Tomorrow Is for the Brave, page 9
You’re in the newspaper again.”
Violet didn’t look up from where she bent over the outboard. The sun beat down on her back, the heat making perspiration drip from her forehead and off the end of her nose. The sound of seabirds shrieking overlapped with the gentle slap of the waves folding themselves against the hull of the fishing boat. The breeze shifted lazily off the water, carrying salty perfume that couldn’t quite mask the distinct odours of fish, oil, and petrol. Out here, on the blue expanse of the sea, Violet had discovered a place she enjoyed almost as much as the open road.
“You told me you hated tennis,” George remarked.
“I do.”
“It says here you won a tournament last Saturday in Marseille.”
“I did.”
There was a rustle of paper somewhere off to her left before she felt the air stir near her shoulder. “If you hate it, why do you play?”
Violet turned her head and squinted up at her friend. “Because it’s important to my father,” she sighed.
Behind George, Henri Chastain snorted.
“Ignore him,” George said imperiously. “He doesn’t seem to have anything to add to this conversation besides judgement.”
Violet almost smiled. She’d repaired the Chastains’ outboard that June day, much to the delight of George and her sisters and both their parents. The tiny fishing community had seemed even more delighted to have a capable mechanic in their midst that could be consulted on the rare occasion that an ailing motor stubbornly defied their own skill. By the time Henri had returned, Violet had become a regular fixture on the beach and on the boat, slipping from the St. Croix villa before dawn and returning in the afternoons before her mother even thought to look for her. As long as Violet was promptly and properly attired and presentable for whatever social engagement the evening brought, both Tino and her mother seemed wholly uninterested in how she spent her days.
Henri, on the other hand, had cared very much how she was spending her days, but his early protestations had been largely ignored and regularly dismissed by his family. When Violet found herself in Henri’s company, which was often since he had returned, she made a decided effort to forge a truce of sorts. Enduring his glowering silences and barbed comments was a small price to pay for the extraordinary freedom and friendship she had found. Out here, in George’s company, she was simply Violet. She did not need to manage expectations or measure her words or filter her opinions. George certainly didn’t.
“When I was younger, tennis was something that my father and I had in common,” Violet felt compelled to explain. “Maybe the only thing. Something we could talk about when he called or visited.”
“And now?”
Violet shrugged and shook her head. “He still likes to hear about it. Playing is easier than arguing.”
“Is that what you’re telling yourself about your wedding too? That getting married is easier than arguing?” It was Henri who asked from the bow.
“Henri!” George admonished.
“A reasonable question for the princess.”
Violet bent over the outboard again. “Not that it is any of your concern, but no, that has nothing to do with it. And I don’t want to talk about my wedding.” Not now. She just wanted to enjoy the sun, the company, and the puzzle that was a badly running outboard. When Henri had called the motor old and temperamental, he hadn’t been joking.
“You were already miserable the night I met you, princess,” Henri muttered. “And that was only a dinner party with the family and the fiancé. I’ll be sure to stay off the roads the day of the wedding.”
“God, Henri.” George sounded exasperated. “There’s no call to be rude.”
Violet tightened the last nut before she straightened. “Look, my father isn’t perfect. Tino isn’t perfect either, but then who is? Certainly not me. Maybe they both have more traditional views or opinions than you or I. But that doesn’t make them bad people.” Violet stopped, trying to order her reasoning. “Life is about accommodating and bending for the greater good. I have a duty to my family. Expectations and responsibilities that I cannot simply walk away from. Same as you. Same as everyone.”
“Let’s see what else is in the newspaper, shall we?” George interjected tactfully, rattling the pages.
Violet busied herself replacing the cowling. “Good idea.”
Henri didn’t bother to answer. George squinted at the tiny print, her finger moving slowly across the headlines. Violet glanced over at Henri to see if he would snatch the paper away from his sister in impatience, but he had closed his eyes and was leaning back on the narrow gunwale, his hands behind his head, his face tipped up toward the sun.
“Any more news on Germany?” Violet asked.
George didn’t seem to notice, intent as she was on the newsprint. “There is always more news about Germany, though none of it is ever good.”
Henri opened one eye but remained silent.
Violet cleared her throat. “I feel horrible for those who are being persecuted. Who’ve had to leave their homes.”
“The world backed Germany into a corner after the last war and then punished them.” Henri leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. “What did you think was going to happen, princess?”
“What?”
“Between the reparations and rules, political instability, and an economy that suffered and kept so many mired in poverty… that Germany is spoiling for a fight should surprise no one who’s been paying attention. All it took was someone with a vision for change to give desperate, angry people a reason to hope and a reason to hate. All it took was someone to understand that both of those are powerful, powerful things.”
“You sound like you approve of what the Nazi party has done.” Violet scowled.
“I didn’t say I approve, princess, but I understand.”
“How?” Violet demanded, still unwilling to accept his answer. “How can you understand?”
