4. Violet
four
Violet
I open the door to the two-bedroom apartment I share with my dad, and the comforting aroma of ragu makes me smile—for about three seconds. I’ve spent the entire day thinking about how to break the news I’ll be gone all summer, and I still don’t know how to do it. The thought of leaving him in his own company for months ties my stomach in knots.
The door clicks shut, my keys hit the ceramic bowl on the hallway table, and Dad’s head pokes around the corner. “Dinner is ready when you are, Blossom.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I call on my way to my room. “Give me a couple minutes to freshen up, and I’ll come right out.”
He knows me well enough to read between the lines, and this evening is one of those times I need to be alone for a while.
I’m grateful but not surprised when he replies, “Take your time. No rush.”
I disappear into my room, drop my satchel on my desk, and collapse face down on my bed. Ugh. What a freaking day.
And starting tomorrow, my dad will be alone for the first time in probably thirty years.
His world is so, so small. He spends ninety minutes every morning walking around our neighborhood, cooks us a homemade dinner every evening, and supports the San Francisco Fury like it’s his religion. He also sees his therapist twice a month. That’s all he has. Walking. Cooking. Hockey. Therapy. And me.
With a groan, I roll and reach over to turn on the lamp on my nightstand, then glance around my room. When we moved to San Francisco ten years ago, it was so I could start my fashion degree, and this shoe-box apartment was the best we could afford. Dad insisted I take the larger bedroom with the ensuite bath because “young women need privacy, and young fashion ingenues need space to chase their dreams.”
When I mentioned I wanted to line the walls with oversized gray felt-covered boards, he installed them all in a day and surprised me with them after class. All this time later, they’re covered with layers of my sketches, hundreds of fabric swatches, a bunch of inspirational quotes, and photographs of wedding dresses by my favorite designers. Evidence of a dream I gave up but a calling I can’t ignore.
I pick up my vintage—okay, thrifted—beige leather satchel, tug my sketchbook free, and open it to the design I started this morning but didn’t have time to finish. I put on my headphones and turn up the gritty rock track, then start to draw. It’s not long before I’m lost between the beat in my ears and the smooth paper under my palm. Another minute, and my heart rate slows enough that I can no longer feel it thumping.
Cocking my head to one side, I add shadow to the feminine silhouette on the paper. Lengthen the skirt. Refine the waist. This particular design isn’t new. It’s a dress I’ve committed to paper a thousand times over the last ten years, but I’m trying something new in the bodice. A little less lace and a little more skin. A subtle blush instead of the classic ivory I’ve favored in the past. Sometime later—I know it can’t be too long because Dad hasn’t come looking for me yet—it’s done.
I tear the page free from the binding and look around. I ran out of blank space years ago, so I find a spot where a pin can pierce through the layers to the board and add my latest work to the collection. Versions of the same dress appear on all four walls, each one a little different in ways nobody but me would notice. My latest attempt at a sample of it hangs from the dressmaker’s dummy in the corner. I should let this one go, but I can’t until I get it right.
After a quick social media check—no new likes, no new followers—I shower, change into comfortable sweats, and then sit at our two-seater dining table. Dad is in the kitchen spooning noodles and sauce into bowls, and when he sets one down in front of me along with a bowl of grated parmesan cheese, he gives me a look he’s perfected over the last twenty-eight years. The one that says spill it .
“I have some news,” I begin, twirling a knot of spaghetti onto my fork. I slide it off when it grows too large and start again.
“Yeah?” Dad picks up his knife and fork, slices into his spaghetti, and chops the strands into rice-size lengths. I’ve suggested we cook penne or fusilli instead of spaghetti, but slurping noodles was one of my favorite things as a kid, and he refuses to let it go. “Did you get a promotion already? I knew it wouldn’t be long before the Fury realized how lucky they got when they hired you.”
I spare him an indulgent smile. Lucas James is my biggest cheerleader, and I appreciate his confidence, but he’s my dad. He’s obligated to believe in me.
“Not exactly.”
I stuff a forkful of pasta into my mouth, but I have to swallow eventually, and Dad’s waiting with questions written all over his face.
“Chord Davenport came into the office this morning.”
Dad’s hands stall mid-cut and I can’t help but grin at the wonder in his eyes. “You met Chord Davenport ?”
“I did.”
“And?” He circles his fork in the air, prompting for more. “What’s he like in person?” Dad shakes his head. “The Fury’s going to be unstoppable next season with a player like Davenport on the right wing. Just what we need to turn things around, right?”
“Right.”
I set down my fork, take a gulp of water, and then tuck one hand between my knees to stop them from bouncing.
“What’s going on?” Dad leans back to glance at my legs, still vibrating under the table. “Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
He gives me a confused look, so I suck in a deep breath and let the words tumble out.
“He came in to talk about next season, but he needs an assistant for the summer, and I think my boss wanted to do it, but for whatever reason, Chord didn’t want that. So anyway, one thing kind of led to another, and in the end, he said he wants me.”
Dad’s brows climb high enough to carve creases in his forehead. He’s only forty-eight and still has a thick head of hair—dark, like mine, with silver around the edges. “But that’s… That’s great!” He grins as he lifts a forkful of his dinner halfway to his mouth. “Think you can get me his autograph?”
“Maybe. But Dad…”
He senses there’s something I’m not telling him. His expression grows serious as he sets down his cutlery. “What is it, Violet? What are you worried about?”
I huff out a resigned breath. “He’s spending the off-season on his ranch in Sonoma County, and I… I have to go with him.”
“Go with him?” I watch as Dad tries to puzzle it out. “To where? His ranch?”
