by Beth Duke
“Ronni, your deposition tomorrow is right before mine. I presume you’re not going to tell Mr. Ratliff anything that could render us liable in Violet’s death?”
“There’s nothing I could tell him that would show any negligence, Donna. Violet went to that room on her own. She died of natural causes. I’m sure the suit will be dropped after our depositions, because Herb has no legal grounds to come after Fairfield.”
She tapped her bright red fingernails on the desk. “So you’re an attorney now?” Donna leaned back and crossed her arms under an ample bosom straining against navy polyester knit. She exhaled slowly, staring at a space in the distance.
“No, but it’s obvious we did nothing wrong.” I offered my brightest smile, and she returned it with the warmth and sincerity of a low-level driver’s license office employee two minutes before lunchtime.
Donna leaned forward, punishing her desk chair into a series of loud squeaks. “You’re not still writing that book, are you?”
Of course I was. Trying to work on it and keep up with my job was stressing me beyond anything I’d ever known. “It’s a hobby, Donna. Just a hobby. I enjoy writing.”
“A book about one of our residents might get you fired, Ronni, and you could find yourself on the receiving end of a lawsuit of your own.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I announced. Donna’s face fell like she’d been hit by a giant Botox dart. “I’m not doing anything wrong,” I continued, “and you know I’m the hardest working nurse on your staff. There’s no reason to threaten me.”
“How about this?” Donna held up her hands in mock surrender. “You show me what you’re writing, and we’ll decide if you should continue.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I can’t say. Trust me, though, I can’t show it to you or anyone.”
She shook her head. “This hobby of yours is going to cost you everything, Ronni.”
If she only knew. I was losing my sanity to meet an impossible deadline in order to inherit money and garner attention I wasn’t sure I deserved or even wanted. Trying not to tear my hair out was my real hobby.
I was out of words and energy for this conversational swordfight. “I need to get back to work, okay? I’ll meet you at Mr. Ratliff’s office tomorrow.” I stood to leave.
She pressed her fuchsia-stained lips together and cleared her throat. “Ronni, I’m concerned your attention isn’t on your job. You’re past due on reports and clocking in late every other day.
Frankly, you look tired.”
Touché, Donna. I’m staying awake early into every morning trying to write a book, and I have no idea if I’m doing it right. I’m worried sick about losing the nicest man I’ve ever met. I recently found out my long lost mother is in jail. My apartment looks like I invited a few hoarder families to move in.
“I’ll try to do better,” I said. And Donna, your dress looks like it’s from the Sears Polyester Doubleknit I’ve Officially Given Up Collection.
twelve
VIOLET
The lobby was deserted except for an old man reading a newspaper in the corner. Violet saw Mr. Wilson at the ticket window’s desk and turned her back to him, praying he wouldn’t recognize her.
Violet sighed, wishing her future husband were as punctual as he was handsome. Their train was scheduled to depart in fifteen minutes and there was no sign of him. She watched the seconds tick away on a huge wall clock as she fanned herself with a movie magazine against the stifling heat. A family with three children arrived on the 7:20 from Atlanta and stumbled wearily through the station to embrace the old man, who suddenly came to life and jumped to greet them, sweeping a tiny girl into his arms. Violet tracked them from behind her magazine as they made their way to a battered DeSoto and piled in.
She leapt to her feet as Sam’s car pulled into the lot, then sank onto the bench when she saw Mr. Davidson heading for the station door. He spotted her and crossed the lobby to sit down, clasping his hands as if in prayer.
“Hello, Violet,” he began.
“What has happened to Sam? Where is he?” Violet tried to shove her thudding heart back down into its cage.
Philip Davidson sighed, exhaling days of exhaustion and worry. “Sam’s mother and I have arranged for a career for him in New York City, Violet. We’re opening a flagship store there soon, and he’s going to run it. An excellent opportunity for Sam and our family’s business.” He paused for breath and met her eyes for the first time. “Sam left with Deborah and her parents last night.”
