Of course, they didn’t know the worst of her sins.
But Ansel did. He had heard them all. And had kissed her anyway.
Forgive yourself . . .
Could she? All the mistakes she had made, all the disasters in her life had come from trusting Robert. And Fern. But her sister had never meant to hurt her. She had thought Vi too young to fall in love.
But Robert. He was a grown man, Violet. He was the one who failed.
Once again, Ansel had seen what she had not. Robert was one person, and yet she had allowed him to alter her life like a cancer. Her sense of worth had been destroyed because she hadn’t seen the situation clearly. She had seen it through the eyes of a child.
But she wasn’t fifteen anymore. She was older, smarter, wiser. Yes, she had made a mistake and trusted the wrong person. But there were good people in the world, too. People she could trust. People who had been there all along had she only turned to them for help. People like Sal, Sue, Marcie, Ansel, Major Ricca . . . even Frances.
She didn’t have to be a solo act anymore. It was okay to be part of an ensemble.
“Miss Heart, are you ready to go back in?” the nurse asked, genuine concern in her voice.
Vi wiped her cheeks, her sorrow gone. “Yes.”
She was ready for a lot of things now, and highest on her list was apologizing to the cast members she loved most: her family.
Because Darla had been right. It was time to let Virginia and Lily go and try being Violet again.
Chapter 37
As the taxi driver turned onto the familiar tree-lined street, Vi pressed her gloved palm to her chest. Her heart raced as her emotions bounced between joy and terror. It had taken a month, but she was here, finally back in Chariton. She took a deep breath and shivered inside her wool coat, not from the early morning chill but from nerves over the upcoming meeting.
Breathing out, she turned her attention to the view, trying to distract herself as the taxi drove closer to her parents’ home. The trees were bigger than she remembered, but the houses all looked the same. The lawns where she had played as a child were beginning to peek out from the snow. In another month, once April rolled around, the lawns would become green again.
She shivered again, wondering if she was calling too early. Pink and gold sunlight barely suffused the horizon, the day was so new. It still felt odd, after her time in Italy, not to see hills or mountains looming in the background. But it also reaffirmed that she wasn’t dreaming this. She was here. She was home . . .
The taxi slowed, and Vi could scarcely catch her breath as the familiar two-story brick home loomed in front of her. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. Now was the time for strength.
She had written her parents and Fern that day in Italy, after Darla left. She had poured out her heart, her sorrow and regret over running away. She had apologized profusely for her selfishness and begged their forgiveness. She had closed with the sincere desire to come visit when she was back in the States.
She hadn’t told them why she had left, though. Some things were best said in person.
The taxi driver looked back over his shoulder at her, his wrinkled, square face tired and a little impatient. She wasn’t surprised. She was just another ride to him. If people had looked for the runaway Violet five years ago, they had likely long since stopped. A war had started, and bigger tragedies had struck the town as white-star flags turned into gold ones, indicating the death of a loved one.
Would her parents even recognize her? Five years was a long time.
“Do you need some help with your luggage, miss?” the driver asked.
“Yes, maybe.” She took a deep breath. “Actually, can you wait while I make sure I have a place to stay? If not, I’ll need you to take me to a hotel.”
A frown of concern deepened the wrinkles. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. It’ll be fine. I hope.” She opened her door and swung her cane out. Her muscles protested the change in movement as she stood, but it also felt good. She would never take standing on her own for granted again. In fact, there was a lot she would never again take for granted, like food, and window glass, and the earthy smell of manure in the fields, which was far better than rotting hemp and charred earth.
She slowly made her way up the concrete path to the front door. Her stomach cramped with nervousness. Pain and memories had kept her awake on the train from Chicago. She hadn’t taken any time to see Sal when she had changed trains, the chapter on that part of her life closed.
On the long voyage home aboard the hospital ship, she had written him a multipage letter.
