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Violet gasped with tears and fell forward, gripping her knees. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” She hiccuped. “It’s all wrong!”
Anna was at a loss. She alternated her gaze between Smith and Violet. Smith’s eyes glinted with tears, and they coated his cheeks. Anna wanted to throw her arms around him. Before she could, Smith unbuckled Adam’s carrier gently and gestured for Anna to take him back.
“I have to go,” Smith said.
Anna sputtered. “Go? Where?”
Smith bowed his head toward the woman before them, who was crumpled in a heap, teetering on the brink of a mental abyss.
Anna wanted to tell Smith that Violet wasn’t his responsibility and that they should call someone. A doctor. Her mother. Anyone else. But what good would that do? Violet was alone in the world. In many ways, Smith was just as alone. Perhaps he was the only one who could reach her.
“Violet?” Smith breathed, speaking to her the way he might a child. “Violet, will you come with me?”
Violet sniffled and rubbed her eyes. Anna held her baby tighter, wanting to translate as much love as she could to remind Adam she would always be there for him. But there was so much she couldn’t know about the future. What if she got sick? What if something happened? What if Adam grew up alone?
As Smith led Violet away from Nantucket Harbor, they slipped away from the boardwalk and drifted onto the shadowed sands. Anna watched them go, mystified. Again, she searched her mind for some sign of Dean, asking for his advice. “What should I do about your poor mother?” But Dean, wherever he was, couldn’t hear her. They were on their own.
Chapter Eighteen
Violet couldn’t remember how she’d gotten to the Nantucket Harbor. Much like the rest of her grief-soaked days, time had become foggy and amorphous, streaked with tears.
It had all begun that morning. She’d been on the phone with the Nantucket flower shop, ordering a heaping selection of gorgeous bouquets for the reception tables at Julia’s upcoming wedding. She’d felt prim and organized and thought by imitating wedding planners on television, she’d become one. Maybe, she’d thought, she could actually make this her business again. Maybe she would never have to be an accountant again—a career she’d only done to help pay the bills.
When Violet got off the phone with the flower shop, she jumped on Facebook to write to the reception venue. It had been innocuous and just another task. But she hadn’t expected to see what she’d seen right there on her feed. Facebook should have a “warning” label.
One of her friends from Dayton had tagged herself and her husband in a photo album. In it, her friend wore a beautiful magenta dress that Violet was pretty sure she’d helped pick out. Her husband was in a suit and a cowboy hat, typical of his style. Just seeing them again made Violet pang with homesickness. She’d abandoned Ohio without a second thought—driving halfway across the continent. Adam had been her only hope.
But as Violet clicked through the photo album, a sickly dread took hold of her. Everyone in the photos was dressed to the nines and smiled deliriously. It was clear from not even halfway through the album that the event was a wedding. Violet knew nearly every single guest. They were fathers and mothers of Dean’s friends; they were old neighbors, even some who’d moved away; they were relations of Larry.
And then, Violet found the bride and groom.
It shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. It shouldn’t have felt like a knife through the stomach. After all, Larry and Hazel had been back together since last April—nearly a year ago. They called each other “soul mates.” Marriage was always in the cards.
But Violet was a fool. She’d half-believed that leaving Dayton behind meant that Hazel and Larry no longer existed. Yet here they were, stronger than ever. Happy.
They looked beautiful together. Larry had lost weight, presumably because he’d joined Hazel’s gym, and he’d gotten his teeth whitened (something he’d always said was frivolous before). Hazel wore a barely-there wedding dress that Violet couldn’t have even pulled off back in her twenties. In one of the photos, they pressed cake against each other’s mouths and cackled.
There was a video, too. Because she was a masochist, Violet pressed play and listened as Hazel talked about the “grief” that had brought them back together again. “It’s never too late to build the life of your dreams,” she said.
After watching the video, Violet blacked out. She’d come to only moments ago, in fact, finding herself guided home along the sands by the young man who was the same age as her son. What was his name? He looked familiar. Violet stumbled and reached out to take his arm. Tears stained her cheeks, and her shoes were covered in sand.
“He married her,” Violet rasped, surprising herself. “He really did it.”
“Let’s get you inside,” the young man urged. “It’s cold out here.”
Violet only realized how frigid she was when she got back inside. Her teeth clacked together, and her toes lost their feeling as she mounted the stairs. The young man, whose name she was pretty sure was Smith, opened the door to her bedroom and guided her to the edge of her bed. “I’m going to make you some tea,” he said. “Sit here, okay? And focus on your breathing.”
Violet stared into space for several minutes as the feeling returned to her toes and fingers. There were sounds in the massive house around her—footsteps and murmured words. She was fearful they were talking about her. That’s right. She was in The Copperfield House—a massive Victorian on the beach of Nantucket. She was here, where her grandson lived. Here, where Anna’s entire family looked at her as though she were a thorn in their side. She’d come to Nantucket thinking she was worthless and unloveable—and they’d confirmed it.
Smith returned with a big mug of tea, toast with peanut butter and jam, and a big stack of chocolate chip cookies. Violet’s stomach pulsed with hunger. She hadn’t eaten at all today, not that she remembered. She took a sip of tea and closed her eyes, trying to calm her anxious heart.
“How did you find me?” Violet asked, lifting her eyes to look at Smith. He sat at the chair by the desk, drinking tea. He looked pale and frightened, and it terrified Violet to think she’d caused it.
“You found me,” Smith offered.
Violet was terrified to ask about that. She didn’t want to hear how crazy she really was.
“Who married whom?” Smith asked then, saving her from her swirling thoughts.
