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Don’t make him angry. Don’t scare him. He has a gun.
But she couldn’t say it, couldn’t warn Freddy to stop advancing, the military training in his taut muscles making clear what he would try when he got close enough. And Patrick, knowing it too, brandished his pistol in a flash of metal, his arm moving to aim.
It was too late to think, too late to do anything but lether heart direct her before her mind could catch up. Martina slammed into her husband’s side, knocking him into a shelf with a clatter. A shot went wild, the gun dropping to the floor among a tumble of books, but Martina watched it and kicked it toward the checkout desk with all her strength.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Freddy diving for it, but in front of her, Patrick, scrambling up, stared at her, wearing neither a smirk nor a condescending sneer.
He was afraid.
Of her. Of the new strength in her arms and the long-burning fury he must see in her eyes.
And with one last glance behind him, he ran past the boxes of books Gio had painstakingly collected for the Victory Book Campaign, out the door, and into the night.
Even if they called now, the police would be too late, just like the coast guard had been. That should bother her, she knew. Maybe she should have fired the gun, or blocked the exit to let Freddy pin Patrick down. But she’d acted on instinct, and the only energy she had left went toward collapsing on the floor and leaning against a shelf. It was over. For now, at least, Patrick was gone.
Freddy knelt beside her. “Are you all right, Martina?”
“I’m fine,” she said, for once meaning it. Deep breaths drew in a bit of stability, and she let him help her up and lead her to a chair.
“Well,” Miss Cavendish said, calmly surveying the darkened library, “we’ll have to get someone to repair that bullet hole, or people will talk.”
Patrick’s shot had created a dent in the plaster between the windows. How much worse it could have been if...
Stop. Do not think of it. It didn’t happen.
Freddy seemed to be waiting for an explanation, though Miss Cavendish was scribbling on her clipboard, back to business as if Patrick were a mere interruption.
Martina swallowed, licking dry lips. “He was—is—my husband.But I promise, I didn’t mean to lead him here.” Where to start, what to say to cover the past eighteen years of decaying trust and hurtful words and difficult choices? “I ... I don’t know how to explain.”
Miss Cavendish looked up from her paper. “You don’t need to. Not to me, at least. I’m sure the police will want a report of some kind.”
Martina saw something unexpected in the older woman’s face. Not horror or even pity.
Understanding.
“It is, unfortunately, not difficult for me to know what it’s like to be driven to desperation because of the folly of an unreliable man.”
How it was possible, Martina couldn’t say, but it seemed she and Louise Cavendish shared something in common.
“Why did you come here?” Martina asked. “Besides being an answer to my prayer.”
“The Almighty works in mysterious ways,” Miss Cavendish said dryly. “I knew Avis and your son were working late nights, packing books to prepare for a closing that, I recently decided, will no longer happen. And I felt I should tell them myself.”
“But that’s a story for another day,” Freddy interjected. “Is Gio all right?”
She nodded, suddenly overcome. Gio. Rosa. She had to get home to them. Had to explain to Gio...
“Your thoughts?” Miss Cavendish stepped closer, holding up the paper from her clipboard, and Martina gasped. It was Patrick, the lines forming his features rough but clear. More than that, Miss Cavendish had captured something behind the strong jaw and powerful eyes. She showed the slight sneer that always seemed to twist those handsome features, just the slightest bit off, like spoiled milk. Martina shuddered.
“That good, hmm? I want the police to be able to recognize him.”
Martina had a blurry photograph of Patrick in his navy uniform to give, but this image captured him in a way a camera never had.
It was more than she thought she could handle, but Freddy insisted they call the police immediately. Once they arrived, Martina had the additional shame of explaining the details to the officers. Patrick’s name and his alias, the various titles he’d worn over the past few years. Navy dropout. Black marketeer. Her husband. They listened with the interest of small-town authorities eager to have something more to investigate than jaywalkers and the town drunk, and Martina knew her story would soon be public knowledge.
As for Patrick, Derby would no longer be safe for him. He’d fade into a big city—New York, or maybe Boston.
Mamma. She’d send a telegram, ask her to move, just in case Patrick was foolish enough to come back. It ached, knowing she’d need to leave herpaesani, the neighbors who had become like family. But she would love Derby, the quiet beauty of it all. She’d be able to sleep without fitful awakenings to the sound of traffic. She and Delphie could trade recipes....
