by Meg Collett
“I’ll be fine,” she told him.
The furrows smoothed and he smiled down at her. Taking her hand, he led her to his truck. He opened the passenger door and helped her inside. While she waited for him to come around to his side, she scanned the cab.
It was kept clean, but worn. The truck was clearly older, and dirt had wedged itself into impossible cracks. It smelled of Arie and sweat and leather.
The driver door opened with a squeak and Arie pulled himself inside. The engine cranked over and its roar filled the cab, the sheer noise of it startling Violet. She could have been inside a rocket ship blasting toward the moon.
She scowled at Arie as he took a long sip from his thermos. “This can’t be good for the environment.”
He chuckled and wedged the thermos in a cup holder. “You know what they say about Southern boys and their trucks.”
He put the truck into gear and pulled forward, the tires bouncing over ruts and potholes as they descended down her drive.
“But you’re not from the South.”
“Maybe I wanted to fit in.”
“I doubt that,” she said, trying not to bite her tongue as they bounced over a particularly bad hole. Her eyes landed on his University of Georgia baseball cap sitting on the dashboard. It was well worn, with its frayed bill and faded logo. She’d seen Arie wear it on numerous occasions, but it jogged her memory.
“Have you thought any more about going back to college?”
He glanced over at her, completely taken aback by the line of conversation. “Ah,” he fumbled. They reached the bottom of her drive, and he took his time pulling out onto the main road, using his concentration as an excuse not to answer for a moment. Finally, he said, “There’s really nothing to think about.”
“Why not?”
He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and sped up slightly, but she noticed he was keeping around ten miles under the posted speed limit. “I’m too old.”
“Adults go back to school all the time.”
“Violet, let’s talk about something—”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re scared.”
He shot another glance her way, his eyes darkening beneath a scowl. “I am not.”
“Okay.”
He sighed. The truck wove down the twisting roads leading back into the heart of the island and town. She kept her focus on Arie rather than the steep drops off the side of the road. The edge of the island was mostly cliff and the fall led straight down to jagged rocks and endless water. Maybe he’d guessed her thoughts and wanted to keep her distracted, or maybe he actually wanted to talk about it, because he eventually said, “So I’d be a grown man with one leg on a college campus. How’s that supposed to work?”
“You would be making your grandmother proud. Nothing else would matter.”
His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “I know you think people are still around after they die, but I don’t know if I believe that.”
She laid her hand across the cracked leather console, palm up, and waited. After glancing down at her offer, he released one hand from the wheel and took her hand. She didn’t say anything, and they were almost in town when he spoke again.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough to try.”
She ran her thumb over his leathery knuckles. “For her, you can be strong enough to start. And then, day by day, it will get easier, until you’re strong enough to do it simply because you are.”
He shot her a glance. “Is that, uh, how you dealt with your disease?”
She squeezed his hand to let him know his question didn’t bother her. “You mean how I dealt with going blind?”
He swallowed then nodded.
“I haven’t dealt with it completely. I’m still in that day-by-day phase, but it feels better. It feels less unfair and more like something I just have to approach as a part of life.”
“You’re not terrified of it happening?” he asked carefully.
“It’s happening every day. Bit by bit, I’m losing my vision. But on the bright side, I won’t have to see people making fun of me anymore.”
His jaw tightened. “People are assholes.”
“I’m learning,” she said, “not all of them are.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she returned in the same dry tone he’d used.
“There’s no college on Canaan,” he said after a beat of silence.
Her chest ached a bit at the thought. Last night, they’d stepped down a certain path that meant no matter what, she would hurt when he left. It was the risk she’d taken by letting him in. “No, but there’s one in Georgia you like.”
His eyes flicked to the cap on the dashboard. “It’s hours away and I have a job here.”
“Are you still supporting your family back in California?”
“Only when my mom needs the help.”
She squeezed his hand. “Then you might need to come up with better excuses, because none of these work anymore, Arie.”
* * *
On Monday, Violet spent her morning running to the mayor’s office and dropping off the petition. Mayor Crews wasn’t in, or so his secretary claimed, but she promised to give him the list of names Violet had supplied of people who supported nominating her property as a historical landmark. The look on the secretary’s face was so distasteful Violet considered waiting around until the mayor showed up, but she shrunk beneath the older woman’s gaze and left.
After returning home, she spent most of the day walking around her house. She was restless and unsettled, and every time she sat down to do something, her mind started wandering and she had to get up again.
She would have considered going to the cemetery to do some landscaping, except everything was pruned and there wasn’t much to do in the fall. She called Maggie, but the bakery was in its slow season and she barely had enough work to keep herself busy, much less need Violet’s help. Maggie was the solo type anyway. She tended to prefer the quiet store, reminding Violet of herself in many ways, but Maggie didn’t struggle with the same anxieties or fears as Violet.
Once, when Maggie had worn an old shirt with the sleeves cut off, Violet had seen the edges of scars on Maggie’s side and back. They looked like knife strikes, as if someone had attacked her. Violet knew enough about demons to leave it alone. At the time, Maggie had been the only person to befriend Violet, and she wouldn’t be the one to bring up the scars if Maggie didn’t want to talk about them.
