The Violets of March (7 page)

Another customer was suddenly hovering behind Greg, but before he turned to assist he quickly asked, “Will you let me take you out to dinner? Just once. Just once before you go?”

“Of course,” I said instinctively, not stopping to think the invitation through, because if I had, I would have probably—no, definitely—said no.

“Great,” he said. His smile illuminated two rows of glistening white teeth, which made me run my tongue along mine. “I’ll call you at your aunt’s.”

“Good,” I said, a little dazed. Did that just happen? I made my way up to the produce department to tackle the watercress, when I spotted Bee.

“Oh, there you are,” she said, waving at me. “Come here, dear, I want to introduce you to someone.”

Standing next to her was a woman, about Bee’s age, with dark hair—clearly dyed—and dark eyes to match. I’d never seen eyes that dark. They were nearly black, and quite a contradiction to her creamy, pale skin. There was nothing geriatric about this woman, except for the fact that she was, well, in her eighties.

“This is Evelyn,” Bee said proudly. “One of my dearest friends.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I said.

“Evelyn and I go way back,” Bee explained. “We’ve been friends since grade school. You actually met her as a child, Emily, but you may not remember.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t. I’m afraid I had a one-track mind during those summers: swimming, boys, repeat.”

“It’s so nice to see you again, dear,” she said, smiling as if she already knew me. And there was definitely something familiar about her, too, but what?

Unlike Bee, in her jeans and sweatshirt, Evelyn looked like she could be a senior citizen model. There were no high-waisted pants or thick, rubber-soled shoes. She wore a stylish wrap dress and ballet flats, and yet she seemed genuine and down-to-earth, just like Bee. It made sense that they were best friends. I liked her instantly.

“Wait, I do remember you!” I said suddenly. The glint of her eyes and the light of her smile instantly transported me back to 1985, the summer when Danielle and I stayed with Bee on our own. We had been told that our parents were going on a trip, but I later learned that they had separated that summer. Dad had left Mom in July, and by September they’d patched things up. Mom had lost fifteen pounds and Dad had grown a beard. They seemed strange and awkward around each other. Danielle told me that Dad had a girlfriend, but I didn’t believe it, and even if I had, I could never blame Dad for that, or for anything, after the way he had endured my mother’s badgering and yelling all those years. Still, Dad had the patience of Gandhi.

But it wasn’t their separation that was consuming my mind just then; it was Evelyn’s garden. Bee had taken us there when we were children, and it was all rushing back: a magical world of hydrangeas, roses, and dahlias, and lemon shortbread cookies on Evelyn’s patio. It seemed like only yesterday that my sister and I sat on the little bench under the trellis while Bee hovered over her easel, capturing on her canvas whatever flower was in bloom in the lush beds. “Your garden,” I said. “I remember your garden.”

“Yes,” Evelyn said, smiling.

I nodded, a little astonished that this memory, buried so deep in my mind, had risen to the surface just then like a lost file from my subconscious. It was as if the island had unlocked it somehow. Standing there in the produce section, I recalled the daylilies and the shortbread, which tasted like heaven—and then the fog lifted. I was sitting on a weathered gray teak bench on her patio, wearing that old pair of white canvas Keds—except that they weren’t really Keds; they were the generic brand with the fake blue square on the heel. It would have cost exactly eleven dollars more for a pair of
real
Keds, and boy did I want them. I’d clean the bathroom every Saturday for a month, I promised my mom. I’d vacuum. I’d dust. I’d iron Dad’s shirts. But she just shook her head and returned home with a pair of knockoffs from Payless Shoe Source. Every other girl I knew had a pair of real Keds, with that trademark blue rubber tag. And so there I sat on Evelyn’s patio, fussing with the blue tag that was peeling off the back of my right shoe.

Bee was giving a very disinterested Danielle a tour of the garden when Evelyn sat down next to me. “What’s troubling you, dear?”

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

“It’s OK,” she said, squeezing my hand. “You can tell me.”

I sighed. “Well, it’s really kind of embarrassing, but you wouldn’t happen to have any superglue, would you?”

“Superglue?”

I pointed to my shoe. “Mom won’t buy me Keds, and the tag on the back of my shoe is falling off and I . . .” I burst into tears.

