thought would flit through the back of her mind, even if she never said it out loud.
Then Hilary came home. She arrived on the first ferry to the island in the morning. They didn't say a word. Something shook loose in both of them. Her lips were on his, and his fingers were on her clothes, and they stripped on the new carpet he'd laid in the living room and made frantic love, soundless except for the pace of their breathing. The tenderness of their bruises didn't matter. The graffiti hiding under the fresh paint didn't matter. They were alone and connected for the first time in days, and in the aftermath, as he stroked her bare skin, he felt as if he'd won her faith back.
She was sleeping now. He'd left her a note that he was going to the mainland for a few hours.
At the bakery counter, Mark ordered a loaf of rosemary-garlic bread and a cherry pie, warm from the oven. Everything in Door County was cherries. Fresh cherries, cherry pies, cherry soda, cherry caramels, cherry jam, cherry cider, cherry ice cream, cherry wine. There were cherries in tomato sauce, cherries in cheese, cherries stuffed in peppers, cherries stuffed in olives, cherries stuffed in roast beef. He didn't really even like cherries, but that was like living in Chicago and not rooting for the Bears. He'd become a cherry fan out of sheer necessity, because you couldn't escape them here.
He balanced the pie box on his hand. The tin was hot through the cardboard, and he juggled it. At the end of an aisle, he put down his shopping bag and dipped a pretzel stick in mustard. It was cherry mustard. Of course. He actually liked it. He took a jar and put it in the bag.
Mark heard his phone ringing. He had a special ring tone for Hilary, which was Aerosmith's 'Dude Looks Like a Lady'. She'd got very drunk one night at a bar in downtown Chicago and danced to it solo, and he'd never let her forget it.
'I really needed to sleep,' she said.
'I figured.'
'That was a nice way to come home.'
'Will I get the same treatment tonight?' he asked.
'Come home and see.'
'Soon. I'll swing by the Pig for groceries and get some wine at the liquor store and then head for the ferry. Do you need anything?'
'You.'
'That's a date,' he said.
He hung up the phone and realized he was smiling, because he felt a glimmer of the life they'd enjoyed in their first year. Before Tresa. Before Glory. When they were first living on the island and commuting together to their teaching jobs, he'd wondered what he had done to deserve that kind of happiness. He'd feared in his secret soul that one day fate would want to take it all back and even the score.
Sure enough, fate did.
Even now, he couldn't escape it.
Mark looked up, holding his phone in his hand, still smiling at the thought of going home to Hilary. He found an older man with slicked, jet-black hair standing in front of him. Alcohol wafted from the man's breath. They were nearly the same height, but the man's shoulders were rounded by age, and he held himself at an angle, as if one leg was weaker than the other. The man jabbed a finger in Mark's face.
'I know who you are,' he said.
Mark had no interest in a confrontation with a stranger. He picked up his shopping bag and tried to squeeze past the man in the aisle. 'Excuse me,' he said.
'Do you know who I am?' the man asked sharply.
'I have no idea.'
'My name's Peter Hoffman.'
Mark stopped and took a deep breath. 'OK. All right. I've heard of you. What do you want, Mr Hoffman?'
'I know what kind of man you are,' Hoffman snapped. His voice grew louder and more belligerent. People in the market turned to look at them.
'I'm leaving,' Mark said, but Hoffman blocked his way and put his hand squarely on Mark's chest.
'You stand there, and you listen to me,' Hoffman told him.
Mark felt his heart rate accelerate. His fist tightened around the phone in his hand. He imagined Hilary standing next to him and what she would say.
'What do you want?' Mark asked. 'Because if all you want is to accuse me of things I didn't do, then you're in a long line, and you'll have to take a number.'
'You think you're funny? You think this is funny?'
'No, I really don't.'
'Do you have any idea what I lost? My daughter? My grandchildren? Do you know what it's like to watch your family die?'
Mark felt the flush of embarrassment on his face. A crowd was gathering, and he wasn't the sentimental favorite in this contest. 'Mr Hoffman, I do know what you went through. I can't imagine how horrible that was for you. You have my sympathy, you really do.'
'I don't want your sympathy.'
'Then please move aside, so we can both leave in peace.'
'I've killed men, Bradley. More than I want to remember. I did what my country needed me to do, and I don't regret any of it. But you. I don't know how you live with yourself.'
'That's all. We're done here.'
'Then you have the goddamn nerve,' Hoffman continued, his raspy voice growing shrill, 'to hide behind the man who killed my whole family. How dare you. I won't let you do it. I won't let you get away with it.'
Mark pushed past Hoffman, their shoulders colliding. For an old man, Hoffman was solid, and even drunk he was fast. Mark never saw the punch coming. Hoffman's left fist shot up from his hips and connected with the underside of Mark's jaw, snapping his head back. Mark staggered. The pie tumbled from his hand, spilling out of the box as it fell to the floor, spraying cherries and filling on to the ground like blood. His phone flew. Mark lost his balance, stumbling backward into shelves lined with canning jars. The shelves dropped, and dozens of jars clattered downward and rained a mess of sauce and glass. His face and clothes dripped with stains.
Mark regained his balance. He rubbed his jaw, which was stiff, and ran his tongue along the back of his teeth to see if any were loose. He shook his clothes, and bits of glass sprinkled around him. The crowd in the shop around them froze in silence. Hoffman cocked his fists, expecting Mark to retaliate, but Mark had no intention of hitting an old man. He just wanted to get out of the store.
Hoffman rooted his feet so Mark couldn't pass. 'Nobody thinks I've got the courage, but I do. I'm going to make sure you get what's coming to you.'
Mark tried to keep a lid on his temper, which raced to a boil. He felt trapped as people closed in between the aisles. 'My wife and I almost died yesterday, Mr Hoffman. I'll tell you this only once. If anyone comes after us again, it will be the last thing they ever do.'
'You can't threaten me, and you can't scare me.'
'I'm promising you,' Mark said.
'I'm not afraid of someone who messes with teenage girls.'
Mark was tired of denying it. Tired of protesting his innocence. Angry with the world. 'Get the hell out of my way,' he snapped.
'Your wife knows the truth. I told her. She knows what kind of man you are.'
Something snapped in Mark. He couldn't stop himself. By mentioning
Hilary, Peter Hoffman stepped across a line that no one could cross. Mark's muscles wound up into knots, ready to burst. He backhanded his left arm like a club into Hoffman's chest and shoulder. Despite his military bearing, Hoffman was no match for Mark's strength. The blow lifted the man off his feet and drove him sideways, where he crumpled into a card table that collapsed under his weight. Hoffman dropped, hitting the floor hard. Broken glass scored the man's face and drew blood.
'Shit,' Mark hissed under his breath.
The older man squirmed to get up, but he couldn't get his balance. Mark bent over with an outstretched hand to help the man up, but Hoffman swatted the hand away. Mark saw rage and humiliation in his face.
