The Violets of March

by Sarah Jio

  “That would be great,” I said, “but when?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with a client tomorrow, but how about the day after that? I’m supposed to go visit him that afternoon. You could come with me.”

  “Yes,” I said, smiling. “It’s a date.”

  Jack drove to the far west side of the island, where I’d never been before, even on all of my summer visits. He pulled into what looked like a parking lot, but there were thorny blackberry bushes on all sides, and just enough gravel to park two or three cars. He grabbed a picnic basket out of the trunk. It was one of those old-fashioned wicker ones, red and white gingham with dark red trim. Perfect.

  “Want to guess where I’m taking you?” he said, grinning mischievously.

  “Honestly,” I replied, “I have no idea.” Branches tugged at my clothes as we pushed through the overgrown brush.

  “I should have brought my machete,” Jack joked. “I guess nobody comes down here anymore.”

  “Down where?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Darkness descended as we walked beneath a thick canopy of trees. But then, just ahead, I could see a patch of light.

  “Almost here,” Jack said, turning to me and smiling, as if to reassure me that our jungle walk would soon be over. But I didn’t mind it, actually. It was a beautiful scene worthy of a painting—untouched old-growth trees deeply rooted in a carpet of light green moss.

  He pushed aside some bushes and motioned with his arm for me to go ahead of him. “You first.”

  I burrowed through the small opening that Jack had created for me and emerged before an inlet enclosed by rocky hillside. The water was the color of emeralds, and I wondered how this was possible, given that the sound was so decidedly gray. A small plume of water—a waterfall, but not a loud, forceful one, just a trickle—was winding down one side of the cliff, making its descent into the pool below. Birds chirped in stereo.

  There was a small patch of sand free of barnacle-covered rocks, like the beach in front of Bee’s, and that’s where Jack spread a blanket out. “What do you think?” he asked proudly.

  “It’s unbelievable,” I said, shaking my head. “How in the world does water get that color?”

  “It’s the minerals in the rock,” he replied.

  “How did you find this place?”

  “This is the lagoon that my grandfather used to take girls to,” he said, grinning. “He took me down here when I was sixteen—a family rite of passage. He told me to swear never to tell a soul about it, unless that soul happened to be female.”

  “Why all the secrecy?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “He and a friend discovered it when they were boys, and they never told anyone about it. I guess they wanted to keep it to themselves.”

  I nodded and looked back out at the striking water. “I can see why.”

  Jack peered into the picnic basket and I sat down next to him. “I love your family stories,” I said. “I wish mine weren’t so secretive about theirs.”

  “Oh, mine have secrets too,” Jack said quickly. “There’s something I’m trying to figure out, actually.”

  “What?” I asked, perplexed.

  “Well, I found some old newspaper clippings in a box in the attic shortly before my grandmother died,” he said.

  “What newspaper clippings?” I remembered the file I’d seen Jack’s dog get into earlier in the month.

  “Hey, look,” Jack said, pointing to the sky, very obviously changing the subject. I didn’t protest. Whatever it was about his family’s history, I had a feeling he’d tell me in time.

  Dark clouds hung all around us, but right overhead, there was a ray of sunshine beaming down, as if it had appeared just because we were having a picnic.

  “Hungry?” he said, turning to the basket.

  I surveyed the spread. “Yes!”

  He set out two plates, forks and knives, and napkins, and then pulled out several plastic containers. “OK, we have potato salad, and fried chicken, coleslaw, and fruit salad with mint—it grows like a weed in my garden—oh, and corn bread.”

  It was a feast, and I ate unabashedly, filling my plate and then filling it again, until I settled into the blanket and sighed.

  Jack poured wine, rosé, for both of us, and I wedged my back against his stomach, so that I could lean back fully into him, as if he were my personal armchair.

  “Jack?” I said, after we sat like that for several minutes.

  He pulled my hair back a little and kissed my neck. “Yes?”

  I turned around to face him. “The other day,” I said, “I was in town, and I saw you with a woman.”

  His smile vanished.

  I cleared my throat. “At the bistro. The night you said you were going to call me.”

  Jack said nothing, and I looked down at my hands. “I’m sorry, this is all coming out wrong. I’m sounding like a jealous wife.”

  He reached for my hands. “Listen,” he said, “You don’t sound jealous at all. And let me reassure you, there is no one else.”

  I nodded, but my face told him the explanation wasn’t exactly satisfying.

  “Listen,” he said. “She’s a client. She’s commissioning a painting for her mother. That’s all there is to it.”

  I remembered the woman who’d left a message on his answering machine, and how he’d acted afterward. Jack had secrets, indeed. But I decided to trust him anyway. When he opened his mouth again, I reached my hand up to his lips, then I pushed him to the ground, climbed over his chest, and kissed him like I’d wanted to kiss him for a long time.

  His hands reached up and unbuttoned my shirt, and as it slid down my arms, I felt his warm hands on my torso, fumbling with the zipper of my jeans until he got it.

  “Let’s go swimming,” he whispered in my ear.

