single sheet of paper was aligned carefully square, in the centre of the scarred and worn pine, straight in front of her chair where it could not possibly be missed.
Marina knew that she should read it again, read and absorb it this time. Not skim through the neatly typed paragraphs in a shaken rush, unable to take in exactly what it actually said, only getting a rough and very shocked impression of just what Pietro had written.
When the courier had brought the letter to her door last night, she had been so stunned to see her estranged husband’s name on any communication that she had found it impossible to actually focus on the letter. The words had danced before her eyes, blurring into one dark shadow as she struggled to take in their meaning. And it had been little better when she had gone back to try to re-read it later in the day. She had absorbed just what Pietro was demanding, but she hadn’t been able to work out how she felt about it. She had told herself that she would sleep on it and hope that the morning would bring clearer thoughts and guidance on a decision.
‘Sleep? Hah!’
Marina mocked her own thoughts as she reached for the kettle and filled it ready to make a much-needed cup of coffee. Sleep was the last thing she had managed; she had tossed and turned, trying to erase or at least ignore the images and memories that had flooded her mind, keeping her from the much-needed oblivion. But, just as during the time when she had been married to him, ignoring Pietro had proved impossible to do. And in the scenes that had played over and over in her head the contents of the letter seemed to grow with every repetition, getting worse and worse until she had finally tumbled into a restless, nightmare-ridden doze.
As a result she needed a large mug of coffee before she could even bring herself to read Pietro’s communication over again. She was nerving herself to reach for the letter when the telephone rang unexpectedly, making her start, so that some of the coffee slopped over the edge of the mug and splattered the elegant notepaper.
‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘Who?’
Her eyes were still fixed on the letter, as were her thoughts, so it took her a moment or two to register just whose voice was in her ear.
‘It’s Stuart.’
Indignation rang in his tone, and she was not surprised. She had met Stuart in the local library where he was Reference Librarian and he had made it plain that he was attracted to her. His voice should have been easily recognised but, with images of Pietro uppermost in her thoughts, she had been expecting another, very different, masculine response.
The contrast between her estranged husband’s sexy accent and Stuart’s flat Yorkshire tones couldn’t have been more pronounced but she still had to think twice before the truth registered.
‘Sorry, Stuart. I’m not fully awake yet. What was it you wanted?’
‘I was thinking that we could do something at the weekend?’
‘That would be …’
Another glance at the letter caught her up sharp. Stuart might be just what she needed: he was handsome, he was kind, he was nice … But she couldn’t accept any dates; she had no right to even show any interest in another man while she was still legally married to Pietro.
‘Oh, sorry—no. I—have to go away for a while.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
‘No—not really,’ Marina hedged.
How did you say, ‘actually I’m going to see my estranged husband’? She and Stuart might just be starting out on the road towards a potential relationship but she hadn’t yet managed to explain to him that Pietro was still in the picture—if only in the distant, soon-to-be ex picture.
Somehow she managed to ease herself away from Stuart’s questioning, giving only the vaguest possible answers, her mind only half on the task. The rest of her focus was on the letter that she hadn’t yet had a chance to take in.
At last Stuart put down the phone, though not without making it clear that he was annoyed. Thanks, Pietro, Marina silently addressed her absent husband. Not a trace of you in my life for almost two years, and now you make contact again immediately things start to go wrong.
Or was she exaggerating everything? Perhaps she had misread the letter.
But no; a second, more careful scrutiny of the typescript told her that, not only had she not been exaggerating, but every restless moment of her disturbed night had been fully justified—and then some.
Not only was Pietro suddenly back in her life after having completely ignored her and refused all contact for nearly two years, but he was also back taking control in the way that only he could. She had been summoned; there was no other word for it. Summoned to Palermo. At Pietro’s command.
Her husband had snapped his fingers and she was expected to jump. Once more her eyes dropped to the typed words:
We have been separated for almost two years. This situation has gone on quite long enough. It is time it was resolved.
‘You’d better believe it,’ Marina muttered. It was more than time that their separation was resolved.
Deep down she had known this was coming, that it was inevitable after her flight from her marriage, the way she had tried to conceal her real reasons for running, the misery of knowing that her husband had never loved her. Really, she was surprised that it hadn’t come sooner. But still she had held out a vain hope. A hope that this letter now dashed to pieces:
… imperative you come to Sicily to discuss the terms of our divorce.
It was so like the first letter he had sent her just after she had returned home following her flight from the misery of their marriage—only then he had been ordering her to come home to take her place once more as his wife. To forget whatever childish nonsense had sent her running in the first place and continue with their marriage as if nothing had happened.
Two years ago and it could still hurt—hurt so badly that just for a moment she doubled up with the pain of it, folding her arms tightly around herself to hold in the distress that almost spilled out of her. She had thought that she had everything she had ever wanted: marriage to a husband she adored, a baby on the way. Then in a terrible twist of fate it had all been taken away. She had lost the baby, her husband and eventually had been unable to stay in the loveless desolation her marriage had become. And now he expected that all he had to do was whistle and she would come obediently to heel like a well-trained dog and do whatever he wanted.
Oh no, Principe D’Inzeo. Not this time! Two long, hard-fought years away from him had given her a strength she hadn’t possessed when she had been Pietro’s wife.
Rebellion seared through her and she scrabbled in her handbag, looking for her mobile phone. She had no way of knowing whether the number she had was still the right one for Pietro, but quite frankly she didn’t care. Simply keying in the text as quickly as she could with swift, stabbing movements of her thumb was some sort of therapy, even if he would never realise the fury with which she’d formed the words.
Why Sicily? You want to talk, you come here.
There!
A final push of the button sent her message winging its way to him and she smiled her satisfaction at the phone as she tossed it down on the table and reached for her coffee once more.
She barely had time to take a sip before the beeping sound announced a response. It was short and to the point—just a single word.
No.
Damn the man. Marina reached for the phone again.
Why not?
Another beep. Another single word:
Busy.
Gritting her teeth, she pressed more buttons.
And I’m not?
Silence.