Violets & Violence (13 page)

“Really, is that what you think?” I chuckled; it was fake and fueled by rage at spending the night alone in my bed. “You make a trip or two to New York and you think you know what sacrifice is?”

She scooped her eggs onto a plate. “I
see
you, Luke. You’re a dirtbag. You’d have fucked that Lindsey girl if you’d had enough time to seduce her, wouldn’t you?”

I shook my head at her insanity—
that’s what this is, complete insanity.
But it seemed to work because the image of Rinker floated into my mind, and I had to clear my throat to get rid of him and his phone call last night. “You tell him about James? I know how women behave when they’re jealous.” I nodded at her. “Obviously, it gets ugly. Imagine a nobody like Carter Borden, what he’d do? He’s got nothing to lose. And when he finds out about us and what we’ve got here, how we do it, what do you think that’ll look like? Have you thought about that, once you get
bored
with him too? After everything we’ve been through, every last piece of it for
you
, have you thought about that?” I allowed a beat of silence to pass between us. Plus, I needed to catch my breath, scale back the anger. “And you think you know about sacrifice?”

At last, her eyes narrowed as the common sense started to sink in. I was happy for the granite countertop between us, otherwise I might’ve touched her again—
I want to strangle you and shake some logic into that spoiled little head of yours—
and set her off.

“Listen, Luke,” she threatened. “I own you. This—” She made an indicative motion between us “—is getting old. You’re screwed. It’s over. And I’m not going back to New York.”

“Like hell you’re not,” I said between my clenched teeth.

She shrugged. “I don’t care about you or James or the money or the show. That’s your addiction, not mine. And you have the balls to say that
I
haven’t made sacrifices?”

We had a staring contest, allowing me to weigh the seriousness of her words. She seemed pretty damn serious.

“Fine.” I threw my arms up. “I’ll let it go. I’ll let
you
go and fuck everything up, everything we’ve worked so hard for. Happy?”

She grinned, not even a hint of sympathy in her eyes, for me or anyone. “I’m falling in love with this guy,” she repeated. “I’m not sacrificing that, and I don’t care if that annoys you or anyone else. I didn’t make any promises to James. That was
your
doing.” She shrugged again. “And since you’re so sure that you’re the real magician here, I’ll leave that to you to deliver on those promises and make magic happen so he forgets all about us.”

I air-applauded her response, then shook my head. “You’ve got this all figured out, don’t you? So smart for a spoiled girl who never attended a day of college. So bloody smart.” I kept shaking my head. “Someday, you’ll wake up next to a man who can’t afford to buy your fancy shoes and expensive makeup, and you’ll drag your ass to some job you hate and makes you old and tired, and you’ll understand something.”

“That I hate working?” She shrugged. “That’s the thing, Luke. When the last thing you see at night is your soul mate’s smile and the first thing you find when you wake up is his eyes, you’d sacrifice anything.” She twirled her hands. “I can’t make love magically appear. Neither can you. It’s probably the one and only thing in life that’s not an illusion.”

I slapped the granite with an open palm. “That’s where you’re wrong,” I told her, backing out of the kitchen. “Love is the biggest illusion of all, and all it takes is a bit of work – the very thing you
hate
– to keep it alive.”

Sitting in the waiting area at the Belle Tire on Mack Ave, just a few blocks from Violet’s Grosse Pointe home, I grabbed this morning’s copy of the
Detroit Free Press
and noticed an article about Violet’s show in the entertainment section. Rolling my eyes at just how late to the party our local press had been, I read through the review and caught myself nodding at the reporter’s observations. They were the same accolades as mine, but they should have written about it sooner.

And then the mention of me, which told me that reporter had attended the same show as I had on Friday night, the one where, “this masterful, gorgeous and stunning magician chose one lucky audience member and disappeared into the land where beautiful dreams must come true.” I smiled at the memory of our lovemaking on that bean-bag mattress underneath the seating area.

In the next paragraph, the reporter quoted a few audience members. The words
amazing
and
speechless
appeared more than twice in the audience comments.

But then I noticed a name that got my ears ringing.

Ted Baxter, a prominent figure in Detroit’s investment advisory sector, helps to make shows like Violet’s possible by investing in the city’s blossoming entertainment scene.

Ted? Had my boss invested in the show just as Bill Thomason had?

I placed the paper back on the table, exactly where I had found it, and ran my palms down the length of my face. Like I had just read the obituaries instead of an insane, high-energy review for Violet’s show.

