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Marge loved Peter. It wasn't the wild, erotic love she'd had with Dickie, and she'd realised, after a few years, that Dickie had never loved her the way she'd loved him. She thought he might have matured into it if he'd had the chance, but she tried not to think too much about why that hadn't happened.
Peter had returned to the US a few months after she had, and she'd never asked why. It wasn't avoidance so much as simply not wanting to relive that time, and over the years it had just faded into the background as they became closer. It didn't seem as important as the friendship they were building.
Marge knew about Peter's preferences, she had since Italy. But they also knew how the world worked, and it wasn't that much of a surprise when he kissed her on the balcony at a party one night. She'd liked it very much and had responded eagerly.
He had pulled away, with a smile, and held her close, in the way he often had.
That wasn't the night he proposed. They kissed more, and Marge waited. If he was going to go further he would, if not, she was enjoying the kisses enough not to stop them.
It had been at lunch, a few months later. Low voices, and Peter had held her hand.
"There's only one woman I can imagine marrying, one who knows about me," he said and pressed his lips to her knuckles. "You. Would you do me the great honour of becoming my wife and sharing my life?" he asked her softly.
It wasn't the romantic proposal Marge had dreamed of. But romance? It had died with Dickie, at least the wild romance books talked of. Peter was wonderful. Handsome and sweet, and if he had a few nights a month she would never know the details of? She was fine with that.
"I won't insult you by asking if you are sure," Marge said softly. "Because you wouldn't have asked if you weren't. But… I think we need to talk behind closed doors. We wouldn't want the guests or waiters overhearing us," she murmured. "But I can give you my answer now."
He waited, looking into her eyes.
"Yes," Marge answered, quietly determined, holding onto Peter's hand like a lifeline. "Yes, Peter. I want to make a life and a family with you. There are some things we need to talk about, but that will be later." She leaned in for a tender kiss.
Later that night, after dinner, they had some time alone. She sat down with him and took his hand.
"We both know you have other interests. I know you have a few nights you go places where men gather," she said. "I won't stop you doing that. It would be wrong of me, and only hurt you. But I want some things to be understood," she said quietly.
"May I speak?" he asked her and at her nod, he continued. "I will keep that part of my life separate from our marriage and family. I will not acknowledge the men I meet on those nights if we happen to meet at other times. I will keep our…" he hesitated, "activities to those nights only. I will be a devoted, loving husband to you. If we are lucky enough to have a family, they will never know about those nights."
"What about…" Marge hesitated, "our… sex life?" She blushed.
"I wouldn't have asked you to marry me if I wasn't attracted enough to you to be with you that way," Peter said. "I might not be a devoted lover like you dreamed of but I will always make love with you. If… you would be wanting to find another partner on occasion, I would never stop you."
"Not right now," Marge said, "but I'd like it to be something we can discuss if I ever feel the need."
Peter nodded. "That will be your choice to make if you need to. So… are we going to do this?" he asked, stroking her cheek gently.
"Yes," Marge said and she smiled as he brought out a ring box.
"It was my grandmother's," he said as he slipped the emerald ring onto her finger. "I'd get on my knees but…"
"This isn't one of those proposals," she agreed, and she didn't want that. Not for this proposal, not from this man, who she loved deeply, but not in that way.
Marge and Peter had a good marriage. She was satisfied enough by their romantic life not to need to seek elsewhere, especially after some discreet friends had introduced her to some other options involving toys, and Peter seemed to want her enough outside of that. He held her every night he was at home, whether or not they made love.
They had their family, two daughters and a son. Their eldest daughter was the first to be married, finding a handsome man who adored her completely. Marge was in her element as the mother of the bride and Peter was amused and sweet as he made sure Alicia had the wedding of her dreams.
They danced at the reception, and heard snatches of conversation. "Oh," Marge said, quietly, when someone mentioned that Herbert Greenleaf, Dickie's father, had died recently. She lay her head on Peter's shoulder and nuzzled his neck softly. "I didn't expect that to… well, to feel anything but sympathy but…"
"It was a powerful time in our lives," Peter murmured, his hand on her back tightening slightly, pulling her a little closer. He glanced around, and almost stopped, then shook his head imperceptibly, only Marge felt it.
"What is it?" she asked him, moving back to look into his eyes.
"That man over there, for a second before he came out of the shadows," Peter whispered, and Marge frowned, was this perhaps one of the men he met on those nights? "I thought for just a second it was Tom," he murmured, and pointed out the man, who was not Tom, though Marge thought she might have thought the same if she had seen him in shadow.
"I think he's one of David's relatives, a cousin," Marge said, mind going through the guest list. "But I see what you mean." She swallowed, "You never said why you didn't stay with him…"
"I can't tell you here," Peter said and smiled as a couple came up to them. "But later," he murmured for her ears only.
Later that night, Marge sat at her dressing table, removing make up and smoothing her hair with a silver backed brush. Peter had undressed in his dressing room and lay on the bed in silk pyjamas.
"Tom… he tried to kill me," Peter said, softly. "It was believable that he wasn't doing it deliberately,, but… he seemed to push me in the path of a car. I broke things off with him and headed back to England, telling him never to contact me again. He tried to persuade me to stay, and I almost did, but I remembered what you said. I don't know if he did kill Dickie. I don't even know if he tried to kill me for certain. But the fact I couldn't be sure… that meant I couldn't trust him enough to stay with him or… well, if I couldn't trust him with that, could I trust him with my other secrets?" He shook his head gently. "Then a few months later, I moved to New York, and you know the rest."
"Ones he already knew," Marge nodded. "I understand the hesitation, it must have been difficult. I see it in you even now," she said quietly. "I do my best to keep even the whispers away, because you know there are always whispers…"
"I know," he nodded. "I get a bit… well, you know how guys alone can be, when I talk about you. Nothing indiscreet," he assured her. "Just… talking of your attributes," he teased softly.
"Oh, it's the same for me," Marge smiled. "With my friends and your attributes," she stroked his cheek. "I don't want anyone to ever upset this. I'm happy with you. I love you."
He kissed her palm softly. "I love you, Marge, I love our life. I'm happy we have it."
They curled up together and slept then, tired from the wedding festivities and perhaps from finally speaking of that time they'd kept silent. Not for too long, but until they needed to speak of it to each other.