She admitted to being furious with him for a while for forcing her hand. Because it had become clear to her, after rereading his first telegram, that his meddling had started long before the OSS had contacted him. He had been very careful with his wording in that missive. He never actually said her father had found him, only that her father wanted her address. Which of course he probably did.
What Sal had really been looking for was permission to reach out to her parents. Because he wanted something better for her than a life spent working at the Palace. He had wanted her to forget her “unhealthy obsession” with Jimmy. He had wanted her to go home and be who she was supposed to be.
Because Sal loved her, which is why she had completely forgiven him. And why she wouldn’t be going back to Chicago, at least not right away. Maybe not ever. Because she was done living a lie. Even if her parents kicked her back out, she owed them and Fern the truth.
She was done running away.
Realizing she had been staring blindly at the doorbell button for over a minute, she squared her shoulders and pushed it.
Time to face the music.
Inside the house, she heard the familiar chimes. Goose pimples rose on her arms as memories, good and bad, assailed her. Would the house smell the same when the door opened? Would the furniture be the same? The wallpaper, the light fixtures?
“Coming.” Her mother’s muffled voice came through the door.
Vi smoothed her skirt with one hand but had lost the ability to breathe. Her heart pounded so hard she could barely hear the birds twittering in the neighbors’ trees.
The door opened, revealing her mother’s beloved face, and time stopped for Vi. For several unbearably long seconds, her mother stared at her, unmoving. Shock, wonderment, fear all crossed her mother’s face, and then her eyes filled with tears, her face crumpling. Vi couldn’t stand it, and tears streamed down her cheeks as she took the first tentative steps toward her mother. “Mom?”
Suddenly Vi was engulfed in her mother’s arms. “Oh, my Lord,” her mother said, her voice choked, as she squeezed Vi tight. “Oh, my dear sweet Lord. Thank you, thank you. Thank you!”
Overcome by the love in her mother’s welcome, Vi closed her eyes against the flood of rioting emotions. Relief, hope, love, joy . . . she couldn’t breathe for it. She leaned into her mother’s embrace and hugged her back. All her carefully planned speeches were forgotten. It was all she could do to not start sobbing against her mother’s chest.
“Frank!” her mother called over her shoulder for Vi’s father. “Frank, you’ve got to come in here. Violet’s home! Vi—” Her voice broke. “Vi’s come home.”
A chair scraped on the floor in the dining room. And then she found herself being passed into her father’s embrace. The familiar scents of pipe tobacco and coffee, her father in a single whiff, engulfed her. More emotions came unleashed, guilt and remorse at the top of the list.
“I’m so sorry, Daddy,” she said, her voice muffled as she burrowed her face into his soft woolen sweater-vest. “So, so sorry!”
“It’s all right, honey. You’re home. That’s all that matters.” Her father’s deep bass voice rumbled under her ear, just like when she had been younger. Her hero. Her protector. “Do I need to pay your taxi?”
Appalled that she had forgotten all about the poor taxi driver, she sniffed and pus
hed back. “I can do it. Give me a sec.”
Her mother threaded her arm through Vi’s free one. “Frank, pay her fare while I get her seated in the parlor. She’s practically swaying on her feet with exhaustion.”
With a rush of gratitude, Vi let her mother pull her into the parlor. Her knees weakened as she looked around, the rush of memories provoked by the familiar details almost too much to withstand. The upright piano she and Fern had practiced on every day after school. Tante Elke’s tatted doilies on the back of the couch. The framed, yellowed photographs of Opa and Oma Ernte on the end table.
To her chagrin, her mother wouldn’t let Vi sit on the couch and insisted she take her favorite chair by the window. Not having the energy to protest, she eased herself down. The polished chintz cushions released a soft sigh of her mother’s favorite perfume. An unshakable sense of unworthiness tightened her chest. She had hurt these two people who loved her so deeply. Hurt them badly. Why was her father paying her driver and her mother giving her the best chair? They should be yelling at her. Making her pay for all those years of pain.
