Marred

by Tess Thompson

  “Sure.” He paused. “I have the Dogs to thank for it all. Their friendship changed my life. Did you know Brody gave me my first loan to start my business?”

  Their first year of college had been tough for all of them but Brody. Jackson and Zane were grieving Maggie. He was trying to forget the entire first eighteen years of his life and start fresh.

  “I used to hear Jackson sobbing in the middle of the night. We shared a wall. It’s hard to ever see a man quite the same way when you hear them at their worst…especially when they don’t know you’re there.” Kyle looked up at the ceiling. “I used to curl up in a ball and try to pretend I didn’t feel the same way.”

  “Why did you feel the same way?”

  He studied her for a moment. Why did he want to share all of his full story with her? It made no sense. No one knew the truth. If they did, would anyone love him? “I don’t ever think about it now. I mean, I do, but just as quickly push it aside. I wanted to forget absolutely everything. Start over.”

  “Did it work?”

  “It never does.” He pressed into the callouses on the pads of his left hand with his thumb, remembering. Sheri Swanson. His sister, Autumn. He’d tried to save them both, but in the end, dark forces had proven too much. He was weak. Evil had won.

  “What can’t you forget?” Violet asked.

  “I lost people that I loved very much. That’s all. Please, I don’t talk about it. Not even with you.” Don’t go there. The dark place could snatch him at any moment. He couldn’t let himself remember or Pig would rear his head and dance around his memory like a demon danced above the flames of hell.

  “Loss changes a person,” she said. “Never for the better.”

  He looked up, meeting her eyes. “Yes.”

  She crossed over to sit next to him. “You don’t have sole ownership of pain, you know.”

  “I know.”

  She traced the one-inch, skinny scar that ran down the side of his neck with her thumb. “What happened here? I’ve never noticed it before.”

  “Bar fight.”

  “Liar.”

  “A bully incident.” Don’t ask me. Please just leave it be.

  “When you were young?”

  “Yes.” He covered her hand with his and drew it away from his scar and onto his thigh.

  “But you don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

  “Has there ever been a moment in your life when you’ve simply backed off from a subject? Like let a guy off the hook?”

  “I’m not good at that.” She smiled up at him. “Especially when it’s something or someone I care about.”

  “You care about me now, huh?”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” she said.

  “I won’t.”

  He continued to hold her hand. If he yanked her onto his lap, would she bolt? With his free hand, he twirled a piece of her hair around his index finger.

  She trembled, her gaze on their intertwined hands. “What’s happening here? What’re we doing?”

  “You’ve put something in my drink that made me spill all my secrets.”

  She looked up at him. “I want to know all your secrets.”

  “You know about Pig. I think that’s enough.”

  “You smell just fine now, by the way.” She smiled shyly. “I’ve noticed.”

  He swallowed. Get it together, man. “You smell like a flower I can’t put my finger on.”

  “It’s my perfume. Hints of jasmine.”

  “Not Violets?”

  “No. Not Violets. Such an embarrassing name. Who names their kids after a flower?”

  “A lot of people.” He didn’t move, unable to escape from her gaze. “I love your name.”

  “My mother’s name is Rose. If they’d had more children, they would have named them Daisy and Lily.”

  “I think those are nice names.”

  “I guess. I have trouble thinking anything my parents do is nice.”

  He let that go, not knowing what to say, other than, yeah, I get it.

  “Did you ever have a nickname?” he asked.

  “No, just Violet.”

  “Would you like one?”

  “Depends.” She paused, smiling. “On who’s giving it to me.”

  “What if it’s me?”

  “Then I suppose I’d like it.”

  “Lettie. I’ll call you Lettie. Beautiful Lettie.” He touched the small of her back with his fingers. Her blouse fluttered as her breath caught.

  “Do you know how badly I want to take you into my bed?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened. He felt her shiver under his touch.

  “I can’t sleep with you,” she whispered. “Even though I want to.”

  He didn’t need her to explain why. The reasons were like Dakota’s blocks in the corner of the room. There were blocks upon blocks of reasons why he was a bad idea. Stacked together they would eventually fall into a chaotic mess.

  “It’s nothing to do with you, actually. Or even that it would be terribly irresponsible when it comes to the children or even that I work for you,” she said as if he’d named the blocks out loud. “It’s me. I can’t sleep with someone who doesn’t love me. I won’t ever do that. Not again. The next man I give myself to has to be willing to spend his life with me and take Dakota as part of the package.”

  The next man? She hadn’t slept with anyone since Lund. How was that possible?

  Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I understand it’s a tall order and maybe I’m not even lovable, but I can’t compromise again or fool myself into believing a man feels something for me that he’s incapable of.”

  “It’s not that you’re unlovable. Don’t ever say that about yourself again.”

  She stared at him, obviously taken aback.

  “You’re the most lovable woman in the world. Just because men are idiots…just because I’m broken…has nothing to do with you. Someday you’re going to make a man’s dreams come true. It’s just not going to be me.”

  She leaned closer and kissed his cheek. “I better go to my own bed before I lose my resolve.” Seconds later, she was gone.

