Evergreen Falls (12 page)

She was painfully aware of the difference in their fortunes and prospects. “I have a mother with arthritis who works as a laundress and seamstress. She can make a dress in a day, and is often required to do so by the family she works for. But they pay her very little and her hands don’t work like they used to. I send her money, but I can see a time where I’ll have to work for both of us . . .” Violet trailed off. Speaking the awful truth aloud made her feel miserable and lost.

Sam had grown quiet. She turned her head to look up at him, and his gaze was thoughtful.

“Do you love your mother?” he asked.

“Of course I love her.”

“Then don’t worry about it. Because anyone you love, I love, too, and I have enough money to fix everything. So, never worry about it again, because I can’t bear to see you fret. I will fix everything with my money. It’s easy for me, and I love you.”

The declaration of love was buried at the end of such a confusing
statement that Violet almost didn’t register it. He loved her? Her heart sped. He loved her.

“More questions,” he said.

She took a moment to gather herself. “Um . . . what are you doing at the Evergreen Spa?”

“I have some health problems that don’t bother me but they bother everybody else. I am here to resolve them. We’ve been here two months now. It’s Flora and Tony’s first holiday together, but he keeps traveling to Sydney to visit prostitutes, although he tells her they are business trips.”

“That’s horrible.”

“
He
is horrible.”

“Have you told her?”

“It would hurt her too much. And she wouldn’t believe me. But I heard him bragging to his vile friends. Come on, more questions. About me. Not them.”

“Do you believe in God?”

His hands left her hair for a moment and he flung them in the air. “Yes! I worship the poppy god.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Perhaps the poppy god is a woman,” he said. “She has such a way about her. Next question.”

“Do you really love me?”

“Oh, yes. The moment I saw you. The moment I saw you.”

He closed his eyes, a rapturous expression on his face, and Violet’s body was traversed with happiness and longing and wild peaks of feeling. She loved him, too. Mad as it seemed, she loved him, too, and had since their eyes had met that evening in the dining room. Others would say she was foolish: Myrtle or Clive or her mother. But
they
were the fools. What ignorance to think that love must be somehow sober and orderly, unfolding in a slow, set pattern so one
didn’t get too much of a shock. Love was a thunderbolt, crashing down on her with its brilliant, savage force. It was ancient and eternal and it peeled back the mundane layers of the world and showed her the wet, beating heart of reality beneath.

“I love you, too,” she said.

“Of course you do,” he replied. “You understand me.”

She reached up towards his chin and touched him gently, her heart giddy. “I will lose my job if we’re discovered.”

“I don’t care. I have enough money for both of us.”

“I do care,” she said. “Just for now. Just until things are more . . . certain.”

“Then I will be very careful.” He opened his eyes and smiled down at her. “Sissy is watching me. She would decidedly not approve. Nor would my mother and father. It’s delicious, isn’t it? A love that is forbidden tastes sweeter and sharper.”

“Maybe you’re right. But, Sam,” she said gently, “I have to go and get properly dry and dressed for work.”

“Let’s go back to the hotel, but not together,” he said. “You go a hundred yards ahead of me, as though we were simply out walking at the same time and don’t know each other. I can watch the sweet sway of your hips the whole way.”

“All right,” she said, climbing to her feet. “I’ll go first.”

*  *  *

At dinner that night, she and Sam tacitly agreed to play a game. She swapped tables with Myrtle, who agreed grudgingly because she was still hurt about Violet cutting her off earlier that day, and Violet waited on his table as though nothing had passed between them. He sat with his sister—who watched Violet like a hawk—along with the Italian man and his entourage, the opera singer, the beauty queen, and the writers. Flora dressed very soberly, in a long
gray skirt and buttoned blouse, with her long hair pinned in a tidy bun. It was hard to credit that she and Sam were siblings. They all laughed and talked happily, including Sam, who didn’t meet her eye once.