I nod, and Dad’s eyes cloud with emotion. Understanding. Disappointment. Worry.
It’s been two years since he last had a serious depressive episode, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think about it every day. Suddenly, I’m talking a mile a minute, hoping that dropping a load of uninteresting trivia will distract us both.
“I looked it up online today at work. His family owns a property called Silver Leaf Ranch & Vineyard just outside of Aster Springs. His parents bought it in the early 1980s, and when they passed, Chord and his four siblings took over. They make wine—mostly chardonnay and pinot noir—but they also have a small organic farm with heirloom vegetables and fruit and an olive orchard. A few animals—chickens and horses and sheep. There are accommodations and a restaurant. They host weddings and functions, and the property is something like a hundred acres, so Chord built his own house with a pool and… Oh, Dad.” He’s staring through the table and probably hasn’t registered a word I’ve said. I reach out and set my hand on his. “Are you okay?”
“What?” He clears his throat and tops my hand with his. I do the same, so our hands are stacked together, and he smiles. That’s something else we’ve done since I was little. “I’m fine. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you should feel good about it. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to miss you. That’s all.”
“I’ll miss you too, and I don’t know what there is to feel good about. I didn’t apply for the job or anything.” I lift my shoulders and let them drop. “It’s a case of wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’ll be okay. I’ll call every day, and I was thinking maybe you could ask around the building for some handyman work. You haven’t done that in a while, and it would keep you busy, plus the extra money might be nice. I’ll also speak to Jennifer upstairs about checking in on you—”
“No, you won’t.” Dad pulls his hands free and scoops up some pasta. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I know that.” I drag my hands back and collect my fork, but I only play with my food. “But she’s a nice person, and you could both use the company.”
He snorts. “I can take care of myself.”
He can , I reassure myself, but my voice is small when I reply. “I know.”
We eat our meal in silence, and if it weren’t for the fact that my paycheck keeps this roof over both our heads—and that the Fury was willing to add Dad to my health insurance—I’d quit my job right now and forget all about Chord Davenport. Instead, I have to find a gentle way to tell my dad I’m leaving in twelve hours.
I’m still searching for words when I stand to clear away the dishes, but Dad stops me with a hand on my arm and guides me back to my seat.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so hard to talk to, but I hate it when you worry about me. It reminds me that I’ve screwed up this whole parenting thing, and it’s too late to fix it.”
My heart breaks as I shake my head. “You haven’t screwed up anything. It’s not your fault you have depression.”
“But it is my responsibility, and it’s not the most important thing right now. You are.” His brown eyes, the same deep chestnut shade as mine, soften. “How do you feel about the job?”
“I don’t know,” I confess. “Nervous. Kind of overwhelmed. He’s an intimidating guy. Tall—much taller than he looks on the screen—and big. Arrogant. Demanding. He didn’t say much today, but everyone in the room was hanging off every word. There’s something about him, you know? Charisma isn’t the right word. More like, um… magnetism. It’s hard not to look at him.”
“I didn’t know you were such a fan.” Dad’s eyes sparkle as he fights to hide a smile.
“Oh, I’m not.” I don’t want to burden Dad with the truth that I’m more than a little scared of my new boss, but a version of my worries comes tumbling out. “I’ve never been anyone’s personal assistant, though, let alone to someone who’s used to getting what he wants when he wants and how he wants it. I’ll probably screw up a hundred times within a week, and he’ll send me straight back home.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.” Dad takes my hand and squeezes my fingers. “You’re too smart and too gentle for anyone to treat so badly. Just be yourself, and you’ll do great.”
He’s got no idea about Courtney and what I put up with at work. The day I told him I got a full-time marketing role with his favorite hockey team, his face lit up brighter than a kid at Christmas. It would shatter him to know how much I loathe it, so I smile and grip his hand before letting it go.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“And who knows what opportunities might come from this? Impress him enough, and it’ll open doors for you at the Fury. You’ll be running that place in no time.” I roll my eyes, and he boops me on the nose. “Just do your best, Blossom.”
“My best means keeping my head down, staying out of Chord’s way, and doing my job well enough to survive the summer.” I huff out an anxious chuckle. “I’ll be counting down all eighty-seven days until I come home.”
“You said he’s got a family on this ranch?” Dad asks, and when I nod, he looks thoughtful. “Maybe dealing with Chord Davenport on his home turf will soften him a little. You might even become friends.”
I nibble my lip and try to imagine a version of the man I met today without all the ice and edges. I can’t see it, and the possibility of being his friend is even more ludicrous. I’ve never been able to relax in social situations, and aside from the fact the San Francisco Fury signs both our paychecks—his with a lot more zeroes than mine—I have nothing in common with Chord Davenport. There’s a higher chance of seeing one of my dresses on a red carpet than there is of a man like him taking an interest in a girl like me, but I can tell Dad likes the idea.
“I really doubt it, Dad, but I suppose you never know.”
“When do you go?”
I wince. “I have to be in Aster Springs at ten a.m. tomorrow.”
His face falls, and he rubs one finger under his nose the way he does when he’s feeling overwhelmed. But then he brightens so quickly that his enthusiasm can only be for my benefit.
He gets to his feet and claps his hands together. “If you have to go, tomorrow is as good a day as any. I’ll clear away the dishes so you can pack.”
Before he can collect our empty bowls, I jump to my feet and throw my arms around his middle. I’m tall, but Dad’s taller, and I press my cheek against his chest.
Dad wraps his arms around me and rests his cheek on my head with a sigh. “This is a great adventure,” he murmurs into my hair. “And you’ll only be gone a few months. Everything will work out fine. After all, how much can possibly happen in just one summer?”