“Carter Borden?”

I stood up, looked toward the doorway to the garage space and found a young man in a dark blue jumpsuit and dirty hands.

“Your winter rubber is all set,” he told me, then nodded at me to follow him to inspect the winter tires he had just installed on my Camry.

We headed outside together, and he pointed out the features of the tread and told me all about the warranty that came with these tires. I barely heard a word he said. All I could think about was how incredibly coincidental it was that both Ted Baxter, the President and CEO of the company where I worked, and Bill Thomason, one of the wealthiest young-retirees I knew, both had some kind of involvement with the mysterious woman I happened to be falling in love with.

Was that by design? Or a coincidence?

“So you’re all set,” the tire guy said.

I nodded as he walked away. “All set.”

This time of day, a little before noon on a Monday morning, traffic in Grosse Pointe Farms fell somewhere between quiet and nonexistent. No other Toyota Camry could be seen creeping down the high end, tree-lined streets that rolled up to Violet’s house. But I didn’t care. I wanted to see her, surprise her in her own environment. The last time I had been inside her house, she had cooked for me. I wondered what she might do for me now that we had begun sleeping together.

The front gate stood ajar, so I drove up the half-moon driveway and killed the engine next to the front doors. She must have heard the engine, or my door opening and slamming shut, because as I walked around the front of the Camry, the front door opened and she stepped outside in a housecoat, a wicked smile on a face framed in long, blonde waves. She looked beautiful in any length, style and color of hair, and even more so now that I could hold her again.

“Beautiful,” I whispered. I hoped she would invite me inside.

She grinned, though I doubted that she heard the word that dripped off my tongue. Shifting her weight from one leg to the next, she tilted her head to the side and studied me a little closer with those greyish-green eyes. “What’re you doing here, Mr. Carter?”

Despite the two names rolling through my head –
Ted and Bill
– and the nagging of a third –
James, who the
hell
does that guy think he is?
– I maintained my composure and matched her smirk with my own. “I was hoping for a little more of that magic, Violet.”

She shook her head, still smirking. “Is that right?”

I stepped toward her, but she didn’t budge, didn’t meet me halfway or make me feel like she wanted me in her arms as much as I wanted her in mine.

Climbing up the stairs, I reached out for her, but she didn’t reach back, so I let my hand fall back to my side. Still smiling, I searched her eyes for a sign, a hint as to what might’ve changed since Friday night and Saturday morning.

She chuckled. “You’re a good man, Carter,” she said, still smiling at me. All smiles, the nice kind, not the fuck-me kind. “Just a few more shows, then I’m all yours.”

I frowned and took a step back toward my car. “I should get back to the office.”

“Hey, Mr. Carter?” she called out to me as I reached the door handle. “Why don’t you swing by tomorrow night after the show?”

I considered the invitation for a beat before opening the door and offering her an affirmative nod. “Probably won’t stay too late,” I warned. “I’ll be in and out of Chicago tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” she agreed. “I’m off to New York the following morning.”

New York? Again?
My stomach dropped.

“You bet,” I said, swallowing my disappointment as I slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

“Hey, Carter!”

I opened the passenger window.

“Maybe you should plan on staying the night, huh?”

I smiled at her smiling face and gave a quick wave, wondering what the heck was going on here—
she wouldn’t even take my hand when I reached for hers, yet she wants me for a sleepover?

“See you tomorrow once I’m back,” I said before pulling the shifter into Drive and easing out of the driveway. I turned around at the end of the street and headed back the way I had come.

And I noticed, like any good magician, that Violet had disappeared from the front stoop where she had been standing only a few seconds prior.

Later that afternoon, sitting at my desk and still a little dizzy from the wild change in Violet’s affection toward me, Jonathan poked his head into my office and told me that the reports he had been preparing for my trip to Chicago were finally printed and ready.

“They look great.” He waved the reports at me. “He’ll be happy with the results and pleased with our defensive strategy.”

I waved him into the office and took the reports. There were five in total, all of them full of graphs that only the most passionate mathematician could understand and get excited about. Next to those were pretty and colorful pictures, numbers that represented probability rates and rows of variance and covariance analysis, as well as fluctuations in the five key measurements associated with stock options. I had once found that if I blinked quickly, those numbers could take on the shapes of zoo animals because they didn’t mean much else to the average person.

“Are you okay?” Jonathan asked, frowning with a hint of concern.