They don’t know the worst of it. That’s why.
She bit her lip. It would take all her courage to get through these next few minutes, but she would do it. She would finally say what she should have five years ago and let the chips fall as they may. If she had to make a quick phone call to fetch back the taxi, so be it.
Her mother sat across from Vi on the couch, which was still upholstered in the worn navy-and-white striped fabric she remembered. Vi nervously repositioned her cane against the chair’s arm so it wouldn’t fall. Too soon for comfort, she heard the front door close, and then her father came down and sat next to his wife. An awkward silence broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock settled over the room as she and her parents drank the sight of each other in.
Her parents had aged, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. Her mother’s brown hair had become streaked with white, her warm brown eyes flanked by deeper creases, but in Vi’s opinion she was as beautiful as ever. Her father, likewise, had a bit more silver at the temples, and he had traded his wire rims for dark horn-rims—they looked nice on him. Vi wondered if Fern might have had something to do with it, since her sister had always been after their father to look less stodgy.
Thinking of Fern brought her back to what she needed to say. She took a deep breath and sorted through all the possible ways she could start. Her father beat her to the punch.
“How long are you home for? A while, I hope. Your mother wanted a chance to get the whole family together to see you.” The hesitation in his voice was like a dagger to Vi’s heart. She hadn’t considered that her parents might be just as anxious about this reunion as she was.
She sat forward, the need to reassure them erasing her own fears. “Oh, Daddy. Mom. I didn’t stay away because of anything you did. And I’ll gladly stay as long as you’ll have me. To be honest, I’m a little lost as to what I want to do with my life.”
“Because of your leg,” her father said, gesturing toward her cane. “How long until you’re fully healed?”
Her chest contracted with pain. “Maybe never.”
Her mother half rose off the couch, her face pale. “Oh, Vi! You must be devastated. All you ever wanted to do was dance.”
“But she can still walk a stage,” her father pointed out quickly, his expression wary as he glanced at her.
“Maybe,” Vi said, even though she had her doubts whether anyone would hire a crippled actress. “But I didn’t come home to talk about my injuries. Or my time in Italy, though I’ll be glad to tell you all about it later.” She took a deep breath. “But first: How is Fern?”
Her mother and father shared a startled glance. Then her mother said, “Fern is fine. Why?”
“How is your relationship with Robert?”
This time her father answered. “Well, I’m not sure how to answer that, since Robert is dead.”
“Dead?” Vi’s brain struggled to absorb this news. “When? How?”
“In a car accident not long after you . . . well, that winter. His truck skidded off the road out by Gratz’s bar. Drunk as a skunk, as usual. Anyway, he must have passed out, and it was bitter cold that night. By the time he was found the next morning, he was dead, frozen solid.”
“Well, frozen as much as anyone could be, considering how much alcohol was in his system,” her mother added dryly.
Vi blinked, still reeling from the news that Jimmy’s father was dead. Not that she would miss him, but it was still unsettling to think the man with whom she had shared something so important as a baby was no more. “Poor Fern.”
Her father sighed and looked down at his steepled hands. “Yes and no. Their marriage wasn’t going well. If he hadn’t ended up in that ditch, I’m pretty sure she would’ve moved out on him.”
“Fern wasn’t happy?”
Her mother traded a guilty look with her husband. “I hate to speak badly of the deceased, but that man was bad news. I just wished we had all realized it sooner.”
Guilt swamped Vi. All this time she had been afraid of spoiling Fern’s happiness when she could’ve saved her sister heartbreak. How different would all their lives have been if she had been brave enough to face Fern’s anger all those years ago? Fern would have forgiven her, eventually. Instead Vi had allowed Robert to ruin both their lives.
“Is there a reason you’re asking?” her father asked.
Vi couldn’t meet his eyes. She wouldn’t survive seeing the love that was there now turn to disgust once she told them the truth.
“Violet?” he prodded gently.
