Sometimes Violet would get stuck staring at Olivia's profile. If anyone was lovely anymore it was her younger sister. Dead on she was a doll, a marionette with plump, apple-blush pink cheeks, but in profile she was lineless, ivory perfection. Violet, in contrast, had their father's features, more angular without being sharp. She had his height too, which Olivia forgave her on account of her getting their mother's curves. Violet's own fair skin had golden undertones and she freckled in the summer whether she stayed in the sun or not.
Viewed from the angle she was, Violet could imagine painting the thick, dark, brushstroke lashes on her sister's doll face. They matched perfectly the ringlets bouncing at her forehead with Olivia's laboured efforts at making Lee's dinner of stuffed bell peppers. Olivia was saddened to hear of Leo's death and asked about a funeral.
"I don't know any of his family and I doubt they know about me. They didn't seem to know Leo, for that matter, unless there was something in it for them.
"The will should make things interesting."
"Ugliness," Violet said, chomping on celery. "I feel sorry for his grandnephew. He's the only one in the bunch who made any effort."
"I wonder if he's cute."
"I wonder what's wrong with you."
"I wonder what Lee will be eating for dinner," Olivia said, exasperated. They both looked at the photo in the recipe book. It bore little resemblance to Olivia's mangled hash.
"I hear booing," Violet said.
"Quick, get the black pepper. I should do something deliberately."
"Okay." But Violet could not find the pepper mill. "Where is it?"
"Smashed it. I had to grind it in the coffee grinder and put it in the salt shaker."
"Where's the salt?"
"That old margarine container."
"Are you sure that's beef?" Olivia made a face. Violet shrugged, "You ought to know, I guess. It's on your forehead."
"Yeck!" Olivia grimaced, wiping at her forehead with the bathroom hand towel she used for dishes.
What couldn't possibly be an overhead humidifier was, in fact, Ed Edmunds and a potential client breathing in steady unison above Violet at her workspace.
"Violet, hon, we do have a shindig booked for the twenty-fourth of August, don't we?" By the way Ed was staring her to stone, she understood she was meant to lie. "Would you check? That's a Friday."
"It's not a hundred percent, but I'm certain we have an evening wedding booked."
Ed relaxed and rubbed a finger under his ever growing nose. The well dressed client seemed impatient and unimpressed. Ed, now with hands in his pockets and the what can you do? expression of car salesman remorse, rocked foot to foot and said, "Tony, I wish there was something I could do for you, but we already have a deposit and my hands are tied."
The client held out a business card with two fingers like a gun cocked at Ed's Adam's apple. "If you can think of a solution, let me know."
"Surely will."
The foot rocking continued until the dissatisfied customer had cleared the halls, then Ed rushed at Violet and squeezed her shoulders excitedly.
"What did you get yourself out of this time?"
"It's what I've gotten us into. By closing tonight that guy's gonna call back with an offer I can't refuse, and guess what? I won't. What d'ya want to bet it's double?"
"Two black eyes for the price of one?"
"Don't look so scandalized, V. He's Money. He's Mr. Hotel Chain. But daddy's little girl doesn't want a hotel party. She wants us to send her off to Switzerland to learn how to bake cakes and make Belgian chocolates."
"I'm sure the Swiss are mad for Belgian chocolates."
"The point is I'm a business man and you're a rookie. You're a great actress, but a novice at the art of the deal. He's the type who thinks he can buy anyone and he's right. If I didn't let him throw his weight and money around what pleasure would he get out of life?"
"You're a humanitarian, Ed."
"Daddy's little girl wants the twenty-fourth; we get double."
"You're also a crook."
"Boohoo."
"Call him up and tell him the date's available. I'm sure there's adequate swindling room in catering."
"Who works for whom?"
"I do enjoy working for you here, but I'm sure my clients would remember the work I've done for them even if I was doing it elsewhere."
"Bold threat. Bad delivery. Why don't we just wait and see what he offers. That way it's his idea."
Violet was outranked so she resorted to giving Ed an eye twitch. "God's watching you, you know."
"Saint Violet! Have you been speaking to my wife again?" Violet snickered because Mrs. Edmunds was one rolling pin shy of a Battle Axe.
"What if I have?"
"Well does she chew her coffee while she's talking to you?"
His impression of one of his wife's soggy sermons left Violet in a giggle fit which came and went until later in the afternoon when the Switzerland send-off was booked for August the twenty-fourth at double the usual rate.
For someone whose busiest time of year was reliably the Wedding season, specifically July, Violet felt unprepared for the month's hectic schedule. With the whites of August's beady little eyes peering at her around the corner she was desperate to see the fall, but there were still a few summer surprises to come, both well organized and not.
Cyril called her at work one afternoon.
"It was nice to see you again at the wedding," he said.
