The Violets of March (31 page)

“What are you going to do?”

I told her about the book, as best I could, and the clues I’d pieced together—the woman at the municipal building and the newspaper articles.

“What about this Elliot character?” she asked. “Could there have been foul play?”

“No, no,” I said. “There’s no way. He loved her so much. And she was carrying his child.” But then I remembered an important detail: He didn’t
know
Esther was carrying his child.

“This is a mess,” I said, sitting down on the grass in front of the library, unaware that the lawn was wet—and even if I had been, at that moment I wouldn’t have cared. “What am I supposed to do?”

She cleared her throat. “You’re going to do what you came there to do,” she said.

I ran my fingers through my hair. “I can’t even remember why I came here again.”

“To heal, Em.”

I nodded. “But what about all of this? Maybe I’m prying into things that shouldn’t be tampered with. Maybe I should let all this be.”

Annabelle was silent for a few moments. “Is that what your heart is telling you to do?”

I shook my head and thought about the fortune-teller in the story, the woman who had warned Esther that her writing would have significance in the future. “No,” I said. “And the thing is, Annie, for the first time in a long time, I know what my heart is telling me to do.”

I had never been so eager to talk to Bee. Now that I had the raw facts, I craved the details to pull it all together. Evelyn had cautioned me about talking to Bee about the book until the time was right, and I decided that the time was now.

I caught a cab back to Bee’s, and after paying the fare, I practically sprinted to the door, which Bee never locked.

“Bee?” My voice was loud, determined.

I looked in the kitchen but didn’t find her there, or in the living room, either. I walked down the hall to her bedroom and knocked, but there was no answer, so I cracked the door open and glanced in. She wasn’t in her room.

“Bee,” I called out again, this time louder, hoping she was in the lanai.

When she didn’t respond, I noticed a note on the breakfast table:

Dear Emily,

An old friend of mine, also one of Evelyn’s dearest friends, called and invited me to stay with her in Seattle for the night. We thought we’d reminisce over photos and catch up. I tried calling your cell, but you must not be getting reception. I wanted you to join me, but it didn’t work out in time. I hope you don’t mind staying by yourself tonight. The fridge is stocked. I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.

Love,
Bee

I turned on the TV. I listened to music. I caught up on e-mail. But nothing silenced the thoughts that filled my mind. They were like a song on repeat. A very bad song.

It was an awful night to be alone. So when the sun set and the house started creaking, the way old houses do when it’s dark and windy and you’re alone, I picked up the phone and called Jack.

I didn’t expect him to be there. I remembered him saying he’d be busy today. But he was—well,
she
was. The woman who picked up the phone. Before I heard her voice, I heard a man’s laughter in the background—Jack’s laughter. And there was music, too, something soft and romantic.

“Hello, Jack’s residence,” the woman said. She sounded sure of herself, as if she’d answered the phone there before. I looked at the clock: 9:47 P.M. What was she doing there at 9:47 P.M.?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said awkwardly. “I was calling for Jack.”

She giggled. “Well, he’s kind of busy right now. Can I take a message?”

“No,” I said. “That’s OK. Everything’s OK. I’m OK.”

In that moment, I felt all the rage that Esther had for Elliot, and for that matter, the rage that Jane had felt for Andre in
Years of Grace
. I knew then why Esther had thrown the ring. I knew why she had married someone else. Anger churned in my heart like the stormy waves outside the window. I didn’t want to end up like Esther, but I’d be damned if I stood back and watched as another man deceived me.

Chapter 16

March 16

I
woke up early that morning, much earlier than I should have, given that I stayed up half the night wondering if there was a ghost in the house. When the phone rang shortly after eight a.m., it nearly induced a heart attack.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hello, who is this?” It was a man, with a deep and somewhat gravelly voice—a mature voice, one I didn’t recognize.

“Who is
this
?” I said back. I have always found it unnerving when a caller asks who you are before they tell you their name. Well, not so much unnerving as just plain rude.

“I’m trying to reach a Ms. Emily Wilson,” he said.

“You’re speaking to her,” I said. “And you are?”

He cleared his throat. “Elliot Hartley.”

I nearly dropped the phone. But I clutched the receiver, clutched it for dear life, afraid that if I didn’t he’d disappear back into the pages of the book, where he’d forever stay. “Yes,” I said, “this is Emily.”

“I hope I’m not bothering you, but—”

“No, no,” I said, cutting him off. “You’re not bothering me at all.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m calling to ask if we could meet. I’d like to talk to you in person.”

How did he find me? And where is he? And is Esther still alive? And does he somehow know I was reading her book? Did Evelyn tell him?

It seemed wrong to quiz him about these things over the phone. “That would be fine,” I said. “I mean, that would be great. I was hoping our paths would cross.”

“Any chance you’d like to come by for a visit today?” he asked. “There are some things I’d really like to discuss with you.”

“Yes,” I said quickly.

He gave me his address, which was in Seattle.

“I’ll catch the next ferry,” I said.

“Emily, wait,” he said. “You know who I am, right?”