She chickened out and asked a question instead. “Did she remarry? Fern, I mean. Is she happy now?”
“She did,” her father said slowly. “To Joe Rydahl. A real good man, solid, steady, well liked. He moved into town not long after you left and took on the position of assistant postmaster. After Robert’s death, he asked Fern out. They got married . . . well, it’ll be three years in May.”
Vi smiled then, truly happy for her sister. “I’m glad.”
“You’ve got a little niece, Vi,” her mother added, a sparkle in her eyes. “Claire. She’ll be two next month, and the sweetest little thing. She reminds me of you.”
“Poor Fern,” Vi said with a regretful laugh. “I was a hellion growing up.”
“No, you weren’t,” her mother said firmly, giving her the look Vi remembered so well. Half-fond, half-exasperated. “You and your sister were different, to be sure, like the sun and the moon. One calm and gentle and the other all fire and light. But you were my little sunbeam growing up, and I never regretted having you.”
Vi’s eyes filled. “I’m glad. But I’ll forever regret all the pain I must have caused you.”
“It wasn’t easy, not knowing if you were okay or just pretending,” her father said, putting his arm around Vi’s mother, who had started crying like Vi. “What would make it a whole lot easier to understand is if you told us why you left. Was it something we said or did or—”
“No! It wasn’t anything like that.” She took a deep breath and blurted out the words she should have said five years ago. “I was pregnant. And Robert was the baby’s father.”
Her parents froze, stunned, by the looks on their faces.
Tears blurred her vision again. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was . . . terrified.”
Her father recovered first. “Did he . . . were you . . . Damn, but I wish I had known while he was still here. I’d have killed the bastard with my bare hands.”
Her fingers balled into fists in her lap. How easy it would be to let him think the worst, and how wrong it would be.
No more lies, Vi. “It wasn’t rape, Dad. I . . . I didn’t . . . that is, I was a willing participant at the time.”
“Oh, Vi.” Her mother sighed and closed her eyes.
“I know, I’m an awful person. And I’m so, so sorry. But I didn’t think Fern and he would get married! She told me
she was through with him.”
Her mother’s eyes were filled with disappointment when she looked at Vi again. “I wish you had told us. It would’ve saved everyone a lot of heartache.”
“Your sister would’ve been shocked but all right in the end,” her father added.
“We all would’ve stood beside you, Vi. But you never even gave us a chance,” her mother said, sounding sad now.
“Would you have made me marry him?” The thought had haunted her all these years and still made her feel ill.
“At fifteen? Absolutely not,” her father said, aghast. “You were a child. What he did was criminal. He manipulated you, Vi. It was not your fault. None of it was.”
“But why would he sleep with me if he loved Fern?” The fifteen-year-old part of her couldn’t understand that part. It didn’t make sense.
“Because the lazy bastard wanted to live on easy street. So he courted Fern, and when she said she wouldn’t have him, you were his fallback plan.”
Vi must have looked horrified, because her mother was up and off the couch in a flash. “It’s all right, sweetheart. There’s no way you could’ve known he was after our family’s money. You were so young.”
“And stupid.” Her parents might be willing to let her off the hook, but she wasn’t. “If I hadn’t been so competitive, so jealous of Fern, I would’ve seen that there was no way he could prefer me to her.”
“Violet Louise, that’s enough!”
Vi’s gaze jerked up to meet her father’s. The love she saw there stole her breath.
“You were fifteen,” he said firmly. “Of course you were jealous of Fern. All younger siblings are at some point, because the older sibling has what the younger one wants: greater freedom. If anyone is at fault, it’s your mother and me, for not noticing that Robert was seducing you.”
“He told me not to tell anyone.” Her lips felt numb.
Her father’s jaw tightened. “Of course he did. Because he knew what he was doing was wrong.”
Vi’s view of her past shifted, and then reassembled, and then shifted again.
“Did you have the baby, Vi?” The mix of emotions in her mother’s voice twisted through Vi’s aching heart.
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