“No. No, you can’t...”
Mr. Davidson was shaking his head. “Violet, you won’t be able to contact Samuel. He is staying with friends of ours for a few weeks. There will be no telephone. We thought that would be best.”
Violet was trembling and couldn’t seem to stop. It took a minute for her to find her voice and form words. “Mr. Davidson, there’s something you should know.”
“Nothing you can tell me will make a difference, Violet. I’m sorry. I know you care about Sam ...”
“It’s much more than that, Mr. Davidson. I...”
He held up his hands. “No more, please, Violet. The two of you will be much better off this way. Deborah and Sam are getting married and beginning a life in New York. Wish them well.”
“But I’m almost sure,” she stammered through tears. “I’m almost sure I’m carrying your grandchild.” She watched new lines etch themselves into Philip Davidson’s face. He bowed his head for a minute, then stood and reached into his pocket.
“Here is some money to help with expenses, Violet. Go somewhere and stay for a year or so. The baby—if there is one—well, it can be adopted. Surely you have family to help with your ...situation.” He glanced around to see if anyone was witnessing their conversation and spotted a wide-eyed boy peering from a doorway near the ticket window. Violet was curled into an apostrophe of sadness, rocking and clutching her stomach. Worse, his wife was emerging from their car. Esther would do nothing but make an even worse scene.
He hurried to finish. “I warn you, Violet, you must tell no one. And under no circumstances should you try to find Sam. His future is settled, and you can’t be a part of it. My son has no child with you. Do you understand?” He straightened his back and walked away from the stunned girl on the bench.
Violet felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to find Chet Wilson smiling down at her. He was a foot taller than the last time she’d seen him. She shook her head gently, trying to focus on how she could explain her presence in the station. It seemed easier to ask him the question instead. “What in the world are you doing here, Chet? Have you come back to live with your dad?”
“I’m just visiting. My aunt let me ride the train here yesterday, and I have to go back tomorrow.” He sat beside her and searched her eyes. “What happened, Violet? Who was that man?”
“Oh...he’s my friend’s father. She and I were supposed to go on a trip together, but she got sick at the last minute. He came to tell me and,” she noticed the roll of bills in her hand, “bring the money I was going to use for our fares and expenses. We’ll just reschedule.” Violet stood and started to reach for her luggage, but Chet grabbed it.
Chet glanced at his father manning the window. Mr. Wilson waved at the two of them, and Violet desperately hoped Sam had purchased their tickets from someone else.
“You’ve been crying,” Chet said. “I’m sorry you’re so disappointed. Where were y’all going?”
“New Orleans,” Violet replied. She struggled to smile. “Will you carry my luggage, Chet? I need to ask your dad if I can use his telephone.”
thirteen
RONNI
As it turned out, Rick didn’t leave me. I left him, though it took me a while to realize it.
He’d placed single flowers under my windshield wiper twice while I worked. Once there was only a small note saying, “I miss you, beautiful.”
“Ronni,” Rick said two nights bef
ore, “when you’re finished with your project, let me know. I’m not asking you out again until I have a decent chance you’ll say yes.”
I didn’t blame him. Most of the time I felt too pressured to write to spend time on anything else. Rick and I had been out to dinners and a couple of movies, always with my eye on the clock, wondering if I could work on the book for an hour or two when I got home. I’d gotten into the habit of stalling for time whenever he suggested we go out.
“Soon, I promise, soon,” I’d say. “Just let me finish another two chapters.”
The last time I’d seen him, we’d been to an elaborate restaurant where everyone, once more, seemed to know his name. Our table held a candle in an antique silver filigree holder, surrounded by a cluster of roses and baby’s breath. Rick’s smile, in that candlelight, was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. We held hands between courses and walked out with our arms around each other, Rick clutching a box with a complimentary chocolate cake slice. We’d walked two blocks when he suddenly stopped, set the box down on a brick planter, and kissed me until I lost all consciousness of the world around us. He gently lifted me to sit next to the cake and there I was on a deserted city street at eleven o’clock, making out with the most exciting man I’d ever met and trying to ignore an incessant nagging thought about two sentences I needed to change before I forgot.
