The Violets of March

by Sarah Jio

“Oh no,” I said, shaking my head, equally concerned about breaking one of Henry’s treasured heirlooms as I was about embarrassing myself in front of Jack.

  “Here, I’ll help you hide the evidence,” he said, smiling. I liked him instantly.

  “I’m the world’s clumsiest woman,” I said, burying my face in my hands.

  “Good,” he replied, pulling up the sleeve of his sweater to reveal the black-and-blue of a fresh bruise. “I’m the world’s clumsiest man.” He pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket and carefully picked up what was left of the vase. “We can glue it together later,” he continued.

  I grinned.

  Henry returned with an egg carton and handed it to Jack. “Sorry, I had to run out to the refrigerator in the garage,” he said.

  “Thanks, Henry,” Jack said. “I owe you.”

  “Won’t you stay?”

  “I can’t,” he said, glancing my way, “I really should get back, but thanks.” He turned to me with the look of an accomplice. “Nice to meet you, Emily.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, wishing he didn’t have to go so quickly.

  Henry and I watched from the window as Jack made his way back to the beach. “He’s an odd one, that Jack,” he said. “Here I have the prettiest girl on the island in my living room, and he can’t even stay for coffee.”

  I was certain I was blushing. “You’re much too kind,” I said. “Look at me. I just rolled out of bed.”

  He winked. “I meant what I said.”

  “You’re a dear,” I said.

  We chatted through a second cup, but a glance at my watch told me that I’d been gone for almost two hours. “I should probably head back, Henry,” I said. “Bee is going to wonder.”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  “I’ll see you on the beach,” I said.

  “Anytime you’re passing by, please, stop in.”

  The tide was out now, exposing a secret layer of life on the shore, and walking back, I found myself picking up shells and big pieces of bubbly emerald green kelp and popping the air bubbles out of the slimy flesh the way I had so many years ago. A rock sparkled in the sun, and I kneeled down to retrieve it, which is when I heard footsteps behind me. Animal footsteps, and then shouting.

  “Russ, here boy!”

  I turned around, and in an instant, a big and bumbling golden retriever tackled me with the strength of an NFL defensive back. “Whoa!” I yelled, wiping my face, which had just been licked.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jack said. “He snuck out the back door. I hope he didn’t scare you. He’s harmless, all one hundred and eight pounds of him.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, smiling, brushing some sand off my pants, before kneeling down to give the pooch a proper greeting.

  “And you must be Russ,” I said. “Nice to meet you, fellow. I’m Emily.”

  I looked up at Jack. “I was just on my way back to Bee’s.”

  He snapped the leash on to Russ’s collar. “No more stunts like that, boy,” he said, before looking at me. “I’ll walk with you; we’re heading your way.”

  It was a minute, maybe longer, before either of us spoke. I was content with the sound of our boots on the rocky shore.

  “So, do you live here in Washington?” Jack finally said.

  “No,” I said. “New York.”

  He nodded. “Never been.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “You’ve never been to New York City?”

  He shrugged. “I guess I’ve never had a reason to go. I’ve lived here all my life. Never really considered leaving.”

  I nodded, looking at the sprawling expanse of beach. “Well, being on the island again”—I paused and looked around—“I guess it makes me wonder why I ever left. I don’t miss New York at all right now.”

  “So what brings you here this month?”

  Didn’t I already tell him that I’m visiting my aunt? Wasn’t that explanation enough? I wasn’t about to explain that I was running from my past, which in a sense I was, or that I was trying to figure out my future, or that, heaven forbid, I’d just been divorced. I took a deep breath and said instead, “I’m doing research for my next book.”

  “Oh,” he said. “You’re a writer?”

  “Yes,” I said, swallowing hard. I hated the self-importance of my tone. Could any of this really be considered research? As usual, the moment I started talking about my career I began to feel vulnerable.

  “Wow,” he said. “So what do you write?”

