Man from La Manche: Atlantic Romances, #2

By Liz Graham

It's 1990, and Madonna Ricci is running for her life. Her ex is fresh out of jail, has a gun and wants revenge.

It's a good time to leave the country to search out her roots. A square peg in a round hole, she's never fit it to her adopted family, but could never cut through that veil of secrecy that surrounds her birth.

In Newfoundland, the charming rogue Levi falls for her on the first day and won't let go. He's determined to unwrap all her secrets, and she just might let him, for she's found her home.

That is, till her digging into the past uncovers the darkest truth of all. This is a secret that can never be shared.

If you like your clean romance with mystery and suspense, you'll love Man from La Manche.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liz Graham
• Release date: Nov 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999390815

Liz Graham

Liz Graham is the author of the Carmel McAlistair Mystery Series (Cozy Cat Press); the Imperfect (Diana Quenton) Suspense Comedies and the Retro Romance Series (Clean, Small Town). She lives in St. John's Newfoundland, a place which encourages indoor pursuits like writing because the weather truly sucks there.

Book preview

One

That early morning phone call set into motion a series of choices which would change her life forever, irrevocably and beyond her wildest dreams although she had no way of knowing it at the time. In fact, she was barely awake enough to answer her phone, and if she’d known who the caller was, she would have rolled over and gone back to sleep.

‘Madonna?’ The voice on the phone was worried, the caller’s nasal quack still having the power to make her wince, even after all these years. She groaned silently as she buried her head back into her pillow.

‘He’s out,’ the voice continued, its panicked urgency jumping from the receiver. ‘Tony - he’s out of prison.’

Madonna Ricci, or Maddie as she preferred to call herself, closed her eyes as she held the phone to her ear. It was too early in the morning to deal with her step-sister’s hysterics. Her phone’s alarm clock hadn’t even gone off yet, and she certainly hadn’t had a coffee. What was the woman on about now? Nena’s way of getting attention in their large family was to use exaggeration, milking each and every situation for all the drama it was worth.

‘Did you hear me?’ The querulous voice reminded her of Nena‘s presence on the other end of the phone.

‘They’ve let him out, and now he wants to get you back,’ she continued, shrill with impatience and panic. ‘You gotta run, get out of here, hide somewhere.’

‘Nena,’ Maddie steeled herself to use her calm voice, the professional manner she had perfected in medical school. ‘That was six years ago, Tony and I have both moved on. I don’t mind talking to him. Tell him to call me.’

The voice on the phone gave way to stifled sobs. ‘He was just here,’ Nena finally whispered. ‘He’s got a gun and he’s still angry at you.

‘Go, Madonna, go now.’

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Tony and a gun indeed, she fumed to herself as she hauled her running gear out of the drawer, the long leggings caught in a knot of tank tops and other clothes from the same dryer load that had been hastily stuffed away the previous evening. Her ex-husband with a gun? That was a laugh. He’d be more danger to himself than anyone else, more likely to shoot himself in the foot by mistake than cause damage to anyone else.

She sighed as she looked at the tangle in her hands and proceeded to untwine the mess, static crackling as she ripped the bright blue nylon from the coloured tops. Forgot the softener, again, she thought. Good thing running gear was supposed to cling.

Dressed for her morning run, she paused to glance in the long mirror on the back of the bedroom door, critically eying herself in the early morning Manhattan light. Her figure at twenty-nine was better than it had been at twenty, that was for sure. All her life her tall build had attracted extra weight but she was finally on top of it and was determined to keep it off. It was the least she could do, she thought as she grimaced to herself, forcing her dyed black hair into a ponytail.

The street was quiet at six-thirty in the morning. She loved the peace and quiet before the real day began. Soon enough, the roads would be full of cars and trucks disgorging their heavy smells and dispelling the freshness, but right now the day was hers.

‘Hey Mr. Marchetti,’ she called as she jogged past the stooping man arranging fruit outside his greengrocer‘s storefront. ‘Come siete? How are you?’

