Читать книгу In Violet's Wake - Robin Devereaux-Nelson - Страница 14

chapter 8

Owen Blanton was the most affluent veterinarian in his town. His practice was housed in a sprawling brick hacienda on a wooded acre of Mackinaw Road. It was Sunday, but he was sitting in his office, finishing notes on the emergency surgery he’d had to perform that morning on the Johnstone’s Siamese. He was looking out the window at the dry brown leaves that remained on the trees at the edge of the lot when Violet called to say she wanted to get together. “I’ve left Marshall,” she said. Of all the ex-husbands, Owen was the only one who’d stayed in touch with her. They’d worked out a “friendly divorce.” More accurately, Owen hid his true feelings for the sake of avoiding confrontation. She hadn’t wanted the house, or his business, just some money. So, they’d worked it out.

“Seriously?” Owen said, holding the phone in the crook between his neck and shoulder. He pushed the scattered files into a messy pile and moved the stack back into his “IN” basket. He’d have to tackle them another day. “I thought Marshall was the one.”

“So did I,” said Violet. She was beginning to get that pout in her voice that grated on Owen’s nerves, so he decided it was easier to tell her he’d meet her instead of trying to get out if it. Just when he’d promised himself he was going to try to keep his distance, too. They agreed on lunch at Hoffbecks because it was close to his office and because they both knew how much Owen liked the Caesar salad there. Violet always was one to subtly woo. Especially when she wanted something.

She was sitting at their usual table when Owen walked in. It threw him sometimes, when she did things like that, like she had when they were married. Sitting at their table. It was like the divorce never happened, like she was meeting him for lunch like always. Owen remembered when they were first married, the many times they hadn’t even made it through their lunch, rushing instead back to the clinic to make love on the leather sofa in his office with the sounds of dogs barking through the walls and the musky smell of fur and medicine all around them. Those were good times.

Her jet-black hair was shorter, cut into a fashionable bob that framed her face and made her eyes look even larger. In Owen’s book, they were her best feature, rimmed with long, black lashes. Dark brown with tiny flecks of gold, if you looked close enough. And Owen always did. Her clingy knit top showed off her small waist and great breasts—there was something to be said for never having had a child. Violet had the body of a twenty-year-old even though she was just turning forty. She had those skinny jeans on, the ones that hugged her calves and thighs, and she was wearing kitchy leather boots that looked old, like they were from the ’60s.

Owen took her all in. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but every time they got together, for a drink, lunch—even though she was remarried—he always had a smidgen of hope. When they’d divorced, Violet almost immediately slid into a relationship, then marriage, with Tim Stark, and Owen had been livid, hurt. He’d spent a couple years trying to pretend, with no success, that Violet didn’t exist, that their marriage hadn’t, in fact. Then one day he ran into her on the street, and he realized he still missed her. She’d told him things were not good between Tim and her, and they’d agreed to meet for a drink. Little by little, they’d formed a friendship, though Owen hoped for more.

Now, despite her quirks and downright irritating traits, he still felt warm whenever he was around her. Being her pal allowed him to stay near. So, he was her pal. She’d even invited him to the wedding when she married Marshall VanDahmm, but he’d begged off. Said he had to be at a veterinary convention in Columbus. Though he knew about her growing relationship with Marshall, he’d still held out hope. Watching her marry someone else? There was only so much a guy could take.

Violet greeted him warmly, as usual, getting up from the table to bestow a platonic hug. Her hair brushed his face, and he breathed it in—her smell. He still missed that. It’d been seven years since the divorce, and though he’d dated a little—at Violet’s urging, in fact—nothing had panned out. He’d even adopted an abandoned mutt one of his clients had found by the side of the road, despite years of petlessness.

That had been one of the things he’d loved about Violet. She hadn’t wanted pets in the house. Most people assumed veterinarians had menageries of animals at home, but after ten-hour days of sticking your fingers in animal orifices, you really didn’t want to deal with that when you got home. Owen had wondered more than once about the sex lives of gynecologists.

“Thanks for meeting me.” Violet had that look about her that she got when she was working up a good cry. Owen knew she was a drama queen, but he’d never really minded much. She was animated and essentially sweet, and back when they were married, after a day of dealing with animals, her dramatic stories of what happened during her day, what her mother had the nerve to say to her when she called, maybe she should enroll in some classes and “expand her mind,” (and decrease Owen’s bank account, he always thought, but never said aloud), and reminiscing about some childhood slight eased Owen. It was like having your gramma read you a scary bedtime story in a sweet, soothing voice.

Now, instead of a wife, he came home to Bentley jumping and slobbering on him, Bentley who loved him unconditionally no matter how much Owen ignored him. Bentley was no replacement for Violet, but it helped not having to come home to an empty house. And Owen had to admit, the furry beast was growing on him.

