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He was planning to renovate the house and sell it. And give the profit to his best friend’s widow and her two-year-old daughter.The friend who killed himself because his PTSD became too much for him to manage.
“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to buy Iris’s house and flip it?” The words pour out in a rush of hot lava, even though I know I don’t have the right to be angry. His rationale for flipping the house was incredibly sweet.
“Because I didn’t think it was important.” Troy’s voice is deep and annoyingly even and doesn’t give away what he’s really thinking. “You’d already bought the house. There was nothing I could do about that.”
“So you weren’t planning to convince me I’m making a mistake?” The lava continues flowing around my words, but with a little less heat this time. “You weren’t planning to convince me to sell the house to you?”
He winces. It’s a tiny wince, sneaking past his schooled expression. But it’s enough to tell me the thought had crossed his mind.
“So what made you decide not to?” I demand, stepping away from him, creating a crevasse between us. “Why volunteer to help me do the renovations?”
“Because I want to. It might not be what I’d originally planned, but I did want to help you. Still do. And in the meantime, I’ll keep my eyes open for another project I can flip. I mean it, Jess. I want to help you with the house. I’m not trying to take your home from you.” He unlocks the truck doors with his key fob.
I open the passenger door and climb in.
Troy helps Butterscotch into the back seat and slides into the driver’s seat. “Are you gonna be all right tonight?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” The bite in my voice isn’t as strong as before, but the essence of it is there. “You think I’m going to spend the night upset because you were planning to buy the house?”
A harsh laugh vibrates low in his chest. “No. I was referring to your reaction when someone dropped a metallic pan on the floor. People tend not to curl up in a corner with a knife held in a defensive position when they hear a pan hit the ground. I want to make sure when I drop you off at your house, you’ll be okay.”
Right. I’d temporarily forgotten about that. I release an equally harsh sigh. “I overreacted, that’s all. I was cutting vegetables when it happened. And that’s why I was holding the knife when I had the panic attack.”
A cavernous silence accompanies us back to my house, other than the country song playing through the speaker.
Troy pulls into my driveway and shifts the truck into park. “Promise me you’ll call me if you need anything tonight. Or tomorrow. I’m volunteering at the Vet Center after work, but I’m always available on the phone. And I’ll see you after that.”
“Sure,” I say, not really meaning it.
He puts his hand gently on my arm. My muscles instinctively tighten under his touch.He’s not my dead husband.He’s not my dead husband.He’s not my dead husband.
I will my muscles to unravel.
Troy moves his hand away. “I meant what I said about being your friend, Jess. If you need someone to talk to, I’m here. I won’t judge you. Fuck, I’m a Marine. There are things I can’t discuss with anyone because I was part of secret operations. I’ve had to do things you don’t want to hear about. Trust me on that.”
“Isn’t that the definition of hypocritical?” I stare out the windshield so I don’t glare at him. “You want me to tell you things I’m not comfortable sharing with anyone, yet you can’t discuss your past missions with me.” I know where he’s coming from. In the government’s opinion, they aren’t the same. But I still can’t risk telling him the truth.
Can’t risk the information getting out and everyone learning about my shameful past. They’ll judge me for who I am and for who I’ve been. They’ll wonder why I didn’t try hard enough to get away from my husband. Why I didn’t try harder to get Amelia out sooner?
And I can’t risk my neighbors turning on me because they don’t want an ex-con living in their community.
I hop down from the truck. “Thank you for taking me canoeing. I had fun. See you tomorrow night.” I shut the door, not giving him a chance to respond, and I quickly put an end to our discussion.
26
ANGELIQUE
May 1943
France
I handLieutenant Todd Matherson the bowl of food and sit next to him on the bale of straw in the barn. I am situated between him and the small hole in the wall, my body blocking him from view, even though it’s unlikely anyone is on Jacques’s property who shouldn’t be. The midday sunlight streams through the high window, bathing Todd in its spotlight.
“I have some good news,” I tell him.
Todd’s mouth slips into the grin I have come to recognise as his playful, swoony smile. It’s his way of coping with the oppression and fear Hitler has placed on our shoulders. “Good news? You’ve agreed to marry me?”
“Even better. I’ve received word that we’re ready to get you out of France and back to England.” And eventually he will make his way to Canada.
