Violets & Violence (14 page)

Silence.

“Please?” she added. She obviously knew it was a bad idea.

I checked the time again; a solid eight seconds had passed. “Okay.” I regretted my decision immediately. No, I hated it.

“Good. I’ve booked you for next Friday,” she said.

This was bad news. I knew it.

“And, Carter?”

“What if I’m not available next Friday,” I shot back.

“I know you’re good for lunch. I know
you
. Remember?”

I didn’t say anything, not because it surprised me that she claimed to know me so well, but because she was right. She did know me.

“Carter?” she said, picking up where she had left off. “Stop focusing on the depreciation of everything, okay? Start living.”

“All right.” I would have agreed to the moon if she would just leave me alone.

I hung up. I hadn’t answered my phone with the expectation that I would have a lunch date all lined up by the end of the conversation, let alone being preached to about the depreciating value of life and happiness from a woman that didn’t appreciate the immediate value of either of those things.

All I had wanted was to hear her voice. For all of those years while I thought our marriage had been a happy and safe place, she had called. Mid-afternoon, right after my lunch break. And I had smiled each and every time. I wanted some of that back, yes, like I needed a quick taste of the very poison that had ruined me all those years ago when she’d decided she wanted more and explained to me that “more” had nothing to do with me.

From Alan J. Kirby’s boardroom table, I could see all of downtown Chicago. I sipped from my bottled water and waited. I had been waiting for nearly half an hour already, so I was getting good at it. I checked my phone, hoping for a message from Violet but not thinking that maybe I should send her one first. I hated that she consumed so much of my thoughts, and not exactly in a positive way.

I had doubts. Real doubts. Big doubts. And yesterday’s strange encounter at her house seemed to confirm those doubts.

When Alan appeared, the double doors were opened for him by a woman in long pants, and he stepped in without slowing his stride. He wore an expensive, black suit with silver stripes the width of a thread, a vest underneath his jacket, and shoes that had been polished to the point where, if the sun reflected off the toes, it would blind you.

“Ah, the magician,” he said, flashing his million-dollar smile. Guys like Alan, men who’d made their millions selling the product or service that their company manufactured, guys like that had a gift. A chipped tooth, a black eye, or, God forbid, a stroke could end their career. Alan recognized that. Which was how I had first become involved with his investment account at our firm.

I chuckled and sounded goofy to my own ears, moving my attention from his face, because guys like Alan also had a way of intimidating you with their executive-quality looks. “Barely, Alan.”

“Then what is it?” he asked, taking a seat next to mine.

“Not magic,” I insisted. “Prudent analysis, possibly.”

“Then why don’t I move my accounts to Wood Gundy?”

I chuckled again and looked away. “Because Ted Baxter takes really good care of you.”

He chuckled next, except when he did it, it sounded rich and powerful compared to mine. He propped his elbows up on the table and gave a negotiator’s nod. “Show me what you’ve got.”

I reached into my attaché and produced the thick assortment of reports that Jonathan had prepared yesterday. They made one of those brick-sized novels look like light reading. Piece by piece, we worked through the reports. Every so often, I glanced over at Alan, half-expecting him to need a nudge or elbow to wake up, but he followed along. Easily, it seemed.

Maybe I’m wrong, maybe our clients actually love this crap.

At the end of the meeting, he decided that instead of moving assets to Wood Gundy, he would move some away from that firm. “Some” translated into seven figures, which meant an even-greater bonus for me at the end of this quarter.

“Will you take a check?” he asked, walking me through his office lobby to the elevators.

“There’s a transfer form.” I rushed the words because his commitment had not only numbed my legs and tongue, but I felt like I might get sick –
seven figures, twice in less than a month, will make me look like a rockstar
.

Again with the big smile. “Perfect. Send the transfer form through to Anne—” His executive assistant, the one in the long pants, “—and I’ll get it back to you that same day.” We shook hands as the elevator arrived. “Great doing business with you, Kyle.”

I didn’t bother correcting him.

The Blue Line subway to O’Hare would take roughly one hour from the station at the James R. Thompson Center, which had been an interesting building when it was first built. I remembered reading about it in college after a friend of mine, who had been studying architecture, pointed out that the glass walls captured heat and made working conditions absolutely unbearable for the people employed there. In his little circle of budding architects, that had been big news.

Walking along Wacker with my attaché slung over my shoulder like a man-purse, I studied the activity around me. Even at this time of year, there were plenty of tourists, which was something Detroit didn’t have in its downtown core. Not with this kind of abundance anyway. And the tourists we saw back home were often a little more rugged, daring.

Detroit’s adventurous tourists often consisted of amateur photographers like my friend, Darren (the one that owned the batting cages), often seeking out stories in abandoned homes and buildings, dead architecture. Here, amateur photographers took all types of pictures of pretty things. Darren would be bored.

At the Thompson Centre, I pushed inside and took the stairs down to the subway level. I had decided on the subway because, at this time of day, it was a little more consistent and certain than taking a taxi. While I had plenty of time to make my flight, knowing that I would see Violet after that flight, at the end of the long walk down the Arrivals gate, I really couldn’t afford to screw this up.

After swiping my CTA card and pushing through the turnstile, I headed down the stairs and waited at the O’Hare platform. Standing alone, I wondered once again why…

Why Violet was standing on the platform leading to O’Hare as well. Seeing her in those jogging pants, her short, nearly black hair tucked into a Tigers ball cap, I froze. I stood roughly half a dozen feet behind her, five o’clock, and she held her phone six or so inches from her eyes, reading something on the screen—
a book, an email, a text?
—and completely oblivious to my presence.