  I told him about Calling Ali Larson and he stopped suddenly. “You’re kidding,” he said. “They made that into a movie, right?”

  I nodded. “How about you?” I said, suddenly eager to change the subject. “What do you do?”

  “I’m an artist,” he answered. “A painter.”

  My eyes widened. “Oh, wow, I’d love to see your work sometime.” But the second I spoke, I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Could I be any more awkward, any rustier? Have I completely forgotten how to talk to a man?

  Instead of acknowledging the statement, he flashed a half grin before kicking his foot in the sand, dislodging a piece of driftwood that had been trapped. “Can you believe the beach this morning?” he said, pointing to the debris scattered along the shoreline. “There must have been quite a storm last night.”

  I loved the beach after a storm. When I was thirteen, a banker’s bag washed up on this same beach with exactly $319 inside—I know because I counted out every bill—along with a waterlogged handgun. Bee called the police, who traced the remnants to a bank robbery gone wrong seventeen years prior. Seventeen years. The Puget Sound is like a time machine, hiding things and then spewing them back onto its shores at the time and place of its choosing.

  “So you said you’ve lived here on the island all your life—then you must know my aunt.”

  He nodded. “Know her? You could say that.”

  Bee’s house lay a few steps ahead. “Would you like to come in?” I said. “You could say hello to Bee.”

  He hesitated, as if remembering something or someone. “No,” he said, squinting as he looked cautiously up toward the windows. “No, I better not.”

  I bit the edge of my lip. “OK,” I replied. “Well, I’ll see you around, then.”

  That was that, I told myself, making my way to the back door. Why did he seem so uncomfortable?

  “Wait, Emily,” Jack called out from the beach a few moments later.

  I turned around.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little out of practice.” He pushed a piece of his dark hair out of his eyes, and the wind blew it right back where it was. “I was just wondering if you’d like to come to dinner,” he said, “at my house. Saturday night at seven?”

  I stood there looking at him, waiting to open my mouth. It took a few seconds, but I found my voice, and my head. “I’d love that,” I said, nodding.

  “See you then, Emily,” he said, grinning bigger.

  I had noticed Bee watching us from the window, but when I entered the house from the mudroom she had moved to the couch.

  “So I see you’ve met Jack,” she said, her eyes fixed on her crossword puzzle.

  “Yes,” I said. “He was at Henry’s today.”

  “Henry’s?” Bee said, looking up. “What were you doing there?”

  “I was on a walk this morning, and I ran into him on the beach.” I shrugged. “He invited me in for coffee.”

  Bee looked concerned.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  She set her pencil down and looked up at me. “Be careful,” she said cryptically, “especially with Jack.”

  “Careful? Why?”

  “People aren’t always who they appear to be,” she said, tucking her reading glasses into the blue velvet case she kept on the side table.

  “What do you mean?”

  She ignored my question in a way that only Bee could. “Well, is it twelve thirty already?” She sighed. “It’s time for my nap.”

>   She poured herself a demitasse of sherry. “My medicine,” she said with a wink. “I’ll see you later this afternoon, dear.”

  It was clear that there was some kind of history between Bee and Jack. I could see it on his face, and I could hear it in her voice.

  I leaned back on the couch and yawned. Enticed by the allure of a nap, I found my way to the guest bedroom and curled up in the big bed with its pink, ruffled comforter. I picked up the novel I’d bought at the airport, but after battling through two chapters, I tossed the book on the floor.

  I freed my wrist from the constraints of my watch—I can’t sleep with any hardware on—and opened the drawer of the bedside table. But as I dropped the watch inside, I noticed something in the shadows.

  It was a journal, a diary of some sort. I picked it up and ran my hand along the spine. It was old, and its intriguing red velvet cover looked worn and threadbare. I touched it, instantly feeling a pang of guilt. What if this was an old diary of Bee’s? I shuddered, setting it carefully back inside the drawer. A few moments passed, and I found myself with the diary in my hands again. It was too irresistible. Just one look at the first page, that’s all.

