But the events of the night before, on that desolate, fog-shrouded dock, had changed everything. She’d never be able to look at him again with innocent eyes, never not worry that he’d learn the truth and find his sense of duty and responsibility outweighing his love and devotion to her.

She was supposed to meet him at eight, and as that time came and went, she rocked. Back and forth in the rocker on the back porch overlooking the river. At eight fifteen the phone rang. Five rings, then six, then silence. Violet rubbed the skin of her wrist where the bracelet should have been. Minutes later, the phone rang again, and for longer. A little later, it rang yet again—thirteen times—then nothing. Violet pressed her fingertips against her closed eyelids, blotting out images of his sweet face, his confusion, his concern.

Over the next few days, he called, he showed up at school, he found her on the beach—What’s wrong, Vi? What did I do? Why won’t you see me? What happened?

What could she say that would fix things? Nothing. It was all too far past fixing. And she couldn’t bear to hear his broken voice, see the worry and agony plain on his face knowing she’d caused it, so she did her best to avoid him. It wasn’t like she didn’t have other things to occupy her mind, one of which was figuring out what she and Trudy would do when people realized Jay was gone, and for longer than one of his sporadic, unannounced trips out of town. When people started asking questions.

She was supposed to be on a flight to Florida in another forty-eight hours. She let him think she’d be on that plane, then gone for three months. But she wasn’t going to Florida. Trudy was still in such a fragile state—not speaking, not eating, not doing much more than lying in bed and staring at the wall or sitting in front of the window, staring at the trees and the river beyond. Violet couldn’t leave her.

She talked to Emmajean about it, telling her only that Jay had disappeared, probably with one of the floozies at the Showboat, and Trudy was devastated.

“Give her time.” Emmajean often channeled her brilliant psychiatrist husband when doling out advice. “Silence can be a form of self-preservation, you know.”

The night before her now-canceled flight, there was a knock on the door. Violet froze, then remembered Jay wasn’t coming back. He couldn’t hurt Trudy again. He couldn’t hurt either one of them.

“I know you’re leaving tomorrow,” Frank said as soon as she opened the door. His eyes were weary, as if he hadn’t slept in days, his hair pushed in a dozen directions. He wore his dress pants with a bright white undershirt, a state of dishevelment he never would have allowed if things hadn’t spiraled out of control. “I just wanted to see you one last time.”

There was that pull again on her midsection, the same one she felt every time she saw him. The one that spoke of need, of hunger, of tenderness and dreams. He took a step closer to her, but she put her hand on the edge of the door and held it tight. His gaze went to her wrist.