In Violet's Wake. Robin Devereaux-Nelson

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СКАЧАТЬ the phone in the crook between his neck and shoulder. He pushed the scattered files into a messy pile and moved the stack back into his “IN” basket. He’d have to tackle them another day. “I thought Marshall was the one.”

      “So did I,” said Violet. She was beginning to get that pout in her voice that grated on Owen’s nerves, so he decided it was easier to tell her he’d meet her instead of trying to get out if it. Just when he’d promised himself he was going to try to keep his distance, too. They agreed on lunch at Hoffbecks because it was close to his office and because they both knew how much Owen liked the Caesar salad there. Violet always was one to subtly woo. Especially when she wanted something.

      She was sitting at their usual table when Owen walked in. It threw him sometimes, when she did things like that, like she had when they were married. Sitting at their table. It was like the divorce never happened, like she was meeting him for lunch like always. Owen remembered when they were first married, the many times they hadn’t even made it through their lunch, rushing instead back to the clinic to make love on the leather sofa in his office with the sounds of dogs barking through the walls and the musky smell of fur and medicine all around them. Those were good times.

      Her jet-black hair was shorter, cut into a fashionable bob that framed her face and made her eyes look even larger. In Owen’s book, they were her best feature, rimmed with long, black lashes. Dark brown with tiny flecks of gold, if you looked close enough. And Owen always did. Her clingy knit top showed off her small waist and great breasts—there was something to be said for never having had a child. Violet had the body of a twenty-year-old even though she was just turning forty. She had those skinny jeans on, the ones that hugged her calves and thighs, and she was wearing kitchy leather boots that looked old, like they were from the ’60s.

      Owen took her all in. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but every time they got together, for a drink, lunch—even though she was remarried—he always had a smidgen of hope. When they’d divorced, Violet almost immediately slid into a relationship, then marriage, with Tim Stark, and Owen had been livid, hurt. He’d spent a couple years trying to pretend, with no success, that Violet didn’t exist, that their marriage hadn’t, in fact. Then one day he ran into her on the street, and he realized he still missed her. She’d told him things were not good between Tim and her, and they’d agreed to meet for a drink. Little by little, they’d formed a friendship, though Owen hoped for more.

      Now, despite her quirks and downright irritating traits, he still felt warm whenever he was around her. Being her pal allowed him to stay near. So, he was her pal. She’d even invited him to the wedding when she married Marshall VanDahmm, but he’d begged off. Said he had to be at a veterinary convention in Columbus. Though he knew about her growing relationship with Marshall, he’d still held out hope. Watching her marry someone else? There was only so much a guy could take.

      Violet greeted him warmly, as usual, getting up from the table to bestow a platonic hug. Her hair brushed his face, and he breathed it in—her smell. He still missed that. It’d been seven years since the divorce, and though he’d dated a little—at Violet’s urging, in fact—nothing had panned out. He’d even adopted an abandoned mutt one of his clients had found by the side of the road, despite years of petlessness.

      That had been one of the things he’d loved about Violet. She hadn’t wanted pets in the house. Most people assumed veterinarians had menageries of animals at home, but after ten-hour days of sticking your fingers in animal orifices, you really didn’t want to deal with that when you got home. Owen had wondered more than once about the sex lives of gynecologists.

      “Thanks for meeting me.” Violet had that look about her that she got when she was working up a good cry. Owen knew she was a drama queen, but he’d never really minded much. She was animated and essentially sweet, and back when they were married, after a day of dealing with animals, her dramatic stories of what happened during her day, what her mother had the nerve to say to her when she called, maybe she should enroll in some classes and “expand her mind,” (and decrease Owen’s bank account, he always thought, but never said aloud), and reminiscing about some childhood slight eased Owen. It was like having your gramma read you a scary bedtime story in a sweet, soothing voice.

      Now, instead of a wife, he came home to Bentley jumping and slobbering on him, Bentley who loved him unconditionally no matter how much Owen ignored him. Bentley was no replacement for Violet, but it helped not having to come home to an empty house. And Owen had to admit, the furry beast was growing on him.

      “How are you?” Violet had that knack, always asking about you first, then launching into a self-centered dissertation of what was going on with her. It threw you, until you understood what she was up to. Owen had no illusions. He was much like Bentley. Unconditional.

      “No, how are you?” Owen said, patting her arm. “You called me, remember?” Violet’s eyes got misty. She took a preparatory tissue out of her handbag. Owen steeled himself. Why did he have to be such a softie? “So,” he said, “what’s happened between you and Marshall?”

      “Oh, Owen!” Violet said, and she began to sniffle. She wiped at her carefully made-up eyes. Couldn’t have the eyeliner smudged, oh, no.

      “Things haven’t been good between me and Marshall for a while,” she said with a dramatic sigh.

      “Um, hmmm . . .” Owen nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging manner. He was thinking, I wonder if Marshall knows that.

      Violet went on to tell him how they’d been struggling for money and yet she felt Marshall didn’t want her to work—it would make him feel like less of a man, poor guy, with his issues with his dad and all.

      “Well, what would you do?” Owen asked, knowing full well Violet had little practical experience in the working world.

      “Oh, I don’t know.” Violet wiped at her eyes again. “I hate working at the real estate office. I was thinking about getting my paralegal certification, you know, work in an attorney’s office or something.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Before I got this job, I went over to see Costa. To see if he’d let me re-open the club.”

      “You’re kidding,” Owen said. “I thought you told me he was abusive to you. And that the club was a money pit.”

      Violet fluttered her eyelashes. “Well, not exactly abusive. Just mentally maybe . . . and more his family than him. He’s really just a big old bear, you know. A softie inside.”

      Owen thought about the many tearful revelations she’d shared about Costa over the years, the therapy bills he himself had paid to help her “work through the abuse.” Jesus Christ. “So,” he said noncommittally. “What’d he say?”

      “He shooed me out. Angelina was there.” Violet leaned forward, giving Owen a more than healthy view of her cleavage. Owen blinked and leaned forward. He nervously cleared his throat. “You know how jealous she is of me. He said, ‘Are you fugging kidding me, Violet? Angie would have my balls.’” Violet stuffed the used tissue back in her bag and sighed. “So, that was that.”

      “I don’t think Marshall would have been crazy about you working for your ex-husband,” Owen said, thinking, I would have never put up with her working for that slob. “You know,” he leaned over and covered Violet’s hand with his own, “I wouldn’t have minded that. Trust wasn’t an issue between us, Violet.”

      “Oh, Owen. You’re sweet,” she said, brushing her fingers across his knuckles, giving him a delicious chill. “You’re right. That wasn’t our problem.” She smiled at him, fluttering her eyelashes. “It was just so complicated between СКАЧАТЬ