The Violets of March

by Sarah Jio

  Frances was silent.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Yes you did,” Frances said.

  “No, no, I didn’t. It came out wrong. Can you forgive me?”

  “I have to go, Esther.” There was a click, and then I heard nothing but the lonely dial tone.

  I stared into my closet the next morning, and finally pulled out the fitted blue dress I’d bought in Seattle last year. It had a black belt and a V neckline with a white peony on the lapel, just like the ones in the fashion magazines.

  I called Rose. “Hi,” I said. “Have you heard the news?”

  “About Elliot?” she said. “Yes.”

  I sighed. “I’m a wreck.”

  “Why should you be? He’s alive.”

  “Yes, I know, but this island is too small for the both of us.”

  Rose knew that as well as I did. “Want me to come over? I can catch the next ferry.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Can you meet me for lunch? I can be at Ray’s at noon, just after I do my shopping. I’ll have the baby, but if I’m lucky, she’ll sleep in her carriage.”

  “Perfect,” she said.

  Ever since Rose had moved to Seattle, the island felt lonely. I had Frances, of course, but the two of us had grown distant in the past year, for reasons I understood but couldn’t bring myself to speak of. Until now.

  “Rose,” I said, “is Frances in love with Elliot?” It sounded absurd that one of my best friends could love the man I loved, but I had to ask. I had to know. And I knew Rose would have the answer.

  “You need to ask her yourself,” she said simply. But I didn’t have to. Somewhere in my heart, I already knew.

  At the market, I could hardly turn down one aisle before I was peering down another to see if Elliot might be there. But instead of him, I ran into Janice Stevens, my next-door neighbor, who was staked out near the canned goods. She was a widow, which is why I tried not to feel irritated by the way she looked at me or the things she said. She was always baking cookies, cakes, and pies, and pointing out the fact that I didn’t. Frances told me once that Janice had eyes for Bobby, and perhaps she did. She’d bring over her confections and say things like “You poor man! Esther never bakes for you, so it’s my duty as a neighbor to make sure you’re looked after.” She always wore a fresh application of red lipstick and had a habit of lingering in our doorway longer than I liked.

  Even in high school, I’d gotten the feeling that she wanted me to fail, that she was waiting in the wings, ready to swoop in like a vulture as soon as I showed any sign of weakness.

  It’s partly why I braced myself that morning when I saw her. She looked at me with a saccharine smile and said, “I heard that Elliot is home. Have you seen him?”

  Janice knew the mention of Elliot’s name was bound to get a rise out of me.

  “I saw him this morning,” she said.

  I feigned interest in a can of tomatoes. “Oh?”

  “He’s quite tan from the South Pacific,” she continued. “He looked so handsome.”

  “Where did you see him?” I finally asked, caving, even though I knew I shouldn’t.

  “He was having breakfast with Frances—at Ray’s,” she said. “Didn’t she tell you?”

  I dropped the can of tomatoes.

  Janice bent down to pick it up and gave me a sly smile. “Frances and Elliot would make a darling couple, wouldn’t they?”

  “Simply darling,” I said, snatching the can out of her hands before pushing my cart past her.

  “Oh, Esther, stop,” Rose said as we sat at a table at Ray’s. “Don’t read into things.”

  “Read into things?” I said. “How can I not? Since Elliot’s been home, they’ve been inseparable.”

  I knew by the look on Rose’s face that she was disappointed in Frances, as I was, but she wouldn’t take sides. Rose never took sides.

  “Why don’t you two talk about it?” she suggested.

  I nodded. But I was really wondering what THEY had talked about this morning. Why had Elliot come back from war and taken such an interest in my best friend? Wasn’t there some unwritten rule that former lovers are not supposed to carry on with your friends?

  Just then, the waiter approached our table, but not to take our orders. He looked right at me. “Are you Esther?”

  “Yes,” I said, confused.

  “Good,” he said. “I should have known by the way the gentleman described you. He said you’d be the prettiest woman in the restaurant.” The waiter cast an apologetic glance at Rose. “Sorry. You are quite beautiful too, miss.” But Rose smiled as if she didn’t care, and I knew she didn’t.

  From behind his back, he pulled out a single tulip, my favorite flower—pure white, with the very tip of each petal tinged red. I had never seen a tulip like that, and it nearly took my breath away.

  “For you,” he said, handing me the flower, along with a white envelope. My name was written in Elliot’s handwriting. I had memorized his e’s along with the special embellishment he added to each s.

  “Go read it in private,” Rose said. “I’ll stay with the baby.”

  “Thanks,” I said. She knew I needed to savor every word.

  I ran out to the sidewalk and sat down on a bench before tearing open the envelope.

