In Violet's Wake. Robin Devereaux-Nelson
yeah. And who was that other guy? The veterinarian?”
“Oh, shit, yeah! Owen. How come you know about all these guys? They were after you and Violet. You keep track?”
Costa’s face turned red and he looked out his window at nothing in particular. “Maybe,” he said.
“Why?”
“Who knows . . . Maybe I am one of those whadayacallits . . . masochists. Anyhow, I heard that this Brian guy went off the deep end and covered the house in hubcaps. Had to see it for myself, so one Sunday I take a ride out here. And what the fuck? It’s true. So, now you see it for yourself. Crazy. You wanna end up like that?”
“Let’s go talk to him,” Marshall said again. Costa sat, silent. “Hey, it’s your fault. You brought me out here.”
“I don’t wanna talk to no nut.” Costa fidgeted with his keys.
“But you want to spy on a nut? Nice.”
After another moment of silence, Costa looked over at Marshall. “Not very polite to show up empty-handed,” he said.
“True enough,” said Marshall. “Let’s go back into Omer and pick up some beers.”
Owen Blanton was the most affluent veterinarian in his town. His practice was housed in a sprawling brick hacienda on a wooded acre of Mackinaw Road. It was Sunday, but he was sitting in his office, finishing notes on the emergency surgery he’d had to perform that morning on the Johnstone’s Siamese. He was looking out the window at the dry brown leaves that remained on the trees at the edge of the lot when Violet called to say she wanted to get together. “I’ve left Marshall,” she said. Of all the ex-husbands, Owen was the only one who’d stayed in touch with her. They’d worked out a “friendly divorce.” More accurately, Owen hid his true feelings for the sake of avoiding confrontation. She hadn’t wanted the house, or his business, just some money. So, they’d worked it out.
“Seriously?” Owen said, holding 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