  He sat there for a long time with his hand pressed against the spot on his cheek where her soft mouth had been. For the first time in his adult life he wished he were not the broken man he was. What if he were like the other Dogs and deserved a woman like Violet Ellis? What would his life be like then? Would the slow burning fire in his gut be put out?

  The question was irrelevant. He was incapable of intimacy. To be with someone like Violet he would have to tell her everything, all the puzzle pieces. She would have to know about Daniel Kyle Hickman.

  No one could ever know.

  Chapter Six

  Violet

  * * *

  TWO WEEKS BEFORE Thanksgiving, fog settled over the town like a cold, wet blanket. Violet shivered as she pulled into a parking space outside the grocery store. Dakota and Mollie were in their car seats in the back, bundled up in warm clothes. She turned off the engine, preparing herself mentally for the athleticism needed for the acrobatic maneuver of prying the children from their viselike car seats and into the store. She needed a bigger car than this compact hybrid. Last night, while watching television with Kyle, she’d seen an advertisement for a minivan with sliding doors and a built-in vacuum. She’d shocked herself when she found herself murmuring out loud how nice it would be to have one. Kyle hadn’t said anything, just raised an eyebrow and smirked like he did when he wanted to tease her but restrained himself.

  Now, peering out at the damp morning, she called out to Dakota. “You ready, little man, for grocery shopping?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  An elderly couple came out of the sliding doors of the grocery store. It took her a moment to realize the stooped man with the cane and the plump woman beside him were her parents. Her father, who had once been a tall man, now walked with a cane. Even from a considerable distance, she could see how his hands had gnarled from th
e arthritis that had taken them to South America in search of year-round warmth. When had that happened? Her mother looked the same, stout and sturdy.

  Here were her parents, across a parking lot and yet no closer than when they’d been thousands of miles away. An ache somewhere between homesickness and grief slammed into her chest. Almost four years had passed since she’d seen or spoken to her father. A lifetime, really, considering. Dakota had been a mere peanut in her tummy when they’d had their last and final battle. Her father had vowed that day he would never speak to her again. Obviously, he’d meant it. They’d been home for over a month and she hadn’t heard from either of them.

  She glanced at Dakota who sat in the back seat turning the pages of a picture book about trains. How could anyone resist knowing him? She would not cry. There was nothing to be done. Her parents had stated their position and there was no budging them from it. She could either waste time and energy mourning them or get on with her life. Her life. Not theirs to dictate. Hers alone. What did it matter if she had contact with them or not? If they were still in her life, it would be the same teetering act of walking the tightrope, knowing that one miniscule mistake would end in a painful plummet. There was no winning when it came to her father.

  If she were to spend time with him, he would zero in on a weakness, big or small, almost immediately. As if it were his sole purpose in life, he’d pick at her until old scabs bled fresh or new wounds spilled blood or tears. Even now, from the safety and anonymity of her car, the words prove your worth seemed to hover above his head in a judgmental halo. In the presence of his daughter, he turned the brightest of stage lights up to their highest level to ensure that she understood. You’re being watched. She would not, could not, avoid his inquiry, his demand for evidence of her worth. But there was more—a tagline—just for Violet. You there, Violet Ellis, what new failure do you have to share with me?

  She pressed her forehead onto the steering wheel, willing the cold plastic to numb her thoughts. I don’t care. I have Dakota. That’s all I need.

  What had her father said to her that night?

  You’re in love with failure.

  I’m in love with my son. Everything else, including you, can go straight to hell.

  She waited until her parents drove out of the parking lot before getting the children out of the back. Once she had Mollie in her stroller and Dakota in his place by her side, she hesitated, disoriented for a split second about what day it was. Thursday. Their day for errands.

  Routine. Stick with the routine. Peace was there in the simple arrangement of the hours and minutes of the day. Not only for the kids, but for her. The three of them had established a pattern to their weeks and days that were comforting to Violet: the park on Mondays, the library for story time on Tuesdays, gym time for Dakota at the local YMCA on Wednesdays, a playdate with Jubie and Honor on Friday afternoons. Thursdays were reserved for errands or appointments, or an occasional visit with a friend.

  The days with the kids were busy and happy. Being with the them had given her a sense of purpose and belonging like she hadn’t before experienced. Even more so than her studies at college or her attempt at running the shop. It was being with the children that brought her joy, gave her existence meaning. What did this mean exactly? How did this knowledge of herself fit with her studies of women’s long history of fighting for equality, for their seat at the table, when all she wanted to do was spend her days here with her little boy and this chubby baby? Every milestone Mollie achieved was like watching the creation of the most beautiful piece of art ever made. And her son? This boy amazed her with his questions and his curiosity and his love of life. To be with him every day was indeed the greatest gift she’d ever been given. Did she have her failed shop to thank for it? Never ever would she have thought so. But now? She was happy. Despite everything, her days were filled with joy. If her shop hadn’t failed, if her father hadn’t rejected her, would she be here in this exact place? The answers were no.

  And then there were the evenings. Kyle had adjusted his schedule so that he returned no later than six. From the moment he walked in the door, he spent time with Mollie, feeding and bathing her before putting her to bed.

