The Violets of March (25 page)

“I had to see you,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Elliot, you can’t just show up here like this.” He looked thin—thinner than I’d ever remembered him looking—and tired. There were little wrinkles extending from the corners of his eyes to the top of his cheeks.

“Esther, do you really think this is easy for me?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to me. I always felt that he was the free one, while I was trapped. I looked up when I heard Bobby’s voice calling from inside. “Emily, is that the postman?” he said. “Will you give him the letters I have here by my bed?”

“It’s just a . . . a neighbor. I’ll be right there.” I turned back toward the doorway. “Elliot, I have to go,” I said quickly.

He looked desperate. “But when will I see you again?”

“I don’t know if we should see each other again,” I said. It was the hardest thing I would ever have to say, but it was even harder watching the effect of those words on him. They were like knives jabbed deep into his heart.

“You can’t mean that, Esther,” he said. “Run away with me. We can start a new life together. You can take the baby. I’ll love her like my own. Tell me you’ll come with me. You just have to come with me.”

I could hear Janice next door, opening her door, and when I glanced toward her front porch, I could see that she had poked her head out to watch the scene unfold between Elliot and me.

I shook my head. “No,” I said, wiping a tear from my eye. “Elliot, I just can’t.”

He took a step back and looked at me with a sudden intensity, as if trying to memorize my face for the final time, before turning toward the road. I didn’t care that Janice was staring. I watched Elliot until he was out of sight. I couldn’t bear to take my eyes off of him.

Days passed, and then weeks. Bobby was still laid up, and I continued to care for him. But one morning, I woke up feeling very ill. I had the chills and nausea, and ran to the bathroom to be sick. I spent the next few days in bed, and on the third day, Bobby encouraged me to go see the doctor.

After an examination and some tests, Dr. Larimere returned with a grin on his face. “Mrs. Littleton,” he said, “looks like you’ve got a case of the influenza that’s been going around this town.”

I nodded. “Good, so it’s nothing serious, then?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “But there is something else.” He reached for a typed page inside my medical chart. “These results just came back from the lab. I’m pleased to tell you that you’re expecting a child.”

“What?” I said. It had never occurred to me that I could be pregnant. “This can’t be,” I said, in shock.

“It can,” he said.

I shook my head. “How far along am I?”

“Still very early,” he said, still grinning. “But, nevertheless, with child. Now, you better get home to that husband of yours and tell him your good news. That is bound to cheer up a man in his condition.”

All I could do was stare straight ahead.

“Mrs. Littleton,” the doctor finally said. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m fine,” I said, forcing a smile and walking toward the door. But I wasn’t fine. Nothing would be fine from this point forward because of one simple fact: This baby wasn’t Bobby’s; it couldn’t have been. It was Elliot’s.

Chapter 13

March 12

I
decided to call Annabelle before Bee and I left for Evelyn’s funeral. So much had happened here that I’d forgotten about all I’d left behind in New York, including Annabelle.

“Annabelle?”

“Hi, Em!”

“I miss you,” I said. “I’m sorry I haven’t called. So much has been going on here.”

“Is everything OK?”

“Sort of,” I said. “But first, how are you?”

“Good,” she said without much fanfare, and then she dropped a bomb. “It’s official. I’m finally going to face my narcissist romantic nature and admit it: I am falling for Evan again.”

“Annabelle, really?”

“Yes,” she said. “We had dinner and talked, and I think we’re getting back to where we were.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” I told her. Annabelle deserved to find love more than anyone I knew, maybe even more than I.

“And what about the whole jazz thing?”

She laughed. “I’m working on him.”

I filled her in on Greg and Jack, and Evelyn.

She seemed particularly saddened by the news of Evelyn, but then, Annabelle cries during Kleenex commercials.

Bee motioned to the clock. It was time to go. She was a pallbearer and didn’t want to be late, which meant arriving an hour early just in case of traffic, even though there was never traffic on Bainbridge Island.

“Sorry, Annie, I’ve got to go,” I said. “We’re leaving for the funeral now.”

“No worries,” she said. “Just call me when you can.”

The funeral was to be held at Saint Mary’s Church, which made me remember Esther’s ill-fated confession. Saint Mary’s is more of a cathedral than a church, with its ornate detailing, gold-plated finishes, and cherub-painted ceiling. There is a lot of money on the island, and it shows.

Bee told me to go ahead and take a seat, that she’d join me later, once she’d helped carry Evelyn’s casket to the front of the church. I could see tears in her eyes as she looked around the sanctuary, but her gaze stopped at the sight of Jack escorting an older man into the church.

I waved, but Bee looked away quickly and joined her fellow pallbearers.

Evelyn had chosen to be buried in a small cemetery on a quiet corner of the island, and when we arrived, I could see why. The place didn’t feel like a cemetery. It was more akin to a park, one you’d want to return to, maybe with a picnic blanket and a good book, or a date and a bottle of wine. A sliver of the Seattle skyline, including the Space Needle, completed the view.

At least two hundred people attended the funeral, but just a handful of close friends and family came to the burial, roses and tissues in their hands. Henry was there too, as was Evelyn’s late husband’s family, and some of her nieces and nephews.

The priest said a few words, and then the cemetery staff slowly eased the casket into the ground. Everyone gathered around to throw in a rose or two and say their farewells, which is when I noticed Jack in the distance. He wasn’t gathered around Evelyn’s grave like the rest of us. Instead, he stood near a headstone a few hundred yards away with the older man he’d been with at the church. His grandfather? I couldn’t make out his face to check for a family resemblance. I watched as the older man handed Jack something. I squinted, trying to make out the shape in Jack’s hands, and could see that it was a black box, small enough to tuck into his jacket pocket, which he did. Jack looked in my direction, and I quickly turned my gaze back to Evelyn’s grave, which is when I realized that Bee wasn’t standing by my side, where she had been moments ago. Worried, I tiptoed away from the mourners and found her in the car, slumped over in the passenger seat.

“Bee?” I said, knocking on the window.

She rolled down the window. There were fresh tears on her face. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “I just can’t. I can’t.”

“I know,” I said. “You don’t have to be brave. Evelyn would have wanted you to just be you.”

I reached in my coat pocket and pulled out the envelope Evelyn had asked me to give to Bee. “Here,” I said. “This is from Evelyn.”

Bee’s glossy eyes brightened for a moment and she clutched the letter to her chest. I knew she would wait to be alone before she opened it.

“Hand me your keys,” I said. “I’ll drive us home.”

Bee leaned back in her seat as I drove the car to the four-way stop, turning right onto the main thoroughfare that connected the north and south sides of the island. Few cars were out today, and the solitude matched the loneliness of the day, but then, behind us, I heard a police siren, and then another. I slowed the car and pulled over as, one by one, along with an ambulance, they filed into the entrance to Fay Park.

“I wonder what’s going on?” I said, turning to Bee. I couldn’t recall ever seeing an ambulance, or a police car, on the island.

Bee looked out the window in silence.

I pulled back onto the road, but a police officer motioned for us to stop, and I rolled down the window.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “We’re redirecting traffic. The detour route is along Day Road. Just pull a U-turn and take your next right. There’s an investigation in progress.”

I nodded. “What happened?”

“A suicide,” he said. “A young one. Probably no older than twenty. She jumped right off that cliff in the park.”

I gasped. “How very sad,” I said before turning the car around.

We drove for a few miles in silence. I wondered about the woman who had ended her life just moments before.
What was she running from, and whom did she leave behind?
When we finally turned onto Hidden Cove Road, Bee stirred in her seat. “Always the young women,” she said distantly, her gaze cemented out the side window.