"You said that at the wedding, Cyril." There was an awkward pause of the toes-pointed-inward, slump-postured variety. Violet felt neither flattered by the call nor superior about it. "I'm so swamped with work here, I don't really have time to – why are you calling me anyway?"
"I was calling to see if you wanted to get together some time to...hang out."
"Why?"
"I thought we could be friends at least."
"I don't want to be rude, but what's the point? We're still the same people who decided not to know each other except for you're married and I'm seeing someone."
What Cyril didn't know might save her from his other ideas.
"But you know the version of me I like better," he said honestly. "I've been thinking some things lately. I think I'm going through some kind of early mid-life crisis."
"Did I win a contest? Because I don't remember filling out a ballot."
"Am I really the worst guy you've ever known? I might be crazy. You should be glad we broke up."
"No, you're not the worst, unless your next line is your wife doesn't understand you."
"Oh she understands, but if she senses weakness she'll attack. Seeing you again was a wake up. I meant what I said. I miss our friendship. Just a coffee, that's all I'm asking."
"Fine. Coffee," Violet accepted similar to calling a bluff. "How about Friday at three o'clock? I have an hour break."
"Perfect. Great. I'm looking forward to it."
"Mm-hmm. Bye."
Later that week, Elaine Foster waltzed into The Grand, breezy and carefree. Violet's earlier meetings with the client had been such strained politeness that she could hardly believe the same woman sat before her pushing her cuticles down with a paperclip from the desk. Her expectations for her husband's forty-fifth birthday party had been too specific, maybe too mapped out, to not induce high anxiety. Today, however, Elaine was positively perky. The Turkish belly dancers were insured and so was the hall. Now everyone could relax about the sword segment of the entertainment and move on. The catering was an outside job too. Violet had the necessary conversations with the company about the kitchens. Elaine Foster, doting wife, seemed satisfied at last with the collaboration.
"This certainly is going to be a spectacle," Violet said. "I think you'll be glad you went with a centre floor show instead of the stage."
"Are you a fan of Turkish food?"
"I don't know. I've never sat down to an all Turkish meal."
"I can't tell you what baklava does to me!" Elaine smacked her magenta lips together and sighed ecstatically.
"Oh yes. Baklava, I know. And Mr. Foster is he excited?" Elaine nodded her blonde head demurely. "How long have you been married?"
"Sixteen years."
"Congratulations."
"Depends on who you're congratulating, my husband or his slut girlfriend."
Violet could not fuse together the statement and the wide smile. "I'm...I'm sorry?"
"Don't waste it." Elaine said, giving her arms a good stretch above her head. "He's said I'd never have to work again, can you believe that? Fortunately, I'm not an idiot. I've worked a little, saved a little from my allowances. I've put enough away so that when I tell him I'm leaving him he can take that pre-nup and wad it straight up his hairy nose. So long, Sucker!"
"When were you planning on telling him?"
"Before dessert. A centre floor show was the best idea."
"Oh, the best."
"Violet March?" The phone call from Celine came on the Friday morning Violet and Cyril were to meet up. "Violet, it's Celine Foley."
"Celine, this is a surprise. How can I help you?"
"I'm just calling to let you know that if Cyril leaves me he gets nothing. If I leave him because he's cheating he also gets nothing. So."
"How romantic."
"I may not be as romantic as you, but look where it's got you."
"I am enjoying this threat too much. When I think of all the other wives who turn a blind eye and force me to go through with it! Dare I hope, will there be scandal?"
Violet ended the phone call with Celine's static-y yelling fading to a click. If Cyril had been there she would have cracked him with the receiver. She felt twice stung: once by the unexpected nastiness, and twice because, in a way, Celine was right. She was a steadfast romantic and it got her nowhere except a front row seat to other people's dramas.
Why couldn't Violet meet someone nice? Someone who wasn't marrying some other nice person? Did any of those relationships last? Where had all the good guys gone and why couldn't one of them shake her up for the better for once?
Nearly one month after Violet and Wayne had discovered Leo's lifeless figure, a registered letter came for her, signed for by Peter at the desk. The envelope was good heavy paper. The address stated it had been sent from the estate offices of Newburg, Davies and Palm.
Violet was both curious and suspicious of the letter, but took it from Peter as though it was of little consequence. She held it tight all the way to her apartment and had not locked the door behind her before poking her thumb through the corner seal. The letter read:
"Dear Ms. March,
Your presence is requested this Saturday,
August the twenty-fifth, at 3:00pm, at the
office of Philroy Palm, estate attorney, for
the reading of Leo Lloyd Finch's Last Will
and Testament."
The office address was repeated along with a number should Violet have any questions or be unable to attend. Her shoulders fell as though from the weight of the letter. She heaved a big sigh and reread it.
"Leo, what have you done?" she whispered aloud. But as moments passed, embarrassment gave way to curiosity and excitement, not without a little guilt, until it all just meant the letter propped up against the vase on her desk made her very nervous for counsel.