  My Dearest Esther,

  It’s wrong of me to be reaching out to you like this, I know. You’re married, and I hear you have a child. But I need you to know something, to set the record straight. Can you meet me, tonight, on the beach in front of my house? I’ll be there waiting for you, in hopes that you’ll come. And if you do, I’ll know we are meant to be together. And if you don’t, I will know that it is the end for us, that I must make plans to move on, to leave the island, and let my heart say good-bye. Please say you’ll come. Please tell me that despite everything, you’ll come. It’s a lot to ask, but I pray that the fire that still burns in me also burns in you. I’ll be waiting.

  Yours,

  Elliot

  I held the letter to my chest, and a single tear trickled down my face. As I brushed it away, I could see movement from the corner of my eye. But when I turned to look, whatever or whoever it was had vanished.

  Chapter 9

  March 7

  I spent much of the next morning writing, or at least trying to write. The story had inspired me to put words together again, not that the words I typed were amounting to much. After exactly one hour and twelve minutes, I’d hammered out a two-paragraph opener to a new novel that, frankly, stank.

  So when Bee knocked on the door, I was eager for a break.

  “Feel like a walk?” she asked, leaning into the doorway. “Oh, sorry, I see that you’re writing. I didn’t mean to disturb you, dear.”

  I looked outside and could see that the sun had pushed through the clouds; the beach looked sparkling. “No, I’d love to,” I said, setting my mug down.

  I grabbed my sweater and then slipped on a pair of boots, and we made our way down to the shore. For as long as I can remember, Bee always went left instead of right. And now I knew why. She wanted to avoid Jack’s house and whatever history they shared.

  “Are you glad you came?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze.

  “I am too,” she said. Then she paused and hunched over to examine a little orange starfish caught in a game of tug-of-war between the shore and the waves. Bee gently picked it up, then carefully sent it on its way a few feet out into the sound.

  “There, little friend,” she said. “Go home.”

  We walked together for a little while, until she stopped and turned to me. “It’s been lonely here,” she said.

  I had never heard her say anything like that before. Uncle Bill had been gone for at least twenty years, maybe longer. I had always thought she liked her solitude.

  “Why don’t you come visit me in New York?” I suggested. “You could spend April with me.”

  B
ee shook her head. “I belong here,” she said.

  I felt a little hurt. If she’s so lonely, why wouldn’t she want my company?

  “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I’m getting older, and . . . you’ll see, when you’re my age. Leaving your home starts to feel like an epic journey, one I’m afraid I no longer have the energy for.”

  I nodded as if I understood, but I didn’t. I hoped I wouldn’t feel tied to my home in my elder years, but maybe it was unavoidable.

  “Emily,” she said. “There’s something I need to ask you. I’ve been thinking about where you are in life, and where I am, and, well, I wondered if you’d ever consider moving here, living here, with me on Bainbridge Island.”

  My mouth fell open. For much of my life the island had been my secret place, my personal retreat, but my home?

  “Wow,” I said. “I’m honored that you’d want to have me. . . .”

  “Emily,” she said, cutting me off before I could decline her invitation. “I’m leaving the house to you—in my will. The house, the property, everything.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “Bee,” I said, suddenly concerned. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m only planning ahead,” she said. “I guess I wanted you to know that the house was yours, in case you wanted to think about a life here someday. Maybe someday soon.”

  It was a lot to consider. “Wow, Bee,” I said. “I . . .”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Just know that the choice is yours. You were the only one who loved this place. Your mother, she’d board it up. And your sister would sell it just as fast as that husband of hers could find a buyer. Of course it’s yours to sell too, but I know I’m leaving this place in good hands.” She paused to watch an eagle fly overhead. “Yes, the home is yours. Just consider me the old lady who occupies one of the bedrooms. You come stay as often as you like, for as long as you like. And don’t forget my invitation to move in.”

  I nodded. “I’ll give it some thought,” I said, squeezing her hand again.

  I heard my phone ringing in my sweater pocket, and when I looked at the screen, I could see that it was a local number.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “Emily? Hi, it’s Greg.”

  I had no idea how he got my cell number, but then I realized that after we’d drunk all that wine at the restaurant the other night, I’d scribbled it on a napkin and he’d tucked it into his pocket. Classy.

  “Hi,” I said, remembering Heart Rock, the kiss, our unfinished business.

  “Hey, I was just wondering if you might be free one of these nights. I’d love to have you out to my place for drinks. I’m a terrible cook, so we could order in, or do takeout. Whatever you’d like.”

  “Um,” I said, feeling caught off guard by the invitation. “Sure.”

  “Great,” he said. I could picture his smile. “How about tomorrow night, at seven?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That would be . . . great.”

  “Good,” he said. “We can pick up Chinese along the way. See you then.”

  Bee and I both looked up when we saw Henry waving from his front porch. The smoke billowing out of his chimney mingled with the soft mist rising off the morning tide, creating a thick fog one could disappear into.

  “Good morning, you two,” he called out.

  Bee nodded. “We were just on our way home,” she said without pause.

