Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Violet stared after Regina as she left the sitting room, tarot cards in hand, worried how she might interpret the three of swords.
She should’ve told her about Tillie that afternoon, should’ve explained when Regina put up a fight about the plants, should’ve confessed the truth the moment she’d pulled the lovers card.
But Regina had a look in her eyes that gave Violet pause.
Regina had never given Violet any reason not to trust her, but this felt different.
For so long, they’d had no one but each other.
Violet had never brought home anyone aside from Tillie, and she still remembered that first time almost seven years ago.
They’d finished up their late lunch at Barb’s.
At some point what had started as a way to pass the time on particularly slow afternoons at the shop had become a tradition.
Each time, Violet found herself wishing she could reach across the table between them and take Tillie’s hand—ask if their years of companionship and their conversations about music and literature and life meant as much to her as they did to Violet.
More than once she entertained the idea of lighting a blue candle to draw the truth out of the other woman, but Violet feared what the truth might hold.
That what they shared was no more than a common friendship between young women.
As Violet took the last sip of her milkshake, Tillie pulled a faded book out of her handbag.
She set it on the table between them, the spine facing Violet so she could see the title—Orlando by Virginia Woolf.
They’d discussed Woolf before, usually sticking to her safer works, always carefully skipping over this particular novel, which in itself had been an awakening to Violet the first time she’d read it.
Her eyes flitted up to Tillie’s, searching them for meaning she wanted desperately to find.
“You’ve read it?” Tillie asked, a slight tremor in her voice.
“It’s a favorite,” Violet whispered, praying for Tillie to understand her meaning.
Tillie’s lips curved up. She flipped the book open to the very back, where a flower sat pressed between the pages. A violet.
“I picked this back in the spring,” Tillie said, voice low. “It reminded me of you.”
Violet took in the delicately pressed flower, the curve of the still-green stem and leaves, soft and full as they led up to deep purple petals parted like lips whispering secrets.
Where two of those petals met, were Violet to lift them gently, carefully, she would find the bright yellow stamen perfectly preserved beneath, an invitation to the promise of sweet nectar.
“It’s beautiful.” Violet breathed the words more than she spoke them.
She reached across the space between them, setting her hand on the book.
Tillie, too, reached for the novel. The tips of their fingers met, and heat shot up Violet’s arm all the way to her heart, where it settled in, warming her chest and her stomach and licking its way up her throat.
Her cheeks flushed, and when her eyes flitted up to Tillie’s, she found her own desire mirrored there.
“Do you—” Violet started.
“Maybe we could—” Tillie said at the same time.
They both laughed, but neither moved their hands from the book.
“Would you like to come over for …” Violet paused. “A drink?”
Tillie’s scarlet lips parted, and Violet couldn’t tear her eyes from them.
“A drink would be nice,” Tillie said, a little breathless. “I can bring a few records. And we can …” she trailed off. “Listen to them together.”
That night had been the first time they’d danced—the first time they’d kissed—but it hadn’t been the last. Now, Tillie was here, in Violet’s home with her records and her plants and her clothes and they were finally, finally building a life together.
Once Regina was gone, Tillie jumped up from the chair and took the spot next to Violet. She reached for Violet’s hand and held it gently in hers.
“Do you need to go after her?” Tillie asked.
But Violet shook her head. Since their parents’ deaths, Violet had always put Regina first. It was time to live her life for herself.
“It can wait for morning. What do you say we hang up those philodendrons in the bedroom?” Her lips quirked up.
Tillie’s flush was all the answer Violet needed.
When they made it up to Violet’s room, the house had already pulled Tillie’s portable record player from her boxes, and Billie Holliday’s voice sang softly through the door.
“Have I mentioned how much I love this house?” Tillie asked.
The hallway light flickered.
“I think the house loves you, too.” Violet cracked open the door to find her bedroom lined with candles—not the enchanted ones the Caldwell sisters made, but decorative pillars of all sizes, casting the room in a warm, yellow glow.
Tillie gasped, and Violet felt a smile spread over her face. Here, they were safe. Here, they were accepted. Here, they were home.
Violet took her by the hand and tugged her into the music and candlelight, closing the door behind her with her foot.
She rested her free hand at Tillie’s waist and started to dance as the soft, slow jazz washed over them.
Violet stood a few inches taller than Tillie so when Tillie leaned into her, the tip of Tillie’s forehead pressed against Violet’s cheek.
The warmth of Tillie’s skin through the soft fabric of her shirt blazed hotter than any magic Violet had ever burned into the world.
If the intention she poured into her candles were spells, this love—this woman—was sorcery.
“Everything I have is yours,” Violet murmured as they swayed to the music.
Tillie nestled closer, singing along with Violet.
Her mouth moved against Violet’s skin with each word, and every brush of her lips sent a tremor through Violet.
She gripped Tillie’s waist tighter, held her body closer.
As the song came to an end, Tillie pulled back, the dark of her pupils impossible to distinguish from the honey brown of her eyes.
Tillie rose up on her toes, and Violet ducked her head.
Their lips met in the middle. This was all Violet needed.
The heat of Tillie’s touch. The softness of Tillie’s mouth, the sweet taste of cherry and whiskey still fresh on her tongue.
She cupped Tillie’s face gently in her hands.
Tillie wrapped her arms around Violet’s neck.