The manuscript was driving me crazy.
I’d gone backward instead of making progress, deleting every other sentence and agonizing over how to replace it. Online research on writing only confused me. So did the books I’d ordered. I briefly considered trying to contact Jennifer, Mr. Sobel’s niece, for help—but it seemed too desperate; too pitiful, too amateurish. I pictured her holding a phone, rolling her eyes at the injustice of being saddled with an author writing in crayon. Besides, Violet had insisted I show it to no one until it was finished.
It felt like someone had handed me a knife and fork and demanded I perform brain surgery.
I longed to throw my hands up in surrender; to be with Rick without feeling I should hurry back to the keyboard. Most of all, I wanted to stop thinking about the book every waking moment. Violet’s good intentions were ruining my life, not blessing it. No amount of money was worth the stress I was feeling.
I looked forward to my shifts at Fairfield. Donna had become friendlier and less critical after the depositions with BillRat were done and our attorney said the lawsuit would likely be dropped. Work was my refuge; the only place I laughed anymore. Writing had become agony.
So I quit. One afternoon I came home from work, gnawed my way through the writing straightjacket’s straps and threw my laptop into the closet. I felt giddy with freedom. Violet, I love you and would like to have lots of money...but no thanks. Maybe someone else can pen your book someday. Not me.
I called Rick and babbled a voice message, “I’ve given up on writing. It’s not my thing. Nursing is my thing. You are my thing. Please come over and we’ll celebrate. Umm, this is Ronni. Call me.”
Two hours later he knocked on the door. He wrapped his arms around me and said, “So I’m your thing, huh? Very poetic.”
“Just kiss me.”
I did, feeling electricity shoot through my body. Rick was the best kisser I’d ever known, starting out soft and slow and building to something that made me ache for him. “You’re too good at this,” I whispered, struggling for breath.
“That’s the idea. Let me show you how I feel about you, Ronni.” He was melting me with those chocolate brown eyes. They were locked onto mine and not letting go.
“Okay,” I said. “Show me.”
He threw his trooper hat across the room, picked me up, and carried me to the bedroom.
I lay with my head on his beefy right biceps, stroking the hair on his chest. Rick opened one eye and gazed at me. “So,” he said, “You’re giving up on your book?”
I plucked a chest hair and he winced. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It’s just that, you know, it seemed so important to you. My keen police brain tells me there’s more to the story. Talk to me, Ronni.”
“Okay. I was asked to write a novel based on the life of a woman I knew at Fairfield Springs. I thought I could do it. I can’t. End of story.” I jumped up with the sheet wrapped around me. “I’m going to feed Halle. You want anything?”
“Nope. Hurry back.” He offered me one of his melt-your-knees smiles and patted the bed.
I brought him a brown sugar cinnamon Pop Tart to share, along with a Diet Coke.
Rick laughed and drawled, “Do you know how much this means to me after years with various versions of Miss Bean Sprout Tofu Kale?”
“I’ll feed you all the junk food you want if you promise to pay me in hot monkey policeman love.”
Rick grabbed my sheet-toga and pulled me on top of him, locking his eyes on mine. “This,” he announced, “is what you get for half a Pop Tart.”
I made a mental note to pick up a box.
The next morning I woke to find him removing his neatly-hung uniform from my closet. I wondered if I could coexist with someone so creased, polished and organized.
“I’m late,” he said, pausing to kiss me as he buttoned his shirt. “I’ll pick you up at six for dinner. Fancy. Dress up. Champagne.” He reached for his shoes and said, “Whoa, what’s this?”
Rick held up a battered, dirty doll with short gray curly hair and fake wire-rimmed eyeglasses.
“That,” I answered, “is Mrs. Noodle. Closest thing to a mother I had as a child.”
