Farewell, Dorothy Parker (11 page)

“Was,”
Violet corrected, taking her seat. “She passed away.” It was more information than she wanted to give, and she hoped the group would respect her privacy and move on.

Linda One gasped. “I had no idea!”

“No idea at all,” added Linda Two. “How did she die?”

“Car accident, but I don’t really want to—”

“When did it happen?” Linda One asked.

“Last year,” Violet said. “Would anyone like another piece of cake?”

“So it’s still fresh,” Mariana said. “God, I’m so sorry. Were you very close?”

Violet meant to push on, to quickly change the subject so the group would know it was off-limits. But the question pierced right through her center, and Ivy’s presence was as fresh as the pretty hydrangeas that sat in a vase her sister had bought at a local yard sale.

Violet remembered a day not long before the accident. She had just started seeing Carl, and Ivy had invited the two of them for brunch so she could meet him. It was a day that turned quickly sour, and Violet
wished she could snip the scene from her memory, like a dispassionate film editor. But it was beyond her control. Why, she wondered, were so many negative memories floating to the surface lately? She and Ivy had been so close. Sure, they fought when they were young—they were sisters, after all—but Ivy had outgrown her childhood cruelty, and Violet had long since forgiven her. As adults, they were best friends and loved each other fiercely.

In this memory, Ivy was standing by the sink, washing lettuce. Violet was cutting bagels and placing them in a large basket Ivy had lined with a cloth napkin. They were alone in the kitchen, talking about Carl.

“He reminds me of Andrew,” Ivy said, referring to Violet’s ex-husband.

“
Andrew?
He’s nothing like Andrew. Carl is the
anti-
Andrew.”

Ivy shrugged. “If you say so.”

This infuriated Violet. It was so smug, so filled with the implication that Ivy had seen and assessed all in one brief conversation, and that she possessed powers of observation that had completely eluded her sister.

Violet put down the knife and turned to Ivy. “What,” she demanded, almost daring her sister to find a common thread between these two men. Andrew Epps was an engineer who worked in quality control for a large manufacturer. He was logical and businesslike. On weekends he wore khakis. Carl was an artist with dirty fingernails and wild hair. He talked about feelings and wore a pendant with a crystal.

“You sound angry,” Ivy said.

“What could you possibly see in common between these two men? They’re night and day…fire and ice.”

“Sure, sure,” Ivy said. “You’re right. Should I put onions in the salad?”

“Don’t condescend to me. Tell me what you think.”

Ivy sighed and wiped her hands on a dish towel. She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and looked straight at her sister. “He strikes me as kind of selfish,” she said. “That’s all.”

“Selfish!” Violet said, thinking about Andrew’s almost pathological stinginess. “That’s ridiculous. Carl would give a stranger the shirt off his back.”

“Maybe
selfish
is the wrong word,” Ivy said. “What do you call it when a person is overly impressed with himself and needs everyone around him to feel the same way?”

Narcissism, Violet thought. The word is
narcissism.
But she wouldn’t give Ivy the satisfaction of filling in the blank. She just told her sister to go to hell and spent the rest of the day brooding, furious that Ivy refused to embrace her happiness.

Now she wished she could tell her sister she had been right.

“Please excuse me,” Violet said to her guests, and went into the kitchen, where she turned on the faucet so no one could hear her crying. Struggling to get herself under control, she put her face in the sink and splashed cold water on it.

She felt a hand on her back.

“You okay?” It was Michael. He pulled a paper towel off the roll and handed it to her.

Violet dried her face. “I guess. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall apart.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head.

“I can tell everyone to leave, if you want.”

“No, it’s all right. I’m…I’m better.”

“You sure?”

She wasn’t, but she said yes and followed him back into the dining room. Mariana held out a chair for her, and she sat.

“I’m sorry we upset you,” Mariana said.

Violet kept her head down and swallowed. She told herself she was
done crying. After all, these people were practically strangers. It was ridiculous for her to be breaking down in front of them. Michael crouched beside her, taking her hands, and it was such a tender gesture her eyes welled and tears spilled down her cheeks. As she struggled to find some way to get past it, to find words she could choke out in order to move on, she noticed a strange tingling in her feet. It almost felt like her spirit guest was entering her again, but that was impossible, as she had closed the book.

Violet lifted her head and looked at the sideboard, where she had left it, and there stood the two Lindas, hunched over the open volume. She was horrified.

“Please!” she cried. “Close that book!”

One of the Lindas turned to her. “This?” she said. “We’re being very careful, I promise.”

“We have a lot of respect for antiques,” said the other.

“I recognize some of these names,” said Linda One. “What a fascinating relic.”

Violet doubled over, stricken. “Oh, God.”

Everyone turned to look at her.

“Are you sick?” Michael asked.

“Yes.”

As the nausea mounted and pummeled her, body and soul, Violet was only vaguely aware of movement and voices surrounding her. People were shuffling about, saying good-byes, leaving. A cool breeze from the front door reached her just as the sickness compressed itself into a tight ball in her gut. The nausea was gone, replaced by a feeling of giddy anticipation.

She was transformed.

Violet smelled something heavenly. It could have been the flowers or the bakery cookies, or some divine combination of both. She lifted her head. It was Michael.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

She did indeed. Better. Stronger. Bolder.

She looked around. They were alone. She looked back at him. Was it possible for any man to be that exquisitely desirable? She wanted so badly to kiss him she didn’t care what the consequences were. Nothing else mattered. It was as if everything that had ever happened in her life—everything that had ever happened in all of human history—had led to this point.

