The Violets of March (5 page)

I
didn’t bother changing my clothes or brushing my hair, preparations I would most certainly have made in New York. Instead, I threw on a sweater, jammed my feet into a pair of army green rubber boots that Bee kept in the mudroom, and made my way outside.

There is something oddly therapeutic about trudging through marshy sand, the feeling of squishiness below the feet signaling to the brain that it’s OK to just let go for a while. And that’s what I did that morning. I didn’t scold myself, either, when my mind turned to Joel and a thousand little random memories from the past. I crushed a hollowed-out crab shell with my boot, crunching it into a thousand pieces.

I picked up a rock and threw it into the water as far and as hard as I could.
Dammit. Why did our story have to end like this?
Then I picked up another, and another, throwing them violently into the sound, until I slumped over on a nearby piece of driftwood.
How could he? How could
I
?
In spite of everything, there was a small part of me that wanted him back, and I hated myself for it.

“You’re never going to skip a rock with a throw like that.”

I jumped at the sound of a man’s voice. It was Henry, walking slowly toward me.

“Oh, hi,” I said self-consciously. Had he been watching my tantrum ? And for how long? “I was just . . .”

“Skipping rocks,” he said, nodding. “But your technique, sweetheart—it’s all wrong.”

He bent down and picked up a smooth sand-dollar-thin rock and held it up to the light, scrutinizing every angle. “Yes,” he finally said. “This one will do.” He turned to me. “Now, hold the rock like this, and then let your arm flow through like butter as you release it.”

He threw it toward the shore and it flew across the water, where it did a little six-hop dance on the surface. “Rats,” he said. “I’m losing my touch. Six is terrible.”

“It is?”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “My record’s fourteen.”

“Fourteen? You can’t be serious.”

“As I live and stand here,” he said, crossing his heart with his hand the way you do when you’re eleven years old. And a member of a
Boy Scout troop
. “I was once the rock-skipping champion of this island.”

I didn’t feel like laughing, but I couldn’t help myself. “They have competitions for rock skipping?”

“Sure do,” he said. “Now you try.”

I looked down toward the sand and reached for a flat stone. “Here goes,” I said, winding up and then letting go. The rock hit the water and belly flopped. “See? I’m terrible.”

“Nah,” he said. “You just need practice.”

I smiled. His face was worn and wrinkled like an old leather-bound book. But his eyes . . . well, they told me that somewhere inside the smile lines resided a young man.

“May I interest you in a cup of coffee?” he asked, pointing up the shore to a little white house above the bulkhead. His eyes sparkled.

“Yes,” I said. “That sounds wonderful.”

We walked up the concrete steps that led to a moss-covered pathway. Its six stepping-stones deposited us at Henry’s entryway, under the shadow of two large old cedar trees standing sentry.

He opened the screen door. Its screech rivaled that of a few seagulls from the roof who squealed in disapproval as they flew back toward the water.

“I’ve been meaning to get this door fixed,” he said, slipping off his boots on the porch. I followed his lead and did the same.

My cheeks warmed from the fire roaring and crackling in the living room. “You make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll put the coffee on.”

I nodded and walked to the fireplace, with its dark mahogany mantel lined with seashells, small shiny rocks, and black-and-white photos in simple frames. One of the pictures caught my eye. Its subject wore her blond hair curled and styled close to her head, the way women did in the 1940s. She oozed glamour, like a model or an actress, standing there on the beach with the wind blowing her dress against her body, the outline of her breasts and her thin waist visible. There was a house in the background, Henry’s house, and those cedar trees, much smaller then, but just as recognizable. I wondered if she had been his wife. Her pose seemed too suggestive for a sister. Whoever this was, Henry adored her. I was sure of it.

He approached with two big coffee mugs in hand.

“She’s beautiful,” I said, picking up the photo and sitting down on the couch with it for a closer look. “Your wife?”

He looked surprised by my question, then answered, simply, “No.” He handed me a mug and then stood up and ran his fingers along his chin, the way men do when they’re confused or unsure about something.

“I’m sorry,” I said, quickly replacing the frame on the mantel. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, no,” he said, suddenly smiling. “It’s silly, I guess. It’s been more than sixty years; you’d think I’d be able to talk about her.”

“Her?”

“She was my fiancée,” he continued. “We were going to be married, but . . . things didn’t work out.” He paused as if changing his mind about something. “I probably shouldn’t be—”

We both looked up when we heard a knock at the door. “Henry?” It was a man’s voice. “Are you home?”

“Oh, it’s Jack,” Henry said, turning to me. He said the name in a familiar way, as though I was expected to know him.

I watched from the living room as he opened the door and welcomed a dark-haired man about my age. He was tall, so tall that he had to duck a little when entering the house. He wore jeans and a gray wool sweater, and even though it was only midmorning, the faint shadow visible on his jawline hinted at the fact that he hadn’t yet shaved, or showered, either.

“Hi,” he said a little awkwardly, as his eyes met mine. “I’m Jack.”

Henry spoke for me. “This is Emily—you know, Bee Larson’s niece.”

Jack looked at me, and then back at Henry. “Bee’s
niece
?”

“Yes,” Henry replied. “She’s visiting for the month.”

“Welcome,” Jack said, tugging at the cuff of his sweater. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt; I started cooking and halfway through the recipe realized I was out of eggs. You don’t happen to have two, do you?”

“Of course,” Henry said as he headed to the kitchen.

While Henry was gone, my eyes met Jack’s, but I quickly looked away. He rubbed his forehead; I fiddled with the zipper on my sweater. The silence was as thick and stifling as the murky sand on the beach outside the window.

A splash sounded in the water outside. I startled, catching my foot on the edge of the side table, helplessly watching the little white vase sitting atop a stack of books topple to the ground, where it broke into four jagged pieces.

“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.