The Violets of March (39 page)

“How’s he doing?” I whispered to Jack once inside the room. I handed him his coffee, extending my hand with the sugar packet and creamers.

“He’s sleeping,” he said, bypassing the sugar and selecting a single half-and-half container, which he emptied into his cup. I did exactly the same.

I kissed his cheek.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“Just because,” I whispered.

I tiptoed over to Elliot’s bedside and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders, and when I did, something in the covers caught my eye. Underneath the blanket, he was clutching something, a scarf. A blue scarf. He was holding it close to his chest.

I blinked back a tear, because in that moment,
I knew
.

“You’re crying,” Jack whispered.

“I’m crying,” I said, smiling through the tears spilling out of my eyes.
I’m finally crying.
There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I wanted to say, but it could wait. All I knew was that there were tears in my eyes just then, big fat tears, and they rolled down my cheeks with such ferocity, I hadn’t thought my eyes had it in them. With each drop, I felt lighter, happier, more whole.

Jack pulled me close to him. “Thank you for being here with me.”

I gave him a quick squeeze, just as the nurse opened the door to the room and whispered to me, “Ma’am, I have the name of that caller. She signed in at the front desk.” Jack walked back to Elliot’s bedside when he stirred, and I followed the nurse into the hallway.

“Lana,” she said, showing me a clipboard on which her name was written. “Her name was Lana.”

“Lana,” I said, tears rolling down my face. “Of course.” The hair on my arms was standing on end.

I’d never know what words passed their lips when they saw each other again after a lifetime apart. Did they embrace? Did they weep for the years they had lost? But I suppose that didn’t matter, not really.
He got to see his daughter. And he got to see his Esther, once more.

“Are you OK, honey?” the nurse asked, putting her hand on my shoulder.

I nodded. “Yes,” I said, smiling. “
Yes.
”

I sat down in a metal folding chair in the hallway outside Elliot’s room. The fluorescent lights hissed overhead, and the air smelled of stale coffee and Lysol. I opened my bag and pulled out my laptop with a sense of purpose and clarity that I hadn’t felt in years. I stared at the flashing cursor on the blank screen, but this time it was different. I knew how to finish Esther’s story now. I knew how it began, and I knew how it ended. Every word of it.

But as the digital clock in the hallway flashed from 11:59 to midnight, I realized that there was another story to write first. It was the first day of April—a new day, a new month, and the beginning of a new story, my story, and I could hardly wait to start writing it.

Acknowledgments

T
his book would not be a book without the wise eye of Elisabeth Weed, my literary agent, who saw a glimmer of something special in this story and waded with me through the muck of a thousand revisions until the manuscript sparkled. Elisabeth, thank you for believing in this project and for placing me in the enormously capable hands of my editor at Plume, Denise Roy.

Denise, Elisabeth told me you would be the perfect editor for me, and she was so right. You dazzled me with your brilliant editorial eye and creative ideas. I couldn’t have hoped for a more talented and kind person to work with—you made even the revision rounds enjoyable. Can we do this again?

I am also incredibly grateful to my family, for their love and support—my sister, Jessica Campbell, a true best friend; and my two brothers, Josh and Josiah Mitchell—but most of all, to my parents, Terry and Karen Mitchell, who always encouraged my writing (even that embarrassing handwritten “newspaper” I distributed to the neighbors in the sixth grade—gulp). Thank you for your devotion to me (even in those horrid teenage years). And, also a thanks to the Jio family for creating a marvelous son, Jason, and for letting me plaster your family name on the cover of this book.

Much appreciation goes out to the editors, fellow authors, and writers who have cheered me on and supported me in million different ways: Allison Winn Scotch, Claire Cook, Sarah Pekkanen, and the other lovely women of the Debutante Ball; Camille Noe Pagán, Jael McHenry, Sally Farhat Kassab, Cindi Leive, Anne Sachs, Lindsey Unterberger, Margarita Bertsos, and all the other wonderful women (and men) at
Glamour
, as well as Heidi Cho and Meghan Ahearn at
Woman’s Day
.

To Nadia Kashper and all the terrific folks behind the scenes at Plume, thank you for working so hard on my behalf. Also, a heartfelt thanks to Stephanie Sun at Weed Literary for being an early reader of this book, and to Jenny Meyer, my literary agent who handles foreign rights—so grateful to you that my first book will debut in bookstores in Germany and elsewhere. (Still pinching myself!)

And, to the lovely people of Bainbridge Island who have unknowingly opened up their world to readers around the world. While there is much fiction in theses pages, the essence of the island is, I hope, intact. In my opinion, it is impossible to find a more perfect place in the world than this ten-mile stretch of island.

To my boys, who I love with all my heart, I wrote this book mostly while you napped or snoozed in your beds at night, but someday you will grow up and learn that your mama is a writer—I hope this won’t embarrass you too much.

And, last but not least, thank you to my husband, Jason, who not only served as proofreader for my many drafts, but who also wore a million different hats—child wrangler, copy guy, etc.—and cheered me on at every turn, even when I was grumpy, or tired, or at my wits end, which was often. Thank you for helping me stay the course—and for staying the course with me. I love you.