If he had posted that one instead, Maribel would be alive today. He wouldn’t know that he had made that difference, but that would be okay. He wouldn’t know what he was missing. He might still not know what love was. He would never have met her, but she would be safe. And who knows? Maybe he would have found a way to be happy too. He never would now. Not like this.
If there was any justice in the universe, any way to right a wrong, Finn didn’t believe that it would come through a portal in time. It had to come through the heart. He’d once heard someone call worrying a “useless emotion.” That was true. But if wishing was equally useless, there was no hope for anyone. All anyone really could do was go through the motions and hope for the best. If there was such thing as miracles, maybe he would wake up tomorrow and it would be two years ago. This whole folder would be gone from his in-box. But maybe in its place would be an e-mail from someone else.
Finn finished his drink in several big swallows. It burned going down. He logged on to Craigslist and selected “Missed Connections” from the “Personals” menu. He copied and pasted the first ad he’d written, and clicked the post live.
He waited, as if perhaps the living room around him would be sucked up into some kind of tornadic time warp. Nothing happened. The old house creaked. His stomach churned. Angrily, Finn yanked the computer’s plug out of the wall, and its fan stopped with a groan. He staggered into the kitchen to search the cupboards, the fridge, the freezer, everywhere he could think of again for something he knew wasn’t there.
19
AUGUST 2012
As the late Saturday morning sun streamed through her open kitchen window, Violet hoisted the last brown paper bag of peaches onto the counter and breathed in a big, satisfying whiff of their sweetness. She and Gram had officially gotten carried away at the farmers’ market. The rest of their take was spread out all around her—more peaches, early season apples, zucchini, and late-summer squash, all begging to be sliced or grated and baked. And then there was their lunch: a fresh round loaf of rosemary garlic peasant bread, a hunk of Amish cheese, a pint of this week’s featured hummus. And all this on top of a gluttonous morning. As she’d watched Gram work her market magic, choosing the best at every stand, Violet had trailed along obediently and happily behind her, filling her arms and helping herself to free samples of apple cider donuts, lemon orzo salad, the last of the summer’s blackberries.
Only with a partner in crime could Violet go this overboard; she always got overwhelmed at the market when she went alone. Everyone else seemed to have such purpose, but she’d find herself trying to remember why she’d come at all, when earlier it had seemed like such a perfect way to start a Saturday. She’d head home with meager pickings tucked into her reusable shoulder bag and then later pine for all the things she hadn’t bought as she combed through her poorly stocked pantry looking for lunch.
Violet hit Play on the CD player mounted beneath her corner cabinet, and the voice of Patsy Cline filled the kitchen. Gram was next door on a mission to retrieve real butter (none of that “margarine crap” Violet’s calorie-counting conscience always made her buy) and her good stand mixer. They were about to have an all-day baking extravaganza—homemade applesauce, peach pie, zucchini bread—some for the week ahead, some for friends, and some for the freezer. The thought of being able to tap into the perfect, not-too-hot sunshine of this August day on some dreary weekend in November made Violet smile.
When Violet had woken up this morning, she had settled into her breakfast nook with a cup of coffee and a magazine, no particular plans in mind and no thought of making any—until she heard Gram’s rap at the back storm door. Now, two hours later, Violet’s day stretched out before her like a hammock in the sun, warm and comforting and full.
This sort of thing had been one of the perks of being under Gram’s wing for as long as Violet could remember. Gram wasn’t big on advance planning, but she believed in keeping busy. As a result, Violet never knew what to expect, but she could always bet something interesting would be in store. If it dawned on them that it was a Tuesday, they might spring for “Bargain Night” tickets to see a classic movie on the little big screen at the Esquire Theatre. A heavy snowfall might necessitate a trip to the Conservatory, where they’d stand beneath the palm trees in the rain forest room, watching the waterfall send delicious humidity into the simulated tropical air as they tossed coins from the little arched bridge into the water below. A hot day could mean a shaded hike down to the creek at French Park, where they’d remove their shoes and wade around looking for crawdads. Gram wasn’t squeamish about crawly things, and she wasn’t squeamish about taking life as it came either. Violet had always observed her keenly. It was impossible to know Gram and not in at least some small way want to be like her.
The door creaked open a sliver, and a white canvas Ked poked its way through the bottom. “A little help, dear?” Gram called, and Violet rushed over to pull the door open wide. Taking in the sight of the petite woman loaded to the gills with provisions, she couldn’t help but laugh. “You couldn’t make a second trip for the wine?” she joked.
“No!” Gram shook her head with mock seriousness. “We must uncork this immediately. It needs to breathe for a few minutes, and you know the rules. We can’t start baking without wine.”
Having graduated to this level of friendship with her grandmother was one of the great pleasures of adulthood for Violet. Half the time Violet preferred her to people her own age.
“Is that because Gram’s young at heart, or because you’re an old soul?” Katie had asked once. Violet didn’t know, and it didn’t much matter. It just was.
Together the women started wiping down the counters and setting out cutting boards and knives and bowls and Violet’s pretty hand-painted canisters of flour and sugar. They moved around each other as they had hundreds of times before, Gram humming the alto harmonies on the CD and Violet singing along in her thin soprano.
“Why don’t we get the apples boiling, while I set to work on the piecrust?” Gram asked in the beat of silence before the next song began, and Violet simply nodded and set to work peeling the apples over the sink.
“I stop to see a weeping willow, crying on his pillow…” A third voice sang in through the kitchen window, and Gram opened the door to the little back porch. “Katie! Come in, darling.”
Katie swept into the room and flashed Violet an I-love-your-Gram smile. “She’s the only person on earth I don’t mind calling me darling,” she’d told Violet once. “Not that anyone else has ever tried.” The endearments never sounded affected coming from Gram. It was just her way.
“Care to join our bake-athon?” Violet asked.
Katie surveyed the scene. “Good God. You bought out an apple orchard. Or are those peaches?”
“Both.”
“You two are going to roast alive in here.”