And yet . . . as she moved past he would casually brush her hip with his forearm; as she stood and leaned in to clear plates he would press the side of his calf against hers. Each touch was hot and electrifying. Lucid in her mind were the memories of the day, of being naked with him, of kissing him, of his open desire to make love to her. She shivered with it. In all her nearly twenty years, she had never considered having sex. Mama had drummed into her that “getting in trouble” led only to misery: indeed, she was proof of that. Violet had had many boyfriends. Some had tried to get fresh, and she’d slapped their hands or sometimes their faces. But Sam awoke a hunger in her that she had never imagined she would experience. How she wanted to be naked with him again, to press the full length of her soft body against his hot, hard one. Consequences didn’t exist in her imagination: there was only the desire, liquid and searing.

After her shift, she lay for a long time in bed with that desire swirling in her body, keeping her awake. She wondered if she’d ever sleep well again.

*  *  *

The staff dining room always had a peculiar smell at breakfast time. Bacon and toast, yes, but also a yeasty, damp smell from having been locked up all night. Despite the cold, Violet opened a window a crack. The windows down here were almost at ground level, but a sweet sliver of fresh air made its way in nonetheless. Violet leaned at the window a moment, letting the cold air refresh her tired eyes after a night of tossing and turning. Other staff were making their way to
the buffet and to tables, talking and laughing and clinking crockery and cutlery. But suddenly there was silence.

Violet turned. Miss Zander stood at the door, looking out of place with her immaculate hair and elegant pearls. She surveyed the room, and each staff member held their breath, wondering if she was looking for them.

“Ah, Violet,” she said, when she spied Violet by the window. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” said Violet, pulse pricking at her throat.

“Have some breakfast and come straight through to my office.” Then she turned and left without further comment.

The others eyed Violet with pity. Clive was with her a moment later. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” She considered last night’s game with Sam. Had Hansel caught on that she was flirting with a guest? Had Myrtle told tales? Or was it worse than that? Had somebody seen them kissing, or standing at the Falls nearly naked?

“You’d better eat something, then,” Clive said. “Sit down, I’ll get you a plate.”

How was she supposed to eat with this worry hanging over her head? Her tired brain couldn’t grasp it. She just wanted to go back to bed and sleep until it was all over.

“Go on. Sit,” Clive said again, pushing her gently towards the women’s side of the dining room.

Violet sat and Myrtle joined her. Bless Myrtle; she sat close to Violet and gave her a squeeze. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said. “Miss Zander’s always putting the fear of God into us for no good reason.”

Clive returned with a plate of bacon and steak. Violet picked around the edges, then pushed it away, sliding off the bench. “I have to get this over with,” she said.

“Good luck,” Myrtle replied softly.

She made her way up the stairs and through the foyer to the pale blue door of Miss Zander’s office. She knocked and waited. At last, Miss Zander opened the door.

“Yes, good. Come in, Violet.”

Violet followed her in. Miss Zander took her place behind her gleaming desk, upon which papers, books, ink well, and pens were arranged precisely in parallel lines. Miss Zander didn’t invite Violet to sit, so she remained standing, hands clasped and clammy.

“Is there something the matter?” she asked. Here it came, the accusation of fraternizing with a guest. If she lost her job, would Sam really come to her rescue?

“I have spoken to several of my guests,” she said, looking at her papers.

Violet was almost deafened by the sound of her blood rushing past her ears. She didn’t dare speak.

“There are enough who have no firm plans to leave over the winter that I have decided to keep the hotel open with a skeleton staff in place. Ordinarily, you see, we would close after Christmas in June celebrations, and reopen again on the first day of spring.”

Because it wasn’t the accusation of misbehavior she expected, Violet wasn’t sure what to say.

“I’m very happy with your work, and I’m inviting you to continue to work through the winter.”

The relief washed through her like warm water. “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. “Yes, please. That’s wonderful news.”

“Good girl. Now, keep it to yourself because there’s plenty who have worked here a lot longer than you who aren’t getting the extra work. Myrtle, for example. As far as I can tell, we will have fewer than a dozen guests to service. You may need to double up some duties. I hope you don’t think yourself above some chambermaid work.”

