Chapters (38)
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- epilogue
A few months later, she’d asked if Violet could stay and help with her business, explaining Violet had become so skilled at serving cones and sundaes to tourists, Jean couldn’t do without her.
This was far from the truth. Violet consumed any profits she might have generated each day in the form of Coke floats. She found it hard to tolerate most of the tourists. Jean constantly reminded her niece she had to smile and be courteous, even if a customer was railing about the price of extra caramel or insisting ice cream—and everything else—was better up north.
Violet felt sure her mother didn’t suspect any reason for the trip other than her daughter’s heartbreak over Sam’s move to New York. She’d asked Jean to introduce her daughter to “some nice Florida boys.”
No one, Aunt Jean assured her, would ever know about the baby. She had a lawyer friend in St. Pete who had arranged an adoption. Violet’s monthly visits to Dr. Southerland and the hospital stay would be covered. And because she’d been hysterical at the thought of handing her baby to a stranger, she was promised she didn’t even have to see her child’s new parents. Everything was arranged, planned, set into motion, going forward, and rushing to rip Violet apart.
The baby was due in one month. Violet ran her hands across her stomach and cried salt back into the Gulf of Mexico.
fifteen
RONNI
I had come to believe Rick was right about everything. He seemed to know exactly what any given situation required, have an answer to every problem, and never waver when he’d made a decision. It was one of the things I adored about him.
Our days at the lake were set in a pattern: I’d blink my eyes about seven each morning and find Rick staring at me, smiling me awake. He’d cook breakfast—usually waffles or scrambled eggs—and bring it to me in bed with a cup of strong coffee. We’d eat while discussing Violet’s latest chapter. Then he’d kiss the tip of my nose, take the dishes, and disappear.
I spent the next four hours with the door closed, clutching the laptop and writing while Rick roamed the woods and water with Kitty. I’d written more in six days at the lake house than all the months before. The lack of distractions was nice, but I knew the book was flowing freely because I discussed ideas with Rick. Violet, I’d decided, did not expressly prohibit general discussion with my boyfriend. It wasn’t like I was talking to Kait or Donna about it; surely this was okay.