Page 135 of Whirlwind

“Ladd is willing to play the game until he gets his chunk of the pie signed sealed and delivered. He wants more ownership of the project.”

“What do you want, Violet? Are you going back to him? Are you going to marry him? Do even you like him?” My voice came out harsh, biting.

She didn’t move a muscle, she didn’t answer.

I wanted an answer.

My fingers dug through my hair. How could she sell herself to a company, a man, a marriage? I got that everything was emotionally overwrought with family tragedy in the mix, but when and where was the line?

Why wasn’t she willing to draw a line?

I knew I rattled her body but good, but … maybe, hell, he did too. A batch of hot sex and a wild vacation weren’t going to steer her in a fundamentally new direction if she didn’t want to make that change. And I knew change sucked. Change was hard, painful even. It disappointed those around you. Violet’s situation seemed all tangled up in trauma, grief and survivor guilt, all incredibly heavy pieces of dead weight whose burden only compounded over time.

Guilt and obligation had never been a part of my experience growing up. An experience, a mindset I now understood was completely different from Violet’s.

My mother and father had never been the do-this-don’t-do-that parents. They were the sure-try-this-try-that-why-the-hell-not-you-decide parents. I always knew I had the freedom to be and explore just about anything without negativity or sidelong glances from either of them.

Violet’s face remained stony. She hadn’t answered my question about marrying Ladd. “Violet?”

“I don’t want to marry Ladd. I don’t want to be with him. And marriage? No. Way.” She tossed croissant pieces in her dish.

I pushed my dish away and it knocked into my coffee cup. The sudden sharp clatter made my insides knot even further.

I’d lost my appetite.

50

Violet

“There’s another one.”

I pointed to the blonde girl in a long red dress and a scarf outstretched behind her, acting like it was just another day in her glam life in front of the windmills, world famous landmarks of Mykonos.

“Here I am, loving life and life loves me…” Beck whispered in a mocking tone and we both laughed softly.

People came here wired to Instagram it up on the beach, in the iconic winding stone pathways of the small town, at the club scene, at the beaches.

The blonde girl’s boyfriend walked backwards in front of her snapping his phone camera, then they switched and she took shots of him, his shirt opened, a red linen blazer on, pants flapping in the wind. Then they held hands and, standing behind her, he took a shot of their hands with her facing out to sea.

“No, no, not that. Sooo sick of that one.” Beck laughed.

“Oh my gosh. Look—” There were at least five other couples doing the same exact thing right alongside them.

Mykonos was teaming with tourists from all over the world and among them so many super rich glamorous A-listers. That Spanish soccer star and his model girlfriend we’d spotted earlier this week were still the talk of the island, and paparazzi followed their every move to every beach club, every restaurant.

Beck was obviously pleased that he wasn’t enduring that sort of attention here, but when he was recognized, I could feel that initial bite of tension in his body and attitude, but he would quickly let that go, nod and smile and keep moving. I couldn’t imagine living with that as your every day reality. It couldn’t be easy to ignore or avoid. And in Los Angeles, I imagined it was particularly intense and difficult for Beck.

Hand in hand we strolled around the windmills. The tourist information plaques told us that from the 16ththrough the 19thcenturies the windmills made the most of the island’s year round gusty winds and ground the local wheat and barley, and the flour produced was sold around the country, even abroad. Innovation and commercial success for such a small island eons ago under Venetian and then Ottoman rule.

Only sixteen windmills had withstood the passing of centuries and the battering of the elements, landmarks of another, simpler time, long, long ago. We wandered in between these on the shore by the striking seaside neighborhood of Little Venice. Their fan blades were no longer covered in material to catch the winds, but the snow-white circular round structures with pointy roofs stood proudly against the clean blue of the sky and the rich sapphire of the sea.

Unparalleled beauty was all around me and I couldn’t stop taking photographs. Raw perfections, subtle imperfections, lyrical oddities, movement, stasis, harsh light, soft light, so many contrasts.

Beck closed his eyes and heaved a huge breath, his arms in the air. “This wind is incredible.”

I stilled at the sight of him before the three windmills. My lens filled with Beck stretched out engaging with the ancient winds. He opened his eyes, and, laughing, ran toward me, toward my camera, his arms outstretched like a bird, swooping me up like an eagle. He kissed my chest. “You’re just like this wind, Violet. Violent and relentless, giving me a rush. I don’t want to be sheltered from it in some hidden cove or secret bay. I want to revel in it.”

“Hang on—violent? What do you mean by that?”

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