“You kept her all these years.” He sank onto the bed and placed the doll beside me. “I guess you two went through a lot together.”
I was horrified to find I was crying. Rick wrapped me in his arms. “You know, Ronni,” he said, “She’ll be getting out soon. Are you sure you don’t want to meet with her?”
I swiped at my eyes. “I’m positive. I’ll never forgive what she did to me. Even the idea of seeing Jocelyn makes me feel sick. I was an unwanted, unworthy, disposable child. I hate myself when I think how little I meant to her, Rick. I tried,” I sobbed, “I tried so hard to take care of her...”
“Take a deep breath, Ronni,” Rick held me at arm’s length and searched my eyes. “You don’t have to see her.”
“That’s good, because I think I would split wide open.”
He kissed the top of my head and slid his bear-paw hands down my arms to grasp and squeeze mine. “See you at six.”
“Be safe!” I yelled at his back.
“Always,” he answered.
The restaurant was full of chandeliers and floral arrangements that could comfortably host entire flocks of birds. Rick seemed right at home, ordering some kind of fancy appetizer and champagne as soon as we sat down.
“About the book, Ronni,” he began. “I’ve been thinking. You might not be able to show it to me, but we could discuss the things you’re trying to put into words, right? Surely Violet allowed for pillow talk.”
I stared at him.
“I’m a big reader,” he continued. “Mostly crime and spy stuff like James Patterson and Nelson DeMille, but I know a good story when I see one. Or hear one.”
“I told you I’m giving up.”
“Yes, you did. Right before you told me how your mother made you feel worthless. I’m wondering if the two are related.”
“Jeez Louise, Rick, you’re not my shrink. Let it go.”
He covered my hand with his. “I’m trying to do what’s best for you. Giving up on something you’ve worked so hard to do ...well, I think you’ll regret it. I want to help. I can take some time off work, and so can you. We could stay at the lake and shut out everything. You, me and a laptop.”
I smiled. “And case of Pop Tarts.”
“And, of course,” Rick added, “a bulldog and an antisocial cat. But we can keep Kitty and kitty separated. Come on, Ronni, say yes.”
Across the restaurant, an elderly couple held hands and smiled at us. Mayb
e they thought Rick had just proposed.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll talk to Donna Monday about taking a couple of weeks.”
fourteen
VIOLET
Bradenton Beach, Florida, 1948
No one told Violet the baby would flutter and kick and grab fistfuls of her heart. No one told her she’d feel so nauseated, either. Tourists traveled from everywhere to see the Gulf of Mexico caress the sugary beach, and most days she was sick in it before her morning walk ended.
Violet swore she’d never return to Florida.
She opened her eyes and gazed out the window. The beach was deserted this time of morning, so she felt free to waddle out for a little exercise. Her belly was too enormous to appear in a bathing suit. Aunt Jean would be gone to work, expecting Violet to join her in an hour.
She’d had no idea where to turn after Katie Ruth picked her up at the train station. They’d cried together for hours, finally deciding Violet had to call and beg her mother’s younger sister in Florida for help.
Aunt Jean had listened to Violet explain her situation without interruption or judgment. She telephoned her sister Alice the next day and explained she’d like Violet to come work in her ice cream shop. She would send money for a bus ticket and meet her niece in Tampa.
A few months later, she’d asked if Violet could stay and help with her business, explaining Violet had become so skilled at serving cones and sundaes to tourists, Jean couldn’t do without her.
This was far from the truth. Violet consumed any profits she might have generated each day in the form of Coke floats. She found it hard to tolerate most of the tourists. Jean constantly reminded her niece she had to smile and be courteous, even if a customer was railing about the price of extra caramel or insisting ice cream—and everything else—was better up north.
Violet felt sure her mother didn’t suspect any reason for the trip other than her daughter’s heartbreak over Sam’s move to New York. She’d asked Jean to introduce her daughter to “some nice Florida boys.”
