The Violets of March (24 page)

The corners of Bee’s mouth turned up ever so slightly, forming the haziest smile. “Progress.”

I smiled to myself, and presented Bee with a plate. “Eggs and toast.”

“Thank you,” she said. But she didn’t eat that morning. Not even a bite. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s not your cooking, it’s just . . .”

“Don’t worry,” I replied. “I know.”

“I’m going back to my room to lie down.”

I nodded and felt a lump in my throat as I watched her walk down the hall, one foot in front of the other.

I decided to get dressed and tidy the house for Bee. There’s nothing more depressing than unwashed dishes or a living room piled high with newspapers. By eleven, the place was shining. The phone rang as I polished the kitchen, and I stopped to admire how it shone before I answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Emily, it’s Jack.”

“Hi,” I said, loving the sound of his voice.

“I just wanted to check and see how things were going over there. How’s your aunt?”

“She’s holding it together,” I said.

“How about you?”

“I’m doing OK,” I replied.

“I’d love to see you again,” he said, “whenever you feel you can break away.”

“Well, Bee’s asleep now. I guess you could come over.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Jack arrived about a half hour later. He seemed in awe of the house—cautiously in awe.

“It’s so beautiful,” he said, looking around. I’ve never been inside. I’ve always wondered what it would be like in here.”

“You probably imagined monsters and ghosts, right?” I said.

“And gremlins,” he replied.

We walked into the lanai, and I closed the door, so Bee wouldn’t be disturbed, but really so that if she came out of her bedroom, she wouldn’t be startled to see Jack.

“Maybe we should just hide in the closet,” he said with a mischievous grin.

“Maybe we should,” I said in a sly voice, as we sat down on a small sofa facing the sound.

He reached for my hand, and I leaned my head on his chest. We sat there together for a minute, in silence, watching a robin with a fluffy brown chest pry a twig out of the grass and fly up to the top of a nearby tree.

“It’s a perfect place to write, this island, isn’t it?” Jack said.

I nodded. “It’s certainly a storied place.”

“I was just thinking,” he continued, “you said you were looking for inspiration for your next book . . . have you considered writing a story about this island? Setting it right here on Bainbridge?”

I sat up and looked at his face, thoughtful, contemplative. He loved the island as much as I did; his paintings were proof. But there was something deeper, something unsaid, that punctuated his words just then, and I studied his eyes for a clue.

“There’s a story in my heart,” I said, watching the old cherry tree taking the brunt of the north wind and putting up an admirable fight. I used to climb its branches as a girl, sitting up there for hours eating its equally sweet and tart Rainier cherries and imagining stories about other little girls who had sat in its branches years before me. I shook my head. “I guess I’m afraid.”

Jack turned his gaze from the window to me. “Afraid of what?”

“Afraid that I won’t be able to tell the story with the kind of beauty and conviction that it deserves,” I continued. “My first book . . . was different. It’s not that I wasn’t proud of it, because I was. But . . .”

Jack looked at me as if he knew exactly what I was trying to say. “It wasn’t from your heart, was it?”

“Exactly,” I said.

“Have you found what you’re looking for here?” Jack asked, his eyes fixed on the birds out the window.

I thought of the diary in the drawer of the bedroom and realized that I may not have found what I thought I was looking for, but I had found something better, both in its pages and in Jack’s arms.

I laced my fingers through his. “I think I have,” I said softly.

“I don’t want you to ever leave,” he said. His voice sounded strong and sure.

“I don’t want to either,” I said.

And we sat that way for a long time, watching out the window as the waves hit the shore.

Jack invited me to join him for dinner at a café in town. I wanted to, but I couldn’t leave Bee. Not on this night. He understood.

“I’d offer to cook,” I said to Bee once she’d emerged from her bedroom, “but I’m afraid I wasn’t blessed with the culinary gene.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I didn’t learn to cook until I was sixty. It comes later in life.”

I nodded, glad to hear that some things do get better with age. “So how about takeout, then?” I suggested. “I can go pick something up.”

“Well,” she said, “Evelyn and I used to like that little bistro across from the market. Their roast chicken was her favorite.”

“Done,” I said. I was happy to see that she was getting her appetite back, even happier that I could do something to help.

On the drive into town, I kept the window down so I could take in the island: its green canopy and the damp, crisp air that smelled of seawater and fir trees. I parked in front of the bistro and walked inside.

It was a lovely little spot, with emerald green walls and dark mahogany trim. Each table looked inviting, as if this was the kind of place where you’d order a bottle of wine and savor it slowly until closing time. I wondered if Esther had dined here.

“I’d like to make a to-go order,” I said to the hostess. She handed me a menu, and I quickly made our selections.

“It’ll be about thirty minutes,” she said.

“That’s fine,” I replied.

I walked outside, crossed the street, and sat down on a bench that faced the water. You could see ferries coming in from this perch, and in the far distance you could also see the Seattle skyline.

I was struck with a sense of familiarity when I sat down, and it took only seconds to piece it together: I’d sat here before—with Greg. He’d taken me out to dinner at a Mexican restaurant that last summer, when I was sixteen, and then we walked across the street and sat right here. It was dark by then, and private, and we kissed for what felt like forever before he drove me back to Bee’s. My mother scolded me for being ten minutes late, but Bee just smiled and asked if I’d had fun. I had.