  “Now?” I said, feeling cold just thinking about it.

  “C’mon,” he said, “I’ll keep you warm.”

  I grinned and watched him strip down to his boxers as I slipped off my jeans. He grabbed my hand and led me down to the water’s edge, where I cautiously put one toe in.

  “Brrr,” I muttered. “It’s way too cold. You can’t be serious.”

  But Jack just wrapped his arms around me, his front glued to my back, and we slowly walked in together. With each step, it became less cold and more inviting, and when the water reached my chest, and Jack’s waist, he turned me around and pressed me against his body, so that I could feel every part of him, and he could feel every part of me.

  “Are you cold?” he said softly.

  “I’m perfect.”

  It was dark by the time Jack drove me home, and my hair was still damp and caked with salt water when I walked in the door. Bee looked up from her book.

  “He took you to the lagoon, didn’t he?” Her tone wasn’t angry or upset, just matter-of-factly, the way one might say, “It was cold today, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “How did you know?”

  Bee just smiled and set her book down. “You look like you need a hot bath. Come, I’ll get one ready for you.”

  Chapter 15

  March 15

  I was still at the breakfast table reading the paper and eating bites of waffles, which I’d slathered in far too much maple syrup, when Bee walked in from the garden, her cheeks pink from the cold air, with a bundle of freshly clipped sage in her hand. “Morning,” she said.

  This was the morning I decided it was time to clear the air—to tell Bee about the book. To ask her what she knew of Esther.

  “Bee,” I said weakly, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  She set the sage down by the sink and turned on the water. “Yes, dear?”

  “There’s someone I need to ask you about,” I said, “a woman.” I paused to collect my thoughts. “A woman who lived on this island in 1943. Her name was Esther.”

  I watched Bee at the sink. She didn’t look up as she rhythmically lathered her hands with the bar of lavender so
ap she kept near the faucet. Minutes passed as she turned the soap over and over again as if in a trance.

  “Bee?” I said again. “Did you know her?”

  She set the soap down, and slowly ran her fingers under the warm water, rinsing them for what seemed like an eternity, until she turned off the faucet and held them up to the light.

  “I can never seem to find a pair of gloves that don’t let dirt into my nails,” she said.

  “Bee,” I said as she walked out of the kitchen. “Did you hear what I asked you?”

  She looked back at me before turning down the hallway. “Remind me to buy a new pair of gloves next time we’re in town, dear.”

  Later that morning, I heard a knock at the door. I looked through the window and could see it was Greg.

  “Hi,” he said boyishly. “Sorry to drop in unannounced, but I was passing by, and . . .” he paused, pulling something out of the brown paper bag in his hands. Billy. I suddenly thought of Esther’s childhood love, and it occurred to me then that the way I felt about Greg mirrored Esther’s feelings about Billy in the pages of the diary.

  “I wanted to give you this,” he continued, handing me an unlabeled manila file folder.

  “What is it?” I asked, confused.

  “You seemed interested in the old owner of my house, and last night when I was cleaning out some files, I found this old paperwork. I made a copy of everything for you.”

  “Greg, that was incredibly thoughtful,” I said, smiling. “Thank you.”

  “No worries,” he replied, turning toward the door and then looking back before letting himself out. “I hope you find what you’re searching for here.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  I opened the file folder and started thumbing through the documents. Inside were sales records for Greg’s house. I scanned the pages for pertinent facts: It had been built in 1901, then sold in 1941 to a woman named Elsa Hartley. Hartley, I thought, that’s Elliot’s last name. Could it have been his wife? Did the love affair between Elliott and Esther never happen?

  I flipped to the next page and saw that the home wasn’t sold again until 1998, to Greg. And the seller’s name was William Miller. I was crestfallen. So what happened to Elsa Hartley? What happened to Elliot?

  I ran to the door and could see Greg’s car pulling out of the long driveway. “Wait!” I yelled, waving to him.

  He rolled down his window and I ran up to the car. “Do you think you could give me a ride into town?

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks,” I said, climbing in. “I have some research to do.”

  Greg dropped me off at the municipal building, just off Main Street. At the reception desk an older woman, maybe in her seventies, maybe older, looked up from her dark-rimmed glasses. “Yes?” she said, almost mechanically.

  “Yes, hi,” I said. “I’m trying to find any records you might have on someone who used to live on this island.”

  She looked up at me curiously, as if I could be slightly crazy, and didn’t I know that information about islanders wasn’t remitted to crazy people? “What are you looking for, exactly?” she asked suspiciously.

  I wasn’t exactly sure myself. “Well,” I said, “the thing is, I’m here to find out if someone who used to live on the island is still alive.” As I heard the words aloud, goose bumps erupted on my arms.

  “Fill out this form,” she said, sighing, “and we’ll send you whatever documents we can find in six to eight weeks.”

  I could almost feel my heart sink and then flop to the floor. “Six to eight weeks? I can’t wait that long. There must be another way.”

  The woman shrugged. She was a brick wall. “It’s our policy,” she said.

