The Violets of March (13 page)

I rocked to the sound of the melody, allowing myself to be swept away by its reverie, until I heard a voice behind me.

“Hello.”

I turned around to find Jack standing behind me. “Hi,” I said.

“Your first clambake?”

“Yes,” I said. “I—”

We were interrupted by the DJ on the dock. “And look who we have here,” he said from his spot on the dock above. His assistant had shone a spotlight on us. I shielded my eyes from the brightness. “A young couple to kick off tonight’s dancing!”

I looked at Jack. He looked at me. We heard applause coming from every direction.

“I guess we only have one choice,” he said, reaching for my hand.

“I guess so,” I replied, smiling nervously as he pulled my body toward his.

“Can you believe this?” I asked, wide-eyed.

Jack spun me around the floor like a pro. “No,” he said. “But we might as well give them a show.”

I nodded. There was something natural about the way he held me. He whirled me around the floor, and I saw flashes of faces gazing at us. An elderly couple. Children. Teenagers. And Henry. Henry was there, smiling at us from the sidelines. I extended my hand to wave at him when Jack spun me around again, but in a flash he was gone.

When the music ended and another round of applause broke out, I wished we could go on dancing. But Jack pointed to the beach, and I could see that his attention was elsewhere.

“Some friends of mine are waiting,” he said. “You could join us.”

I felt silly for romanticizing the moment. “Oh, no,” I said. “I can’t. I’m here with Bee and our friend Evelyn. I promised I’d bring back food, so I guess I better be going too. But I’ll see you tomorrow at your house?”

His features clouded for a moment as if he’d forgotten his invitation on the beach. “Right, yes, dinner,” he said. “I’ll see you then.” And then he was gone.

Ten minutes later, balancing a tray full of food, I returned to Bee and Evelyn, huddled under a blanket. We drank wine and ate every last morsel, until our limbs succumbed to the cold. I thought about Jack on the drive home, and the moment we’d shared that evening, coming to no conclusions as I did. It felt good to let my mind drift.

“So?” Bee asked before I turned in that night.

“I loved it,” I said.

“It was a beautiful dance,” she said.

I hadn’t thought she could see the dance floor from her spot on the beach. I smiled. “It was, wasn’t it?”

“Good night,” she said, stroking the side of my face.

“Night, Bee.”

March 5

Dinner with Jack. It was all I could think about the next day. As I washed the dishes after breakfast, I sank my hands into the sudsy water and wondered whether he had thought much about our dance the night before.
Did he feel the spark that I did?
A large soap bubble popped as I rinsed a dish and set it on the drying rack.
Was I reading into things too deeply?
I’d only recently said good-bye to Joel, so it occurred to me, as I was polishing the silverware with a dishcloth, that perhaps my marital status had marred my perception of Jack.

Later that evening, I fumbled through my suitcase, looking for something suitable to wear. Dinner with Greg had been casual, meeting an old friend in a public place. While the fleeting moments I’d had with Jack on the beach were certainly pleasant, there was enough mystery surrounding this man to elevate my nervousness. Plus, he had invited me not to a restaurant, but to his home, so I chose what I always do in times of wardrobe panic: a wrap sweater, a pair of chandelier earrings, and my favorite pair of jeans. I inched my camisole down a teeny bit, then I shook my head and pulled it up again.

I ran a brush through my hair, which was in desperate need of a trip to the salon, and finished the ensemble with a bit of mascara and a touch of blush. I gave myself a disapproving look in the mirror before turning out the lights. It would have to do.

“You look beautiful,” Bee said, peering into my room. I didn’t realize she was standing there, and I hoped I had remembered to put the diary away. I glanced over at the bed and was relieved to see that I had.

“Thank you,” I said, grabbing my bag and slipping into a pair of flats suitable for walking along the beach to Jack’s house.

She looked like she wanted to confide in me, but it was a warning she spoke. “You better not stay out too late, dear. The tide will be high tonight. You might have trouble walking home. Be careful.”

But we both knew that her words had two meanings.