“How are you?” Violet had that knack, always asking about you first, then launching into a self-centered dissertation of what was going on with her. It threw you, until you understood what she was up to. Owen had no illusions. He was much like Bentley. Unconditional.

“No, how are you?” Owen said, patting her arm. “You called me, remember?” Violet’s eyes got misty. She took a preparatory tissue out of her handbag. Owen steeled himself. Why did he have to be such a softie? “So,” he said, “what’s happened between you and Marshall?”

“Oh, Owen!” Violet said, and she began to sniffle. She wiped at her carefully made-up eyes. Couldn’t have the eyeliner smudged, oh, no.

“Things haven’t been good between me and Marshall for a while,” she said with a dramatic sigh.

“Um, hmmm . . .” Owen nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging manner. He was thinking, I wonder if Marshall knows that.

Violet went on to tell him how they’d been struggling for money and yet she felt Marshall didn’t want her to work—it would make him feel like less of a man, poor guy, with his issues with his dad and all.

“Well, what would you do?” Owen asked, knowing full well Violet had little practical experience in the working world.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Violet wiped at her eyes again. “I hate working at the real estate office. I was thinking about getting my paralegal certification, you know, work in an attorney’s office or something.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Before I got this job, I went over to see Costa. To see if he’d let me re-open the club.”

“You’re kidding,” Owen said. “I thought you told me he was abusive to you. And that the club was a money pit.”

Violet fluttered her eyelashes. “Well, not exactly abusive. Just mentally maybe . . . and more his family than him. He’s really just a big old bear, you know. A softie inside.”

Owen thought about the many tearful revelations she’d shared about Costa over the years, the therapy bills he himself had paid to help her “work through the abuse.” Jesus Christ. “So,” he said noncommittally. “What’d he say?”

“He shooed me out. Angelina was there.” Violet leaned forward, giving Owen a more than healthy view of her cleavage. Owen blinked and leaned forward. He nervously cleared his throat. “You know how jealous she is of me. He said, ‘Are you fugging kidding me, Violet? Angie would have my balls.’” Violet stuffed the used tissue back in her bag and sighed. “So, that was that.”

“I don’t think Marshall would have been crazy about you working for your ex-husband,” Owen said, thinking, I would have never put up with her working for that slob. “You know,” he leaned over and covered Violet’s hand with his own, “I wouldn’t have minded that. Trust wasn’t an issue between us, Violet.”

“Oh, Owen. You’re sweet,” she said, brushing her fingers across his knuckles, giving him a delicious chill. “You’re right. That wasn’t our problem.” She smiled at him, fluttering her eyelashes. “It was just so complicated between us, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Owen, looking into her eyes. No, he thought.

She pulled her hand from his, gently reaching down and patting him on the knee. Owen felt that familiar wrenching in his gut and that familiar expansion in his slacks. Oh, Christ, not now, he said to himself, willing the hard-on into submission. He smiled crookedly and thought about his teacher from sixth grade. Mrs. Wankowski. She was built like a tank and was mean as a dog. That always worked. Owen took a deep breath and gratefully smoothed down his slacks. He took a gulp of ice water.

Violet was fiddling absently with her spoon. “Well, I’ve started seeing this new therapist, Yolanda. She’s awesome,” Violet began.

Oh sweet Christ, Owen thought, willing himself to not roll his eyes by looking down into his coffee cup.

“Anyhow, I told Yolanda everything—you know, about my mom and my marriages—” She looked up into Owen’s startled face. “Oh, don’t worry!” she said brightly. “I only had the best things to say about you, Owen. You know, how we became friends after the fact, and how understanding you are about the divorce and just how, well, grown-up you’ve been about everything. So many men are immature. That’s what Yolanda says.”

“Mmmm hmmm.” Owen was noncommittal.

“She gave me these things to work on . . . you know, exercises. Some journaling and some free-form kind of drawing things, although God knows I am no artist. Apparently Yolanda studied with some psychiatrist in Germany on how to interpret art from the colors and movements of the pencils and things on the page, or something.”

Owen nodded, sipping his coffee. It sounded hokey. He wondered how much Marshall had paid per hour for his wife to scribble on newsprint. The waitress came over and took their orders, chicken Caesar salads, their usual.

Violet sipped at her herbal iced tea. “I’m going to work really hard, Owen, on me for a change, you know? I guess Marshall saw it as kind of selfish. He hated it when I was seeing Dr. Coulter. He said it was too expensive, but I know he was just . . . you know, threatened. And he was so jealous.”

