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And then, Violet realized something was behind the tree in the side yard.
Vaguely curious, but only because it was a welcome distraction, Violet tiptoed across the room and peered out the window. On either side of the thick maple trunk, she could make out elbows, knees, and flashing hair. It looked to be a man and a woman, both of them dressed up. It stood to reason they’d been part of the wake. Violet cursed them for feeling free enough to enjoy the beautiful evening. She remembered Anna driving across the continent and heading back to Nantucket toward her family. Violet wondered if she would ever feel that freedom again, the wind in her hair.
That was when her husband stepped out from the other side of the tree. Larry glanced to his right and spread his hand over the top of his gelled hair. He looked as though he was making sure nobody had seen him. Violet’s heart stopped. Larry took another step forward before a woman’s hand wrapped around his arm and tugged him back behind the tree. They disappeared for a moment, drawing so close together that it wasn’t hard to imagine what they were doing. Violet was gutted to the core. What kind of man cheated on his wife at their son’s wake? It was the sort of scandal that people in Ohio would never get over. Violet had the insane impulse to jump into the living room and announce it to their guests.
Behind Violet, her sister began to talk about what was next in order for Violet to make a “better transition,” whatever that meant. “A support group meets at the community center,” she said. “And I’m friends with a grief therapist. We do yoga together. You really have to check her out. She says some of the most profound things to me over, like, lunch.”
All the while, Violet’s eyes remained glued to the tree. She didn’t want to miss it when they inevitably walked out and returned to the party. Like watching a car crash, she needed to know how bad this was.
“Are you listening to me?” Violet’s sister asked.
“Mm-hmm,” Violet returned.
And then, it happened. Larry emerged, adjusting his suit jacket over his shoulders and glancing back to smile adoringly at the woman behind the tree. As he strode through the fresh spring grass, a woman in a pale blue dress headed in the opposite direction, away from the party. It didn’t take Violet long to figure out why.
The woman was Hazel Applewood.
Immediately, Violet twisted away from the window and collapsed against the wall, nearly toppling the calendar to the floor. Her sister ogled her a large spoon over a container of potato salad, which she planned to spoon into the serving bowl. “Honey? Are you okay?”
How could Violet answer this question?
It was true that Violet hadn’t thought of Hazel Applewood in probably eight years. Just as she’d promised she would, Hazel had left town, gotten another job, and fled their lives. Violet had locked the story of Hazel in the back of her mind, calling it “things better off forgotten.” But she was back. And the timing couldn’t have been worse.
Violet filled a glass with water and drank it in a single gulp. Other members of her extended family entered the kitchen to see how they could help, and Violet’s sister put them to work, pointing and ordering. Violet grabbed a lemon cookie from a tray and ate it slowly, trying to relish the flavors of the decadent textures. Her stomach rumbled with hunger pains. This was the only food she’d given herself all day.
Violet floated upstairs and spread herself like a sea star on the bed she’d shared with her husband since their marriage at age twenty. Like almost all of their friends, they’d been high school sweethearts. They’d had a plan until Hazel Applewood had come along to squash it.
Violet still remembered the first time she’d seen Hazel. It had been ten years ago at parent-teacher night at Dean’s high school. Dean had been a freshman at the time, enrolled in Hazel’s biology class. Hazel was in her late twenties, a brand-new teacher with bright-eyed optimism about the ways teaching could dramatically alter her students’ outlook on life. She spoke poetically about this during parent-teacher night in a way that made the fathers rapt with attention, and their wives roll their eyes. Still, Violet admitted to the other wives it was nice to meet a teacher who genuinely cared about their children’s well-being. “She wants the best for them.”
Violet had been tremendously busy at the time. She’d owned her own accounting business, driven Dean from place to place, belonged to several book clubs, and always had food on the table for dinner. It made sense why she hadn’t suspected anything at first. After all, Larry had made it to most dinners. He’d attended almost all of Dean’s games. He’d even been around to help Dean with his homework here and there.
The first hint had been the perfume. She’d smelled it on his button-down, like a bad cliché, and she’d nearly vomited with the realization. She’d never worn that perfume before.
Immediately, she called her sister. “This is what men do,” her sister had assured her quietly. “He’ll probably get over it and come back to you.”
Violet had been flabbergasted. She was just supposed to sit at home and wait for Larry to get over his fling? She was just supposed to put food on the table, wash everyone’s clothes, go to work, come home on time, and pretend nothing was wrong?
The doctors had called what happened next a “partial nervous breakdown.” Perhaps due to grief, Violet didn’t remember most of it. Her secretary had called her accounting clients to ask for a month’s extension. Her sister had come over to cook for the kids. Violet had spent a few nights in a hospital with white walls, her brain on the edge of an abyss.
Violet’s husband was asked to attend one of her therapy sessions in the hospital, where Violet revealed what she’d learned about “the woman.” All the blood had drained from Larry’s face. At first, he’d spat accusations, telling the therapist that he was in a “loveless marriage.” And then, when Violet hadn’t risen to the argument, Larry had broken down, saying, “It’s the kid’s science teacher.”
When the therapist asked Larry if he planned to leave, Larry looked at Violet with large, soulful eyes. Within them, Violet had seen their decades of love, their endless stream of memories. And she’d known, in her heart of hearts, that he had no plans to leave her, even if he fantasized about it sometimes.
Besides, he felt too guilty.
And so, ten years ago, Larry had returned. But news of Larry and Hazel’s relationship had spread across town. Hazel had been demonized, and she’d requested to transfer to a nearby town. Within the year, Violet had allowed herself to forgive and forget.
After the wake quieted beneath her and everyone but a few returned home, Violet listened to Larry’s familiar footfalls as he came upstairs. She remembered herself all those years ago in the hospital and wondered why she’d resolved to continue to love Larry forever. Had it been a lack of imagination? Had she forgotten that she had one finite life?
Didn’t she respect herself more than this?
Larry appeared in the gray shadows of the bedroom. He removed his suit jacket and lay on the bed beside Violet, staring at the ceiling. Just as he had ten years ago, he smelled of Hazel’s perfume. Violet waited for the familiar anger to swell in her chest. It didn’t.
“So here you are,” Larry said finally.
“Here I am.”
Larry rubbed his forehead. “Your sister’s a trip, you know that?”
