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“It means,” she went on as if he had actually asked, “that once something has grown cold, it’s not the same when you try to heat it back up.”
The anger was back now, flickering like the silver lighter he always kept in his shirt pocket, close to his heart. “Fine. You want a divorce, then? Isn’t that some kind of mortal sin?”
Martina winced at the words. Patrick was just Catholic enough to toss the right words around, most of his religious instruction coming from Father Coughlin, an anti-Semitic priest whose radio program had spewed hate into living rooms around the country until the Roosevelt administration had quietly—blessedly—canceled it.
“In our last conversation”—a generous word for the shouting match they’d had the previous summer—“you said you wanted to be a free man, like you’d never married.” He’d said worse too, before slamming the door and leaving them to join the navy.
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”
“And maybe you’d change your mind again after a month or two in one place and decide to move on, breaking the children’s hearts—again.”
He paused, still close enough that she could feel his heavy breath, and for the first time, she saw a crack in his swaggering resolve.
Could it be that he really did care about them?
Her tone was softer now. “We are settled here, Patrick. Can’t you see that? The children can’t move from place to place with your fishing business. They need a home.”
“What about leaving them with your mother for a while?” She was already shaking her head, but he plowed on, ignoring the answer that she meant to be final. “Just long enough for me to save up for a real house. Nice bungalow with a picket fence and all that.”
Whatever dream he spun, however beautiful, was as much a fantasy as the land of Oz from the book she’d been reading aloud to Rosa. “I won’t leave the children, not for any amount of time. They need their mother.”
“But not their father?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t look at him, afraid of what she’d see. Anger or, worse, something genuine, something that would remind her of those early days when he’d been all stolen poetry and shining promises.
So she only heard his sigh, didn’t see it. “Think about it, Martina. I know it’s sudden. But I’ll be in town another few months doing business. Crew likes smaller towns. Safer that way.” He scribbled down an address on the back of an envelope he yanked out of the book sitting on the table. “You can find me anytime.”
With that, he tipped his hat in a half bow like Errol Flynn and strolled out of the trailer.
She breathed deep and low, her unsteady legs collapsing onto the divan.
He was gone, and he hadn’t shown up drunk or shouted at her or threatened the children. He hadn’t tried to force a kiss or a decision.
Maybe he’s changed.
Don’t even think it.How many times had she hoped it would be different? And it never was. The only person Patrick Quinn truly cared about was himself.
Beside her wasThe Code of the Woosters, the book Patrick had tugged the envelope out of. She’d been using it as a bookmark, her ending page now lost among dozens of others. It didn’t matter. There was nothing Martina wanted to do less at the moment than to read a comedy.
It all seemed so ... what was the word?Frivolous. That was it. Full of jokes about boarding school and parlor maids that she didn’t understand. Bertie and Jeeves and the other characters in the novel all belonged to a different world than she did. For a while, it had been fun, escaping reality while reading about their antics.
But the real world had come pounding on her door once again, reminding her of all her poor choices, all her sins, venial and mortal alike. She should have known there was no way to outrun your past, no matter how far you traveled.
seventeen
AVIS
JUNE 13
A metal fan whirred on the checkout desk, slightly disturbing both the oppressive heat and the cards lined up in the charging tray, each listing a lent-out book. Flies buzzed toward the library windows, pinging against the glass in a useless attempt to escape.
Avis massaged her temple, her hand brushing against a stray curl that had somehow escaped the complex web of hairpins that kept her rolls in an approximation of the Carole Landis style she’d seen inScreen Guidelast week. For once, she didn’t bother to dig out the compact from her purse to fix it. What did it matter?
She stared bleakly at the list of strategies in the open notebook, scribbled among the book club notes, most of them crossed off.
Appeal to the library’s trustees.Failed when Mr. Bell at city hall explained that this library—an association library, funded by private donations and membership fees—had Louise Cavendish listed as the sole trustee in its charter.
Convince the city to purchase the building and turn it into a public library.According to Mayor Hastings, even if Miss Cavendish agreed to sell, “We simply haven’t got the funds. There’s a war on, you know.”
