The Violets of March (29 page)

“What can I bring?” I said.

“Just you.”

After breakfast, I retreated to the lanai with my laptop, closer to the start of something—a story, a spark—than I had been in years. I stared at the screen for a long time, and let my mind turn to Esther, which is where it wanted to go.
Did she drive off into the sunset and start a new life in Seattle, never to return to Bainbridge Island? Did she turn the car around and go back to face Frances and Elliot, and did she forgive them—did she forgive
him
? And what about Frances?
As much as I wanted to believe that this story had a happy ending, something in me feared it didn’t. There was darkness lurking that final night. I could feel it through the pages.

I didn’t type a single word that morning, and that was OK with me. There was a story brewing in my heart, one I knew would take time to develop. I’d wait for it. I’d be patient.

Before noon, I dressed for my picnic date with Jack. He didn’t say whether we were supposed to meet on the beach or whether he’d be picking me up, but then I heard the doorbell ring, followed by Bee knocking on my door. “Jack’s here,” she said without making eye contact.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be right out.”

I put on a sweater, and grabbed my jacket, just in case, then walked out to the living room, where he was waiting. He didn’t look nervous at all standing there with Bee, and I was glad for it.

“Hi,” I said, grabbing my bag from the coffee table.

He reached for my hand. “Ready?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Oh,” he said, pulling out something he had tucked under his arm. It was a package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, the way packages looked in old black-and-white movies. Nobody uses twine anymore. “I almost forgot,” he said, looking at Bee. “My grandfather wanted you to have this.”

Bee looked startled, embarrassed, even, as Jack handed her the package. She held it in her hands as though there was a fairly good chance that it contained explosives.

I desperately wanted to know what was inside, but Bee deliberately set it down on the coffee table and said, “Well, don’t let me keep you two.”

In the car, I asked Jack about the package. “Do you have any idea what your grandfather gave Bee?”

“No,” he said. “He wanted to deliver it himself, that day at the funeral, but he didn’t find a chance to talk to her.”

“It was a hard day for her,” I said, remembering how she’d retreated to her car at the cemetery. “I’m sorry I missed the chance to meet your grandfather.”

“He wanted to meet you too,” he said, grinning. “It was all he talked about on the way home. He thought you were quite beautiful. I’d love to bring you out to see him.”

“That would be great,” I said, “but when?”

“I’ve got a meeting with a client tomorrow, but how about the day after that? I’m supposed to go visit him that afternoon. You could come with me.”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “It’s a date.”

Jack drove to the far west side of the island, where I’d never been before, even on all of my summer visits. He pulled into what looked like a parking lot, but there were thorny blackberry bushes on all sides, and just enough gravel to park two or three cars. He grabbed a picnic basket out of the trunk. It was one of those old-fashioned wicker ones, red and white gingham with dark red trim.
Perfect.

“Want to guess where I’m taking you?” he said, grinning mischievously.

“Honestly,” I replied, “I have no idea.” Branches tugged at my clothes as we pushed through the overgrown brush.

“I should have brought my machete,” Jack joked. “I guess nobody comes down here anymore.”

“Down where?”

“You’ll see.”

Darkness descended as we walked beneath a thick canopy of trees. But then, just ahead, I could see a patch of light.

“Almost here,” Jack said, turning to me and smiling, as if to reassure me that our jungle walk would soon be over. But I didn’t mind it, actually. It was a beautiful scene worthy of a painting—untouched old-growth trees deeply rooted in a carpet of light green moss.

He pushed aside some bushes and motioned with his arm for me to go ahead of him. “You first.”

I burrowed through the small opening that Jack had created for me and emerged before an inlet enclosed by rocky hillside. The water was the color of emeralds, and I wondered how this was possible, given that the sound was so decidedly gray. A small plume of water—a waterfall, but not a loud, forceful one, just a trickle—was winding down one side of the cliff, making its descent into the pool below. Birds chirped in stereo.

There was a small patch of sand free of barnacle-covered rocks, like the beach in front of Bee’s, and that’s where Jack spread a blanket out. “What do you think?” he asked proudly.

“It’s unbelievable,” I said, shaking my head. “How in the world does water get that color?”

“It’s the minerals in the rock,” he replied.

“How did you find this place?”

“This is the lagoon that my grandfather used to take girls to,” he said, grinning. “He took me down here when I was sixteen—a family rite of passage. He told me to swear never to tell a soul about it, unless that soul happened to be female.”

“Why all the secrecy?” I asked.

He shrugged. “He and a friend discovered it when they were boys, and they never told anyone about it. I guess they wanted to keep it to themselves.”

I nodded and looked back out at the striking water. “I can see why.”

Jack peered into the picnic basket and I sat down next to him. “I love your family stories,” I said. “I wish mine weren’t so secretive about theirs.”

“Oh, mine have secrets too,” Jack said quickly. “There’s something I’m trying to figure out, actually.”

“What?” I asked, perplexed.

“Well, I found some old newspaper clippings in a box in the attic shortly before my grandmother died,” he said.

“What newspaper clippings?” I remembered the file I’d seen Jack’s dog get into earlier in the month.

“Hey, look,” Jack said, pointing to the sky, very obviously changing the subject. I didn’t protest. Whatever it was about his family’s history, I had a feeling he’d tell me in time.

Dark clouds hung all around us, but right overhead, there was a ray of sunshine beaming down, as if it had appeared just because we were having a picnic.

“Hungry?” he said, turning to the basket.

I surveyed the spread. “Yes!”