He was an early riser too, had to be in his business in this Italian neighbourhood, or the old women in black would start talking about him and take their business elsewhere. He lifted his head from the display of late season pears and waved his hand in a salute as she passed.

‘Eh, Madonna,’ he said in acknowledgement, shaking his head as he looked after her.

She knew what he was thinking, knew what they all thought of her. The poor Ricci girl, the ugly -duckling. There wasn’t anyone on this street who didn’t know every bit of her past, her adoption as a baby, the shame of her divorce, her uncertain future. No self-respecting man would have her as a wife now, the old women whispered, not after what she’d done to Tony. Her Papa had done the only thing he could, they said, sending her to university.

For Maddie was going to have to earn her own living.

She shook her head as she turned the corner to the road leading to the park, breathing in clean morning air and leaving the stale atmosphere of her neighborhood behind. Why on earth did she stay around here anyway? There was a whole world out there. There had to be somewhere she could fit in and just be a different person, like she’d always dreamed. Maybe someday.

And perhaps this was the right time. She’d just graduated with her degree, and had two months before her job as a practicing doctor started at the hospital in Boston. Her graduation present from Papa was safely stowed away in her bank account —all one hundred thousand dollars of it. More of a kiss-off, really, and he would have a lot to answer for once her stepmother found out about it, but he’d thought it worth every penny to have her out of the city and the neighborhood.

She could use these two months to travel, to see the world.

Perhaps she should take Nena’s advice, she thought idly as her feet ran down the length of the small city park, and just run away somewhere far from anywhere else. She smiled at her earlier irritation towards the oldest of her half-siblings, and wondered what bee was buzzing in the younger woman’s bonnet now. It was always something with Nena, always something to be panicked about, to be horrified by, a scandal to be talked about in intimate detail. Usually other people’s scandals, of course, not her own family’s.

Maddie was still lost in her dream of what might be when she left the stifling familiarity of this neighbourhood, as her feet followed the well-known path back to her tiny apartment in the scruffy building. She paused by Marchetti’s stand and picked up a shiny red apple, anticipating the crunch of the first bite. Jostled by the old widow who lived next door (whose short squat blackness gave her priority in the lineup for service), she held up the fruit to the fruit seller to let him know she’d pay him later, but was stopped by the peculiar look in his eye.

His normally resigned dark face and drooping eyelids came suddenly alive at the sight of her. Maddie stared back at his face in fascination, for she had never known it to hold any expression save that of long-suffering disappointment with the world. Even during his last daughter‘s wedding, surely a joyous occasion, while other family members smiled broadly for the photo taking, Mr. Marchetti had stared into the camera lens as if he saw only the gloom of his life stretching far ahead into a future bereft of his daughter’s company.

After a short moment she realized it was fear that made his eyes wide as he looked at her in panic, making shooing movements with his arms and hands.

‘Madonna, you don‘t want to be here,’ he whispered to her as he leaned over the apples, grabbing her upper arm. He surveyed the street again, up and down its length. ‘They’re looking for you.’

‘Who...?’ She started to ask.

‘You know who!’ he whispered urgently. ‘Tony and his friends. They’re gonna come back again, you get out now! Go on!’

He released her arm and she stumbled backward, almost bumping into the old woman who shook her head blackly, mumbling in Italian that you couldn’t expect any better from that traitorous girl, that divorcee.

Maddie stared at the fruit seller in disbelief. She could dismiss Nena’s hysterics, for her step-sister thrived on drama. But Mr. Marchetti? She had to accept that Nena had spoken the truth in that early morning panic call, that incredibly, her ex-husband was really out to kill her.

She let herself in through the back entrance of her building, took the stairs two at a time to the cramped space she called home, and opened the apartment door cautiously, not knowing what to expect. Breathlessly, she scanned the room, but it was just as she had left it, no messier than usual. No one had been there. She stepped into the room.

No one had ever come here except herself. She looked around the room again, suddenly seeing it with new eyes. No artwork adorned the walls, no family photographs lingered on the bureau. It was a temporary space, not a home. A stopping-off point for someone who had no place in life.