Wow, Owen thought, mentally ticking off Marshall’s negative traits—unhappy, judgmental, jealous—what would be next? Violet pushed her hair back behind her ear, and despite his cynicism about her, Owen found the gesture youthful and charming. He smiled at Violet, encouraging her to continue. “You know, I went to this retreat up at Higgins Lake. Marshall was so mad. He accused me of seeing someone! Can you imagine it?”

“No,” said Owen. Yes! he thought.

“Well, he did!” Violet sat back, folding her arms over her chest. “Like I would want to become involved with any of those losers from the therapy group! Can you imagine?”

“Absolutely not,” said Owen, thinking about crazy “Hubcap” Jankowicz up in the backwoods of Omer. His chrome-covered abode was legend. There’d even been a small-town newspaper story about it. That had had a recycling angle to it, though, not the this-guy-went-nuts-after-his-wife-left-him angle. Owen wondered, and not for the first time, if Jankowicz thought nailing all those hubcaps to his house kept the Martians out or something, like some people thought wrapping their heads or covering their windows with tin foil (shiny side out!) deflected gamma rays.

Violet was still talking about her therapist, The New and Great Yolanda. He’d kind of nodded out, though he appeared to be paying attention. He’d gotten good at it. He’d also heard this schtick a least a hundred times before, not to mention that he took his turn paying for it. How can any one person need so much therapy, he thought, and never get normal? “Marshall and I started fighting about it—the money. He said all therapy was doing was causing problems between us. He couldn’t see that I was growing, you know? At the Center they called it Becoming The Self. See, I was growing and changing, and Marshall wasn’t. I mean, not that he’s not a nice enough guy, but you can’t stay stagnant, you know? That’s always a disaster for a relationship.” She picked at her salad with her fork. She hadn’t eaten a bite.

“Sure. Sure.” Owen was nearly done with his salad. He’d spent the whole time chewing, nodding, mmm hmmming. Just like old times. He looked at his watch. He had to be getting back to the office soon. If he didn’t have those files updated by Monday morning, Shelly, his office manager, had threatened to neuter him. “So, what happened?” he said, wanting to expedite the conversation to the actual breakup. “Why’d you leave?”

Violet sighed. “Oh,” she said, winding up for another long conversation. “It was a long time coming.” Owen pointed to his watch. “Oh . . . sorry. You have to get back.” He smiled indulgently.

“We had this giant blow up. I mean, Marshall was yelling and throwing stuff and everything. And you know, Owen, I will just not tolerate violence of any kind. I told him I was no good for him and that I should leave.”

Owen’s fork clattered onto his plate. “Violet, are you fucking kidding me?” He leaned forward on both hands. “That card again? ‘I’m no good for you?’ How many times do you think you can pull that old shoe out? For once why don’t you say what you really mean?”

Violet’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Owen!” she hissed, looking around to see if anyone was watching them. “Shhhh! And what do you mean, say what I really mean? I am an open-minded person, and Yolanda says—”

“Oh, I don’t give a fat fucking fig what Yolanda says. I imagine it’s akin to what Dr. Coulter told you when you were married to Winston, and what Harvey Shinmann told you after you and Hubca— I mean, Brian, broke up, and what your encounter group leader said, and yadda yadda. What you mean, Violet, is Marshall is no longer good for you.” Owen’s face had gone pink, and he could tell his blood pressure was up. “He was disposable! Just like I was!” Fuck, he said to himself. Oh, fucking fuck.

Violet wiped her mouth and put her napkin over her untouched salad. She put her hands in her lap and straightened her back. “Well. I just can’t believe you are so hostile, Owen. And we’ve been such good friends, too.”

“Yeah, about that,” Owen began.

“Yes?” Violet said, arching her eyebrow. Her voice was frosty. Oh, yes, Owen thought, I remember it well.

Owen had no idea why he was suddenly so angry. What did he care if Violet had left Marshall? Didn’t that open up a window for him, possibly? He could suddenly hear his mother in his head. You really want to go through that again, Owen? You are an idiot, just like your father. He took a deep breath and looked at Violet. “Never mind,” he said.

“Never mind?”

“Yes, Violet. Let’s not go there, okay? I have to get back to the office anyway.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “On a Sunday?”

“Case notes,” he said, a little more pointedly than he meant to, but deep down, he resented having to explain.

Violet looked down into her lap. “Well, okay,” she sniffed. Then she looked up at Owen. It was plain that she didn’t believe him. “I understand. I know you have some feelings for me you haven’t resolved, and this is uncomfortable for you. You know,” she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You could probably benefit from some therapy yourself.”

Owen scooted his chair back and tipped his head at her. He threw some money on the table for the lunch. “Talk to you later, Violet,” he said. You have absofreakinlutely no idea, you crazy broad, he thought.