The Violets of March (16 page)

Janice knew the mention of Elliot’s name was bound to get a rise out of me.

“I saw him this morning,” she said.

I feigned interest in a can of tomatoes. “Oh?”

“He’s quite tan from the South Pacific,” she continued. “He looked so handsome.”

“Where did you see him?” I finally asked, caving, even though I knew I shouldn’t.

“He was having breakfast with Frances—at Ray’s,” she said. “Didn’t she tell you?”

I dropped the can of tomatoes.

Janice bent down to pick it up and gave me a sly smile. “Frances and Elliot would make a darling couple, wouldn’t they?”

“Simply darling,” I said, snatching the can out of her hands before pushing my cart past her.

“Oh, Esther, stop,” Rose said as we sat at a table at Ray’s. “Don’t read into things.”

“Read into things?” I said. “How can I not? Since Elliot’s been home, they’ve been inseparable.”

I knew by the look on Rose’s face that she was disappointed in Frances, as I was, but she wouldn’t take sides. Rose never took sides.

“Why don’t you two talk about it?” she suggested.

I nodded. But I was really wondering what THEY had talked about this morning. Why had Elliot come back from war and taken such an interest in my best friend? Wasn’t there some unwritten rule that former lovers are not supposed to carry on with your friends?

Just then, the waiter approached our table, but not to take our orders. He looked right at me. “Are you Esther?”

“Yes,” I said, confused.

“Good,” he said. “I should have known by the way the gentleman described you. He said you’d be the prettiest woman in the restaurant.” The waiter cast an apologetic glance at Rose. “Sorry. You are quite beautiful too, miss.” But Rose smiled as if she didn’t care, and I knew she didn’t.

From behind his back, he pulled out a single tulip, my favorite flower—pure white, with the very tip of each petal tinged red. I had never seen a tulip like that, and it nearly took my breath away.

“For you,” he said, handing me the flower, along with a white envelope. My name was written in Elliot’s handwriting. I had memorized his e’s along with the special embellishment he added to each s.

“Go read it in private,” Rose said. “I’ll stay with the baby.”

“Thanks,” I said. She knew I needed to savor every word.

I ran out to the sidewalk and sat down on a bench before tearing open the envelope.

My Dearest Esther,

It’s wrong of me to be reaching out to you like this, I know. You’re married, and I hear you have a child. But I need you to know something, to set the record straight. Can you meet me, tonight, on the beach in front of my house? I’ll be there waiting for you, in hopes that you’ll come. And if you do, I’ll know we are meant to be together. And if you don’t, I will know that it is the end for us, that I must make plans to move on, to leave the island, and let my heart say good-bye. Please say you’ll come. Please tell me that despite everything, you’ll come. It’s a lot to ask, but I pray that the fire that still burns in me also burns in you. I’ll be waiting.

Yours,
Elliot

I held the letter to my chest, and a single tear trickled down my face. As I brushed it away, I could see movement from the corner of my eye. But when I turned to look, whatever or whoever it was had vanished.

Chapter 9

March 7

I
spent much of the next morning writing, or at least trying to write. The story had inspired me to put words together again, not that the words I typed were amounting to much. After exactly one hour and twelve minutes, I’d hammered out a two-paragraph opener to a new novel that, frankly, stank.

So when Bee knocked on the door, I was eager for a break.

“Feel like a walk?” she asked, leaning into the doorway. “Oh, sorry, I see that you’re writing. I didn’t mean to disturb you, dear.”

I looked outside and could see that the sun had pushed through the clouds; the beach looked sparkling. “No, I’d love to,” I said, setting my mug down.

I grabbed my sweater and then slipped on a pair of boots, and we made our way down to the shore. For as long as I can remember, Bee always went left instead of right. And now I knew why. She wanted to avoid Jack’s house and whatever history they shared.

“Are you glad you came?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze.

“I am too,” she said. Then she paused and hunched over to examine a little orange starfish caught in a game of tug-of-war between the shore and the waves. Bee gently picked it up, then carefully sent it on its way a few feet out into the sound.

“There, little friend,” she said. “Go home.”

We walked together for a little while, until she stopped and turned to me. “It’s been lonely here,” she said.

I had never heard her say anything like that before. Uncle Bill had been gone for at least twenty years, maybe longer. I had always thought she liked her solitude.

“Why don’t you come visit me in New York?” I suggested. “You could spend April with me.”

Bee shook her head. “I belong here,” she said.

I felt a little hurt.
If she’s so lonely, why wouldn’t she want my company?

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I’m getting older, and . . . you’ll see, when you’re my age. Leaving your home starts to feel like an epic journey, one I’m afraid I no longer have the energy for.”

I nodded as if I understood, but I didn’t. I hoped I wouldn’t feel tied to my home in my elder years, but maybe it was unavoidable.

“Emily,” she said. “There’s something I need to ask you. I’ve been thinking about where you are in life, and where I am, and, well, I wondered if you’d ever consider moving here, living here, with me on Bainbridge Island.”

My mouth fell open. For much of my life the island had been my secret place, my personal retreat, but my home?

“Wow,” I said. “I’m honored that you’d want to have me. . . .”

“Emily,” she said, cutting me off before I could decline her invitation. “I’m leaving the house to you—in my will. The house, the property, everything.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Bee,” I said, suddenly concerned. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m only planning ahead,” she said. “I guess I wanted you to know that the house was yours, in case you wanted to think about a life here someday. Maybe someday soon.”

It was a lot to consider. “Wow, Bee,” I said. “I . . .”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just know that the choice is yours. You were the only one who loved this place. Your mother, she’d board it up. And your sister would sell it just as fast as that husband of hers could find a buyer. Of course it’s yours to sell too, but I know I’m leaving this place in good hands.” She paused to watch an eagle fly overhead. “Yes, the home is yours. Just consider me the old lady who occupies one of the bedrooms. You come stay as often as you like, for as long as you like. And don’t forget my invitation to move in.”

I nodded. “I’ll give it some thought,” I said, squeezing her hand again.

I heard my phone ringing in my sweater pocket, and when I looked at the screen, I could see that it was a local number.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Emily? Hi, it’s Greg.”

I had no idea how he got my cell number, but then I realized that after we’d drunk all that wine at the restaurant the other night, I’d scribbled it on a napkin and he’d tucked it into his pocket. Classy.

“Hi,” I said, remembering Heart Rock, the kiss, our unfinished business.

“Hey, I was just wondering if you might be free one of these nights. I’d love to have you out to my place for drinks. I’m a terrible cook, so we could order in, or do takeout. Whatever you’d like.”

“Um,” I said, feeling caught off guard by the invitation. “Sure.”

“Great,” he said. I could picture his smile. “How about tomorrow night, at seven?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That would be . . . great.”

“Good,” he said. “We can pick up Chinese along the way. See you then.”

Bee and I both looked up when we saw Henry waving from his front porch. The smoke billowing out of his chimney mingled with the soft mist rising off the morning tide, creating a thick fog one could disappear into.

“Good morning, you two,” he called out.

Bee nodded. “We were just on our way home,” she said without pause.

“But surely you can stop for a cup of coffee,” he countered.

I’d asked Bee, on the night I arrived, about Henry. Her answer was direct, yet hardly informative. “He’s just a very old friend,” she had said, her words snuffing out the flame of my intrigue.