Acknowledgments
This book would not be a book without the wise eye of Elisabeth Weed, my literary agent, who saw a glimmer of something special in this story and waded with me through the muck of a thousand revisions until the manuscript sparkled. Elisabeth, thank you for believing in this project and for placing me in the enormously capable hands of my editor at Plume, Denise Roy.
Denise, Elisabeth told me you would be the perfect editor for me, and she was so right. You dazzled me with your brilliant editorial eye and creative ideas. I couldnt have hoped for a more talented and kind person to work withyou made even the revision rounds enjoyable. Can we do this again?
I am also incredibly grateful to my family, for their love and supportmy sister, Jessica Campbell, a true best friend; and my two brothers, Josh and Josiah Mitchellbut most of all, to my parents, Terry and Karen Mitchell, who always encouraged my writing (even that embarrassing handwritten newspaper I distributed to the neighbors in the sixth gradegulp). Thank you for your devotion to me (even in those horrid teenage years). And, also a thanks to the Jio family for creating a marvelous son, Jason, and for letting me plaster your family name on the cover of this book.
Much appreciation goes out to the editors, fellow authors, and writers who have cheered me on and supported me in million different ways: Allison Winn Scotch, Claire Cook, Sarah Pekkanen, and the other lovely women of the Debutante Ball; Camille Noe Pagn, Jael McHenry, Sally Farhat Kassab, Cindi Leive, Anne Sachs, Lindsey Unterberger, Margarita Bertsos, and all the other wonderful women (and men) at Glamour, as well as Heidi Cho and Meghan Ahearn at Womans Day.
To Nadia Kashper and all the terrific folks behind the scenes at Plume, thank you for working so hard on my behalf. Also, a heartfelt thanks to Stephanie Sun at Weed Literary for being an early reader of this book, and to Jenny Meyer, my literary agent who handles foreign rightsso grateful to you that my first book will debut in bookstores in Germany and elsewhere. (Still pinching myself!)
And, to the lovely people of Bainbridge Island who have unknowingly opened up their world to readers around the world. While there is much fiction in theses pages, the essence of the island is, I hope, intact. In my opinion, it is impossible to find a more perfect place in the world than this ten-mile stretch of island.
To my boys, who I love with all my heart, I wrote this book mostly while you napped or snoozed in your beds at night, but someday you will grow up and learn that your mama is a writerI hope this wont embarrass you too much.
And, last but not least, thank you to my husband, Jason, who not only served as proofreader for my many drafts, but who also wore a million different hatschild wrangler, copy guy, etc.and cheered me on at every turn, even when I was grumpy, or tired, or at my wits end, which was often. Thank you for helping me stay the courseand for staying the course with me. I love you.
A PLUME BOOK
THE VIOLETS OF MARCH
SARAH JIO is a journalist who has written for Glamour; O, The Oprah Magazine; Real Simple; SELF; Cooking Light; Redbook; Parents; Womans Day; and many other publications. For the past three years, she has been the health and fitness blogger for Glamour.com. She lives in Seattle with her husband, their three young children, and a golden retriever named Paisley, who steals socks. Sarah is at work on her next novel.
Chapter 1
I guess this is it, Joel said, leaning into the doorway of our apartment. His eyes darted as if he was trying to memorize every detail of the turn-of-the-century New York two-story, the one wed bought together five years ago and renovatedin happier times. It was a sight: the entryway with its delicate arch, the old mantel wed found at an antique store in Connecticut and carted home like treasure, and the richness of the dining room walls. Wed agonized about the paint color but finally settled on Morocco Red, a shade that was both wistful and jarring, a little like our marriage. Once it was on the walls, he thought it was too orange. I thought it was just right.
Our eyes met for a second, but I quickly looked down at the dispenser in my hands and robotically pried off the last piece of packing tape, hastily plastering it on the final box of Joels belongings that hed come over that morning to retrieve. Wait, I said, recalling a fleck of a blue leather-bound hardback Id seen in the now-sealed box. I looked up at him accusatorily. Did you take my copy of Years of Grace ?
I had read the novel on our honeymoon in Tahiti six years prior, though it wasnt the memory of our trip I wanted to eulogize with its tattered pages. Looking back, Ill never know how the 1931 Pulitzer Prize winner by the late Margaret Ayer Barnes ended up in a dusty stack of complimentary books in the resorts lobby, but as I pulled it out of the bin and cracked open its brittle spine, I felt my heart contract with a deep familiarity that I could not explain. The moving story told in its pages, of love and loss and acceptance, of secret passions and the weight of private thoughts, forever changed the way I viewed my own writing. It may have even been the reason why I stopped writing. Joel had never read the book, and I was glad of it. It was too intimate to share. It read to me like the pages of my unwritten diary.
Joel watched as I peeled the tape back and opened the box, digging around until I found the old novel. When I did I let out a sigh of emotional exhaustion.
Sorry, he said awkwardly. I didnt realize you
He didnt realize a lot of things about me. I grasped the book tightly, then nodded and re-taped the box. I guess thats everything, I said, standing up.
He glanced cautiously toward me, and I returned his gaze this time. For another few hours, at least until I signed the divorce papers later that afternoon, he would still be my husband. Yet it was difficult to look into those dark brown eyes knowing that the man I had married was leaving me, for someone else. How did we get here?
The scene of our demise played out in my mind like a tragic movie, the way it had a million times since wed been separated. It opened on a rainy Monday morning in November. I was making scrambled eggs smothered in Tabasco, his favorite, when he told me about Stephanie. The way she made him laugh. The way she understood him. The way they connected. I pictured the image of two Lego pieces fusing together, and I shuddered. Its funny; when I think back to that morning, I can actually smell burned eggs and Tabasco. Had I known that this is what the end of my marriage would smell like, I would have made pancakes.
I looked once again into Joels face. His eyes were sad and unsure. I knew that if I rose to my feet and threw myself into his arms, he might embrace me with the love of an apologetic husband who wouldnt leave, wouldnt end our marriage. But, no, I told myself. The damage had been done. Our fate had been decided. Good-bye, Joel, I said. My heart may have wanted to linger, but my brain knew better. He needed to go.
Joel looked wounded. Emily, I
Was he looking for forgiveness? A second chance? I didnt know. I extended my hand as if to stop him from going on. Good-bye, I said, mustering all my strength.
He nodded solemnly, then turned to the door. I closed my eyes and listened as he shut it quietly behind him. He locked it from the outside, a gesture that made my heart seize.
