The guy out under the willow tree had said some strange things, even maybe threatened Maggie, but as Malcolm played the conversation back in his head, he thought maybe it hadn’t really been about her at all. Except as a target.
Elias probably owed somebody a lot of money, a gambling debt that had grown so large that the person he owed had sent the raven to collect in any way possible. There wasn’t much of value in the house, but the raven didn’t know that, so he was threatening Maggie because her son had skipped out on some gambling debts. It made so much sense, viewed in that light.
“Elias,” he whispered to himself. “You dumb son of a bitch.”
How much money did his brother owe, and to whom? Had Elias told them he would inherit the house after Maggie died, used that as collateral? Malcolm didn’t know what Maggie had written into her will, but he figured Elias would receive at least a one-third share. Maybe he would own the whole thing, and whoever he owed planned to take it once she’d breathed her last.Either way, his debts would prove a problem for Violet in the days to come.
Malcolm resolved to help her as best he could, but whatever trouble Elias had brought to their doorstep would have to wait.
A black suit hung in his closet. He touched the sleeve, rubbed the fabric between thumb and forefinger, and wondered at the necessity of bringing it along. He didn’t know anyone in Maine, and if they had family up that way, Maggie had never mentioned them, so her funeral was likely to consist of a graveside blessing followed by the rhythm of shovels in soil. Travel light whenever possible, Maggie had always said, and he meant to follow that advice.
No black suit.He could mourn his mother’s death without wearing a necktie. Though in this weather, he’d need his overcoat, which was gray tweed.
As he wondered what he might have forgotten to pack, he ran a hand over his jaw. If he meant to commit himself to Maggie’s instructions—and he did—he’d have precious little time to waste from the moment she passed. He ought to have a bath and a shave right now.
“This is absurd,” he whispered.
A quiet knock came at the door.
“Come in, Violet.”
The hinges squeaked as she stepped into his room.
There had been many nights when he’d lain awake thinking of the way Violet sometimes looked at him, and how often they shared a contemplative pause after an unintended touch. Those nights, the knowledge that Maggie would hear the squeak of his hinges was sometimes all that kept him from rising from bed and going to Violet. Decency and the law demanded he not dare, but honor couldn’t change how he felt.
“Maggie’s sleeping,” Violet said, unasked questions in her eyes. “I thought I should look in on you.”
“I’m nearly done.”
“Good. When you’re finished, I’ll throw a bag together for myself.”
He straightened up. “I’m sorry? Where are you going?”
The noise that came from her lips was too sad to be called a laugh. “What do you think, I’m going to stay here? Your mother is dying, her mind is failing, and she’s given you this lunatic errand. If you go and don’t come back, what’s to become of me?”
Malcolm knew the words he ought to say. Some reassurance that Elias would return to her, that as her husband, he would never let her fend for herself. But Violet wouldn’t believe that any more than Malcolm did.
“I’ll be back,” he said, glancing away, wondering if he should have kept his mother’s final request to himself. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Fate doesn’t always give us a choice,” Violet said. “No telling what kind of trouble you could get into that might keep you from coming back. You need someone to look out for you.”
Her lips twitched into something like a smile. So much remained unspoken.
Elias and Violet had met in a Chicago nightclub. Beautiful, flinty-eyed, she was a singer who always kept her chin up, not afraid of anything or anyone. She rarely talked about her childhood, but what Malcolm knew grieved him. Her drunken mother had died in a fire. Three-year-old Violet had been saved by her father, who’d been broken by the loss, leaving her to be raised by a cold-eyed aunt who’d taught her how to dance, how to make up her face, and how to scratch the eyes of the lecherous upstairs neighbor. The aunt had gotten a new boyfriend and thrown her out at fifteen.
Nightclubs and late nights had been her life, but to hear her tell it, Violet had always longed for the kind of quiet family life that Elias promised her. Had she known at the time that they were polar opposites? That Elias came from the quiet life and craved noise and danger and risk? That he’d never love anything as much as he loved himself, gambling, and scotch, in that order?
Maybe she had known it, and maybe she hadn’t minded. Not at first.
Elias had brought her home to Elkhart, Indiana, like a souvenir instead of a wife. Every time he went back to Chicago in search of the risk he loved, he left Violet behind in the house with his mother. She might as well have been on a shelf, collecting dust.
When Malcolm had come back from Korea, he had seen enough of risk and danger to last a lifetime. All he’d wanted was hard work during the day and a soft place to lay his head. What he’d found, instead, was the company of a gentle woman who’d learned enough of life’s hard lessons that his moods didn’t trouble her. It could’ve been a perfect match, except that they were off-limits to one another. The upside of that was it meant they could skip the flirtations and become friends and confidants.
If only it had been that simple.
Malcolm’s heart ached every time he looked at her. Elias hadn’t been home to his wife in more than a year, but even before that, he’d barely taken the time to get to know her. The fool.
He wished she were free, and Violet had always known it. This had been a house full of unspoken truths for years, and that wouldn’t change tonight.