Violet broke their kiss and began to trail her lips along Tillie’s chin, down her neck, to the edges of her collarbone, only just visible beneath her blouse—living for every sound she drew from Tillie’s throat.
She undid the first button, then the second.
Before she could reach the third, the candles blew out.
Tillie laughed softly, “Message received, house.” She ran her hand through the back of Violet’s hair, brought her lips to Violet’s throat. As much as Violet wanted to sink into her touch, she stilled.
More than anything, the house used light to communicate. Lights on were a greeting or a direction. Lights off were a warning. The lamp at Violet’s bedside flickered on and off.
On and off.
On and off.
Then, the door opened.
“Violet, I drew another card and—” Regina stopped short. The glow from the hallway spilled into Violet’s room, falling on her and Tillie—their embrace, Tillie’s state of undress, the mess of Violet’s hair. The hall bulbs winked out, but it was too late.
Tillie started to pull away, but Violet reached for her hand and kept her close. She wouldn’t live her life in hiding, not in her own home.
“There’s something I should’ve told you a long time ago,” Violet said.
Then to the house, “It’s okay, you can turn on the lights.
” Her bedside lamp flickered to life, followed by the floor lamp in the corner beside her two lounge chairs—where she and Tillie planned to hang one of the philodendrons—then, finally, the hall lights.
“You love her,” Regina said. Where Violet had hoped to see joy and acceptance in her sister’s face, she was met instead with narrowed eyes. But they widened again so quickly Violet wasn’t sure if they’d ever narrowed at all. Regina held a hand up over her mouth as she glanced between them.
Then, “You lied to me.” Her voice had sharpened to a point, and Violet winced.
“I never lied to you,” Violet said.
Tillie wrapped an arm around her waist, and Violet leaned into her touch.
“You told me she would be a roommate,” Regina said, as if Tillie wasn’t standing right there with them. “Every time you’ve brought her here, every drink, every record. How long?”
Violet hung her head, shame spreading in her chest.
“Seven years,” Tillie said. “Seven beautiful years.” Her words buoyed Violet.
Though they’d been close for far longer, it wasn’t until that day in the diner that they’d taken things a step further than friendship, and Violet’s only regret was it hadn’t happened sooner.
“Why did you hide this from me?” Regina asked. “We’re sisters. You’re all I have, Violet. You’re all I’ve ever had.”
“I wanted to tell you,” Violet said. “So many times I tried, but …” She shook her head, still not wanting to admit her fear, to find herself proven right.
“You were afraid I wouldn’t accept you,” Regina said.
Violet sighed, nodded.
“I love you. There’s nothing you could do to change that. I take no issue with women loving women. I just didn’t realize …” Regina started, stopped, not really looking at Violet anymore, her eyes focused on some middle distance between them.
Violet felt Tillie let out a long breath beside her, and Violet, too, found her sense of relief to be a physical thing. She pressed closer to Tillie and tried not to cry.
“I thought you didn’t bring men around because of the candles,” Regina said more to herself than to Violet, “but it’s always been this way. I should’ve seen it.”
At her words, Violet’s chest went cold. The hairs on her arms prickled.
“What do you mean, ‘the candles’?” she asked.
Regina blinked, a flush creeping into her cheeks. After a few seconds she started to speak, slowly, “I lit candles to protect you. You know how men can be.”
Violet’s body went cold. “You tried to keep men away from me.”
“Not that that’s a bad thing,” Tillie said with a light, uncomfortable laugh.
“For your own safety,” Regina said, as if it were obvious. “With you working in town, I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
Violet’s memory went back to the workshop that afternoon, the single set of pink tapers she’d walked in on her sister drying. Pink was not a color for protection. Before she could say as much or even follow the thought to its conclusion, Regina started talking again.
“Should I make some black candles for you both, for us?” Regina asked. “With Tillie living here now, if people knew …”
“We’ve been careful,” Violet said. Their town had no history of violence against women like Violet and Tillie, but McCarthyism had only ended a few years ago. Violet still remembered the news, the call to report any suspicious activity. Love, it seemed, was dissidence.
“A spell couldn’t hurt,” Regina said.
“Violet’s been lighting them for us,” Tillie said.
“Good,” Regina said with a nod. “Good.” Then, she offered a light smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Welcome to the family, Tillie.” She held her arms open, and both Violet and Tillie stepped into them.
The lights in Violet’s room let out a soft buzzing, almost too high-pitched to hear, but Violet felt it right where fear had pooled in her stomach at the mention of the candles. When she pulled back from her sister’s hug, she said, “You know I love you, Regina.”
“Of course I do,” Regina said. “I only wish you’d told me sooner. You were right. It’ll be nice to have someone else in the house. We’ll have to celebrate tomorrow.”
And with that, Regina kissed first Violet on the cheek, then Tillie, before she disappeared down the hallway. Violet took a few steps forward and braced herself against the doorframe as she stared after her sister.
Tillie came up behind her and rested a hand on Violet’s shoulder. “That went better than I expected.”
A small, thoughtful noise slipped through Violet’s lips. She reached her hand up to grip Tillie’s. “I think my sister has been casting spells on me.”
As if in confirmation, all of the lights down the hall glowed a touch brighter before they flickered off and then back on.
“To protect you,” Tillie said. “It sounded good-natured.”
Violet shook her head. “I think she was trying to keep me from falling in love.”