  “But surely you can stop for a cup of coffee,” he countered.

  I’d asked Bee, on the night I arrived, about Henry. Her answer was direct, yet hardly informative. “He’s just a very old friend,” she had said, her words snuffing out the flame of my intrigue.

  Bee nodded at Henry, and I followed her up to the house. It occurred to me that they would have made a very odd couple. They looked awkward standing there together, and it erased any suspicions that they had ever been romantically involved, not that a short man and a tall woman couldn’t have an explosive love affair.

  I smiled and said, “Coffee sounds wonderful.”

  Once inside, I sat where I had when Jack came in the door that morning last week. I suddenly remembered the vase.

  “Henry,” I said. “I have a confession. Your white vase, I . . .”

  He winked at me. “I know,” he said, pointing to the now intact vase, which was presently resting on the mantel with a single daffodil inside. “As good as new,” he continued. “Jack brought it by this morning.”

  I grinned before hesitating. “This morning?”

  Henry looked puzzled. “Yes.” He paused for a second. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, no,” I said. “It’s nothing. I just thought he was in Seattle. He said he was spending a few days there.”

  Didn’t Jack say he’ d be away for a few days? Did he change his plans? The discrepancy in the details gnawed at me.

  Henry went to pour the coffee, and while I sat down, Bee cased the room like a detective, examining every object slowly and cautiously.

  “He’s not much of housekeeper, is he?” she said.

  “I guess it’s the curse of being a bachelor,” I replied. But then I remembered Jack’s home, perfectly organized and clean—surprisingly clean.

  She nodded and sat down in a chair by the window.

  “Did he ever marry?” I asked in a whisper, remembering the woman in the photo on the mantel.

  Bee shook her head as though the very idea of Henry marrying anyone was, well, crazy. “No,” she said.

  I looked around the little living room with its wainscot paneling and old plank floors until my eyes stopped at the mantel. I searched the display of beach rocks and frames. The photo was gone.

  “Wait,” I said, confused. “Last week there was a photo of a woman, an old girlfriend, maybe,” I said, conspiratorially. “Do you know the photo I’m talking about?”

  “No,” she said in a distant voice. “I haven’t been here in a very long time.”

  “You’d know her if you saw her,” I said. “She was blond and beautiful, standing right in front of Henry’s house, where the photo was taken.”

  Bee looked out the window at the sound, pausing the way she does when she’s lost in thought. “It’s been so long,” she said. “I don’t recall.”

  Henry was back with coffee a few minutes later, but Bee seemed uncomfortable and agitated as she sipped hers. I wondered what was bothering her.

  I made conversation for the both of us, coaxing Henry into a monologue about his garden. Bee never made eye contact with him, not once. Then, just after she took the last sip of her coffee, she abruptly set the cup down on the saucer and stood up. “Emily, I’m afraid I have a headache,” she said. “I think it’s time for me to head home.”

  Henry held up his hand in protest. “Not yet,” he said. “Not until the two of you see the garden. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Bee agreed reluctantly, and the three of us walked through the kitchen to the back door that led to the yard behind the house. We’d hardly stepped three feet outside when Bee gasped, pointing to the garden to our right.

  “Henry!” she exclaimed, surveying hundreds of delicate light green leaves that had pushed up from the soil in grand formation, showcasing a carpet of tiny lavender-colored flowers, with dark purple centers.

  Bee looked astonished. “How did they . . . where did they come from?”

  Henry shook his head. “I noticed them two weeks ago. They just appeared.”

  Bee turned to me, and upon seeing my confused face, she offered an explanation. “They’re wood violets,” she said. “I haven’t seen them on the island since . . .”

  “They’re very rare,” Henry said, filling the void that Bee had left when her voice trailed off. “You can’t plant them, for they won’t grow. They have to choose you.”

  Bee’s eyes met Henry’s, and she smiled, a gentle, forgiving smile. It warmed me to see it. “Evelyn has a theory about these flowers,” she said, pausing as if to pull a dusty memory of
f a shelf in her mind, handling it with great care. “Yes,” she said, the memory in plain view. “She used to say they grow where they are needed, that they signal healing, and hope.”

  “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it, Henry, to think that violets can know,” Bee continued.

  Henry nodded. “Harebrained,” he said in agreement.

  Bee shook her head in disbelief. “And to see them in bloom, in March of all months . . .”

  Henry nodded. “I know.”

  Neither took their eyes off the petals before them, so fragile, yet in great numbers stalwart and determined. I stepped back, watching the two of them standing side by side, sharing a moment of reflection that I could not understand. I knew it then: I was in the presence of something much bigger than just flowers.

  Bee and I walked in silence back to the house, she with her secrets and I with mine. And as she napped, I opened my laptop and told myself I couldn’t look away until I had another two paragraphs written, but all I could do was stare at the clock at the top of my screen. After eight minutes had passed with no inspiration, I called Annabelle.