Free The Secret Life of Violet Grant by Beatriz Williams Page B

listened to the cadence of his breath and stared at the nubby white ceiling.
I will now
. I will unpack for you, Vivian, because if New York is your home, it must be mine, too.
    He spoke softly. “I don’t want you to go, Vivian.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œYou know why.”
    â€œBut I’d love to hear you say it.”
    He turned on his side to face me. “I’m afraid that if you go, we’ll lose it. This.” He held up our combined hands. “What happened today.”
    â€œNo, we won’t. We couldn’t if we tried.” I detached his hand and rose to my feet. “Go to bed. I’ll clean up.”
    He rose, too. “Vivian.”
    â€œGo to bed.”
    â€œLike hell I will.”
    We cleaned up together, because he wouldn’t hear of anything else, finishing off the wine as we went along. I made him unpack the box marked KITCHEN so we could drink from genuine glassware next time. His kitchen was even smaller than mine, an L cut short by an old wooden table wedged against the wall, and a stack of plates had to be stored atop the asthmatic Frigidaire.
    â€œI have an idea.” Doctor Paul folded his dish towel and placed both hands on my shoulders. “I’ll nap on the sofa while you take the bed, and when it’s time for me to go to work, I can drop you off at your own apartment. For one thing, your roommate will be wondering where you are.”
    â€œSally will be wondering no such thing. Sally will be out earning herself a new pair of shoes, maybe a nice new bracelet if she puts in a little elbow grease. She wouldn’t notice if I didn’t come home until Monday morning.”
    Doctor Paul looked stricken. I patted his cheek. “But it’s a lovely plan. Where do I sign?”
    A look came into his eyes, perilously close to mine: a look that said heknew exactly where I should sign on to his plan. His hands sank into my shoulders. He blinked his blue eyes slowly, like a cat readying for naptime, and I knew by the prickling of my skin that he was about to kiss me.
    I’ve already explained that I’m not a shy girl, but some impulse overcame me as Doctor Paul’s warm breath bathed my face in chop suey promise. I wanted to kiss him, I wanted to make a meal of him; I most thoroughly wanted him to make a meal of
me
, and yet, at the last perilous instant, I dodged him.
    Yes, you heard that right.
    I dodged him.
    Instead of tilting my face conveniently upward, parted of lips, closed of eyes, trip-hammer of pulse, I stepped into his chest and crushed my nose into his windpipe. His startled arms wrapped around me. A hearty consolation prize of an embrace.
    We stood there in awkward disappointment. I felt the need to explain myself. “If we start now, we’ll never stop,” I said, next to his ear.
    â€œAnd we can’t have that.”
    He owned a terribly comfortable chest, my Doctor Paul. Solid and clean-smelling, his breath flavored with wine and dinner. He stroked my hair until I wanted to stretch like a cat.
    He whispered to me, “What are you thinking?”
    â€œI was thinking about Violet again.”
    â€œShe’s on your mind, isn’t she?”
    â€œI can’t stop wondering. What she was like, what happened to her. How she lost that suitcase.” I pulled a little more Doctor Paul into my lungs. “I was thinking that maybe she was miserable with her professor. Maybe she had finally found someone to love. Someone to trust.”
    â€œDo you think that excuses what she did?”
    â€œI don’t know. We don’t know what he was like, do we? What he did to
her
. This Dr. Grant of hers.”
    Doctor Paul kissed my hair. “Time to sleep, Vivian.”
    â€œPlease take the bed. You won’t be able to excavate the sofa in time.”
    â€œWhere will you sleep?”
    â€œ
If
I sleep—which I doubt—I’ll just curl up on the cushion.”
    He pulled back.