Page 76 of When We Were Enemies

“You need this?” Patrick stands directly behind me, holding out my brown leather satchel.

“Oh gosh. Thank you,” I say, reaching out to take it, our fingers brushing again. He doesn’t let go of the bag immediately, keeping me close.

“I’m sorry I got a little intense back there. I don’t tell that story often, and it’s been a while,” he says, staring down at me, seeming apprehensive.

“No—thankyoufor trusting me,” I say sincerely. “I actuallycompletelyunderstand.”

“I knew you would as soon you told me about Dean.”

He shuffles closer, further closing the space between us. My mouth goes dry, and I wait for whatever he’s going to say next, no idea what it might be. He takes a deep breath like he has a speech prepared but then lets it out, shaking his head again. He releases the bag and gives a simple wave before looking both ways and crossing the parking lot to his car.

I don’t wait for him to leave. I rush inside and sprint up the stairs so fast it leaves me wheezing. Safe inside my hotel room, I toss my satchel onto the love seat and then fall onto the bed. My ears ring as I revisit the whole conversation.

I was wise to say no to his ride originally.

My phone buzzes. There’s no way it’s Patrick. Or is it?

Diving across the room, I retrieve the phone from my satchel and check my list of notifications. One is from my mom, inviting me to dinner with the crew in Greenwood. I have ten minutes to change. Three from work and one from Hunter and none from Patrick.

I read the one from Hunter, this time slower, and it drops a cold lump of dread into my midsection.

HUNTER:Hope you had a good day, baby. Can’t wait to kiss my girl in four days!

I drop my phone on the newly made bed.

Shit.

Things are about to get really complicated.

CHAPTER 24

Vivian

Thursday, June 10, 1943

Santini Home

In the darkness, my question is answered immediately.

“Viviana! Vieni qui. Adesso.”Viviana! Come here. Now.

Papà’s inflection is harsh as he orders me to join him, and I flinch as though I’ve been hit.

Most evenings, I return home to a warmly lit house, the welcoming scent of dinner cooking, the sound of chatter, or sometimes music on the radio. But today the front room is empty, and I hear no sound other than the squeaking of papà’s chair in the kitchen.

“Be right there, papà!” I call in Italian.

I shove the shoebox into the back of the closet and cover it with an umbrella and a stray scarf that I first run over my face and lips to remove any traces of makeup. With my hat hung and my purse in place, I check to make sure the business card is still hidden in my waistband. Then I smooth my hair and walk into the kitchen in my muddy shoes.

“No late shift tonight?” he asks with a sarcastic bite.

He knows. I don’t know what exactly he’s found out, but he’s uncovered at least one of my lies.

“Not tonight, papà.” I remove the green-and-white apron from its hook next to the icebox and tie it in a tidy bow around my waist. The chicken in the icebox should still be good, and we have tomatoes and basil from Aria’s garden.

I take out the chicken. One breast remains, and if I hammer it thin and add lots of bread crumbs, it can serve all three of us. A loaf of bread from Marco, the chef at the POW mess hall, is in the breadbox, borderline stale, but it will make a nice bruschetta.

I know a confrontation is coming, but food calms papà. It’s not just the food—it’s seeing me working in the kitchen like mamma and his own mother, perhaps reminding him of another simpler time. Plus, I’d rather have my back to him when he’s angry; then I don’t have to see his anger, and he can’t see my fear.