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He doesn’t believe Oliver will return.
The fleeting thought was confirmed when he added, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather, “And if he does not, I will see to your welfare. As I always have.”
She bit back the obvious retort that, after Mother’s death, it was his checks that saw after her care, education, and upbringing, not he himself. Money and a few scattered moments around the dinner table, usually a one-sided discussion of a novel she had no desire to read or the latest blooms in a garden that only held her interest because of Oliver.
Oliver, who admired her mind and asked her opinions on current events. Oliver, who stroked her hair and told her she was beautiful. Oliver, whom Father had shouted at and sent away, like he’d been a common thief. All supposedly out of concern for her welfare.
But she could speak none of that to this man who barely knew her. Instead, she took her rage and put it into simpler words, spoken in defiance of the heartlessly calm man before her and to tamp down the flicker of worry that had ignited inside her. “Hewillcome for me. You’ll see.”
But she found, after searching Windward Hall, the carriage house, even the garden shed, that Father was right about at least one thing: Oliver was already gone.
sixteen
MARTINA
JUNE 9
Gio’s radio fed the bold, clear sounds of Glenn Miller and his orchestra into the trailer, only the slight scratch of static reminding Martina there was no big band set up in the bedroom. The bursts of brass put a smile on her face as afternoon sunshine poured through freshly washed windows. Alone, she even had the luxury of space to dance a step or two. The broom she held was the ideal partner: tall, quiet, and practical.
She should feel bad for leaving her children at the library, but among a hundred other guilts about her failure as a mother, poking like misplaced safety pins at every turn, what was one more? And it gave her time to clean the trailer and make a dinner for them to eat while she was away into the night.
Besides, it had been Gio’s idea. “Rosa likes it there,” he’d said casually, but she’d noticed him sneaking a book out of his knapsack a time or two as well.
She was sure it was that kind young man from book club, Mr. Keats, who had inspired it. The moment he’d stepped into the club wearing his military uniform, Gio had peppered him with questions, to her embarrassment, but he’d answered them without a trace of annoyance.
If only you’d married someone like him, a nagging voicewhispered,instead of falling for the first charmer who popped into the bakery and said he loved you.
Sta’ zitto!There was no sense in thoughts like that.What’s done is done.
She was on her knees, scraping the last caked-on clump of mud from under the table, when a knock, loud and firm, sounded on the door.
Not Ginny coming to pick her up; it was an hour too early. Not a child telling her Gio was fighting; he was at the library. Not a neighbor asking to borrow a cup of sugar; no one did such things at the trailer camp. She had no family nearby, no friends, no one who would come to call.
Unless...
Martina snapped off the radio, muttering a prayer that she wasn’t sure she’d need. She didn’t believe in superstitions—that words or thoughts could prompt bad luck or call an unwanted guest. And yet, she couldn’t deny the prickling of dread in her stomach as she opened the door.
Patrick stood there. For a moment that felt like an age, she stared at him, not caring that it was rude: at his square jaw with the tiny scar on the side, at those brown eyes that sparkled when he smiled. Which, unbelievably, he was now. “Afternoon, love. Been a while, hasn’t it?”
No need to decide whether she’d invite him in; Patrick stepped inside without waiting to be asked and craned his head around to take in the trailer.
Mamma was right: his dove gray suit was new and perfectly fitted, so probably not won off another man’s back in a game of cards. As he passed her, she caught a hint of aftershave and mint, not cigarette smoke and alcohol. And when she looked past him out the door, she saw he’d parked a dark coupe—an older model, but clean and well maintained.
Martina felt a flush of embarrassment. And what a mess shemust look, in a dirty apron and her work clothes, smelling of scrub buckets and the foundry.
It doesn’t matter. Hold your head high.Her days of pretending, of sucking in her softening belly and putting on lipstick, hoping for Patrick to toss her a scrap of a compliment, were long gone.
She finally found her voice and tried to make it strong, like Mamma’s. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a fellow come to see his wife?” He reached to knock on the ceiling of the trailer, which he could do without stretching. “Bet it’s murder trying to fix a meal in here.”
“I manage.”
“You always do, don’t you?” And as usual, Martina couldn’t say if it was a compliment or an insult or something hovering in between.
Never had the trailer felt so small or Patrick so large, looming in her kitchen, though his posture didn’t suggest a threat.
Should she call for help? Make an excuse to leave? Drive him out with a broom?
