The Violets of March by Sarah Jio Read Free Book Online Page B

ease there with Greg. “Yeah,” I said, “I’d be lying if I said this isn’t hard. But I’m taking things day by day. Today? Today I feel good.” I gulped. “Yesterday? Not so much.”
    He nodded, then smiled again, looking at me affectionately, his face ablaze with memories. “Hey, do you remember the time I took you to Seattle to that concert?”
    I nodded. It felt like one hundred years since I’d thought about that night. My mother had forbidden it, but Bee, ever the miracle worker, convinced her that letting Greg take me to the “symphony” was a grand idea.
    “We almost didn’t make it home that night,” he said, his eyes like portals into the forgotten memories of my youth.
    “Well, as I recall you wanted me to stay the night with you at your brother’s frat house at the university,” I said, rolling my eyes the way I might have when I was a teenager. “My mother would have killed me!”
    He shrugged. “Well, can you blame a guy for trying?” He still had it, the spark that had attracted me from the beginning.
    Greg quashed the awkward silence that followed by redirecting our attention to wine. “So you were looking for a bottle of wine?”
    “Oh, yes,” I said. “Bee sent me down for something white. Which one of the pinots would that be?” When it comes to wine, I am one hundred percent idiot.
    He smiled and ran his finger along the rack until it stopped midshelf, and he pulled out a bottle with the precision of a surgeon. “Try this,” he said. “It’s one of my favorites—a local pinot grigio made from grapes grown right here on the island. One sip, and you’ll be in love.”
    Another customer was suddenly hovering behind Greg, but before he turned to assist he quickly asked, “Will you let me take you out to dinner? Just once. Just once before you go?”
    “Of course,” I said instinctively, not stopping to think the invitation through, because if I had, I would have probably—no, definitely—said no.
    “Great,” he said. His smile illuminated two rows of glistening white teeth, which made me run my tongue along mine. “I’ll call you at your aunt’s.”
    “Good,” I said, a little dazed. Did that just happen? I made my way up to the produce department to tackle the watercress, when I spotted Bee.
    “Oh, there you are,” she said, waving at me. “Come here, dear, I want to introduce you to someone.”
    Standing next to her was a woman, about Bee’s age, with dark hair—clearly dyed—and dark eyes to match. I’d never seen eyes that dark. They were nearly black, and quite a contradiction to her creamy, pale skin. There was nothing geriatric about this woman, except for the fact that she was, well, in her eighties.
    “This is Evelyn,” Bee said proudly. “One of my dearest friends.”
    “It’s so nice to meet you,” I said.
    “Evelyn and I go way back,” Bee explained. “We’ve been friends since grade school. You actually met her as a child, Emily, but you may not remember.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t. I’m afraid I had a one-track mind during those summers: swimming, boys, repeat.”
    “It’s so nice to see you again, dear,” she said, smiling as if she already knew me. And there was definitely something familiar about her, too, but what?
    Unlike Bee, in her jeans and sweatshirt, Evelyn looked like she could be a senior citizen model. There were no high-waisted pants or thick, rubber-soled shoes. She wore a stylish wrap dress and ballet flats, and yet she seemed genuine and down-to-earth, just like Bee. It made sense that they were best friends. I liked her instantly.
    “Wait, I do remember you!” I said suddenly. The glint of her eyes and the light of her smile instantly transported me back to 1985, the summer when Danielle and I stayed with Bee on our own. We had been told that our parents were going on a trip, but I later learned that they had separated that summer. Dad had left Mom in July, and by September they’d patched