But this was not that universe. This was a universe in which she’d learned this choice piece of her own romantic history from his dead fiancée’s mother. A universe in which being grateful that she and Finn had ended up together in spite of so many things gone wrong now meant being grateful, in a roundabout way, that someone had been killed—that Finn had been responsible for the death of someone he loved. No longer could Violet look back at her life and admire the way the Fates had arranged things just so. Her own happiness—or what she’d thought was happiness—would not have been possible without someone else’s tragedy. How was she supposed to reconcile that? How had Finn even been attempting to reconcile that all these years?
So what if he’d looked for her immediately after Sunny Isles? He’d found someone else, someone he loved and planned to be happy with instead. And when that blew up, and the appropriate amount of time passed, he settled for Violet. Or, at least, he tried to.
In their long line of dominoes that toppled in seemingly perfect order, there was one that had not been synchronized after all, one that had failed to fall. And that domino was Finn.
Violet’s kitchen was especially gloomy after dark, with the overhead light down to just one bulb that wasn’t burned out. The fixture was nearly impossible to get apart while balancing on a stepstool or chair, and she and Finn always had to tag-team it. Every time, she would quip, “How many Welshes does it take to change a lightbulb?” and every time, Finn would grumble, too annoyed with the stubborn thing to laugh. Now she sat at the table in silence, unable to look across at Gram, and eyed the light suspiciously. How long until she was completely in the dark? And when had her life become one giant metaphor?
These long days in the house, she had either far too much space or not enough. She was getting tired of being trapped at this cramped kitchen table with people who were asking uncomfortable questions. She’d known she had to talk to Gram after speaking with Mrs. Branson, but she would have preferred to do it in the kitchenette of Gram’s comforting old lady apartment, surrounded by comforting old lady things. Violet still couldn’t bring herself to leave the house, though. What if Finn came back, found the place empty, and changed his mind and left again? She knew the FBI was keeping an eye on things, but they weren’t camped outside 24/7—at least, she didn’t think so. In spite of their repeated questioning, she didn’t think they truly suspected her of anything other than na?veté, and she also didn’t get the feeling they expected Finn to reappear on his own. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t hold out hope. What else was there to do?
So after she’d hung up with Delilah and watched, in stunned silence, as the last of the day’s sunlight faded, she’d called Gram and asked her to come over. Gram must have sensed that something was different, because whereas before she’d been pushing herbal tea or coffee, this time she brought wine. White, already chilled. Violet had stashed the vodka back in the cupboard before Gram arrived, and she was tempted to retrieve it now that self-medication was apparently acceptable. Her wineglass sat, untouched, in front of her; Gram’s was almost empty. Violet had just finished relaying all she’d learned from her visit from Agent Martin and her conversation with Mrs. Branson, and was waiting for Gram to say something—anything. Gram, meanwhile, was doing that thing therapists do—remaining silent and looking patiently at Violet as if waiting for her to say more.
Violet caved. “The thing is,” she began again, “I always felt like Finn knew me. From the very first moment, we just had this comfort level that felt … I don’t know, almost automatic. It was like we were complete strangers who already understood each other, on some subconscious level. I know I didn’t imagine that. But now that it turns out there’s so much I didn’t know, I’m not sure I even know myself anymore.”
Gram pointed to Violet’s glass. “Drink.”
She obeyed.
“Now,” Gram said. “This is devastating, to state the obvious. I almost feel responsible, being the reason you both came here. Maybe if we hadn’t—” Violet held up a hand to stop her, and Gram nodded sadly. “No point in discussing that, I suppose. But I don’t want to hear any more of this about not knowing yourself without Finn.”
Gram hesitated.
“Go ahead,” Violet said. “Say it.”
Gram sighed. “We did know that you didn’t know everything there was to know about him. From the day he canceled that interview, before you even met him again, you knew that he had been engaged. And when he never told you himself, you chose to let it go. I remember asking you about it once, and you said—”
“I know what I said,” Violet snapped. “I said that it was probably just a nasty breakup and he didn’t want to talk about his ex, and that having been through a few myself, I didn’t blame him. Obviously I couldn’t have imagined this.”
Gram placed a hand on top of Violet’s. “I know, darling. No one could. Let’s not argue. I’m on your side here.”
But Violet was thinking back to their first date—their first real date, after they had found each other again—and to something Finn had said. Or rather, something he had asked her. She saw now with absolute clarity that neither one of them had been able to take a hint. Tears welled in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her few remaining defenses crumbling. There were a lot of places she could rightly direct her anger, but Gram wasn’t one of them. “You’re right. I never should have let that drop with Finn. And I should have known we were forcing the issue. And what you said the other day, about me being a ship? About making sure what I wrote in my captain’s log was accurate?”
Violet drew a shaky breath. “You were right about that, too. How could I have thought our story was romantic? How could anyone have thought it?”
Shame pooled hot in her cheeks as the tears began to fall, and she swiped at them angrily. A burst of cynical laughter emerged from somewhere deep within her.
“There are way too many medical emergencies in our story, for one thing,” she said, sniffing loudly. “First, we don’t get together because a woman goes into anaphylactic shock on the beach. Next, we do get together—but, little did I know, it’s only possible because Finn’s first choice of fiancées dies in a horrible accident. Then, just months after we’re married, I almost die from my postpartum hemorrhage—no wonder Finn freaked. I’d be willing to bet the only thing that kept him from taking off then was how bad it would have looked, running out on his wife and newborn. But none of this is normal. This cannot be the way things were supposed to be.”
Gram made a posh-posh kind of noise. “First of all, life is full of medical emergencies. More than any of us like to think about. That’s the way it is; we’re fragile creatures. I’m an old lady, bound to have one myself sooner or later. It’s inevitable.”
She refilled her wineglass and poured more into Violet’s too, though she’d taken only that one sip. “Second, Maribel was not Finn’s first choice of fiancées. He did not have you and Maribel standing side by side and he got to know you both and then decided he liked Maribel better. He found Maribel instead of you and it worked out. Has it occurred to you that maybe she worried he was settling for her but still wondering what might have happened if he had actually found you?”
Violet looked at her blankly, and Gram leaned back in her seat as if she’d proved some great point.