So she found herself waiting for Arie. And waiting. And waiting. When it was finally time for him to come rumbling up her driveway, there was only silence.
He didn’t come. But someone else did.
She heard the car first and chills swept down her arms. It wasn’t the familiar rumble of Arie’s truck, but a revving whine of an expensive sedan. She couldn’t see the shape of it or the color or model, but Violet already knew.
Francesca Morgan.
Violet didn’t go outside when the car door opened and a long, bare leg stretched out. She spotted the high heels well enough from inside her house, next to the window by the door that Hale had repaired before the party. Carefully, she flipped the lock on the front door.
The car door slammed, and it wasn’t long until those high heels struck the stairs of her porch and punched up them. Francesca walked as though she could announce her arrival to the world if she just pounded her heel into the ground a little harder.
Her knock on Violet’s door rattled the wood.
Violet eased back into the shadows.
The knocking rap came again. “Miss Relend! I know you’re in there!”
Outside, Francesca laughed, clearly entertaining the idea that Violet could be anywhere else but in her house.
She knocked again. “I wanted to talk about your cute little petition Mayor Crews showed me today.”
Violet’s heart stuttered. Instantly, nervous, clammy sweat coated her palms.
“I was sad to hear I wasn’t among
the invited Saturday night,” Francesca said from the other side of the door. “I heard it was the party of the year. But then, that’s not saying much for this little island, is it?”
Violet bit her tongue to keep from lashing out. If Francesca didn’t like the “little island,” then she could just screw off and leave everyone alone.
“I have to say, I’m surprised you’re putting up such a struggle. I’d pegged you for the roll over and die type.” The door creaked, as if Francesca had pressed herself against it to catch sounds of Violet moving around inside. “I had no clue you would try so damn hard.”
Suddenly, a phone rang and Violet jumped. The sound was shrill, punctuating the moment with a staccato blast. It was her cell phone. She’d left it in the kitchen.
Outside, she heard Francesca’s breath hitch.
“Uh-oh. Is that your delicious Cuban piece of meat?” she crooned as the phone kept ringing. “Now he was unexpected. Props to you, girl. I bet he’s one hot ride.”
Francesca drummed her acrylic nails against the door. Each scraping clack of her fingers heightened the swell of Violet’s anxiety.
On the fourth ring, the phone stopped.
“I don’t think even he can help you with this one, Violet,” Francesca continued. “Your petition is meaningless. The mayor tore it up while I was in his office. In the face of an eminent domain acquisition, historical property nominations are meaningless, so you can keep fighting this and we can go to court, where a judge will take your pretty land from you, or you can give up. Give in to me, Violet,” she purred, “and I’ll drop the assault charge and you’ll walk away with money lining those dingy pockets of yours. Maybe you can even buy yourself a nice dress after all this. Something Mr. Mendoza will get all hot and bothered seeing you in.”
Francesca paused as though something had just occurred to her.
“Or,” she drawled out, “is he just pity-fucking you? Does he feel bad? Or worse . . . maybe he gets off on banging freaks. Pity. Well, either way, maybe a new dress will help. If you want, I can take you out shopping and pick something out for you. Maybe afterward, if you’re a good girl, I can show you a few tricks. Some things that will get him real hot, even for a freak like you.”
Her phone started ringing again, and Violet got a horrible feeling in her stomach.
Something similar to the night her mother drove off beneath the storm clouds.
Something was wrong.
“You sound busy, Violet love. I’ll let you go. But I just wanted to let you know you have thirty days to either vacate the premises or schedule a court date. Either way, I look forward to seeing you.”
Violet wanted to rip the door open and ram her fist into Francesca’s face, but she kept her distance. She waited until she heard the clack of heels descend the steps and scuffle across the drive. A car door opened and closed, and then an engine hummed to life. Tires crunched over the gravel, and only then did Violet race into the kitchen.
The phone had stopped ringing, but almost as soon as the shrill ringtone ended, it started up again. She jerked it across the counter toward her and checked the little display on its front. “Arie,” it read.
She answered, “Hello?”
“Violet? Thank God. I’ve tried a couple of times.”
“Is everything okay? Where are you?”
Arie took a shaky breath that rattled through the phone, and Violet instantly knew she was right. Something awful had happened. She had that familiar flash again: The back of her parents’ car. Her mother’s face in the rearview mirror. The clouds above.
Her crying inside the house.
Alone.
“It’s Annabelle,” he said, confirming Violet’s fears. “She’s not doing good. Hale and Cade tried to take her to the hospital, but she’s refusing. She wants to be home. She says it’s time.”
16
Annabelle Cooper lived on the northern part of the island, within a five-minute bike ride from Violet’s house.
She’d never had cause to visit the elderly woman’s home, but she passed it often and knew the tree-lined drive with the little white mailbox out front. There were always flowers growing at the driveway’s entrance and ivy climbing up the mailbox post.
