The Violets of March (9 page)

“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” Bee said softly.

“I will,” I said, hoping I could hold up my end of the bargain.

Greg was twenty minutes late picking me up. I thought of those summers so long ago, when he didn’t show up at the rope swing or the movie theater or the beach when he said he would. For a moment I even hoped he
wouldn’t
show up. It was more than a bit ridiculous that I was actually going through with this—having dinner with a high school boyfriend.
Who does this?
I panicked.
What am I doing?
Then I saw headlights coming down the road. He was driving fast, as if trying to make up for every lost second.

I clutched the doorknob and took a deep breath.

“Have a good time,” Bee said, waving me off.

I walked outside to the patio and watched as he pulled his car into the driveway—the same old light blue 1980s four-door Mercedes he’d driven in high school. The years hadn’t been as kind to it as they had been to Greg.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said, jumping out of the car. He put his hands in his pockets, then took them out again, nervously. “Things got really busy in the wine department just before my shift ended. I had to help a customer find a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. She stood there debating between the eighty-two and eighty-six
forever
.”

“Which did she pick?”

“The eighty-six,” he said.

“A very good year,” I said mockingly. I once dated a man who had the whole wine bit down to a science. He swirled and sniffed and followed up his first sip with things like “a first-rate vintage,” or “such a brilliant meritage of flavors.” These were the reasons I stopped returning his calls.

“It
was
a good year,” he said, smiling boyishly. “It was the year we met.”

I couldn’t believe he remembered.
I
hardly remembered. But when I did, I remembered
everything
.

I was a flat-chested fourteen-year-old with stringy blond hair. Greg was a tanned hotshot sophomore with hormones pumping through his blood—and I mean
pumping
. He lived a few houses down the beach from Bee’s. It wasn’t exactly love at first sight, at least for Greg. But by the end of the summer, I was wearing makeup and push-up bras, courtesy of my cousin Rachel, and Greg seemed to notice me for the first time.

“Nice arm,” he said, as he watched me tossing a Frisbee to Rachel on the beach one day.

I was so startled that I didn’t say anything back. A
boy
had just talked to me. A
cute
boy. Rachel dropped the Frisbee and ran to my side, jabbing her bony elbow into my arm.

“Thanks,” I finally blurted out.

“I’m Greg,” he said, extending his hand. He didn’t say anything to Rachel, which, at the time, I couldn’t make any sense of. Boys always noticed her first, and for some odd reason, Greg was looking at me.
Just me.

“I’m Emily,” I said in almost a squeak.

“Want to come down to my place tonight?” he asked, leaning toward me. He smelled of Banana Boat suntan lotion. My heart was beating so loudly, I almost didn’t hear the next part. “Some friends of mine are coming over. We’re having a bonfire.”

I didn’t know what a bonfire was. I thought it sounded illegal, most logically something one did while smoking marijuana. But I said yes anyway. I would follow this boy anywhere, even to a possibly illegal, drug-fueled
bonfire
.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll save a spot for you.” And then he winked. “Right next to me.”

He was cocky and sure of himself, which made me like him even more. And when he turned to walk back down the beach to his alluringly ramshackle house, Rachel and I watched, mouths gaping wide open, as the muscles in his back flexed with each step.

“Well,” she said, sounding very offended. “
He
seems like a real jerk.”

I just stared, too stunned to speak.
A handsome guy just asked me out.
But if I’d been able to open my mouth then, I would have said, “He seems absolutely perfect.”

Greg ran around to the other side of the car and opened the door for me. “I hope you’re hungry,” he said, grinning. “Because you’re going to love this restaurant.”

I nodded and climbed inside the car, which looked like it had seen better days. I brushed what seemed to be a petrified french fry from the seat before sitting down. Inside, the car smelled just like the Greg I remembered: the heady scent of unwashed hair, engine oil, and a hint of cologne.

When he put the gearshift into Drive, his hand grazed mine. “Oh, sorry,” he said.

I didn’t say anything, but hoped he didn’t see the goose bumps that had erupted on my arm.