Get away, Nena’s voice echoed in her head, and with a small smile Maddie made up her mind right there and then. She would get away, maybe far away. There was nothing keeping her here.

But where she could go? Even New York City wasn’t large enough to hide her from Tony, not if he was brandishing a gun and threatening to use it on her. He had a nasty temper which had been stewing in prison for the past six years, and he had contacts.

She moved toward the single closet in her studio apartment, taking out the little-used carry-on case which sat waiting in the depths. She would find somewhere to go, but she’d better make it fast.

‘Credit cards, shoes, clothing... What else do l need?’ she muttered aloud as she gazed about, her, early morning calm now totally ruffled. ‘Hairdryer!’

So much to think about when you're not used to being on the run. She changed from her sweaty gear to a pair of jeans and a blouse, grabbing a light sweater and her favorite heels, and at the last moment reached into the bottom drawer of the nightstand for her passport.

She hailed a cab not twenty feet from the front entrance of her building. Was that luck or what? It was as if the whole city were conspiring to get her out, she thought as her jaw hardened and she turned her back on the neighbourhood she’d known all her life. For all their squawking, she wondered if anyone had bothered to phone the police on Tony.

Maddie watched the last of her neighbourhood fade away from the back window of the cab, the brown buildings replaced by brick, Italian faces changing to Oriental. She settled back in the seat for the ride to the airport. As the unreality of the situation took hold of her, with it came an unholy sense of misplaced glee.

Maybe it was the shock that was doing it, knowing that another human being was intent on killing her through no fault of her own, that her death was merely to prove a point of honor. But really, it was a bit extreme for Tony to be set on this vendetta. He wanted to murder her for things which had happened long ago. As far as she was concerned, that was all water under the bridge by now, and besides, he’d had it coming to him. The two of them had married too young, and not for love, and it wasn’t her fault that the police had found drugs hidden in their apartment, that day six years ago. She’d had to call them, for she thought that she had murdered her husband, after all.

But who cares, she thought as she laughed to herself, surprised to feel so lightheaded and free for the first time in her life.

She was going far, far away, to a place where no one knew her name, no one knew she was the adopted child, the despised cuckoo in her step-mother’s nest, no one knew that she had almost killed her husband and earned the shame of her divorce.

‘Which gate, lady?’ The cabbie was talking to her over his shoulder as they neared the massive airport.

‘I don’t know," she replied, after a pause. She really didn’t know. ‘Which is the best one?

She giggled as he scowled at her in the mirror and caught his mutterings about the crazies he met in his job. He picked the nearest entrance and sped towards it, pulling quickly to a halt in front of the doors, anxious to be rid of her and her suitcase.

He shook his head at the large tip, shoving it into his pocket nevertheless. ‘Hope you find whatever you’re looking for,’ he said as he turned back to his car.

‘Won’t know until I get there, I guess,’ she called after him. ‘I’ll send you a postcard.’

Entering the revolving doors, she made a decision which would change the rest of her life, for she’d spent the majority of her life so far doing what other people expected her to, from her marriage to her choice of apartment. This time she was going to let loose and do whatever she wanted to do.

When she was a kid she used to have a globe, a real one that could spin on its axis, and it had all the countries of the world on it outlined in different colors. Her favorite childhood game had been to spin that globe and imagine travelling to the place her finger landed on when it stopped. That’s what she was going to do now – take the first flight out of the country, no matter where it was headed.

Unless the destination was Italy, she hastily amended to herself, searching for the departures screen. Some of Tony’s friends still had connections back in the old country, and she might just be leaping from the frying pan into the proverbial fire if she went back to her father’s homeland.

The homeland —that was a joke! Even with her hair dyed black since she was a teenager, no one would ever mistake her for being of Italian descent. Even if it weren’t for her freckles and hazel eyes, her height and large build made her painfully distinct among the community she’d grown up in.

That weedy boy in med school who’d had a desperate crush on her had once likened her to a Valkyrie, which was some sort of Norse Amazonian goddess from what she could gather from his meandering poetry which she’d endured one evening in the coffee shop. It didn’t sound very feminine, and she was pretty sure the Norse were all blondes