  Afterward, he always saved a few minutes to play trucks, card games, or roughhouse with Dakota. Her son loved Old Maid and Go Fish. She drew the line when he offered to teach Dakota how to play poker.

  By seven thirty both the children were in bed. They would order dinner for themselves and open a bottle of wine and talk with music on in the background. She’d learned more about Kyle’s business enterprises, both past and present. Sometimes he’d ask her opinion about how to make projects greener, which thrilled her. His country music was even starting to grow on her.

  Since that night they’d confessed their mutual attraction, he’d been the perfect gentleman. No touching. He didn’t even seem to look at her any longer. She should be relieved. Unfortunately, she wasn’t. Like the fool she was, she couldn’t help but wish he could and would fall in love with her.

  Mel always arrived right at ten and they would say goodnight to her and each other and head in separate directions.

  That didn’t mean she didn’t think about how she longed to cross the suite and crawl into his bed. But no. She would remain strong. Self-protection must be her primary goal. She would not allow her heart to be broken by a man ever again.

  Right now, she must focus on their errands. Today, she’d made the decision that she had to get over her bitterness and go see what Lance had done with the bookstore.

  She crossed the street to the building where her old shop had once resided. The entire front of the building had been given a facelift of new paint, large picture windows, and attractive blue awnings. New signage hung over the front of the building: Cliffside Bay Books and Sweets. Through the windows Violet spotted Lance putting books on shelves. She tapped on the glass to get his attention. Lance looked up and immediately broke into a smile, then crossed over to open the door. “Violet, it’s great to see you.” Lance pulled her into a quick embrace before leaning down to scoop Dakota into his arms and throw him over his shoulder. Dakota squealed, delighted.

  Lance moved with a quiet grace, more like a dancer than his athletic brother. His light blue eyes, delicately carved nose, full bottom lip, and high cheekbones made him almost too pretty for a man. Combined with his warm, kind nature, he was could only be described as a nice guy. Violet suspected he had trouble with women for this very reason. The nice guy never got the girl.

  “You put up awnings,” she said.

  “Do you like them?” Lance set Dakota on his feet.

  “They’re great,” she said. “I love the signage too.”

  He invited her inside. “We reopen in a week. There’s still a lot to do, but we’re getting there.”

  Following Dakota, she wheeled the stroller into the store. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God, Lance. It’s beautiful.”

  Lance had removed the wall that separated the two spaces. White walls with black trim and bookcases gave it a fresh, sophisticated atmosphere. Much of the space was filled with books, but on the far side of the room, where her shop had been, a modern version of the old-fashioned soda fountain shone under the lights. A shake maker, industrial espresso maker, and various bottles of sweetener resided behind the counter. Charming tables were arranged around the room. On one wall, a bank of cubbies for studying or reading had outlets for laptops or phone charging.

  Dakota had his nose pressed against the glass freezer, looking at the ice cream. “Mama, can I have some?”

  “Not today, sweetie. They’re not ready for business. But when they open we’ll come back.”

  Lance put his hand on top of Dakota’s head. “You know what, though, I have some of Flora’s cookies in Mary’s office. You want one of those?”

  “Can I, Mama?”

  “I suppose,” Violet said.

  Lance and Dakota slipped out of sight, headed for the back office.

&
nbsp; Violet wandered up the stairs to the loft. Cozy chairs and sofas and a soft rug invited people to read and linger. A chess game was positioned on a side table for players. When she returned to the main floor, Mary was there. Tall and slender, with long brown hair and fair skin, Violet had always thought she was exceptionally pretty in that intimidating way that women who looked like models but acted like intellectuals could be. With her hair in a ponytail and wearing loose jeans and a sweatshirt, she looked more like a girl than a grown-up librarian.

  “Hi Violet. Lance said you were here,” Mary said.

  “The place looks great,” Violet whispered as she gave her a hug. “I’m so happy for you guys.”

  The rest of the gang was undecided about Mary, but Violet liked her. She was quiet, yes. The others thought she was uptight, but Violet thought she was merely shy. She suspected there was more to Mary’s story. Something had happened in her past to make her so cautious, so careful to keep people at a distance.

  Mary looked straight into her eyes. “I know it must be hard and I’m sorry.”

  Violet squeezed her hands. “Don’t be. Everything has a way of working out in the end.”

  Mary moved over to the stroller to look at the sleeping baby. “She’s so pretty.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, like she was cold.

  “She is,” Violet said.

  Mary drew in a long, shuddering breath and straightened. “Well, I should get back to it.” Her skin had blanched of color, making the purple smudges under her eyes more evident. She staggered slightly. Violet put her hand out to steady her.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Violet asked, knowing the answer was a definite no.

  “Sure, yes. Just a little light-headed. I probably need some lunch.”

  “Come on, let’s head up to The Oar and grab a bite.”

  Mary looked like she was going to say no, but she agreed. “It’ll do me good to get out of here for a bit.” She explained that she just needed to finish up one thing in the back and grab her purse. “Give me a couple minutes.”

  Violet agreed. Mollie needed a bottle anyway.