The restaurant, less than a mile away, must have been a favorite on the island, as the parking lot was jammed with cars. Outside, he led the steep climb toward what looked like an elaborate tree house perched on a hill overlooking the sound. I reached into my purse and discreetly popped two aspirin into my mouth.

“Pretty cool, isn’t it?” Greg said, looking around as the hostess went to check on our table.

“Yeah,” I said, wondering if this was such a good idea, me going out with Greg.

He said something to the hostess, who pulled out two menus and led us to a table on the west side of the restaurant.

“I thought we could catch the sunset,” Greg said, smiling.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d caught a sunset. It occurred to me that this is something people do on Bainbridge Island, something New Yorkers had forgotten about. I smiled at Greg and looked out the window to see clearing ahead, and two orange sunbeams poking through the clouds.

Our waitress brought a bottle of red wine that Greg had selected, and we watched as she filled our glasses. There was a certain quiet crispness to the air. Anxious air, as Annabelle would call it. The wine trickling into each glass sounded unusually loud.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“No,” I said, on top of Greg’s “Yes.”

I laughed. He apologized. It was awkward.

“I meant, ‘Yes, we’re fine,’ ” he said, tugging at his collar.

We both reached for our wineglasses.

“So, is it good to be back, Emmy?”

I relaxed a little in my chair. He hadn’t called me Emmy since, well, 1988. It felt good to hear him say it.

“It is,” I said unapologetically, spreading a thick layer of butter on a dinner roll.

“It’s funny, I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I know,” I said, looking at his face a little longer, now that the wine had entered my bloodstream.

“So, how did it go with Lisa?” I asked, after another long sip.

“Lisa?”

“Yeah, Lisa, the girl you dated in college. Your sister mentioned her when I came to see you on the beach that next summer.”

“Oh,
Lisa
. That lasted about as long as . . . English 101.”

“Well,” I said, giving him a half grin, “you still could have called.”

“Didn’t I call?”

“Nope.”

“I’m sure I called.”

I shook my head, feigning anger. “You didn’t.”

He tried to manage a smile. “And to think, if I had called you, we could be sitting here, married. An old Bainbridge Island married couple.”

He meant it as a joke, but neither of us laughed.

After a tense pause, Greg poured a little more wine into both of our glasses. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t believe I said that after all you’ve been through—with marriage and all.”

I shook my head. “No apology necessary. Really.”

“Good,” Greg said, looking relieved. “But I have to say, just sitting here with you now—I’m kind of wishing I could rewind history and go back and do things right. And end up with you.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s just the wine talking.”

“There’s something I was hoping to show you tonight,” Greg said, looking at his watch after the waitress brought the check. “It’s not too late for a quick drive, is it?”

“No, of course not,” I said.

He set his credit card down before I could even begin to protest. I felt guilty. Even though I hadn’t written a book in years, I knew I probably earned him under the table. But it didn’t matter. Not on Bainbridge Island. Here, I was just Emmy, Bee’s niece, and I kind of preferred her to divorcée-washed-up-author-with-issues anyway. I slipped my purse back under the table and Greg proudly signed the check.

We drove about a mile to what looked like a park. Greg stopped the car and turned to me. “Did you bring a coat?”

I shook my head. “Just this sweater.”

“Here.” He handed me a navy blue fleece jacket. “You’re going to need this.”

I might have felt awkward in a fleece and heels, but it didn’t faze me, really. Not here, anyway. Not with him. I followed him down a rocky trail that was so steep I reached for his hand to steady me, and when I did, he wrapped his other arm around my waist for added support.

The trail was dark, until we made our way closer to the shore, where I could see the glimmer of the moon on the water and hear the waves rolling softly, gently, as if they were being careful not to wake up a single sleepy soul on the island.

When we reached the beach, my heels sank into the sand.

“Why don’t you take them off?” Greg suggested, looking down.

I discarded my pumps and dusted them off, then Greg carefully tucked one into each pocket of his jacket.

“Over here,” he said, pointing to a distant object shrouded in darkness.

