Read Online The Secret Life of Violet Grant by Beatriz Williams - Free Book Online Page A

a cigarette remained in the ashtray, burning quietly, but I’d had my fill.
    â€œMaybe a little of both.” I ground out the cigarette with a little more force than strictly necessary.
    Doctor Paul studied my fingers at their work. “What are you thinking?”
    Perceptive
, I thought. Maybe he couldn’t read my mind yet, but at least he knew when it was chewing on a bone. I folded my arms and leaned forward. “Oh, about what you said. If I’d married my professor, instead of scattering two hundred pages or so of his latest research notes over the new-fallen snow one fine February morning . . .”
    Doctor Paul grinned. He picked up my hand and kissed my palm. “And?”
    â€œI think I’d probably have ended up murdering him, too.”

Violet
    V iolet never could pinpoint the moment in which her immense regard, her gratitude, and even awe for Dr. Grant transformed into romantic desire. For some reason, this disturbs her. Shouldn’t erotic love make its nature obvious from the beginning? Wasn’t sexual attraction the first basis for attachment between men and women?
    Possibly the idea of Dr. Grant as a sexual partner simply didn’t occur to her. She had been exceptionally innocent when she first came to the institute, for all her air of independence. She’d never been kissed, never even held hands with a man. She’d been too busy, too eager to prove herself, and all the boys she knew in college and in New York were just that: boys, callow and conventional, shallow and unimaginative. She imagined herself proudly as a kind of sexless being, her mind too occupied with complex and abstract thoughts to lower itself to base human instincts. To mere physical titillation. So perhaps all that initial awe and gratitude really was a form of sexual desire, sublimated into something the virginal Violet of September 1911 could recognize and accept.
    She has an answer ready, though, in case Walter or anyone else should ask.
    This is another of the scenes that remains vivid in her brain, mined frequently for details: Dr. Grant standing in his office, two weeks into thestart of the term, and offering her a chair. He had already called for tea, and it was arriving right now in all its lavish plenty, borne on a large tray by the gray-suited secretary. Violet heard his words in her ears:
I have just finished marking your first paper, and I am stunned by the quality of your thought.
    Yes:
stunned,
he said. His exact word. He sat in the chair next to her—not behind his desk but directly next to her, his woolen knee nearly brushing hers—and fixed her with his blue eyes and repeated the word:
stunned.
    When Violet rehearses this story for her imaginary audience, she usually tells them that her heart gave a skip when he said this, and it did. Her memory is exact, and she feels the emotion again, simply remembering it. Her blood tingles in her fingertips, and her breath becomes thready in her chest. She recovers that exact sense of her younger self: as if she’s an explorer, catching a glimpse of some new and undiscovered territory, just out of reach.
    The scene resumed.
    â€œThank you,” she said.
    The secretary left, and the door clicked shut.
    Dr. Grant turned to the tea and poured her a cup, asked her if she took cream and sugar. Violet answered him politely, though her nerves were singing.
    She had
stunned
Dr. Walter Grant by the quality of her thought.
    She watched his elegant hands perform before her. She glanced briefly at his lips, full and rather endearingly pink, framed by his short tabby beard. When he gave her the cup and saucer, the tips of his fingers touched the tips of hers.
    â€œI hope I have not seemed cold, this past fortnight.” He took up his own tea. “I was conscious of your peculiar status among the other fellows, and I had no wish to incur their resentment by any particular notice.”
    â€œYes, of course. I didn’t