I realized after I’d already walked a good distance along the shore that I should have brought a jacket, or maybe even a winter coat. The March breeze was feeling more like an arctic wind, and I hoped that Jack’s house wasn’t too much farther. My cell phone rang in my purse as I made my way along the beach. I picked it up, the screen displaying a New York number I didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” I said. I could hear rustling in the background and car noises—horns and traffic, as if someone was walking on the sidewalk near a busy street.

I gulped. “Hello?” I said again. There was no response, so I put the phone back in my bag, shrugging.

The crescent moon was bright overhead. I looked back along the stretch of beach behind me.
I could turn around. I could go back.
But then the wind picked up again, startling me like a cold glass of water splashed in my face. And I felt compelled to keep walking. Was I responding to a voice whispering in the wind? A feeling? I wasn’t sure, but I walked, one foot in front of the other, until I came to Jack’s beach cottage. It was exactly as he’d described it, with its gray shake shingles and a big wraparound porch in front.

Like all houses on this stretch of the beach, the home was old, and probably storied. I thought about the couples who had watched the sun set from that porch in the century and a half leading up to this moment, and my heart fluttered a little. But it wasn’t until I noticed the duck weather vane twirling in the wind from its perch on the roof that my heart really started to pound inside my chest.
Could this be the home in Bee’s painting?

The warm light in the window beckoned me up the trail that led to the house. I could see a fishing pole draped along the front steps, next to a pair of wading boots. I approached the front door, which was open.

“Hello?” I said cautiously, stepping inside. I could hear music—jazz—and something sizzling on the stove.

“Hi, please come in,” Jack called out from another room, most likely the kitchen. “I’m just finishing up in here.”

I could smell garlic, butter, and wine—the world’s most delicious flavor combination. It made me feel warm, like the first few sips of wine always do. I had brought a bottle of pinot noir snatched from Bee’s wine cabinet. I set it down on the entryway table, next to a ring of keys and a large white clamshell filled with spare change.

I looked around from my vantage point in the entryway. The dining room caught my eye with its deep merlot walls and big oak table. I wondered if Jack did a lot of entertaining, with a table like that. Just a few steps to the left was the living room, with a pair of slipcovered sofas and a coffee table constructed of soft gray driftwood. The furnishings were sturdy and masculine, yet everything looked polished, like the pages of a Pottery Barn catalog. Even the magazines on the side table appeared to be deliberately placed askew. I walked over to the fireplace and glanced at the photos he had displayed. One caught my eye: a photo of a woman in sunglasses, a red bikini top, and a delicate linen sarong wrapped around her slim waist. She was on a beach, staring at the cameraman—
Jack?
—adoringly. All of a sudden I felt like an awkward intruder, which was ridiculous, because this woman could have been his sister.

“Hi,” Jack said, walking into the living room. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but the world stops for béchamel.”

Jack was holding two full wineglasses and offered me one. “Hope you like chardonnay.”

“Love it.”

“Good,” he said. He seemed calm and steady, like an old ferryboat, which only seemed to accentuate my nervousness. I hoped he didn’t notice. “Let’s sit down.” He gestured at the sofa that faced the fireplace.

“I’m glad you could come tonight,” he said. He was more handsome than I remembered—dangerously handsome, with that dark, wavy hair and dizzying gaze.

“Did you have fun last night?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “It was a beautiful night.” I prayed I wasn’t blushing, even though I knew I was.

“I’m sorry I had to go so quickly,” he said, looking concerned.

“Oh, it was fine,” I said, looking around the room, eager to change the subject. A series of framed vintage black-and-white photographs on the wall caught my eye—in particular, one of a ferry from long ago. “Your home is lovely.”
How could I say something so ordinary?

“So, how is your story coming?”

“My story?” I immediately thought of Esther’s story and wondered how Jack could know about it.

“Your book,” he said. “The one you’re researching?”

“Oh, yes. It’s, um, it’s coming along. Slowly but surely.”

“Bainbridge is the perfect place for a writer, an artist of any kind,” he said. “All you have to do is grab your pen or your brush, and stories, pictures, they come to you.”

I nodded. “It does have that effect,” I said, thinking more about the story unfolding in the pages of the diary and less about any fiction of my own.

