Granny asked Agnes the question she’d been avoiding thinking about for two weeks now.
“Does Norman Balmoral love you?”
Granny would ask her that question. Everything that’d happened in the last two weeks had cemented that nagging feeling in her heart, Norman really didn’t love her and he was simply doing his obligation to the baby, offering to marry her. She couldn’t get his wide-jawed, pointy-chinned, fair-skinned, dark-haired muscular handsomeness out of her mind. It’s what had pushed her over the edge, that Saturday afternoon in the back office of Balmoral’s General Store – and what had led to their present predicament.
When she thought of Norman’s feelings, she sometimes drew a blank. She knew so little of him – why, even Cristina seemed to know more about him than she, truly a bad sign, since Cristina couldn’t stand Norman and had been urging her to consider her options outside of marrying him. But she and Norman had spent so much time together in the last six months, all those lovely walks in Rittenhouse Square, those secretive dinners in West Philadelphia, feeling the brisk fall air lead them into winter. Surely he wouldn’t have spent that amount of time with her, surely he wouldn’t have made love to her in that office, if he didn’t feel love.
Why, he had said it to her that day – but he’d resisted her advances until, finally, his thrusting, erect midsection had taken over. And since she’d told him about the baby these past two weeks, he’d insisted they marry. But that didn’t tell her he loved her. She thought about his eyes, their magic and sparkle. Somehow, they stood out from anyone else’s. That must be it, she thought – that’s the evidence she needed. The sparkle in his eyes. No one but she could see it.
“Yes, Granny, I believe he does. I hope he does.”
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