Читать книгу In Violet's Wake - Robin Devereaux-Nelson - Страница 7

chapter 1

She’d left a half-empty bottle of tequila. She’d left a lot of other things too, but right now Marshall figured the Patrón would serve him better than mismatched dishes, odd socks, and the wedding ring lying in the ceramic dish at the edge of the kitchen sink. Marshall avoided looking at it as he pulled down a glass from the cupboard and poured himself a shot. He waved the tequila under his nose and grimaced. Tequila wasn’t his drink; it was Violet’s. He turned to the refrigerator and began rummaging in it for a slice of lime or lemon. There was nothing in there but a moldy orange and a net bag with a few withered grapes in it. He left the rotten fruit lying on the refrigerator shelf, scooped up the Patrón, and bravely downed it in a gulp. He poured himself another.

He left the shot glass in the kitchen and took the bottle into the nest he’d built himself in the living room over the last three weeks. The answering machine blinked next to a pile of unopened mail in the foyer. Around him, the house was in shambles—drawers emptied, windows bereft of curtains, all the homey touches packed up and taken away. She’d left behind the things she didn’t want, or in Violet-speak, “couldn’t bear to take.” She’d left those sentimental reminders there for Marshall to deal with, which he did by remaining in a six-by-six-foot area of the living room that included the television, coffee table, and sofa and none of the memorabilia of their short marriage. He stared at the television, seeing nothing, and drank.

When the bottle was empty, Marshall knew what had to be done. Yesterday, he’d found the note shoved into the back of a drawer in the desk, a date and time, Pavlos’s name etched in Violet’s curlicue handwriting that Marshall’d always thought of as cute. It was stuffed under a photo of her that she’d given him just before she’d moved in. Part of him had wanted to tear it in half, ruin the visage of her dark, smoldering eyes, that half smile that had first attracted him to her, the long, black hair. He used to keep that picture on his nightstand. How long had it been here, in the desk?

Marshall had shoved the photograph back in the drawer, then smoothed the note out on top of the desk. Just looking at the son of a bitch’s name made him mad. How long had she been seeing him? And why, after all the things she’d told Marshall about the guy? Pavlos had had his chance with her and blew it. And now, she’d left Marshall for the son of a bitch? It was the only explanation.

Marshall leapt from the sofa, his head reeling, nearly pitching himself onto the floor. He grabbed at the coffee table, upsetting some empty beer cans and an ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes. He made his way unsteadily to the desk and pulled out the phone book, opening it to the restaurant section. There it was. He jabbed his finger angrily on the page. The Greek’s place, Plati Pavlos. Marshall pulled his car keys out of his pants pocket. The fucking guy was going to be sorry.