Jack grinned and took a long, slow sip of wine. “Are you hungry?”

“Very.”

I followed him into the dining room and sat down at the table, while he brought out an arugula, fennel, and shaved Parmesan salad, a platter of halibut, asparagus drizzled with béchamel, and dinner rolls fresh from the oven.

“Dig in,” he said, refilling my wineglass.

“A man who cooks—like this—I’m seriously impressed,” I said, reaching for my napkin.

Jack grinned mischievously. “That was kind of the point.”

We talked nonstop as the candles flickered on the table. He told me about the time he sleepwalked at summer camp and woke up, embarrassed to discover that he had attempted to crawl into bed with his camp counselor. I reminisced about the time I’d chewed on the end of an ink pen in middle school and didn’t realize it had leaked all over my face, permanently staining my upper lip for the next two days.

I told him about Joel, too, but not in a sappy, self-pitying sort of way.

“I just don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head after I’d shared the story of our marriage’s undoing—details I wouldn’t have recounted had I not been drinking. White wine gives me loose lips. “I don’t understand why he would have let you get away.”

I felt my cheeks get hot again. “So what about you? Ever been married?”

Jack looked uncomfortable for a moment. “No,” he said. “It’s just me and Russ.”

I remembered the golden retriever from the beach.

“Russ!” he called up the stairs, and within seconds I heard a thump and then the sound of four paws trudging slowly downstairs, making a beeline for me. First he sniffed my legs and then my hands, before plopping his butt down right on my foot.

“He likes you,” Jack said.

“He does? How can you tell?”

“He’s sitting on your foot, isn’t he?”

“Um, yes.” I wasn’t sure if this was normal or if it was just a Russ thing.

“He only does that when he likes someone.”

“Well, I’m glad I have his approval,” I said, grinning as the pooch burrowed his head in my lap, leaving a thousand dog hairs on my sweater. I didn’t care.

Jack cleared the table, declining my offer to help, and then motioned me to the back door. “There’s something I’d love you to see,” he said.

We walked through the backyard, just a small square of tidy lawn dotted with a few stepping-stones, to a tiny outbuilding that resembled a garden shed.

“My art studio,” Jack said. “The other day on the beach, you mentioned that you wanted to see some of my work.”

I nodded eagerly. I sensed a sacred quality to the place. Jack was letting me inside his secret world. It would be like me inviting him to read one of my sloppy first drafts. And I never let anyone read my first drafts, not even a single sentence.

Inside, there were canvases everywhere—propped up on easels and resting against walls. They were mostly beautiful seascapes, but one portrait, the only one, caught my eye: one of a striking young woman with shoulder-length blond hair staring out at the sound. There was something unsettled about her face, something sad. It was different from any work in the studio. I looked closer at her seductive yet lonely eyes, noting a vague resemblance to the woman in the photo on Henry’s mantelpiece, though there was nothing old-fashioned about this woman.
Who is she?
I wanted to know her story, and how she came to be painted by Jack, but it didn’t seem right to inquire. The subject of this painting felt untouchable.

Instead I focused on his other works and marveled. “The brushwork, the light . . . these are breathtaking,” I finally said, trying not to let my gaze turn back to the mystery woman on the easel. “All of them. You are insanely talented.”

“Thank you,” Jack said.

It was dark now, but the moonlight filtered in through the studio windows. Jack grabbed a sketchbook and walked toward me, his lips pursed.

“Do me a favor, and sit right there,” he said, pointing to a stool in the corner.

I eagerly followed his instructions.

Jack pulled up another stool, sat down, then stood up, circling me with rapt attention. I tugged at my hair and my sweater self-consciously as he set down the sketchbook and approached me slowly, until he was standing directly in front of me. He was so close, I could smell his skin.

Then he reached out and took my chin gently in his hand, tilting my profile into the moonlight. He ran his hands down my neck until they reached the edge of my sweater, sending a tingly feeling down my arms. He opened the neckline until my collarbones were exposed, as well as a hint of my camisole. I felt the cold air brush my skin, but I didn’t shiver. Jack may have put this move on all the women he brought to his house—the dinner, the dog, the portrait—but I let my inner cynic slip away.