At that mailbox, Violet turned, her bike dipping onto the gravel road, the tires popping and crunching. She glided to a stop and put her feet on the ground for balance. Down the road, at the yellow cottage with white trim, numerous vehicles were parked. Kyra’s Jeep was there, along with Cade’s and Hale’s trucks. Next to them was Arie’s older black truck. Violet didn’t recognize the other cars, but she assumed, from experience with her grandmother’s passing, that the cars belonged to hospice nurses, there to help take care of Annabelle.
All the inside lights were on, and she spotted shadows across the drawn curtains from people walking back and forth in front of the windows. It was a beehive of activity, and Violet’s heart rate spiked. Her hands, clenching the bike handles, were slick, even in the chilly night air, and a bead of sweat rolled down her brow.
She’d biked straight into town after getting off the phone with Arie.
At Maggie’s bakery, all the lights had been on as well, another beehive of activity. Violet had parked her bike in the alley and gone inside to find Maggie covered in flour and icing, her hair slapped up in a bun, and an apron tied tightly around her waist. Tooty had been helping, hurrying around and gathering ingredients as fast as Maggie called for them. They’d just been taking the cake out of the freezer, where it had been quickly cooling, when Violet arrived.
She’d helped put on the buttercream icing while Maggie had gathered up a few more treats.
Annabelle had asked for one of Maggie’s famous carrot cakes. Arie had called in the favor for the family, and Maggie had rallied Tooty from his late-night jam session at the radio station and gotten straight to work.
“Give her a hug for me,” Maggie had told Violet as they loaded her bike’s front basket with baked goods, her voice thick with tears.
To help her gather speed faster, Tooty had given her a push, and Violet had taken off down the street on her bike. They’d been in a hurry because no one knew how much time Annabelle had left.
She’d returned to the northern part of the island in record time, even given the fact she had to ride up all the hills she normally careened down on her way into town. Some were steep and long, but she’d pushed herself, and now the muscles in her legs trembled and the shirt she’d hastily tossed on was plastered to her back. Her jacket lay across the bakery boxes.
Staring down the lane toward the little house, she could barely catch her breath.
Thinking of the cake and favors and last moments, she forced herself to move forward, careful not to jostle the cake and other goods on the gravel road. She parked her bike in front of the cars, next to the porch, and gathered up the pale pink boxes, with the heavy cake box on the bottom.
She’d just loaded up her arms when the front door opened and Arie stepped out. His eyes found her instantly.
“Violet,” he said, the word a sigh of obvious relief. “Let me help.”
He took most of the boxes from her, leaving her with just a small one filled with blueberry scones. “How is she?” Violet asked quietly.
“She doesn’t want help breathing. They’re doing the best they can to keep her comfortable.”
Arie’s face creased with worry and he turned away to navigate the stairs back up to the front door. In the weeks since the reality show, he’d spent a good amount of time at Annabelle’s house. He’d gotten close to Hale and Cade’s mother, and Violet wondered if the thought of losing Annabelle reminded him of the friends he’d lost in Afghanistan and Iraq. From the pain in his eyes and the fear radiating from the tension in his body, she had to think so.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. When she wasn’t right behind him, he glanced back. “What are you doing?”
“Maybe I should wait out here,” she murmured so no one inside would hear. “
You can put those up and get this one. Then I’ll leave.”
He frowned down at her, the light above his head haloing his silhouette in the door. “You should be here.”
“This isn’t a time for strangers, Arie. She barely knows who I am.”
“Stevie and Kyra need you.”
“No,” she said. “They need each other. And Hale and Cade need you. No one needs me right now. I’ll go home, but call me if you need me to pick up something from their houses. I can go and get whatever they need at any time.”
Arie looked as if he didn’t want to, but after quickly considering it, he jerked his chin in agreement. “I can take that,” he said.
Violet handed him the smaller box. “Give Annabelle a hug from Maggie,” she said quietly, stepping back into the shadows as Arie went back to the door.
“I will. Be safe out there, Violet. It’s dark.”
She just nodded, and he closed the door. She could hear people talking inside and the creak of floorboards. Back on her bike, she pedaled down the drive with purpose, not wanting Kyra or Stevie to feel obligated to come out and say something to her.
At the end of the lane, she paused and turned back to the house.
From this distance away, it glowed with warmth, as if sunshine was seeping out through the eaves. Even with a well-loved woman fading away inside, there was hope here, and it pulled at her. This was more than just a house; it was a home where people lived and died, where family gathered to celebrate and grieve and build themselves back up together.
The differences between this bright cottage and her crumbling mansion were stark.
Everything this place had, hers did not, and it hadn’t in a long time. There was no life in her house besides her, wandering the halls and sleeping time away in her parents’ bed. But that wasn’t really a life, not really living. She had to force-feed a furnace to keep a single room warm enough in the winter. Her house would never see another family again.
She didn’t build herself back up in her house; she hid. Ever since her mother had driven off with her father slumped against the passenger window, she’d been hiding.
