In Violet's Wake. Robin Devereaux-Nelson

      “You’re kidding,” Owen said. “I thought you told me he was abusive to you. And that the club was a money pit.”

      Violet fluttered her eyelashes. “Well, not exactly abusive. Just mentally maybe . . . and more his family than him. He’s really just a big old bear, you know. A softie inside.”

      Owen thought about the many tearful revelations she’d shared about Costa over the years, the therapy bills he himself had paid to help her “work through the abuse.” Jesus Christ. “So,” he said noncommittally. “What’d he say?”

      “He shooed me out. Angelina was there.” Violet leaned forward, giving Owen a more than healthy view of her cleavage. Owen blinked and leaned forward. He nervously cleared his throat. “You know how jealous she is of me. He said, ‘Are you fugging kidding me, Violet? Angie would have my balls.’” Violet stuffed the used tissue back in her bag and sighed. “So, that was that.”

      “I don’t think Marshall would have been crazy about you working for your ex-husband,” Owen said, thinking, I would have never put up with her working for that slob. “You know,” he leaned over and covered Violet’s hand with his own, “I wouldn’t have minded that. Trust wasn’t an issue between us, Violet.”

      “Oh, Owen. You’re sweet,” she said, brushing her fingers across his knuckles, giving him a delicious chill. “You’re right. That wasn’t our problem.” She smiled at him, fluttering her eyelashes. “It was just so complicated between us, wasn’t it?”

      “Yes,” said Owen, looking into her eyes. No, he thought.

      She pulled her hand from his, gently reaching down and patting him on the knee. Owen felt that familiar wrenching in his gut and that familiar expansion in his slacks. Oh, Christ, not now, he said to himself, willing the hard-on into submission. He smiled crookedly and thought about his teacher from sixth grade. Mrs. Wankowski. She was built like a tank and was mean as a dog. That always worked. Owen took a deep breath and gratefully smoothed down his slacks. He took a gulp of ice water.

      Violet was fiddling absently with her spoon. “Well, I’ve started seeing this new therapist, Yolanda. She’s awesome,” Violet began.

      Oh sweet Christ, Owen thought, willing himself to not roll his eyes by looking down into his coffee cup.

      “Anyhow, I told Yolanda everything—you know, about my mom and my marriages—” She looked up into Owen’s startled face. “Oh, don’t worry!” she said brightly. “I only had the best things to say about you, Owen. You know, how we became friends after the fact, and how understanding you are about the divorce and just how, well, grown-up you’ve been about everything. So many men are immature. That’s what Yolanda says.”

      “Mmmm hmmm.” Owen was noncommittal.

      “She gave me these things to work on . . . you know, exercises. Some journaling and some free-form kind of drawing things, although God knows I am no artist. Apparently Yolanda studied with some psychiatrist in Germany on how to interpret art from the colors and movements of the pencils and things on the page, or something.”

      Owen nodded, sipping his coffee. It sounded hokey. He wondered how much Marshall had paid per hour for his wife to scribble on newsprint. The waitress came over and took their orders, chicken Caesar salads, their usual.

      Violet sipped at her herbal iced tea. “I’m going to work really hard, Owen, on me for a change, you know? I guess Marshall saw it as kind of selfish. He hated it when I was seeing Dr. Coulter. He said it was too expensive, but I know he was just . . . you know, threatened. And he was so jealous.”

      Wow, Owen thought, mentally ticking off Marshall’s negative traits—unhappy, judgmental, jealous—what would be next? Violet pushed her hair back behind her ear, and despite his cynicism about her, Owen found the gesture youthful and charming. He smiled at Violet, encouraging her to continue. “You know, I went to this retreat up at Higgins Lake. Marshall was so mad. He accused me of seeing someone! Can you imagine it?”

      “No,” said Owen. Yes! he thought.

      “Well, he did!” Violet sat back, folding her arms over her chest. “Like I would want to become involved with any of those losers from the therapy group! Can you imagine?”

      “Absolutely not,” said Owen, thinking about crazy “Hubcap” Jankowicz up in the backwoods of Omer. His chrome-covered abode was legend. There’d even been a small-town newspaper story about it. That had had a recycling angle to it, though, not the this-guy-went-nuts-after-his-wife-left-him angle. Owen wondered, and not for the first time, if Jankowicz thought nailing all those hubcaps to his house kept the Martians out or something, like some people thought wrapping their heads or covering their windows with tin foil (shiny side out!) deflected gamma rays.

      Violet was still talking about her therapist, The New and Great Yolanda. He’d kind of nodded out, though he appeared to be paying attention. He’d gotten good at it. He’d also heard this schtick a least a hundred times before, not to mention that he took his turn paying for it. How can any one person need so much therapy, he thought, and never get normal? “Marshall and I started fighting about it—the money. He said all therapy was doing was causing problems between us. He couldn’t see that I was growing, you know? At the Center they called it Becoming The Self. See, I was growing and changing, and Marshall wasn’t. I mean, not that he’s not a nice enough guy, but you can’t stay stagnant, you know? That’s always a disaster for a relationship.” She picked at her salad with her fork. She hadn’t eaten a bite.

      “Sure. Sure.” Owen was nearly done with his salad. He’d spent the whole time chewing, nodding, mmm hmmming. Just like old times. He looked at his watch. He had to be getting back to the office soon. If he didn’t have those files updated by Monday morning, Shelly, his office manager, had threatened to neuter him. “So, what happened?” he said, wanting to expedite the conversation to the actual breakup. “Why’d you leave?”

      Violet sighed. “Oh,” she said, winding up for another long conversation. “It was a long time coming.” Owen pointed to his watch. “Oh . . . sorry. You have to get back.” He smiled indulgently.

      “We had this giant blow up. I mean, Marshall was yelling and throwing stuff and everything. And you know, Owen, I will just not tolerate violence of any kind. I told him I was no good for him and that I should leave.”

      Owen’s fork clattered onto his plate. “Violet, are you fucking kidding me?” He leaned forward on both hands. “That card again? ‘I’m no good for you?’ How many times do you think you can pull that old shoe out? For once why don’t you say what you really mean?”

      Violet’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Owen!” she hissed, looking around to see if anyone was watching them. “Shhhh! And what do you mean, say what I really mean? I am an open-minded person, and Yolanda says—”

      “Oh, I don’t give a fat fucking fig what Yolanda says. I imagine it’s akin to what Dr. Coulter told you when you were married to Winston, and what Harvey Shinmann told you after you and Hubca— I mean, Brian, broke up, and what your encounter group leader said, and yadda yadda. What you mean, Violet, is Marshall is no longer good for you.” Owen’s face had gone pink, and he could tell his blood pressure was up. “He was disposable! Just like I was!” Fuck, he said to himself. Oh, fucking fuck.

      Violet wiped her mouth and put her napkin over her untouched salad. She put her hands in her lap and straightened her back. “Well. I just can’t believe you are so hostile, Owen. And we’ve been such good friends, too.”

      “Yeah, about that,” Owen began.

      “Yes?” Violet said, arching her eyebrow. Her voice was frosty. Oh, yes, Owen thought, I remember it well.

      Owen had no idea why he was suddenly so angry. What did he care if Violet had left Marshall? Didn’t that open up a window for him, possibly? He could suddenly hear his mother in his head. You really want to go through