“It doesn’t matter. Wherever she found it, she found it. Now she knows who her father is, and now I know that I have a child.” The look on his face doesn’t suggest he’s pleased about that, but Henry’s never been easy to read.
“We came here to make sure Violet made it back safely after she left us,” I say.
“We didn’t even know she’d left. With Audrey passing away, we didn’t think twice about saying yes when she asked if she could sleep over at her friend’s house, and now we find out this? Who knows where she could be!”
“Do you have a way to message her?” I ask gently. “Like, on a cell phone?” A beige receiver for the house phone hangs on the wall nearby.
Gayle’s face lights up as if she’d forgotten that option. “I can message her. Howard, where is that thing?”
“I think I saw it by the toaster. Give me a sec.” He eases out of his chair and moves gingerly toward the kitchen counter.
“Audrey bought it for us two Christmases ago. We hardly ever use it, but we’ve been keeping it on lately, especially with all that’s been going on.”
Howard ambles back. “Let’s see here … how do I … Violet taught me how to do this, but …”
Henry holds out his hand. “I can message her for—”
“Why don’t I?” I move fast, before Henry gets a grip of it. I’ve been at the receiving end of his messages in the past, and I highly doubt a teenage girl in an emotional tailspin will be any better equipped to handle them than I was.
Together, Gayle and I craft a simple, innocuous message, asking Violet when she’ll be home.
“There, see? She’s already responding.” I point out the three bouncing dots for Gayle’s benefit. For myself, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Violet: I’m walking home now. Fifteen minutes?
“She’s on her way. Fifteen minutes,” Gayle declares.
Henry’s shoulders sink and a soft “good” slips from his lips.
“I’m not sure how she’ll handle you being here when she gets home,” Howard says between a sip of his tea. “Though I guess she wanted to meet you, so there’s that.”
Henry’s lips purse. “I’m afraid we might have gotten off on the wrong foot last night.”
Howard hums. “She’s a good kid. Audrey did a decent job raising her, while she could, anyway. But Violet’s been through a lot these last couple of years. Watching someone you love die will do that. And now this bit of news. If she’s done the math in her head and figured out what it means—”
“She has,” Henry confirms.
“Yes.” Howard scratches his cheek. “Then I imagine she must be confused and angry.”
“You said there was a legal document?” Gayle asks.
“Yes, between Audrey and my father. He found out about Violet somehow and …” Henry’s voice trails as he chooses how to describe one of William Wolf’s many betrayals. “I supposed he wanted to protect everyone involved.”
And I guess he did, in his own warped way. Audrey avoided jail and ridicule and kept her child, Henry avoided the burden of teenage fatherhood and focused on his future empire with no obligations, and with Grandpa Wolf’s bank account, Violet probably never wanted for much.
Except maybe a father.
“About a year ago when it became clear that Audrey’s illness would take her sooner than we had hoped, Audrey told us that there is a trust in Violet’s name, for her to receive when she’s twenty-five,” Howard says.
“For how much?” Henry asks.
“She didn’t say. All she said was that Violet would be well taken care of and that Audrey didn’t want her daughter knowing anything about it. She was afraid she’d turn into one of those spoiled kids like the ones she taught back in Hartley.” Gayle offers Henry an apologetic smile.
He smirks. “Smart on Audrey’s part. I don’t want Violet turning into that either, especially now that she knows who I am.”
Gayle cocks her head. “And who are you, dear?” It’s such an innocent and honest question, asked by a sweet old lady. “Are you an actor?”
Henry chuckles.
“There she is,” Gayle whispers, peeking through the blinds like she did when we approached the house.
I steal a glance over her shoulder to see Violet trudging up the path in the same black hoodie and jeans as last night, seemingly oblivious to the SUV parked on the street. She clutches a paper coffee cup in both hands and hunches as if the backpack slung over her shoulders weighs a hundred pounds.