The Violets of March Read Online Free PDF Page B

but I couldn’t help myself. “They have competitions for rock skipping?”
    “Sure do,” he said. “Now you try.”
    I looked down toward the sand and reached for a flat stone. “Here goes,” I said, winding up and then letting go. The rock hit the water and belly flopped. “See? I’m terrible.”
    “Nah,” he said. “You just need practice.”
    I smiled. His face was worn and wrinkled like an old leather-bound book. But his eyes . . . well, they told me that somewhere inside the smile lines resided a young man.
    “May I interest you in a cup of coffee?” he asked, pointing up the shore to a little white house above the bulkhead. His eyes sparkled.
    “Yes,” I said. “That sounds wonderful.”
    We walked up the concrete steps that led to a moss-covered pathway. Its six stepping-stones deposited us at Henry’s entryway, under the shadow of two large old cedar trees standing sentry.
    He opened the screen door. Its screech rivaled that of a few seagulls from the roof who squealed in disapproval as they flew back toward the water.
    “I’ve been meaning to get this door fixed,” he said, slipping off his boots on the porch. I followed his lead and did the same.
    My cheeks warmed from the fire roaring and crackling in the living room. “You make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll put the coffee on.”
    I nodded and walked to the fireplace, with its dark mahogany mantel lined with seashells, small shiny rocks, and black-and-white photos in simple frames. One of the pictures caught my eye. Its subject wore her blond hair curled and styled close to her head, the way women did in the 1940s. She oozed glamour, like a model or an actress, standing there on the beach with the wind blowing her dress against her body, the outline of her breasts and her thin waist visible. There was a house in the background, Henry’s house, and those cedar trees, much smaller then, but just as recognizable. I wondered if she had been his wife. Her pose seemed too suggestive for a sister. Whoever this was, Henry adored her. I was sure of it.
    He approached with two big coffee mugs in hand.
    “She’s beautiful,” I said, picking up the photo and sitting down on the couch with it for a closer look. “Your wife?”
    He looked surprised by my question, then answered, simply, “No.” He handed me a mug and then stood up and ran his fingers along his chin, the way men do when they’re confused or unsure about something.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, quickly replacing the frame on the mantel. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
    “No, no,” he said, suddenly smiling. “It’s silly, I guess. It’s been more than sixty years; you’d think I’d be able to talk about her.”
    “Her?”
    “She was my fiancée,” he continued. “We were going to be married, but . . . things didn’t work out.” He paused as if changing his mind about something. “I probably shouldn’t be—”
    We both looked up when we heard a knock at the door. “Henry?” It was a man’s voice. “Are you home?”
    “Oh, it’s Jack,” Henry said, turning to me. He said the name in a familiar way, as though I was expected to know him.
    I watched from the living room as he opened the door and welcomed a dark-haired man about my age. He was tall, so tall that he had to duck a little when entering the house. He wore jeans and a gray wool sweater, and even though it was only midmorning, the faint shadow visible on his jawline hinted at the fact that he hadn’t yet shaved, or showered, either.
    “Hi,” he said a little awkwardly, as his eyes met mine. “I’m Jack.”
    Henry spoke for me. “This is Emily—you know, Bee Larson’s niece.”
    Jack looked at me, and then back at Henry. “Bee’s niece ?”
    “Yes,” Henry replied. “She’s visiting for the month.”
    “Welcome,” Jack said, tugging at the cuff of his sweater. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt; I started cooking and halfway through the recipe realized I was out of eggs. You