The Violets of March: A Novel by Sarah Jio

Author:Sarah Jio [Jio, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Psychological, Divorced Women, Life Change Events, Psychological Fiction, Contemporary Women, Literary Criticism, Contemporary, General, Romance, Women Authors, Fiction, Bainbridge Island (Wash.)
ISBN: 9780452297036
Publisher: Plume
Published: 2011-04-26T03:00:00+00:00

March 8

I tried not to overthink Jack’s words. But didn’t he say he’d be back from Seattle today? I stared at the clock a dozen times before breakfast that next morning, wondering. I thought about the way Elliot had kissed Esther. I wanted to be loved with the same passion, the same fire that Elliot seemed to impart so naturally, so perfectly.

The phone didn’t ring at eleven a.m.; nor did it ring at noon. Why isn’t he calling?

I went for a beach walk at two, but the only sound my phone made was a chime alerting me to a text message from Annabelle.

By five, Bee began mixing a drink and asked if I wanted one too. I set the phone down and said, “Make it a double.”

After about an hour, Bee was back in the lanai, working her magic with the liquor bottles, but this time she didn’t offer me another. “Get dressed, dear,” she said. “Greg will be here soon.”

I had almost forgotten about the plans I’d made with Greg. I walked to my room quickly to dress, choosing a long-sleeved blue knit dress with a deep V neckline. I liked the way it felt against my skin.

Greg arrived at seven, just when he’d said he would, looking freshly scrubbed in a pair of clean jeans and a crisp white shirt. His golden skin almost glowed against it.

“Hi,” he said as I walked out to his car. “Ready for Chinese?”

“Sounds wonderful,” I said. “I’m starving.”

We drove into town, past the Town and Country Market, and parked where several restaurants and cafés dotted Main Street. It was a warm evening, at least by Bainbridge Island standards, and a handful of people were sitting outside, eating alfresco.

Inside the restaurant, Greg gestured to the hostess. She looked like someone I had known in high school: Mindy Almvig, with her dangly earrings and spiral perm. “I called in an order about forty-five minutes ago.”

“Yes,” she said, smacking her gum. “It’s ready.” The place smelled delicious, of Szechuan sauce and spring rolls fresh from the fryer.

He paid, and then picked up the rather enormous paper bag. We climbed into the car, and I noticed a little restaurant nearby. Diners were seated outdoors under heated lamps. And that’s when I saw Jack.

He was with a woman, that much was clear. I couldn’t see her face from my vantage point, just her legs, which were barely covered by the short black dress that clung to her thighs. They were drinking wine and laughing, and as Jack turned toward the direction of our car, I pulled the sun visor down and turned in the other direction.

Who is she? Why didn’t he mention that he’s involved with someone else? Maybe she’s just a friend. But if she was a friend, why didn’t he say something about her?

Greg drove for about a mile before he pulled up into a gravelcovered driveway. His home, a yellow farmhouse, complete with a white picket fence, frankly shocked me. Greg with a picket fence?

“Here we are,” he said.

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