We walked a few more feet, and with each step, I dug my toes a little deeper into the sand. Even in forty-five-degree weather, I loved the feeling of grit between my toes.

“Here,” he said.

It was a rock—well, a boulder—the size of a small house, just sitting there in the middle of the beach. But its most striking feature wasn’t its size, but its shape. The boulder perfectly resembled a heart.

“So, this must be where you take all your dates,” I said sarcastically.

Greg shook his head. “No,” he said in a serious voice. He took a step closer to me, and I took a step back. “The last time I was here I was seventeen,” he said, pointing. “I wrote
this
.” He crouched down next to the side of the rock, flipped open a mini-flashlight, and illuminated an inscription.

I love Emmy forever, Greg.

We stood in silence; two modern-day observers eavesdropping on our former selves.

“Wow,” I finally said. “You wrote that?”

He nodded. “It’s kind of strange to see it now, isn’t it?”

“Can I see your flashlight?” I asked.

He handed it to me, and I ran the light along the inscription. “How did you do this?”

“With a bottle opener,” he said. “After a few too many beers.”

I broadened the arc of the light and noticed hundreds of other inscriptions—all declarations of love. I listened for the whispers of lovers across generations of islanders.

Greg turned to face me, and I didn’t resist when he leaned in to kiss me, firmly, with intention. I clasped my hands around his neck and let myself weaken in his embrace, trying to ignore the voice inside that told me to stop, to pull back. After the kiss, we stood there for a moment, locked in an awkward embrace, like Tinkerbell and Hulk Hogan trying to do the waltz.

“I’m sorry, I . . .” Greg stammered, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to rush things.”

I shook my head. “No, don’t apologize.” I touched my finger to his soft, full lips. He kissed it lightly, then wrapped his hands around both of mine.

“You must be freezing,” he said. “Let’s head back.”

The wind had found its way into my sweater, and my feet, I decided, weren’t cold; they were numb. We walked to the trailhead, and I slipped my heels back on, ignoring the sand that was still caked between my toes. The uphill climb wasn’t as bad as I had expected, even in heels. Three minutes later, we were back at the parking lot and in Greg’s car.

“Thank you for tonight,” Greg said once he’d pulled his car into Bee’s driveway. He nestled his head into the crook of my neck, kissing my collarbone in a way that made me feel absolutely woozy. I was happy to be there then, sitting in that old musty-smelling Mercedes in front of Bee’s house. The wind was blowing through the cracks of the car’s windows, whistling in a faint, lonely sort of way. Something was missing. I felt it in my heart, but I wasn’t willing to face it. Not yet.

I squeezed his hand. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad we got to do this.” And it was the truth.

It was late; Bee had already gone to bed. I hung up my sweater and looked down at my empty hands.
My purse. Where’s my purse?
I retraced my steps. Greg’s car, the rock, the restaurant. Yes, the restaurant—it had to be under the table, where I’d left it.

I looked out the window. Greg’s car was long gone, so I grabbed Bee’s keys hanging on the hook in the kitchen. I hated being away from my cell phone. She wouldn’t mind if I borrowed the car, I reasoned. If I drove fast, I could make it there before the restaurant closed.

The Volkswagen handled as it had when I’d driven it in high school, sputtering and choking between gears, but I made it to the restaurant unscathed. As I opened the doors and walked inside, I noticed an elderly couple making their way out.
How cute
, I thought. The man’s right arm was draped around the woman’s frail waist, gently steadying her with each step. Her eyes shone with love, as did his. My heart knew it when I saw it—it was the kind of love I yearned for.

As I passed, the man tipped his hat to me and the woman smiled. “Good night,” I said as they made their way outside.

The hostess recognized me instantly. “Your purse,” she said, holding up my white Coach bag. “Right where you left it.”

“Thanks,” I said, less grateful to be reunited with my bag than to have witnessed such an endearing display of love.

Back at Bee’s, I undressed and crawled under the covers, eager to read more of the love story unfolding in the red velvet diary.