I stopped blinking and looked up at him. “We need to get better at these,” I sighed. “They look great to us, but I don’t think even Ted cares about all these figures. And the graphs take a lot of explanation when I’m sitting with a client.”

Jonathan leaned back in his chair, discouraged. He linked his hands behind his head and stared at me. “What do you want me to do, Carter?”

“I don’t know. But let’s not forget that we do all of this—the investing, the handholding, the returns—for the client, not ourselves.” I started to suggest that he eliminate the graph that illustrated Theta as the expiry date approached, but my phone started ringing.

Jonathan gave a nod as he rose out of the seat. He wanted out of my office. “Get it,” he said. “Flat market, probably nobody’s pissed off.”

I glanced over and was surprised to find another Detroit number and the exchange suggested it was close.
Same building?
I didn’t know anyone close except—

“Carter Borden,” I said, snapping up the phone. My heart pounded in my chest.

There was a silence that seemed to stretch into an eternity, and then her voice. “You agreed to lunch but didn’t ask for my number.”

Shit.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and imagined myself parked outside the gates to her home, the one she shared with her new husband who wasn’t so new anymore. He had boatloads of money, a handsome laugh and a Rolodex filled with other money makers and heavy-weighters just like him, which compared to my wagon of pocket change, my goofy laugh, and a contact list of about eight-six on my iPhone, including work colleagues and my doctor’s office.

“So, I thought I would track you down,” she went on. Her voice had a melody of confidence. It made me feel safe again, whole, complete. I missed her so much I ached.

“I’m going to Chicago tomorrow,” I blurted. She wouldn’t care, Hell, I barely cared. But it was the only thing I could think of saying.

“Oh, nice. Gets windy and rainy at this time of year, and I remember what you’re like when it gets cold,” she said.

“Hate the winter,” I mumbled. Suddenly the image in my mind shifted seasons, the leaves changing colors and the wind blowing the trees bald. “Just got new winter tires installed on the Camry. It’s likely to start snowing soon.”

She chuckled on the other end. “You know something, Carter? I think
you
should’ve become the bank manager. Between the vanilla car—”

“I thought you liked the Camry,” I said, a little defensively. “That’s why I keep buying the newer models. I mean, for the price and fuel economy alone—”

“I do, I do!” she insisted, laughing. The sound of her laughter comforted and stung at the same time. It came across as half-symphony, half-pillow over my face while I slept. “But let’s be honest here. While other people our age were cruising around town in two-door coupes or convertibles, we had a
Camry
. Like we were twenty years older than we really were, trying to be mature and responsible.”

“I wanted a family,” I admitted, my breathing heavy now. “I thought you wanted one, too.”

More silence. “I like the Camry, Carter,” she told me after a pause. “It’s a great car, reliable as anything else on the road, but it’s just not you...” Her voice trailed like she wanted to say you
thful
but caught herself and settled with
you
instead.

I massaged the bridge of my nose, reminded of Violet and that freckle I had kissed the other night before making love to her. “Then what kind of car should I be driving?” I asked.

She giggled again, and the playfulness reminded me of happier days, the kind I had never wanted to let go. “I think you’d look good in a BMW. Not the cheap one, either. The five series with the big rims and tinted windows.”

I sighed, I hated talking about material matters with her, always had.

“Or an Audi,” she added, still playful. This woman had changed since our marriage. A lot. Our first Camry had been too expensive according to her, now she suggested spending money I didn’t even have.

“The depreciation…” I groaned.

“Hear me out,” she spoke quickly now because she knew these conversations had always belonged to her; the arguments that ensued always hers as well. “Just listen for a minute. Cars and almost everything depreciates, yes. But so does life. And happiness. And all of those other good things that we took for granted, Carter.” No more giggling. “Look at us. Look at Lewis. Damn, life really
does
depreciate and, before you know it, there’s no more fun, no more happiness. No more…life.”

“So you’ve switched from a ‘saver’ to a ‘spender?’” I asked, trying to bring back the lightheartedness to the conversation. This conversation started to feel deep and potentially destructive. Maybe that explained why she drove that big Mercedes now.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Oh, god, yes.” Those words reminded me of Violet, but the context had been different.

Shifting in my seat, I checked the time. I needed a distraction. “Okay, with that in mind, I’ll spend some of my life, then.”

“Let’s have lunch, Carter,” she blurted. “Just lunch. Let’s talk and reassess where we are, what happened, and where we go from here.”