When thirty minutes had come and gone, I walked back to the bistro to pick up my order. “Here you are,” the hostess said, handing me a large paper bag. She had an engagement ring on her finger—a solitaire, all shiny and new. It made me remember my wedding ring, Joel’s grandmother’s ring. I threw it at him a week after he told me about the affair, when he’d come home to collect some of his things. And at that moment it occurred to me that the ring may still be there, lying on the hardwood floor under the bedroom dresser. I didn’t know if it was, and I didn’t care.

“Thanks,” I said, tucking my left hand in my pocket.

“Jack called while you were out,” Bee said. There was neither approval nor disapproval in her voice.

I smiled and dished up dinner for us both. We ate in silence, listening to the crackling of the fire.

“I’m heading to bed,” Bee said a few minutes before nine.

“OK,” I replied.

She walked back to her bedroom and closed the door, and I picked up the phone.

“Hi,” I said to Jack.

“Want to come over?”

“Yes,” I said.

I grabbed a piece of notebook paper and scrawled out a quick note to Bee:

Going to visit Jack. Will be back late.

Love,
Em

I could see him from the beach, leaning in the doorway on the front porch in a white T-shirt and jeans.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, smiling, as I made my way up the steps.

I felt shy, and I think he did too.

We walked inside and he helped me unbutton my coat. As he fumbled with the buttons, I felt my breathing pick up its pace. There was electricity in his touch.

He pointed to the living room, where two glasses of wine were waiting on the coffee table.

I sank into the sofa and he eased in right next to me.

“Emily,” he said, running his fingers through my hair, softly, hypnotically. “I want to tell you something.”

I sat up straighter. “What?”

Jack looked around the room, as if he needed a moment to collect himself. “Four years ago,” he began, “I was married. Her name was Allison.”

I searched his face.

“She died three days before Christmas. A car accident. She was passing the market when she called me from the road on her cell phone. She asked me if I needed anything. I said no. For a long time I was tormented by the thought that if I’d just asked her to buy some apples, bread, a bottle of wine—anything—it would have bought her a few more seconds. That it would have saved her life.”

“Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry.”

He put his hands to my lips. “You don’t need to say anything. I’ve come to terms with it. I just thought you should know. It’s a part of who I am.”

I glanced up to the mantel, where the photo of the woman was. “Is that her?” My heart clenched.
Is he really ready to love again?

He nodded. “That day at Henry’s,” he said, “I felt something—something I haven’t felt since . . .”

I squeezed his hand in mine. “Me too.”

March 11

I woke up the next morning with the unmistakable feeling that someone’s eyes were on me. I looked up and saw that they were Jack’s.

“Morning,” he said.

I looked around and realized I was at his place. I must have fallen asleep on his shoulder.

“I could watch you sleep forever,” he said, nuzzling my neck.

I rubbed my eyes, kissed him gently, and frantically looked for a clock. “What time is it?”

“Seven thirty,” he said.

I thought of Bee, and knew I couldn’t stay any longer. She’d be wondering and worrying.

Jack reached for his coat, and I found mine. “Let me walk you home,” he said, reaching for my hand.

“I don’t want to go,” I said, pulling him back toward me.

He grinned. “Then stay.”

For the first time in a long time, I felt like my heart could burst. In a wonderful way.

An hour later, I quietly slipped through Bee’s front door. The door to her bedroom was still closed, and the note I’d left for her was still on the table, so I tucked it into my pocket. I hammered out a few more paragraphs on my laptop, which were mediocre at best. So when I lost the will to write, I read.

Bobby didn’t mean to be a burden, but he was. Day after day, I spoon-fed him, gave him sponge baths, even helped him use the toilet. And one morning, he couldn’t wake me in time to take him to the bathroom. It all happened so fast.

“I’m so sorry,” he nearly cried in humiliation.

“It’s OK,” I said. “Let’s get you to the bathroom to clean you up, then I’ll change the sheets.”

This was my punishment, I told myself, the price I would pay for the choices I’d made. I knew I deserved every second of it, every grueling second.

I still hadn’t told Bobby, and I decided that I’d take it with me to my grave. As much as my heart belonged to Elliot, our love would be for another time, another life.

I’d heard the Vera Lynn song “We’ll Meet Again” on the radio that morning, and the words haunted me. I was sure we would meet again, that we would love again—but when? Months later? Years later?

And when I heard a knock at the door one afternoon, several days after Bobby had come home from the hospital, Elliot was the last person I expected. There he was, standing on my doorstep—the doorstep of the home I shared with Bobby. As much as I’d dreamed of seeing him, as much as I’d relished that moment, seeing him there felt strange and wrong. I shuddered at the sight of him, out of place and context: unshaven, pale, eyes darting around nervously.

“I heard about Bobby,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“How can you say that?” I said, looking around to determine if any neighbors were watching. “After what you did?” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “After what
we
did?” I suddenly felt overcome with emotion. Anger. Sadness. Regret. It made no sense that I would blame Elliot for Bobby’s accident, but I did.

Elliot just looked at his feet.

“Why did you come?” I whispered, regretting what I had said and wishing, for a moment, that I could take him into my arms.