“Not at all. I am most grateful for this opportunity and I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” Miss Zander said with a smile, and Violet’s heart lifted.

With a startling clang, the wood-and-brass candlestick telephone on Miss Zander’s desk came to life. Miss Zander reached for it with one hand, shooing Violet out with the other.

“Thank you. Thank you,” Violet mouthed, backing out of the room.

She closed the door behind her and stood against it a moment, her eyes closed. Now she could write to Mama and promise her money over winter. Mama’s arthritis was worst during winter, and every year she feared the family she worked for would put her off. Violet opened her eyes and headed off to work, letting her mind turn to other things. Would Sam be one of the guests staying over winter? Her heart couldn’t stand not knowing.

*  *  *

A sharp rap on her door startled Flora out of her reverie. She had been sitting at her desk, a half-written letter to her father in front of her. How was she to frame the news that Sam was no better or no worse? Should she confess that she couldn’t stop him smoking opium? Was it worth including Dr. Dalloway’s testimony? Or was Father still unaware that Sam’s woes were largely self-inflicted? If so, to tell him would shock him so badly he might do something unforgivable, such as disown Sam. What then for her younger brother? Would he have to live on the street, like the filthy beggars she had seen in Sydney?

The knock was a welcome distraction. She rose and opened the door to Miss Zander, the elegant manageress.

“Good morning, Miss Honeychurch-Black,” she said, briskly.
“Forgive my intrusion, but there is a telephone call for you in my office.”

“A telephone call?”

“Mr. Honeychurch-Black. That is, your father.”

Flora felt the blood drain from her face. “My father,” she whispered.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes. I was engaged in writing him a letter precisely when you knocked. It’s a shock, that’s all. As though I made him come to life.” She laughed nervously, realizing she sounded foolish. “Kindly show me the way.”

She followed Miss Zander downstairs and across the foyer to her office, where Miss Zander indicated the phone and politely left her alone. The door closed behind her.

Flora picked up the handset in one hand, the receiver in the other, and perched on the edge of the desk. “Hello, Father?”

“Florrie, my dear. How lovely to hear your voice.”

“I was just writing you a letter. What a coincidence.”

“You’re a good girl. Letters take too long, and I needed to speak to you about two pressing matters.”

Flora swallowed hard. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve had two pieces of correspondence that trouble me somewhat. One from your brother and one from your fiancé.”

“Tony wrote to you?”

“Why don’t we save that one for last, eh? About Samuel. He says you are staying a little longer in the mountains.”

“That’s right,” Flora said, her pulse prickling guiltily at her throat. “I was going to tell you myself. I had no idea Sam wrote to you.”

“He does from time to time. Long, rambling things that don’t make a good deal of sense, but he always did have an odd imagination. Am I to take it from your extended stay that his condition is improving?”

Flora opened her mouth to speak, to tell him her brother was an opium addict and she could no sooner make him better than she could fly to the moon by flapping her arms, but fear held her tongue. She had to protect Sam. “A little. A very little.”

“Then that is enough.” His voice sounded so relieved that Flora could have cried for him.

“Father, his condition is . . . I consulted a doctor who has offered his support to me.”

“Well done. With that and the fresh air and spa water, he will be back to himself in no time. I have every faith you can resolve this.”

She was keen to change the topic but also wary. “What about Tony’s letter?”

His voice became stern. “I don’t think you’ve been perfectly honest with me, Florrie.”

“What do you mean?” She glanced out the window, at the white winter sunlight in the crisscross of pine branches. It looked cold out there, bitterly so, though the office was warm.

“Tony has asked to bring the wedding forward.”

“Oh.”

“But you told me he wanted it put back six months. I’ve just sent a letter off to him now asking him to explain, but thought it might be quicker and clearer if I spoke to you.”

Father had written back to Tony? A disaster. Tony would know she’d delayed the wedding. “I said
we
wanted it put back,” she explained limply.

“By ‘we,’ you meant ‘Flora,’ is that right?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I didn’t talk to Tony about it. I didn’t realize he minded. He thought it was your decision.”