“Yes, Elliot, I do. You’re the man my grandmother loved.”

A cab dropped me off at the ferry terminal, and it wasn’t until I arrived at the ferry dock that I realized I hadn’t let Jack know that I wouldn’t be joining him today to visit his grandfather. But after what I’d heard on the phone the night before, it didn’t seem to matter.

On the ferry, I thought a lot about Esther.
Did she simply run away? If so, where is she? And if not, if her death—
I gulped—
was foul play, why hasn’t anyone found the body?

I ran through the list of people in Esther’s life. My grandfather certainly had a motive: anger, revenge, jealousy, maybe. But no matter how I assembled the clues, I decided there was no way he could have gone through with it. And what about the baby—presumably my mother? Did he leave her alone while he ran off to chase down Esther? It didn’t seem probable, but it was possible.

Frances and Rose were out of the question, or maybe not. There was something concerning about Esther’s relationship with Frances toward the end, and on that last night, when Esther saw Frances with Elliot—maybe something horrible happened there in the moonlight.
Did Frances snap?
I wondered.

The ferry pulled into Seattle, and I joined the crowd of passengers lining up to disembark. And as I stepped off the boat, I felt butterflies in my stomach, knowing I was one step closer to Elliot.

I hailed a cab and told the driver the address. Elliot had said that the Queen Anne Retirement Home wasn’t far from downtown, and he was right. Less than five minutes later I paid my fare and stood in front of the building. It was in a neighborhood not far from where Greg used to take me sometimes in the summers. He bought me my first latte at a café a block away.

“I’m here to see a Mr. Elliot Hartley,” I told a man seated at a reception desk in the lobby.

He leaned over a clipboard and looked at me with a confused face. “I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s no one by that name here.”

I felt my palms moisten and my heart start beating faster. “What do you mean? There must be some mistake. I just spoke to him, and he said he lived here, in”—I paused to look at the room number I’d written on a scrap of paper—“room 308.”

The man just shrugged. “I wish I could help you,” he said. “But his name is not on the list.”

Is someone playing a cruel joke on me?
I wondered.

“Wait,” I said, not wanting to give in just yet. “Can you check it again?”

And just then a woman walked out from behind a cubicle wall. “Ed,” she said, “is there a problem here?”

He shrugged again. “She’s asking for a resident who doesn’t live here.”

She walked over to the counter and gave me a quizzical look. “Who are you looking for, honey?”

“His name is Elliot Hartley,” I said.

“All right, let me check.” She pulled the clipboard from Ed’s hands and looked it over for a few seconds before looking up again with a frown on her face. “Oh,” she said, “that’s the problem—someone has been into my Excel file again. They’ve sorted this incorrectly. And the last page is missing. It must still be on the printer.”

I sighed, feeling relief that there was still hope. “Thanks for checking,” I said.

She returned a few seconds later with a paper in her hand and a grin on her face. “Yes, he’s here,” she said. “Room 308. Ed is new here, so he doesn’t know the residents by name yet. But Mr. Hartley didn’t register with me, either, probably because most everyone here just calls him Bud.”

“Bud?” I said.

“One of the nurses here nicknamed him that, and it stuck,” the woman said.

“I can show you to his apartment if you like,” Ed said, I think because he felt bad for the mistake.

“That would be great,” I said.

We walked down a long hallway, and at the end was an elevator. Ed pressed the “3” button and the old elevator barreled up to the third floor. When the door opened, he walked out, but I just stood there.

“Ma’am,” he said, “this is your floor.”

“I know,” I said. “I guess I’m just a little nervous.”

He seemed confused. “Why would you be nervous to see your grandfather?”

I shook my head, stepping out onto the third floor cautiously, as though there could be danger ahead. The hallway smelled like library books and overcooked pot roast. “He’s not my grandfather, but I suppose he almost was.”

Ed shrugged again, the way he had downstairs. I figured he thought I was nuts. Heck, I kind of thought I was nuts. “Three-oh-eight,” he said pointing to the door. “Good luck.”

I stood in front of apartment 308 for some time, unable to knock on the door. All I could think about was that I was here, on
Elliot Hartley’s doorstep
.
What will he look like?
I closed my eyes for a moment and saw Jack’s face, and it occurred to me that this whole time reading the diary, I’d imagined Jack’s face when I pictured Elliot. I shuddered a little and raised my hand to knock on the door.

I could hear rustling around inside, and someone coming closer. The door opened slowly, and a man appeared. He was handsome—not just handsome for eighty, but handsome, plain and simple, even with thinning gray hair and wrinkly skin. “I’m so glad you came,” he said.

He leaned against the doorway just looking at me, with warm, dark eyes, in the way he might have looked at my grandmother. “I knew when I saw you at the cemetery that you were her granddaughter,” he said. “Jack didn’t have to tell me who you were. I knew.”

I felt my cheeks get hot.
Of course Elliot is Jack’s grandfather. How did I not connect the dots in the first place? How eerie and wonderful and confusing.

“It’s remarkable, the resemblance,” he said, pausing for a few seconds more. “It’s like I’m looking at
her
.”