A kiss. A kiss. A kiss.

“Definitely feeling better,” she said, and smiled. She put her hand on his strong arm and looked deep into his eyes. His heat was electrifying.

He hesitated for a moment, looking confused. He stood and took a step back. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”

She smirked. “Why don’t we have a drink?”

“A drink?”

“Sure. We’re two consenting adults. We can have a drink together, can’t we?” She smiled broadly so he would catch her drift.

He felt her forehead with the back of his hand. “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound kind of funny.”

“I’m better than okay. I’m four stars.” She stood and got as close to him as possible. “How about you? Are you four stars, Michael?”

“That’s a…‘general’ question,” he said.

She threw her head back and laughed heartily.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” he said, “but are you on some kind of medication?”

“There’s only one kind of medicine
I
need,” she said, putting her hand on his magnificent chest.

He took a step back. “Violet, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I think I’d better be leaving. Is there someone I can call for you before I go? I just…I don’t think I should leave you here alone.”

She pouted. “I don’t think you should leave me alone, either.”

“I’m really sorry,” he said, “but it’s late, and—”

“Suit yourself,” she said, glancing coquettishly over her shoulder as she headed toward the doorway. “But I’m going to fix myself a nightcap. You can join me or not.”

As soon as she put one foot over the threshold she felt a strange force press against her middle. At the same time, another force tried to pull her forward. She stood there, holding on to the door frame, as the two forces pushed and pulled.

But the battle inside her wasn’t just physical. With one foot over the threshold, the real Violet was almost fully conscious, and she fought to rid herself of Mrs. Parker’s spirit. She knew that if she could take one more step outside the room she would be free, but the force that held her back was just too strong.

Her other option was closing the Algonquin guest book. The last time Mrs. Parker took up residence within her, Violet had been able to do it quite easily. But this time felt different. Her consciousness was weaker, and the inhabiting spirit was stronger. Violet feared that if she took a step toward the sideboard where it lay she would disappear again and lose her resolve.

She tried to speak, hoping Michael could help her.

“Tha—” she said, pointing.

He turned to follow the line of her finger. “What is it?” he asked. “You need something from the sideboard?”

She nodded.

“This?” he asked, picking up the open book. She tried to tell him to close it, but nothing came out. He put the book down again and moved toward her. “Let me help you,” he said. “You need to sit down.”

No, she thought. No! He was going to pull her back into the room, and then Mrs. Parker’s possession would be impossible to fight. The results would be disastrous, as she would continue to throw herself at
this man with shameless abandon. Oh, the humiliation! She couldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t.

With Michael just inches from grabbing her, Violet summoned all the strength she could, and with one massive effort that felt like she was hurling herself against a brick wall, she crossed the threshold and hit the floor, blacking out.

Chapter 11

Violet awoke in bed to the sound of Michael’s voice.

“Are you okay?”

“What happened?” she asked, still dazed.

“You passed out.”

Oh, no, she thought. Not this. She was in her bed, under the covers, with Michael hovering over her. She lifted the blanket for a peek. Still dressed, thank God.

Michael pulled the side chair close to the bed and sat. “You look better,” he said, “like your old self. Do you remember what happened?”

“Unfortunately,” she said, sitting up. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Medication affects everyone differently. What are you taking, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Um, all kinds,” she lied. “Cold medicine. And antibiotics. And, uh, something for an inner-ear thing. Guess I shouldn’t have mixed all that. But it’s passed. I’m good as new.”

“Still, you should probably call your doctor in the morning.”

“I will. I definitely will. Thank you for taking care of me.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay. Do you need anything else? Can I call someone for you? A relative? Your friend who picked you up a few weeks ago—what was his name? Carl?”

“No. I mean, yes, his name is Carl. But we’re not…I broke up with him.”

Michael paused as he considered that, and Violet felt sure her
declaration had embarrassed him somehow. He had probably thought that as long as she was unavailable it was okay to be alone in the bedroom with her. But now that he knew she was unattached, it changed everything.

She waited for him to speak, and all he managed to utter was a single syllable.

“Ah.”

Ah? What on earth did that mean? Violet pulled her legs out from under the covers and swung them around the side of the bed. Now it was her turn to say something.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for taking care of me like this. You’ve been so helpful, but I don’t want to keep you.”

Violet rose slowly to be sure she had regained her strength. Then she walked him to the front door, thanked him again, and told him she would see him next week at class.

“And at Mariana’s opening?” he asked.

“I’ll try.”

He smiled and took one step out the door but paused, turning back to her. “And Violet?” he said. “I’m glad you’re not seeing Carl anymore.”

Then he was gone, shutting the door behind him.

Now Violet really did feel feverish. She stood in the middle of the foyer and replayed his parting words. What did he mean? Was he saying he was interested in her? Or was he simply observing, in a paternal way, that Carl wasn’t good for her?

That had to be it. It had to be.

And if it wasn’t? Surely, any interest on his part could be tied to those few moments Dorothy Parker was steering the ship. Now that she thought about that, an indignation took root. Why had her mentor done such a thing? The longer Violet stood there considering it, the angrier she got. The nerve of her!

The Algonquin guest book, which Michael had apparently closed, was still in the dining room. Violet brought it into the study, opened it, and stood back. She was too agitated to even sit.

“I could use a drink,” Mrs. Parker said, when she materialized.