“Henri was born in Berlin,” George said.
“Berlin?”
“Leave it alone, George,” Henri warned.
“No. You brought it up and this is important. What you and mother experienced is important.” She lowered the paper and faced Violet. “In actuality, Henri is my stepbrother. After the last war, our mother found herself a penniless widow with a child to look after, trapped in the same violence, unrest, and starvation as so many others. She hadn’t planned on ever leaving Berlin but she felt she had no choice. She was one of the lucky ones. She had a cousin here to help. Who took her and Henri in.”
Violet glanced at Henri but his eyes were fixed somewhere on the distant horizon, and something in his expression gave her a glimpse of the little boy he had once been.
“She met our father not long after. Remarried.” George shrugged. “And here we are.”
“How old were you?” Violet asked Henri. “When you left Germany?”
“Five.” He didn’t look away from the horizon. “Old enough to remember what it feels like to be cold and hungry and scared all the time.”
Violet toyed with the edge of the toolbox. “I can’t imagine.”
“No, you really can’t.” His words were curt.
“Have you and your mother ever gone back?” She wasn’t sure where that question had come from. Or if she had any right to ask.
“Does it matter?”
“It isn’t unreasonable to think that maybe you wanted to go back home.”
He finally looked away from the horizon. “This is home now. We built a new life here. I’m glad she remarried. I’m glad to have sisters. I’m happy here.”
George reached out and gave Henri’s arm an affectionate squeeze. Violet met his eyes but it was he who looked away first.
“Is the motor fixed?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” There was a healthy amount of derision in his voice and whatever vulnerability Violet might have sensed was long gone.
“Yes, it’s fixed.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
George groaned and picked up the newspaper again. “My God, Henri, I think the words that you are looking for are thank you.”
“I’ll say thank you when she proves she’s actually fixed it.”
“The inlet water connection was partially blocked this time,” Violet told him.
“Not the carburetor?”
“No. The carburetor is fine. The cleanest carburetor I’ve seen, in fact.”
“Because I cleaned it out three times. I was sure that was the problem.”
“Not the problem the first, second, or third time.” She was deliberately mocking him, and she knew it.
Henri scowled and stood, the boat rocking, and shuffled away from them toward the bow, busying himself with the net lines that extended into the depths.
“I confess, Vi, that I hope your fiancé doesn’t mind grease under your nails when you are married,” George said cheerfully over the top of the newspaper. “I think my brother has finally met his match. The two of you together is almost more entertaining than a grand prix. I could watch the pair of you all day.”
Violet tried not to think about the inordinate amount of time she spent scrubbing her hands every afternoon to erase the evidence of the mornings. “I’m not sure that I’ll… that I’ll have time. I’ll have different responsibilities once I’m married.”
George’s smile slipped. Her fingers worried the paper, and she made a series of small tears along the edge before she spoke. “I’m to report to the hospital in Poitiers by the end of the month,” she said. She hesitated again. “It’s not too late, you know. There is still time to go back and apply at the Red Cross. You could still come with me.”
Violet couldn’t meet George’s eye.
“You told me what your father said, and I know your fiancé agrees with him, but maybe they’ll change their minds. A lot has happened over the summer. More and more people are volunteering.”
“Maybe after I’m married I’ll go back and volunteer. Once the wedding is behind us and things settle. Perhaps Tino will be more receptive to the possibility then.”
“Right.”
Violet couldn’t tell if George believed her or not, though it didn’t matter. Violet didn’t even believe her own words. A silence stretched, the cry of swooping birds and the drone of a distant motor the only sounds.
“You don’t have to live like that,” George said suddenly.
“Like what?”
“You don’t have to live every moment trying to make everyone happy. Trying not to disappoint everyone but yourself. Accommodating and bending for others until, one day, you won’t recognize yourself anymore.”
“You don’t understand. It’s not that simple—”
“It is exactly that simple. And everything you’ve ever told me about Tino makes me think that he’s not just old-fashioned or traditional or overbearing. He needs you to be less so that he can be more.” George stood. The boat rocked once again.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to help my brother pull nets.”
Violet felt George’s absence keenly as she moved to the bow. Slowly and mechanically, Violet began tidying her tools, placing each back securely in the box. When she was done, she stared out at the horizon, battling the feeling that she had just lost something terribly important. In the distance, other fishing boats bobbed across the water, earning their keep, while bright triangular sails of expensive sailboats glided between them, merely entertaining. Back and forth the pretty sails went, weaving their way aimlessly through a waterscape of purpose, drifting whichever way the wind took them. Maybe she was like those pretty sails—
“I’m sorry.”
Violet started. She hadn’t heard George return.
“I thought you were pulling nets.”
“We’re almost done.” She grimaced. “A slow fishing day.”
How long had Violet been staring out at nothing? “What are you sorry for?” she asked, confused.
“For speaking to you like that. That’s no way to treat a friend.”
