint ghostly under the pale February moon. James Simms paused on the porch, his fingers brushing over the worn brass doorknob. It felt cold against his fingers, sending a brief shiver through him. Outside, the night air carried the faint scent of early spring jasmine from the garden, but it did little to clear the heaviness in his chest. He pushed the door open gently, trying not to disturb the stillness inside.
The house was silent, save for the faint hum of crickets outside the window. But the stillness was deceiving. Margaret Simms stood in the darkened kitchen, her silhouette framed by the dim glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains. She hadn’t changed out of her day dress, the folds of fabric falling neatly around her as if she had been frozen in time, waiting.
Her posture was tense, like a coiled spring, and the way her gaze flickered over him, filled with quiet concern, told him she’d been expecting this moment for hours. Her eyes softened when they met his, but the air between them remained thick with unspoken words.
“Margaret,” James said softly, his voice low and tired. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Margaret turned, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her gaze cut through the shadows, piercing him with worry and reprimand. “Where you been all night, James Simms?” she demanded in a steady but simmering whisper. “You can’t work this late without telling me. I’ve been worried sick about you, and Ellie was asking for—”
She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing as she stepped closer. The bruises on James’s face became visible in the faint light, their dark hues stark against his skin. Her breath hitched, and her tone shifted instantly, softening with concern.
“Baby, what happened?” she asked, her hand instinctively reaching out to touch his battered cheek.
James shook his head slightly, stepping back to ease her worry. “Some men jumped us as we was leaving the print shop,” he said, his voice calm but heavy with exhaustion. “I’ll be alright.”
The pain in his ribs and face was almost secondary to the exhaustion, but he pushed the aches away, focusing on the need to shield Margaret from the truth of it all. She didn’t need to carry that burden—he would bear it alone if he could.
Margaret’s hand fell to her side, trembling. Her eyes searched his face, her expression mixed with disbelief and dread. “Oh, baby... come here. Come.” She led him toward the kitchen, her movements brisk but gentle. “Jonas, too? Is he okay?”
James nodded as he sank into the chair by the table. “He’ll be fine,” he said, though his tone carried an edge of doubt. “He’s back at the shop. He’s safe.”
Margaret stared at him, her horror evident. “For now,” he added quietly, his gaze dropping to the table.
Their daughter Ellie appeared in the doorway, her dark curls framing a face too perceptive for her age. Her curious brown eyes darted between her parents, widening as she took in her father’s bruised face.
“Daddy? What happened?” she asked, her voice small but steady.
James glanced at her, forcing a weak smile. “It’s nothing, sweetheart. Just a little trouble. Everything’s fine.”
Ellie didn’t look convinced, her sharp mind piecing together more than her parents wanted to share. She crossed her arms and stepped closer. “If it’s fine, why does Mama look like that?”
Margaret swallowed hard, setting her worry aside as best she could. “Ellie, why don’t you get the quilt from the sitting room? Your daddy needs something warm.”
Ellie hesitated, clearly not wanting to leave. “But—”
“Please,” Margaret said gently but firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Ellie lingered for a moment longer, her gaze fixed on her father. Then she nodded, her curls bouncing as she turned and hurried off.
Margaret moved purposefully, fetching a pitcher of water and a clean cloth. The weight of the night clung to her like a second skin, but her hands were steady as she filled a bowl and dipped the cloth into the cool water. She sat down across from James, her knees brushing his as she began dabbing at the bruises on his face.
“Do you think she’s too young to know?” James asked softly, his voice thick with emotion.
Margaret didn’t look up. “She’s already figured out more than we’ve said.”
In the doorway, Ellie reappeared quietly, clutching the quilt to her chest, watching as her mother tended to her father with care that betrayed the depth of her fear.
“You can’t teach tomorrow morning looking like this,” Margaret said matter-of-factly, the damp cloth pressing gently against his skin.
James gave a small chuckle, tinged with his physical pain. “I’m not gonna be teaching much with this campaign, anyway,” he replied, leaning back slightly as she worked.
Margaret paused, the cloth hovering near his jaw. “You’re really going through with this?” she asked, her voice soft but edged with pride and worry.
James met her eyes, his expression resolute. “Only three things I’ve ever been sure of in my life,” he said, his voice steady. “Marrying you, having our baby Ellie... and this.”
The words were true, but a kernel of doubt lingered beneath them, one that he would never voice. His body ached, and every day seemed to carry a new weight of consequences, but giving up wasn’t an option. He’d made promises to himself and Margaret and would keep them, no matter the cost.
Margaret’s lips curved into a small smile, her fingers brushing a stray curl from her forehead. She sat back for a moment, the weight of his conviction settling between them.
“Let me teach tomorrow,” James continued. “It’ll be my last day for a while. Then, you can take over for me.”
Margaret’s smile widened, her laugh soft but genuine. “Okay,” she said, kissing him lightly on the forehead, carefully avoiding his bruises. “But you best start coming home earlier from that damn print shop.”
James grinned, a flicker of light returning to his eyes. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, his tone suddenly playful.
Margaret raised an eyebrow, her mock-serious expression returning. “Before sunset, James Simms! Your momma’s gonna be so mad at you.”
The air between them lightened briefly, but the weight of everything unsaid hung still in the kitchen. James knew it wouldn’t always be this easy—there was more ahead, and the stakes were getting higher. But at this moment, the quiet comfort of Margaret’s presence was all he needed.
They both laughed, the sound filling the small kitchen like a balm against the night’s tension. Margaret continued tending to his wounds, her touch as tender as her presence was grounding.
“Minda Campbell has spent her whole life mad at me,” James said with a smirk, the corners of his mouth curling upward. “How would tonight be any different?”
Margaret chuckled, shaking her head as she finished cleaning the last blood from his temple. She leaned back, her hands resting on her lap as she studied him. In the quiet that followed, the world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the warmth of their shared resilience.
The night had been long, but within the walls of their home, James and Margaret found a moment of peace. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
But James knew the peace was fragile. As the clock ticked on, the world outside kept turning, the threat of danger never far from the edges of their lives. Still, in the quiet of their kitchen, they held onto this fleeting moment of safety, knowing full well it wouldn’t last.