  I sighed, and decided that waiting was better than never knowing, so I filled out the form, writing the names “Elliot Hartley” and “Esther Littleton” on it, and left my New York address for any paperwork to be sent.

  “Thank you,” I said, turning toward the door. The woman just nodded.

  I walked several paces, and heard a gasp behind me.

  “Wait!” the woman nearly screamed. “Miss,” she said again, louder, “wait!”

  I turned around and could see her waving her arms at me from behind the desk.

  “I think I can help you,” she said.

  My eyes widened as I set my bag down on the counter.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking apologetic now, “I just read your form here, and well, you see, I knew an Elliot Hartley.”

  I leaned in closer. “You did?”

  “Yes,” she said nostalgically. “Oh, he was something. All the girls on the island thought so too. We all hoped Elliot Hartley would notice us.”

  “And did he?” I said. “Did you date him?”

  She shook her head. “I wish I had, but there was only one woman in Elliot’s heart. Everyone knew that. But they had problems, so . . .”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “I’m not sure exactly, but they fought a lot. They were always breaking up and getting back together. But one time, it was for good. Elliot was heartbroken. He started drinking. He started going around with a lot of women—I even danced with him once. Oh, that was a night. But then he went off to war.”

  “Did he ever come back?”

  The woman was silent, as though deep in thought. I prayed she would say yes, that he came back, as the story indicated, that he reunited with Esther—eventually, at least—and that the final half of the story was indeed true. “Yes, he did, but he wasn’t the same, mostly because the woman he loved was married to someone else.”

  “And this woman,” I said, “the one he loved, her name was Esther, right?”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “I just can’t remember. It could have been Esther, but it’s been so long. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  I nodded. “Do you remember anything about her, this woman that Elliot loved? Anything at all?”

  The woman leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling as if she was trying very hard to recall a moment, a thought, a conversation from so long ago. “She was beautiful,” she said. “I do remember that. She was the envy of every woman on the island.”

  “Do you know what became of her?”

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t, I’m afraid. I moved with my parents to the Midwest shortly after high school. I’ve only been back here for the last fifteen years. So much has changed since then. Did you know that they put a McDonald’s on the island?”

  I nervously tugged at the tassels on my bag, eager to change the subject back to Esther and Elliot. “Terrible,” I said, remembering seeing the golden arches as Bee drove me home that first night. It had been a surprise.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m just wondering if you have any ideas about who I can talk to. Would anyone who is still living know more about these people?”

  “Well, you could check the newspaper records down at the public library,” she said. “There has to be something on file about Elliot.”

  “Thanks,” I said, a little disappointed. Sifting through county records didn’t exactly sound like the quickest way to get from point A to point B.

  “Oh,” I said, remembering the records of Greg’s house. “Do you happen to know someone by the name of Elsa Hartley?”

  “Yes,” she said. “She was Elliot’s sister.”

  That makes sense, I thought. He went to his sister’s house, her garden, to get the tulip for Esther. I would try to find her new address, I decided, and visit her.

  “Wait, you said she was Elliot’s sister?”

  The woman nodded. “She passed away several years ago, as did her husband, William. My grandson used to mow their lawn.”

  “OK,” I sighed. Another brick wall. “Thanks again.”

  “Sure,” she said nostalgically. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard anything of Elliot Hartley,” she continued, shaking her head and smiling the way one does when recalling a fi
ne wine. “But I’ll do some digging, and if I find anything, should I call you at a certain number?”

  She wrote my cell phone number down on a slip of paper. “By the way,” she said, “how did you say you knew Elliot?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said, before heading to the door.

  Bainbridge Island has one library—one big and beautiful library built by the Carnegie Foundation in the early twentieth century. When I opened the door, three young children barreled out, nearly knocking my bag off my arm.

  “Finny, what did I tell you about waiting for Mommy?” a rather frazzled woman, about my age, called out to her headstrong four-year-old son.

  I smiled, but I was really thinking, Please, somebody shoot me if I ever name a child Finny. Then I headed inside, where I flagged down a librarian. “Hi,” I said, “I’m looking for the place where you keep newspapers on microfiche.”

  “You’re in luck,” she said. “We just recataloged the Seattle newspapers and the local Bainbridge Island Digest this month. They’re all online now. What year are you looking for?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” I said. “But I thought I’d start with 1943.”

  She looked impressed. “Wow, what interests you about the island in the forties?

  “Oh,” I said, “just piecing together a bit of a mystery I seem to have stumbled upon.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re a writer, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes,” I said, “but . . .” I was about to tell her that this had nothing to do with my writing, that it was a personal project, but she cut me off.

  “Wait, what’s your name? I know your face. I’m sure I’ve seen you on a book jacket.”

  “Um, Emily Wilson.”

  “Ahhhhhh!” she screamed, “The Emily Wilson, the author of Calling Ali Larson?”

  I nodded. I hated when this kind of thing happened, even if it was pretty rare.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe it. You. Here. On Bainbridge Island! This is an occasion. I’m going to get the head librarian down here to meet you, and maybe we can rustle up an impromptu reading.”