“Don’t apologize,” Violet said. “The truth is not something you should ever apologize for. Since I was young, I’ve always been afraid of disappointing people.”
“I stand behind whatever decision you make. So long as it’s yours and only yours. Not your father’s, not your fiancé’s, and certainly not mine. Do you understand?”
Violet nodded.
George gave her an impulsive hug. “Also, don’t let my brother bother you. He’s just grouchy that you figured out what he couldn’t. I told him he owes you an apology too.”
“He doesn’t bother me. And he doesn’t owe me anything.” She hadn’t exactly been a paragon of grace.
“If you say so.” George straightened. “I’m going to finish, and then we’ll head back.”
“Of course.”
Violet bent and rearranged tools that didn’t need rearranging, feeling that familiar restless unhappiness that, until this moment, had never followed her here.
“I should have said thank you.”
Violet looked up to find Henri crouched beside her, bracing himself with one hand on the gunwale. His expression hovered somewhere between belligerence and chagrin.
“What?”
“My sister was right. The words I was looking for were thank you. For fixing the motor. Again. I’m sorry.”
“Oh. You don’t need to apologize because George said so.”
“I’m not. I’m apologizing because I want to.”
She’d had two apologies now in as many minutes, and neither really felt warranted. “Apology accepted, then.”
He didn’t move.
“Is something wrong?”
“I got this for you.” He held out a plain, brown paper–wrapped package tied with twine. From the outside, it looked like it might be a book.
Violet made no move to take it. “What for?”
“For… being a good friend to George. And… for helping my family. For your help fixing stuff. You’ve been… ah… useful.”
“Useful? That’s an improvement from entitled, spoiled, and rich.”
“I admit I may have judged you a little harshly when I met you.”
“Ah.” Violet was tempted to needle him further but checked the impulse. “I don’t need a gift. Friendship with George is a gift enough. And I mean that.”
“Just take the damn package, princess. And I think the words you’re looking for are thank you.”
Violet hid a smile and took the package from his hand. “Thank you.”
“Open it.” A muscle worked along the bottom of his jaw.
Violet carefully undid the string and peeled back the layers of paper to reveal a book. She stared at the battered cover, temporarily at a loss for words. She looked up at him. He was watching her with an unreadable expression on his face.
She ran her hand over the red-and-white cover, the title emblazoned across the front. “The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars.”
“George said that you liked Maurice Dekobra.”
“I do.”
“I’m sorry that it’s a used copy. It was all that I could find. Actually, it was all that I could afford,” he corrected himself.
An unexpected lump had formed in Violet’s throat, and she swallowed with difficulty.
“Have you already read it?”
She shook her head.
“I read the inside cover. And the first page. It’s not written by Doyle, of course, but it still sounds like a really good story.”
Violet nodded, horrified to find that her vision had blurred. “Thank you,” she whispered again. “This is the most wonderful thing anyone has ever given me.”
Henri scoffed. “You have a fiancé who gives you ropes of diamonds.”
Violet clutched the book tighter. “I don’t really like diamonds, if I’m being honest.”
“Don’t let George hear you say that.”
“Maybe I’ll give the diamonds to her.”
Henri was quiet for a moment. “An exceptionally stupid gentleman.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The title of the first chapter of that book.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “And the perfect way to describe Leblanc, I think.”
“That’s not fair. You haven’t even met him. And I already told you I don’t want to talk about my wedding.”
“Too bad. We’re going to talk about it, because I would have this conversation with any of my sisters if they found themselves in the position you’re in.”
“The position I’m in?” Her words were stilted. “Was this George’s idea too? It’s now your turn to tell me that I shouldn’t spend so much time trying not to disappoint people?”
“What?” He looked genuinely confused. “No. I’m not here to tell you that.”
“Then what?”
He met her eyes. “Don’t marry him.”
Violet nearly dropped the book in her hand. “I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t marry him.”
“I don’t know what George told you but—”
“If George were standing in your shoes right now, I’d be saying the same thing. Don’t settle for someone who will hold you back.”
“He’s not holding me back. He isn’t.”
Henri wasn’t smiling. “Tell me what Leblanc admires most about you.”
Violet bristled, inexplicably defensive even though it was an easy question. “He pays me many compliments.”
“For example?”
“This is stupid—”
“Humour me.”
She set the book down on the seat. “Fine. Just last night, he told me I looked especially lovely.”
“You look especially lovely all the time.”
Violet glanced pointedly at her grease-stained trousers torn at the knee and her sleeveless blouse that was missing a button. “Please. I don’t need you to pay me false compliments. I’ll still fix your motor without fabricated flattery.”
Henri’s brow furrowed, and he looked as though he wanted to argue. Then his expression cleared, and he crossed his arms. “Tell me what he admires most about you then, princess. And not your appearance.”
Violet opened her mouth and closed it again, trying to think of an answer that would satisfy Henri. The seconds ticked by.