“There, there now,” Evelyn said, handing me a handkerchief from her pocket. “When I was about your age, a girl I knew came to school wearing a pair of the most beautiful red shoes. They sparkled like rubies. Her dad was quite wealthy, and she told everyone that he’d brought them home for her from Paris. I wanted a pair more than anything in the world.”

“Did you get some?” I’d asked.

She shook her head. “No, and you know what? I’d still like a pair. So, you asked for superglue, dear, but wouldn’t you rather have a pair of—what did you call them?”

“Keds,” I said meekly.

“Ah, yes, Keds.”

I nodded.

“Well then. What are you doing tomorrow?”

My eyes widened. “Nothing.”

“Then it’s settled. We’ll take the ferry into Seattle and get you some Keds.”

“Really?” I stammered.

“Really.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just smiled and pulled the rest of the blue rubber tag off the back of my shoe. It didn’t matter. Tomorrow I’d be wearing the real thing.

“Evelyn,” Bee said, looking at the shopping cart, “I’m making dinner tonight, why don’t you join us?”

“Oh, no,” she said, “I couldn’t. You’re just getting settled with Emily.”

I smiled. “We’d love to have you.”

“Well, then, OK.”

“Great,” said Bee. “Come by at six o’clock.”

“See you then,” she said, turning toward the potatoes.

“Bee,” I whispered. “You’re not going to believe who I just ran into.”

“Who?”

“Greg,” I said quietly. “Greg Attwood.”

“Your old boyfriend?”

I nodded. “I think he just asked me out.”

Bee smiled as if this was all part of the plan. She reached for a red onion, examined it, and then shook her head, throwing it back on the pile. She did this a few more times before finding one that pleased her. She said something quietly, under her breath, and when I asked her to repeat herself, she was already across the aisle, filling a bag with leeks. I glanced at the stairs to the wine department and smiled to myself.

Just before six, Bee pulled three wineglasses out of the cabinet and uncorked the bottle of white that Greg had selected for us.

“Light the candles, dear, will you, please?”

I reached for the matches and thought about the dinners at Bee’s house during my childhood. Bee never served a meal without candles. “A proper supper requires candlelight,” she’d told my sister and me years ago. I thought it was elegant and exciting, and when I asked my mom if we could start the same tradition at home, she said no. “Candles are for birthday parties,” she said, “and those only come once a year.”

“Beautiful,” Bee said, surveying the table before taking a close look at the white wine Greg had recommended. “Pinot grigio,” she said approvingly, eyeing the label.

“Bee,” I said, sitting at the table as she sliced a leek with a large butcher knife. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about Jack the other day. What’s the story between you two?”

She looked up, a bit startled, then dropped the knife suddenly, clutching her hand. “Ouch,” she said. “I cut myself.”

“Oh no,” I said, running to her. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” she said. “It’s not your fault. These old hands don’t work the way they used to.”

“Here, let me do the chopping,” I said, shooing Bee to the table.

She bandaged her finger, and I finished dicing the leeks, then stirred the risotto, feeling the savory steam rise from the pot to my face with every turn around the pan.

“Bee, it just doesn’t make sense that—”

I was cut off by the sound of Evelyn’s footsteps at the front door. “Hello, girls!” she said, walking toward the kitchen. In her hands were a bottle of wine and a bouquet of purple lilacs wrapped in brown paper and tied loosely with a strand of twine.

“They’re lovely,” Bee said, smiling. “Now, where on earth did you find these this early in the season?”

“In my garden,” she said as though Bee had just asked her what color the sky was. “My lilac tree always blooms before yours.” She said it with an air of amicable competitiveness that only a sixty-plusyear friendship could bear.

Bee mixed her a drink—something with bourbon—and then sent us to the living room while she put the finishing touches on dinner.

“Your aunt is quite something, isn’t she?” Evelyn said to me once Bee was out of earshot.

“She’s a legend,” I said, smiling.

“She is,” Evelyn said. The ice in her drink was clinking against the glass, but I couldn’t tell if she was doing it on purpose or if her hands were trembling.

“I was going to tell her my news tonight,” she said, turning back to me. She said it casually, as if she might have been talking about a new car purchase or a vacation she had booked. But then I noticed tears in her eyes. “I decided, on the way over, that I’d tell her tonight, but then I saw her just now. I saw how good things are, and I thought, Why ruin a perfectly good evening?”

