The Violets of March (36 page)

“You will always have my forgiveness,” I said softly, “but, Joel, our marriage is over.”

He looked confused. “But . . .”

“I’ve moved on,” I said. “I’ve had to.” I glanced down at my martini glass. It was empty. I’d promised him one drink, that’s all. “I have to go,” I said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Not yet,” he said. “Just one more drink.” He held up his arm as if to call over the waitress.

“No,” I said, standing up. “It’s time for me to say good-bye.”

He tossed a fifty-dollar bill on the table and followed me outside.

“I read the book,” he said on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

I turned around to face him. “What book?”

“
Years of Grace
,” he said. “I finally read it. I wish I had years ago. If I had, I would have known why you loved it so much. I would have known . . . how to fix us.”

I felt a tugging at my heart as I saw him then, his handsome face illuminated by the streetlight above. The chiseled chin, with a faint shadow of stubble—always appealing on Joel—big fawn-like eyes, and a flush to his cheeks. It was a perfect New York March night, and quiet. There was no one but us, and the elm trees, on the sidewalk where we stood.

“We were becoming Jane and Stephen, the characters in the book,” he said, wisely taking advantage of my silence. “I thought you didn’t love me. I thought you had changed. That’s why I—”

There was
Stephanie
again.
Stephanie.
The hurdle I could not clear. But Stephanie was inconsequential to the final act of our story. I saw that now.

“I should have realized,” he continued. “I should have—”

I extended my arm and grasped his shoulder tenderly. “Joel,” I said softly. “Don’t. Don’t blame yourself.”

He looked solemn. “We could have had it all—the children, the fifty-year anniversary, the house in the country. We could have made it work, like Jane and Stephen did. We still can.”

I shook my head. Joel and I were not Stephen and Jane. It was true, their marriage had faltered, and they had rallied and gone the distance, anchoring their hearts so beautifully, so self-sacrificially, on the virtues of companionship, respect, and admiration. No, Joel and I were not Jane and Stephen. We were Jane and
Andre
, whose love did not stand the test of time. “Yes, Jane and Stephen did make it work,” I said quietly, “but we . . . we weren’t meant to, Joel. Can’t you see that? It’s not how our story was meant to end.”

He searched my face with wide eyes filled with sorrow. “What can I say, what can I do to change your mind?”

I shook my head. “I’m so sorry, but there isn’t anything.”

And then he grabbed my waist, pulling me toward him. I felt the warmth of his body against mine as he kissed me. I closed my eyes, giving the moment the respect it deserved. When I did, I could see Jane and Stephen, and Esther and Elliot. They were all there with me. But then, finally, Jack’s face appeared, and something moved in my heart.

“I’m sorry,” I said, pulling away. He nodded with understanding, staring at me as if I was the only woman who mattered in the world. It was how I wanted to remember him.

“I’ll never give you up,” he said. The words sent a chill through my body. It was, of course, what Andre had said to Jane, so early in
Years of Grace
—the words he had uttered with intention, with love, with promise. But instead of speaking to my heart the way Joel had meant them to, they only made me more certain of my decision.

“Good-bye, Joel,” I said. My voice was muffled by the wind that was now whistling through the elm trees. They waved their branches in a dramatic farewell. This time, we both knew that good-bye was for good.

I walked home feeling lighter than I had in years, for I had finally cleared the space in my heart that had been weighted down for so long. I checked the mailbox before heading upstairs—nothing—but then I remembered Annabelle saying something about a box in the kitchen.

Inside the apartment, I set my coat down on an armchair, then pulled out a chair at the table and culled the mail, creating piles for bills, junk mail, and envelopes addressed to Joel. In between two credit card offers, I found a yellowed envelope. Alongside a modern-day stamp was a three-cent stamp that looked like a relic from the past. There was no return address, and my own had been penned recently in fresh ballpoint.

In my haste to open the envelope, the soft paper nearly disintegrated in my hand. Inside was a single page, written in the most beautiful penmanship I’d ever seen:

March 31, 1943

My dear,

I’m writing to you not knowing who you are or where you are or how we may be connected. Yet I do know that our hearts have crossed for some unexplainable reason, and by some force, we are sharing a moment in time, even if interrupted by many years. By now you must have read the diary, which was nothing more than the ramblings of my heart. I don’t know what it will mean to you, or to anyone, but a wise person told me that someone would one day need to read it, and I trust that person is you. Do with it what you please, for I may not be here when you come across its pages.

I leave you with a thought, a thought about love that has taken me many failures to come by: Great love endures time, heartache, and distance. And even when all seems lost, true love lives on. I know that now, and I hope you do, too.