At first, watching her read and smile and swipe past the words on her phone provided me with a sense of peace. It allowed me to find a happiness I hadn’t known in a long time. But then all of that melted away because she had a show tonight. She had dismissed me yesterday because of last night’s show. And after tonight’s, she wanted me to visit her, then tomorrow she would fly to New York for the day?

“Carter?” she asked, turning around. I didn’t know how she had seen me, unless she had a talent for sensing creeper’s eyes. “What’re you doing here?”

Speechless, I started to say something, but held back.; I had already told her this. All of it. I patted the attaché hanging off my shoulder instead. “Client meeting.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Same one as the last time you came to Chicago?”

I nodded. “Only this time, I’m headed home with an additional seven figures to invest.”

With wide eyes, she fanned herself. “Wow.”

“I’ve just earned my maximum bonus for next quarter,” I told her with a shrug.

“Are you still going to join me after the show tonight?” she asked.

A blast of air rolled through the station, washing over me like a ball of imaginary fire.

“Train’s here,” she said, turning to the oncoming subway. “Wanna sit together?”

She slid her hand into mine as the train stopped, and the gesture surprised me because she had been so distant and off-putting yesterday. When the train’s doors opened, she tugged me forward, dragging me inside to a bench near the back. The entire time, she clung to me.

Who are you, Violet?

Once the subway was moving again, I glanced over and found those hazel eyes staring at me. She seemed lost in me, and I didn’t quite understand that when, yesterday, she hadn’t even stayed outside to watch me drive off in the Camry.

“What?” I asked.

When she said nothing, I squeezed her hand and caught myself leaning in for a kiss. I realized how ridiculous this appeared to the others – a near mid-lifer acting like a school kid on a subway – so I pulled back at the last possible moment.

But Violet didn’t let me off the hook. She snapped her face forward and pasted a quick kiss on my lips, nothing long enough for her eyes to close or her tongue to move into my mouth, but enough that I felt the passion, the way she reached behind me and gripped the hair at the back of my head.

“I’m sorry,” I said, stepping back.

“So, are you allergic to communication or something?”

I returned my gaze to my lap, at something of a loss for words. I wanted to ask about New York, about her acquaintance with Ted, Bill, this strange James Calver guy who had followed me to her show and somehow disappeared while sitting next to me. I had a lot of questions, but I didn’t know how to ask for the answers without looking like a jealous freak or moron (or both).

Violet nudged a little closer to me. “It’s a nice, long ride to the airport,” she whispered. “We may as well use this time to talk…unless you’re allergic to that sort of thing.”

“Very funny,” I mumbled. “I’m not allergic to communication.”

The train stopped at the next station –
Arriving at Grand, Grand Station
, came from the overhead speaker – and we wasted that moment in silence. But once we started moving again, Violent angled her head to me, and I sensed her discomfort.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll start.” Deep breath, and the warmth of her exhaled breath smothered my face. “I really enjoyed Friday night with you,” she confessed. “You loved me – I mean, you
made love
to me in a way that I was never looking for. Partially because I never knew that kind of feeling and emotion existed. It was…beautiful.” She sighed, and I inhaled her again.

“I…I don’t know what to say,” I admitted. “The reality is that I’ve been burned when it comes to relationships. When it comes to women like you.”

She giggled. “What does that mean?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head. I often felt like I had stumbled into a dream where nothing went my way, no matter what I did or tried. Yesterday at her home, the night I took her to 220 and the live music place, even in the men’s room at the warehouse conference center, things
never
seemed to go my way with her. But when I had low expectations, like right now, like Friday night, or that night we had Chinese at my place, things went exceptionally well.

“It means…” I didn’t know how to explain it. “I don’t know.”

She squeezed my hand again, pulled me close and kissed my jaw, right in front of my ear. “Talk to me, Carter. You’re not supposed to be the one with the secrets. That’s the making of a magician, and the kind of magic you’re really good at is the kind you find in the bedroom. And I want that magic all to myself.” She winked, which got me smiling again.

“Okay,” I said, softening up again. “The last time I, uh…” I fake-chuckled and shook my head.
This is ridiculous, a heavy conversation like this on a subway made for a great train wreck
. “These things never end well. For me,” I clarified. “And you talk about secrets? Well, that’s what I seem to be allergic to. Secrets have a way of coming to light and hurting people.”

She nodded, her eyes a little harder than expected, but they definitely conveyed understanding.

The train said, “
Arriving at Chicago. Chicago Station,
” in its mechanical voice. There was silence as a few people got off and a handful boarded. Once we were moving again, Violet shifted a few inches away, reached up with her free hand and forced my attention to her eyes. It killed me to look at her; I feared what was coming.

“I know what you said, but this is what I heard,” she started. “You’ve been burned. Someone you loved more than anything did something—I’m guessing she left—and it’s taken you a long time to even notice another woman. And then I happened.
Poof
.” She made a hand gesture to illustrate that word. “And we mesh, we get along well enough that Friday night happened. I know it’s not just me, Carter. I know because women like me don’t date guys like you, let alone fall in love with them. And I know that guys like you don’t date women like me, let alone develop feelings for them.” It was the second time she had mentioned
love
, except this time she didn’t make a move to correct herself. She began shaking her head, averting her eyes for the first time since we started this crazy chat. “And you’re right about the secrets. I have tons of them.” She raised her eyes to me again.