I was confused. “Tell her what?”

She nodded. “I have cancer. Terminal cancer.” She said it the way one might say, “I have a cold,” simply and straightforward, devoid of the drama it deserved. “I have a month, maybe less, to live,” she said quietly. “I’ve known for a while now, since Christmas. But I haven’t found a way to tell Bee. I guess I keep thinking that it might be easier if she just finds out when I’m gone.”

“Evelyn, I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching for her hand. “But how can you think that Bee wouldn’t want to know? She loves you.”

Evelyn sighed. “I know she’d want to know. But I don’t want our friendship to be about death and dying, when we have so little time left. I’d rather drink bourbon and play bridge and razz her like I always do.”

I nodded. I didn’t agree with Evelyn’s decision, but I understood it.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s your first day on the island; I shouldn’t be worrying you with my problems. Shame on me.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “And honestly, it’s nice, for once, not to be the one talking about
my
problems.”

She took a long sip of her drink and then exhaled deeply. “What would you do if you were in my shoes? Would you tell your best friend and ruin your final days together, or go on happily as you always have until it all just ends?”

“Well, I’d have to come clean, but mostly for selfish reasons,” I said. “I’d need my friend’s support. But you, you’re so strong.” I felt myself choking up a little. “I admire your strength.”

Evelyn leaned in closer. “Strength? Nonsense. I have the pain tolerance of a four-year-old.” She let out a laugh, then whispered, “Now, let’s gossip. What can I tell you about your aunt that you don’t know?”

My mind flicked through a million unanswered questions, then settled on a weightier topic: the mysterious book I’d found in the bedside table today. “Well,” I said, pausing until I could determine whether Bee was still in the kitchen. A clanging pan at the stove let us know that she was. “There is
one
thing.”

“What is it, sweetie?” she said.

“Well,” I whispered, “today I found a red velvet journal, a diary, in the bedside table in the room where I’m staying. It’s really old—dated 1943, I think. I couldn’t resist reading the first page, and I was fascinated.”

For a second I thought I could see a flicker of recognition in Evelyn’s eyes, or maybe remembrance, but the light was quickly extinguished.

“I can’t stop wondering if Bee wrote this,” I whispered. “But I had no idea that she was ever a writer, and you’d think she would have shared that with me, given my career and everything.”

Evelyn set her drink down. “Is there anything more you can tell me about this, this diary? What have you read so far?”

“Well, I’ve really only read the first page, but I know that it begins with a character named Esther,” I said, pausing for a minute, “and Elliot, and—”

Evelyn quickly put her hand to my lips. “You mustn’t speak of this story to Bee,” she said. “Not yet, anyway.”

It occurred to me that maybe this was just an early start at a novel that had never taken shape. God knows I’d had enough of those before my book was published. But why the anonymity? It didn’t make any sense. “Evelyn, who wrote it?” The dark shadows under her eyes looked more pronounced now than they had earlier at the market. She took a deep breath and stood up, retrieving a delicately preserved starfish from Bee’s mantel. “Sea stars are enigmatic creatures, aren’t they? Not a single bone in their body, all cartilage, and fragile, yet they’re spirited and tenacious. Brightly colored. Adaptable. Long livers. Did you know that when a sea star’s arm is wounded, it can grow another?”

Evelyn returned the starfish to its home on the mantel. “Your grandmother adored sea stars,” she said. “Just as she adored the sea.” She paused, smiling to herself. “She spent so much time on the shore, collecting bits of beach glass and dreaming up stories about the lives of the crab colonies under the rocks.”

“That’s so surprising,” I said. “I had the impression that my grandmother never liked the sound. Isn’t it why she and my grandfather moved to Richland? Something about the sea air and her sinuses?”

“Yes, but—I’m sorry,” Evelyn said. “I got lost in a memory.” She sat down again and turned to face me. “Now, this diary. Yes, it has found its way into your hands,” she said. “You must keep reading it, Emily. The story is important, and you will come to see why.”

I let out a deep sigh. “I wish this all made more sense.”

“I’ve already said too much, dear,” she said. “It’s not my place to talk about. But you deserve to know this story. Keep reading and the answers will come.”