Read The Violets of March for Free Online Page B

cryptically, “especially with Jack.”
    “Careful? Why?”
    “People aren’t always who they appear to be,” she said, tucking her reading glasses into the blue velvet case she kept on the side table.
    “What do you mean?”
    She ignored my question in a way that only Bee could. “Well, is it twelve thirty already?” She sighed. “It’s time for my nap.”
    She poured herself a demitasse of sherry. “My medicine,” she said with a wink. “I’ll see you later this afternoon, dear.”
    It was clear that there was some kind of history between Bee and Jack. I could see it on his face, and I could hear it in her voice.
    I leaned back on the couch and yawned. Enticed by the allure of a nap, I found my way to the guest bedroom and curled up in the big bed with its pink, ruffled comforter. I picked up the novel I’d bought at the airport, but after battling through two chapters, I tossed the book on the floor.
    I freed my wrist from the constraints of my watch—I can’t sleep with any hardware on—and opened the drawer of the bedside table. But as I dropped the watch inside, I noticed something in the shadows.
    It was a journal, a diary of some sort. I picked it up and ran my hand along the spine. It was old, and its intriguing red velvet cover looked worn and threadbare. I touched it, instantly feeling a pang of guilt. What if this was an old diary of Bee’s? I shuddered, setting it carefully back inside the drawer. A few moments passed, and I found myself with the diary in my hands again. It was too irresistible. Just one look at the first page, that’s all.
    The pages, yellowed and brittle, had a pristine feel that can only be cultivated by the passage of time. I scanned the first page for a clue, and found it in the bottom right corner, where the words Manuscript Exercise Book were typed in black ink, along with standard publisher’s jargon. I recalled a book I’d read long ago in which a character from the early twentieth century used such a notebook to write a novel. Is this a draft of a novel, or a private diary? Fascinated, I turned the page, extinguishing my feelings of guilt with ample amounts of curiosity. Just one more page, then I’ll put it back.
    The words on the next page, written in the most beautiful penmanship I’d ever seen, sent my heart racing. “The Story of What Happened in a Small Island Town in 1943.”
    Bee had never written, at least not that I was aware. Uncle Bill? No, the lettering was clearly the work of a female. Why would it be here—in this pink room? And who would leave off their byline, and why?
    I took a deep breath, and turned the page. What would be the harm in simply reading a few lines? When I took in the beginning paragraph, I could no longer resist.
I never intended on kissing Elliot. Married women don’t behave like that, at least not married women like me. It wasn’t proper. But the tide was high, and there was a cold breeze blowing, and Elliot’s arms were draped around my body like a warm shawl, caressing me in places where he shouldn’t have been, and I could scarcely think of much else. It was like how we used to be. And even though I was married now, even though circumstances had changed, my heart had managed to stay fixed in time—frozen, as if waiting for this very moment—the moment in which Elliot and I found our way back to this place. Bobby never held me like this. Or maybe he did, but if so, his touch didn’t provoke this kind of passion, this kind of fire.
And yes, I never intended on kissing Elliot on that cold March night, nor did I plan for the unspeakable things that happened next, the chain of events that would be my undoing, our undoing. But this was the chain of events that began in the month of March of 1943, events that would forever change my life and the lives of those around me. My name is Esther, and this is my story.
    I looked up. Esther? Who is Esther? A pen name, perhaps? A fictional character? I heard a knock, and