Page 11 of Just Ten Seconds

I take the letter, and instead of throwing it in the trash, I place it in the sink and light it on fire. My jaw trembles with the memories. The passion of making love on the beach, Benjamin’s laugh as I told him stories of my day, the sincere joy he showed in his eyes when I said yes to be his wife.

Instead of happiness, I now feel an indescribable pain.

My hand clenches my stomach as the sobs build from deep inside. Hot, burning tears drip down my face. I’ve done a great job at taming the roar that sits in my belly, but times like these, when the reality of all that happened comes back, it makes it harder to keep the demons away.

I watch the flames rise from the paper and inhale the fumes that waft from it.

One second.

That’s all it takes to end a life.

I turn the knob on the faucet and let the water douse the fire.

You can’t let him get to you, Mara.

Keep it together.

Move on.

Wiping my cheeks of spilled tears, I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and head outside and up the white front porch of Rita’s house.

“Knock, knock,” I call as I open her storm door, which leads right into her living room.

“Entra,” she says from the kitchen.

I walk straight toward the dining room, passing the plastic-covered sofas and a three-foot-tall statue of Mary in the corner. Her home is cozy with hardwood floors and ornate wood furniture that is sturdy and has kept up after fifty years.

She comes into the room with a tablecloth in hand. I help her place it over the dining table and then take a seat as she walks back into the kitchen. I would help, but I know she’d shoo me away.

Rita places two cups on the table, followed by a crocheted trivet—to protect the mahogany from the heat of the coffeepot—and a package of Stella D’oro cookies. She always has a cake or cookies in the house in case company comes over.

“What is new with you?” she asks as she pours my coffee.

I could start with the letter I just burned in my sink. Or the handsome stranger and his daughter, whom I helped earlier today and pretended for a moment that they were my family. I don’t say either because I’m really good at diverting my feelings.

“I saw they started construction on the new development down the road.”

“Pfft.” She waves off the notion as she puts the pot down. “They’re probably building those monstrosities everyone’s been putting up around here.”

I shrug. “They’re nice. I got a postcard in the mail that one recently sold. Should be good for your property value.”

She curls her mouth in disgust. “Eh. They look like mausoleums. They take away the charm of living in the Hudson Valley. Next thing you know, there will be houses one on top of the other. We move here to have space. If I wanted to live so close to someone else, I would have stayed in Brooklyn.”

On the living room end table, in direct eyeshot from where I’m sitting, is her wedding picture. She has a long-sleeved white dress and the happiest smile only a bride in love could bear. Next to her is her groom, not much taller than her, but staring back with a greater look of joy. I used to have a picture just like that.

“Did you come to America with Vincenzo?”

Rita’s lip rises slightly at her husband’s mention. She doesn’t show emotion often, and when she does, it’s only when I ask about her late husband.

“No,” she explains. “I came here from Naples when I was fifteen. My father had come here first, and then he called for me and my sisters.”

I take a cookie and dunk it into my coffee. “How did you and Vincenzo meet?”

Her hands hold on to the cup as if the heat were working through her old bones and making her young again. “At a church dance. Mary Help of Christian—that was the name of the church. He walked in with a group of boys. I had my eye on Francisco. His nickname was Frankie Two-Time. I should have known then that he was a scoundrel, but I was foolish. I hung on Francisco’s arm until he left me to drive some floozy home. I was in tears.” She places a hand on my arm as she relives the story. “Tears. Big, ugly tears I cried, and then a boy asked me to dance. It was Vincenzo, and could he dance. I fell in love with him right then and there. We were married three months later.”

“Three months?” I nearly spit out my cookie. “How old were you?”

“Nineteen. That wasn’t young in those days.”