“I don’t know.”
His head turns to me with a surprised look on his face. “He didn’t tell you?”
“I didn’t exactly give him a chance,” I reply, shamefully averting my eyes.
He puts the knife on the table and faces me with hands on his waist. “Do I want to know why?”
A shake of my head is my answer.
“Do you want me to go and ask him? I can do that.”
Another shake. “I gotta do it myself.” Then, lifting my narrowed eyes at him, I ask, “Aren’t you even a little bit concerned?”
His face softens as he walks up to me. Placing his big, familiar hands on my shoulders, he says, “I’m always concerned for you, Nora. You’re like another child of mine.But I see the world different from you, and I see that sometimes a man has to go to certain lengths to protect what he loves. And I think this man will go to any length to protect you.”
My throat closes up with a silent sob, and he pulls me into his warm embrace.
“And if he hurts you, there’re big lengths I’ll go to protect the ones I love.”
He’s holding me for however long I need to cry. Over my father and my mom, over the past and the future. Over everything I’ve missed because of my fear. Over the stupid mistake I might have made.
I pull away, wiping my tears. The kitchen feels too small suddenly, too warm. “I should go before the others arrive. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”
Roman nods, understanding in his eyes. “Take the day if you need it. We’ll manage.”
I hang my apron on its hook, grateful for his kindness. “Thank you, Roman. I don’t say it enough, but thank you for always being there for us.”
Outside, the sky is growing brighter, the first pale streaks of dawn breaking through the clouds. The air is sharp with coming snow, the kind of cold that clears your head.
I walk without direction, letting my feet carry me through the sleeping town. Out of the parking lot where Dick showed me that damn article. Past the church with its stained glass catching the early light. Past the library where I spent so many afternoons as a child.
Eventually, I find myself at the edge of town, where the road curves toward the state forest. There’s a small lookout here, a wooden platform built by the Rotary Club years ago. It offers a view of the valley, of the town nestled below like a collection of toys.
I sit on a bench, pulling my coat tighter around me. From here, I can see it all—the shadows of the diner, the churchspire, the town square. The place I’ve always belonged. The place I ran back to when the world got too big, too scary.
I close my eyes, letting the cold air fill my lungs. The anger has faded somewhat, leaving behind a dull ache of disappointment. Not just in him, but in myself. For letting the fear of many things run my life for far too long. For my one-sided view of the world that clouded my judgment. For judging others without giving them the benefit of the doubt.
My father wasn’t just a victim. He had a temper. He made mistakes. This new knowledge doesn’t diminish my love for him or the pain of his loss, but it does make him more human. More real. It makes my last memory of him change its colors.
Could I do the same for Jericho?
50
Six years ago
Nora
I’ve been reliving this day since I found out about Jericho.
It started like most bad things do. Quietly.
I’m twenty-one and stupid and reckless and heartbroken, living in a shoebox apartment above a Vietnamese bakery on a street that smells like cinnamon and car exhaust. Boston has not been kind to me so far. But neither has Big Love, so I’m still trying to build a life here.
It’s been over a year since Richard dumped me with the same care someone might toss a fast-food wrapper out of their car window, and by now he’s graduated to Dick.
“You’re too much, Nora,” he said. Like I was a hurricane and he just wanted sunnyskies.
“Too much?”
