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“It was only a mistake,piccolo.” She let go of Gio with one arm to smooth her daughter’s hair. “You know he’s very far away, training to fight in the war.”
Rosa wrinkled her nose. “Oh. I forgot.”
“Even sailors get leave sometimes.” Gio had stopped fighting her, while still craning his neck across the street, where Patrick had disappeared.
“Don’t you think he’d tell us if he were coming to visit?”
They seemed to accept that answer, but Martina’s mind was still spinning. Patrick had said he was staying nearby. Was it a coincidence, seeing him like this, or had he been watching them, following them to the theater even?
“Don’t be sad, Mamma,” Rosa said quietly.
Martina didn’t answer. Better not to make more promises she couldn’t keep.
“Sure looked like him,” Gio said, shoulders slumping again.
Freddy gave Gio a friendly cuff to the back. “Come on, sport. Let’s talk about the movie over ice cream, hmm?”
That was enough to perk Rosa up. At her age and after over a year on their own, Patrick was a uniformed photograph to her, a happy memory of Irish ballads and crumbly soda bread sopped in milk, the father she must have somewhere because all little girls have fathers.
But while Gio followed their little caravan once again, she noticed him squinting into the afternoon sun as they crossed the street, trying to get another glimpse of his father.
And Martina prayed that he wouldn’t get one.
They walked down the street in silence, until the bell on the creamery clattered cheerily and her children led the charge inside, already pointing at the glassed-in wonders beyond.
“I’ll wait here.” Martina waved them to go on without her. “I’m not hungry, and ... I need the fresh air.”
Only Ginny protested, saying something about hunger not having a thing to do with ice cream, but Freddy took her arm and told her to leave it be and what did she think of hot fudge sundaes?
The others followed after, but Avis paused at the door, then let go of the handle, joining Martina on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding, but ... how long has it been since you saw your husband?”
That, she could answer, if indirectly. “Patrick joined the navy over a year ago.”
Avis bit her lip, rosy against perfect peaches-and-cream skin. “I would be devastated if Russell— But his term is only three months. He promised. So I just can’t understand...”
When her voice trailed off, Martina prompted, “Understand what?”
“Why you didn’t seem eager to see your husband. Or disappointed that it wasn’t him.” She reached a hand to adjust herhair, which wasn’t as neatly styled as usual. “It’s none of my business, of course.”
She didn’t owe this woman an explanation. And yet, Avis was so young, with so much time to avoid the mistakes Martina had made. “Does your husband treat you well, Avis?”
She hesitated, caught off guard by the personal question. “We have had our differences. Our little arguments, but yes.”
“Then be grateful. None of us marry perfect men. But some are capable only of loving themselves, and their wives’ worlds narrow. And one day, you realize not only have you lost the broad view of what could be, but you can barely breathe.”
It was terrible, maybe even a mortal sin, but Martina forced herself to admit the truth. She had hoped the navy would work out for Patrick. Maybe so that the routine and rules would force him to sober up, but if not ... there was always the chance that he wouldn’t come home at all. So many would not, many of them far better men than Patrick.
If that had happened, she would never have to tell Gio his father had abandoned them.
The younger woman blinked in the bright afternoon sun. “I see.” She didn’t, of course. But she was trying, and there was a kindness in her eyes that Martina hadn’t noticed before. Her next words were spoken quietly enough that no one passing by would overhear. “What will you do when he comes back?”
He already has, she almost admitted in a whisper.
“We’ll manage somehow,” she said instead.
Avis meant well, and Martina enjoyed talking about books with her. But some stories were too close, too personal, and too dangerous to share.
twenty-three