He set out two plates, forks and knives, and napkins, and then pulled out several plastic containers. “OK, we have potato salad, and fried chicken, coleslaw, and fruit salad with mint—it grows like a weed in my garden—oh, and corn bread.”

It was a feast, and I ate unabashedly, filling my plate and then filling it again, until I settled into the blanket and sighed.

Jack poured wine, rosé, for both of us, and I wedged my back against his stomach, so that I could lean back fully into him, as if he were my personal armchair.

“Jack?” I said, after we sat like that for several minutes.

He pulled my hair back a little and kissed my neck. “Yes?”

I turned around to face him. “The other day,” I said, “I was in town, and I saw you with a woman.”

His smile vanished.

I cleared my throat. “At the bistro. The night you said you were going to call me.”

Jack said nothing, and I looked down at my hands. “I’m sorry, this is all coming out wrong. I’m sounding like a jealous wife.”

He reached for my hands. “Listen,” he said, “You don’t sound jealous at all. And let me reassure you, there is no one else.”

I nodded, but my face told him the explanation wasn’t exactly satisfying.

“Listen,” he said. “She’s a client. She’s commissioning a painting for her mother. That’s all there is to it.”

I remembered the woman who’d left a message on his answering machine, and how he’d acted afterward. Jack had secrets, indeed. But I decided to trust him anyway. When he opened his mouth again, I reached my hand up to his lips, then I pushed him to the ground, climbed over his chest, and kissed him like I’d wanted to kiss him for a long time.

His hands reached up and unbuttoned my shirt, and as it slid down my arms, I felt his warm hands on my torso, fumbling with the zipper of my jeans until he got it.

“Let’s go swimming,” he whispered in my ear.

“Now?” I said, feeling cold just thinking about it.

“C’mon,” he said, “I’ll keep you warm.”

I grinned and watched him strip down to his boxers as I slipped off my jeans. He grabbed my hand and led me down to the water’s edge, where I cautiously put one toe in.

“Brrr,” I muttered. “It’s way too cold. You can’t be serious.”

But Jack just wrapped his arms around me, his front glued to my back, and we slowly walked in together. With each step, it became less cold and more inviting, and when the water reached my chest, and Jack’s waist, he turned me around and pressed me against his body, so that I could feel every part of him, and he could feel every part of me.

“Are you cold?” he said softly.

“I’m perfect.”

It was dark by the time Jack drove me home, and my hair was still damp and caked with salt water when I walked in the door. Bee looked up from her book.

“He took you to the lagoon, didn’t he?” Her tone wasn’t angry or upset, just matter-of-factly, the way one might say, “It was cold today, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said. “How did you know?”

Bee just smiled and set her book down. “You look like you need a hot bath. Come, I’ll get one ready for you.”

Chapter 15

March 15

I
was still at the breakfast table reading the paper and eating bites of waffles, which I’d slathered in far too much maple syrup, when Bee walked in from the garden, her cheeks pink from the cold air, with a bundle of freshly clipped sage in her hand. “Morning,” she said.

This was the morning I decided it was time to clear the air—to tell Bee about the book. To ask her what she knew of Esther.

“Bee,” I said weakly, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

She set the sage down by the sink and turned on the water. “Yes, dear?”

“There’s someone I need to ask you about,” I said, “a woman.” I paused to collect my thoughts. “A woman who lived on this island in 1943. Her name was Esther.”

I watched Bee at the sink. She didn’t look up as she rhythmically lathered her hands with the bar of lavender soap she kept near the faucet. Minutes passed as she turned the soap over and over again as if in a trance.

“Bee?” I said again. “Did you know her?”

She set the soap down, and slowly ran her fingers under the warm water, rinsing them for what seemed like an eternity, until she turned off the faucet and held them up to the light.

“I can never seem to find a pair of gloves that don’t let dirt into my nails,” she said.

“Bee,” I said as she walked out of the kitchen. “Did you hear what I asked you?”

She looked back at me before turning down the hallway. “Remind me to buy a new pair of gloves next time we’re in town, dear.”

Later that morning, I heard a knock at the door. I looked through the window and could see it was Greg.

“Hi,” he said boyishly. “Sorry to drop in unannounced, but I was passing by, and . . .” he paused, pulling something out of the brown paper bag in his hands.
Billy.
I suddenly thought of Esther’s childhood love, and it occurred to me then that the way I felt about Greg mirrored Esther’s feelings about Billy in the pages of the diary.

“I wanted to give you this,” he continued, handing me an unlabeled manila file folder.

“What is it?” I asked, confused.

“You seemed interested in the old owner of my house, and last night when I was cleaning out some files, I found this old paperwork. I made a copy of everything for you.”

“Greg, that was incredibly thoughtful,” I said, smiling. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” he replied, turning toward the door and then looking back before letting himself out. “I hope you find what you’re searching for here.”

“Me too,” I said.

I opened the file folder and started thumbing through the documents. Inside were sales records for Greg’s house. I scanned the pages for pertinent facts: It had been built in 1901, then sold in 1941 to a woman named Elsa Hartley.
Hartley
, I thought,
that’s Elliot’s last name. Could it have been his wife? Did the love affair between Elliott and Esther never happen?

I flipped to the next page and saw that the home wasn’t sold again until 1998, to Greg. And the seller’s name was William Miller. I was crestfallen. So what happened to Elsa Hartley? What happened to Elliot?

I ran to the door and could see Greg’s car pulling out of the long driveway. “Wait!” I yelled, waving to him.

He rolled down his window and I ran up to the car. “Do you think you could give me a ride into town?

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” I said, climbing in. “I have some research to do.”