  The pages, yellowed and brittle, had a pristine feel that can only be cultivated by the passage of time. I scanned the first page for a clue, and found it in the bottom right corner, where the words Manuscript Exercise Book were typed in black ink, along with standard publisher’s jargon. I recalled a book I’d read long ago in which a character from the early twentieth century used such a notebook to write a novel. Is this a draft of a novel, or a private diary? Fascinated, I turned the page, extinguishing my feelings of guilt with ample amounts of curiosity. Just one more page, then I’ll put it back.

  The words on the next page, written in the most beautiful penmanship I’d ever seen, sent my heart racing. “The Story of What Happened in a Small Island Town in 1943.”

  Bee had never written, at least not that I was aware. Uncle Bill? No, the lettering was clearly the work of a female. Why would it be here—in this pink room? And who would leave off their byline, and why?

  I took a deep breath, and turned the page. What would be the harm in simply reading a few lines? When I took in the beginning paragraph, I could no longer resist.

  I never intended on kissing Elliot. Married women don’t behave like that, at least not married women like me. It wasn’t proper. But the tide was high, and there was a cold breeze blowing, and Elliot’s arms were draped around my body like a warm shawl, caressing me in places where he shouldn’t have been, and I could scarcely think of much else. It was like how we used to be. And even though I was married now, even though circumstances had changed, my heart had managed to stay fixed in time—frozen, as if waiting for this very moment—the moment in which Elliot and I found our way back to this place. Bobby never held me like this. Or maybe he did, but if so, his touch didn’t provoke this kind of passion, this kind of fire.

  And yes, I never intended on kissing Elliot on that cold March night, nor did I plan for the unspeakable things that happened next, the chain of events that would be my undoing, our undoing. But this was the chain of events that began in the month of March of 1943, events that would forever change my life and the lives of those around me. My name is Esther, and this is my story.

  I looked up. Esther? Who is Esther? A pen name, perhaps? A fictional character? I heard a knock, and instinctively pulled up the comforter to hide the pages I was reading.

  “Yes?” I said.

  Bee opened the door. “I can’t sleep,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “How about we make a trip to the market instead?”

  “Sure,” I said, even though I really wanted to stay and keep reading.

  “I’ll meet you out front, when you’re ready,” she said, staring at me for a few seconds longer than was comfortable before breaking her gaze. I was starting to get the feeling that people on the island were all in on some big secret—one that no one had any intention of sharing with me.

  Chapter 4

  The Town and Country Market was just a half mile from Bee’s home. I used to walk there as a girl, with my sister or my cousins, or sometimes all by myself, picking purple clover flowers along the way until I had a big round bunch, which, when pressed up to your nose, smelled exactly of honey. Before the walk, we’d always beg the adults for twenty-five cents and return with pockets full of pink Bazooka bubble gum. If summer had a flavor, it was pink bubble gum.

  Bee and I drove in silence along the winding road up into town. The beauty of an old Volkswagen is that if you don’t feel like talking, you don’t have to. The engine noise infuses uneasy stillness with a nice, comforting hum.

  Bee handed me her shopping list. “I have to go talk to Leanne in the bakery. Can you get started on this list, dear?”

  “Sure,” I said, smiling. I knew I could still find my way around the market, even if I was seventeen the last time I’d stepped foot in the place.

  The Otter Pops were probably still on aisle three, and, of course, the cute guy in the produce department would be there, with the sleeves of his T-shirt rolled up high to show off his biceps.

  I scanned Bee’s list—salmon, arborio rice, leeks, watercress, shallots, white wine, rhubarb, whipping cream—which hinted that dinner would be drool-worthy. I decided to start with wine, since it was closest.

  The Town and Country Market’s wine department looked more like the cellar of an upscale restaurant than the limited selection typical of a regular grocery store. Nestled below a small flight of stairs was a dimly lit, cavernous room where dusty bottles seemed to cling perilously to the walls.

  “Can I help you?”

