Free A Violet Season by Kathy Leonard Czepiel Page A

took some money from the family safe. He’d met a man he wanted to invest it with. He thought he could make a profit and prove to everyone that he should be taken seriously.”
    “And he lost it all,” Oliver said, guessing the end of her story.
    “He lost it all.”
    Oliver whistled gravely, and Trip raised his head, thinking the whistle was for him.
    Ida went on. “Some of it, I suspect, he may have spent on other things—things he didn’t need, like the fancy buggy he had when I met him. Trips to the city. I’ve never asked him, and I’d rather not know.” Oliver did not press her on this account, but he looked embarrassed, as if he understood his father’s youthful tendencies.
    “They needed that money,” Ida continued. “Your grandparents struggled hard to save the farm after that, and they both died within a couple of years. I’ve heard Uncle William say they died of grief—your grandfather over the farm, and your grandmother over him.”
    “Do you believe that?” Oliver asked.
    “I wasn’t there,” Ida said. “All I know is my father grieved my mother’s death horribly, but it didn’t kill him. I think some days he wished it would.”
    Oliver nodded, and she could see that he was piecing the story to make his own sense of things.
    “In any case,” she continued, “once your grandparents were gone, Uncle William and Uncle Harold decided to start fresh. The market for wheat was poor. They sold some land to the Mortons, and Uncle William went down to the city to work. He charmed his way into society and met Aunt Frances, and brought her and all her money up here. That’s when they built their big house. They tried pear trees first, and when that didn’t work, Aunt Frances’s money let them take up the violets. Now, of course, they’re doing very well.”
    “But what about Pa?”
    “He ran off for a while. First to New York, then to Albany. He wasn’t here when his parents died. When he came back to claim his share, we were newlyweds. Uncle William wanted nothing to do with him, but he knew it wouldn’t look good if he turned us away. Uncle Harold said we should be allowed to stay but that Pa would have to earn his way back in.”
    “Why did Pa come back? He could do anything.” Oliver looked pained, and she could see he was building up a head of steam that might be released in the wrong way if she didn’t take care.
    “I think your father felt he had something to prove. He’s the youngest brother. Think about how hard Reuben works to keep up with you.” Oliver bowed his head and ran his fingers through his damp hair.
    “Pa wanted to show them he could succeed,” Ida said. “He thought he could pay them back what he’d lost, and that would vindicate him. It hasn’t happened quite that easily.” She didn’t add that at one time Frank had tried to move over to working for the Tenneys or the DuMonts, the other major violet growers, but his reputation for hotheadedness had preceded him.
    They had reached their turn onto Dutch Lane, and Ida hastened to finish what she had to say, for the sky was curtained and she didn’t want to slow their pace. “That’s all,” she said. “We never left. I wish we had, but I think for your father, leaving would mean conceding defeat. Uncle William and Uncle Harold let us live in the tenant house, and they pay your father like a hired hand. They expect the rest of us to pitch in, and they credit our work against his debt. They say if he repays them what he lost, they’ll give him the house and let him in on the farm as a partner. But he’ll never be able to do that on nine dollars a week.”
    “Why doesn’t he sue them?” Oliver asked.
    She saw how tightly he was gripping the reins. “Your uncles are respected members of the community. It wouldn’t reflect well onyour father. And he’s a strong-willed man. Like you.” She smiled, meaning this as a compliment, but Oliver was too angry, and he looked away.
    “I’d like to take a shot