With love from many years ago,
Esther Johnson

I held my hand to my heart.
True love lives on.
It was true for Jane in
Years of Grace
, and so it was true for Esther, my grandmother. I felt a draft from the window on my cheek and a chill come over my body. Time was a funny thing, I thought. An entire lifetime had spanned since she’d written that letter—to me. She had believed I’d be here, years later, to read her words, which she’d arranged for me to discover. My heart swelled with appreciation, with love, for the grandmother I never knew.
But who sent this letter to me? And what about her daughter, my mother? Was she simply a casualty? A casualty of love?

I thought about what Esther had said, about great love enduring, her words echoing Elliot’s.
But how could they still love each other after all these years apart? After all the misunderstandings? After everything?

I turned back to the mail, and noticed that resting at the bottom of the box was a thick manila envelope addressed to me. The postmark read “Bainbridge Island.” I pulled out the contents and opened the folded page on top.

Dear Emily,

By now you are home in New York, and I wanted you to have these letters when you arrived. They’re from your grandmother, Esther. I had hoped to give them to you on the island during your visit, but I wasn’t sure if you’d finished the diary. Evelyn told me you were reading it. I’m glad you found it. I knew you would. Ever since I saw you that night at the ferry terminal when you arrived, I knew you were the one, the one who was meant to read Esther’s words. And after all these years of watching and waiting for some sign, there you were. So, the next morning, while you were still sleeping on the sofa, I walked over to your aunt’s house. While she was out in the garden, I slipped away to the room you were staying in and left the book for you. Had she known my intentions, Bee would have forbidden it. So I didn’t tell her.

I should have discussed all of this with you in person, and I hope you’ll forgive my weakness. You look so much like her, Emily, and being with you reminded me of her—the way I loved her, but mostly the way she never quite returned that love.

You’re probably wondering what happened the night she disappeared, and if you learned that I was there with her that night, you might be wondering if I have blood on my hands. It’s time I cleared the air. I’ve never told anyone, not your aunt, not Evelyn, certainly not Elliot, but you need to know. I’m growing old—we all are—and this is a secret I’ve decided shouldn’t die with me, even if your grandmother wanted it to. But it’s time the truth is set free. Esther would have wanted her story to live on.

That night, in 1943, I had been visiting a friend near Esther and Bobby’s house. I heard shouting as I walked to my car, and then I watched as Bobby slammed the door, leaving her there on the porch. It hurt me to see her like that. She looked forlorn, and my heart broke for her. When she drove away, she had a frantic look on her face, and the car was swerving all over the street. I worried about what she might do, so I followed her to Elliot’s, and then to Bee’s and then to the park. She told me she was leaving the island, but she wanted to leave in a way that no one would ever find her again.

She had some grand idea about staging her death, so that no one, especially the happy couple, Elliot and Bee, would come looking for her once she was gone. Esther wanted to make a clean break. Her inspiration was “chicken,” a daredevil game some high school kids on the island had played, swerving old cars to near-head-on collisions. In her version, she was going to drive the car over and jump out just before it cleared the edge of the cliff. I begged her not to do it. If she’d wanted me to, I would have run away with her that night. I loved her so.

But she had other plans: a dramatic exit from the island—one that would hurt those she loved—and a new life to start, alone.

I waited nervously in my car in the shadows, at the entrance to the park, as she revved up her engine. That’s when Elliot and Bee drove in. I worried what Esther might do when faced with those two.

What happened next is still a blur, just as it was that night. Bee stopped the car. Elliot got out and just stood there, mouth wide open. What Esther did next still chills me to my bones. She drove the car over the cliff. Just like that. She was gone.

Elliot just stood there screaming. I’ll never forget it. But whatever sadness Bee had for Esther, she set it aside for the sake of Elliot. Your aunt is a good woman, Emily. You must know that by now. And on that night, saving Elliot from criminal charges seemed, to her, the most important goal. So she pulled him into the car and they sped off. I will never shake from my memory that grief-stricken look on Elliot’s face. I long struggled to come to terms with what happened, and I have decided that I pity him. To watch your beloved take her life, right in front of your eyes, before you can save her? I know that scene plays in his head every night, and it’s his punishment, for everything.

Because she survived.

When I got out of my car to run to the scene, to peer over the cliff to see the wreckage, I heard something in the brush on my left, and there, in the bushes, with a few bruises and scrapes, was your grandmother. She had somehow managed to roll out of the car, just before it went over. She did it, just as she’d planned. You can imagine the joy and the relief I felt when I saw her there.

She asked me to drive her to the ferry. She was going to start a new life “ from scratch,” she said. She handed me her red velvet journal and explained its importance. She made me promise to keep it until the time was right, so I took it home and kept it all these years.

I begged her to stay, your grandmother, but she said she’ d made up her mind, and if you knew Esther, there was no changing it.

Many months passed before I heard from her, and I have to admit, I thought the worst. But the letters started trickling in, from Florida at first, and then from more exotic places like Spain, Brazil, Tahiti. She had changed her name, she told me, dyed her hair, and perhaps most shocking, to me, was the letter when she told me about Lana, the baby she gave birth to.