  I looked up, a little startled, and noticed a man about my age walking toward me. I backed up abruptly and almost knocked over a display of white wine. “Oh my gosh, sorry,” I said, steadying a bottle that was bobbing like a bowling pin.

  “No worries,” he said. “Are you looking for a California white, or maybe something local?”

  There were few lights in the room, so I couldn’t make out his face, not at first. “Well, I really was just . . .” And just then, as he approached me and reached for a bottle on the upper shelf, I saw his face, and my mouth fell open. “God, is that you, Greg?”

  He looked down at me, shaking his head in disbelief. “Emily?”

  It was eerie and exciting and uncomfortable, all at the same time. There, standing in front of me, wearing a grocery store apron, was my teenage crush. And even though it had been almost twenty years since I’d last seen him, his face was as familiar as it had been the day I let him remove the top of my Superwoman bikini and run his hands along my chest. I was sure it meant that he loved me and we’d get married one day. I was so sure of this, in fact, that I scratched “Emily + Greg = Love” with a paper clip on the back of the paper towel dispenser in the women’s restroom at the market. But then the summer ended, and I went home. I checked my mailbox every day for five months, but no letters. No calls. And then the next summer, at Bee’s, I walked along the beach to his house and knocked on his door. His younger sister, whom I never liked, informed me that he’d left for college and that he had a new girlfriend. Her name, she said, was Lisa.

  Greg was still incredibly handsome—but he was older now, more weathered. I wondered if I looked weathered. I instinctively glanced at his left hand for a wedding ring. There was none.

  “What are you doing here?” I said. It still hadn’t hit me that this was his place of employment. I’d always imagined Greg as an airline pilot or a forest ranger—something bolder, something bigger, something, well, more Greg. But a grocery store clerk? It didn’t fit.

  “I work here,” he said, grinning proudly. He pointed to his name badge and then ran his hand through his bleached-blond hair. “Wow—it’s so good to see you,” he continued. “It’s been, like, what, fifteen years?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Wait, maybe even longer. That’s crazy.”

  “You look great,” he said, which ma
de me feel self-conscious.

  “Thanks,” I replied, tugging at my collar. I looked down at my feet. Oh God. The rubber boots. Everyone fantasizes about running into old flames while wearing slimming cocktail dresses, and here I was in a balled-up wool sweater from the back of Bee’s closet. Oops.

  Even so, Greg, with the same boyish good looks and gray-blue eyes exactly the color of the sound on a stormy day, was making me feel as good as he looked.

  “So what brings you back to the island?” he said, smiling, propping his elbow against the wall. “I thought you were some fancy writer in New York.”

  I grinned. “I’m visiting Bee for the month.”

  “Oh really,” he said. “I see her here shopping every once in a while. I’ve always wanted to ask her how you were.” He paused. “But I guess I always chickened out.”

  “Chickened out?”

  He rubbed his hand along his forehead. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess at our core, we’re all still sixteen, right? And didn’t you break up with me?”

  I smiled. “No, you left for college.” He had a certain warmth, a certain energy that I liked.

  “So why here, why now, after all these years?” he said.

  I sighed. “Well, it’s a little complicated.”

  “I can do complicated.”

  I rubbed the finger where my wedding ring had once been. “I’m here because . . .” I paused and searched his face for approval, or disapproval, which was crazy because what did I care what my boyfriend from a million years ago would think of my marital status, and then I finally blurted it out: “I’m here because I just got divorced, and I needed to get the hell out of New York City.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He said it as if he meant it, which made me decide that I liked Grown-up Greg a lot more than Teenage Greg.

  “I’m OK,” I said, praying that he wasn’t a mind reader.

  He shook his head in disbelief. “You haven’t changed at all.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “Thanks.” Greg was only saying what every person says to someone they were once romantically involved with, but it woke up my lethargic self-esteem like a dose of epinephrine. I nervously smoothed my hair, then remembered that I needed a haircut—three months ago.