AllFreeNovel
Share Us
It seemed melodramatic, yet if half of the rumors she’d heard of the crowded trailer camp built on the edge of town were true, there might be a genuine need.
“Very well.” She opened her checkbook again, along with her best fountain pen, the one with the scrimshaw inset. “How much would suffice?”
He raised a finger, as if in warning. “Ah, but there’s the trouble. It’s not funds we need, or not only funds. The only local charities are full to the brim and can’t take in another child. What they need is a nursery school to open, and for that, they’d need a building, staff, organization—in short, someone to manage the whole project. Ideally by the first of the new year.”
Her hands froze on the check. This was something elseentirely. “That is a lot to ask of a childless spinster.” At fifty-three years old, what did she know about starting a childcare center?
This time, to his credit, Mr. Hanover didn’t dissolve into apologetic stammering but instead raised a mild brow of challenge. “I thought, perhaps, with your connections...”
Being of the business set, of course he’d think an heiress like her could drum up a building and staff for a nursery school in an afternoon, or at least after hosting a soiree or gala.
But she was quite literally in a class of her own in Derby, the tiny seaside town where her family had vacationed over summers, and her connections outside of it were scant. Oh, there was her brother in New York who dropped by twice a decade or so, and a few old acquaintances, but it’s not as though she lived in a glittering metropolis full of wealthy philanthropists.
No, if this was going to be done, she must do it herself. As usual.
“Thank you, Mr. Hanover,” she said, standing. “This has been most enlightening. I’ll consider your proposal and be in contact with you as I decide.”
As she nodded along to the usual stifling farewell pleasantries, an idea began to form.
A foolish one, naturally. Most ventures worth embarking on were.
four
MARTINA
APRIL 7
The rapping on Martina Bianchini’s trailer door twined in her half-asleep mind with the shouts of the riots of the summer of ’19.
Her eyes flew open, heart pounding.
She’d fallen asleep on the divan while making dinner. That was all. The afternoon sunlight, warm as a wool blanket, falling on her through the three windows on each side of the trailer promised it was not the middle of the night, when looting and violence could be acted out by men with no justification but power. This was America, the country she and her family had fled to for asylum all those years ago, far away from the mob that had killed her father.
Still, the knocking intensified, and for a fleeting moment, Martina wondered if Patrick had found them again.
“Coming!” She stood, making a useless attempt to smooth her apron’s wrinkles.You’re not a refugee, not anymore. You’re an American citizen, a war worker. You have nothing to be afraid of.
Sure enough, when she opened the door, she was not faced with a black-uniformedsquadrista, an anarchist neighbor, or even her long-absent husband. Just a little boy hopping from foot to foot like he needed to use the privy.
“It’s George, missus,” the boy said urgently. Eyes wide and fearful.
Have mercy.
Before the child could say anything more, she was out the door, bare feet pounding the dead, matted grass in strips between the bite of gravel and dirt.
George. Gio. Her son needed her.
The government had told them the trailer camp was safe, efficient housing for the workers at defense factories, but most worked irregular hours, leaving the children to play in the open area close to the road.
Martina prayed as she ran, but it had been months since she’d attended Mass. What if no one was listening?
Her young guide pointed a dirty finger at a clump of shouting children on the lawn where the bus dropped them off, schoolbooks and bags scattered on the ground. A quick survey showed no sign of an automobile accident or a wild animal or even a spill from a bicycle.
No, she knew from the tone of those voices what must be happening.
Gio was fighting.
Again.
