Sweet Violet and a Time for Love by Leslie J. Sherrod Page B

suspicions, my questions, everything. He used to be a cop, and he’d helped me sort out other nagging mysteries in the past. I trusted his judgment, and he already judged her harmless.
    A little reckless, a lot annoying, but harmless, nonetheless.
    Maybe I would feel better if I knew her story; but there was no time to dig, and to what end? Time was precious, Leon had told me months ago. I could still see him in his green pajamas that Sunday morning when I first tried to return Sweet Violet’s belongings to no avail.
    The Sunday I found that pocket watch.
    5:11. The time forever frozen on its gold face.
    That morning. Forever the turning point in our still-growing marriage.
    Time.
    I guessed that’s what was bothering me, the timing of it all. The murders, the questions, and Sweet Violet’s random appearances all began around the same time.
    â€œYou’re going to love this, Sienna.” Mike was talking to me, I realized. I also realized that I was out of the car and walking into the luxurious remodel that was the Grant’s three-story row home. He was living pretty well to be a public servant. I noted the high-end everything that was their living and dining areas.
    â€œLeon filled us in about your potato craving, so Shavona and I made a potato feast for you to enjoy before you head back to the courthouse.” Mike pointed to a large spread laid out on a table that took up most of their expansive dining room. Theirs was a house for entertaining: holiday meals, cookouts, Saturday night parties. “We’ve got homemade waffle fries, red bliss potato salad, scalloped potatoes with smoked turkey sausage, and, of course, Shavona’s garlic and cheddar mashed potatoes.”
    â€œOkay.” I plastered a smile onto my face, though everything in my stomach turned at the menu. I’d told Leon that I had cravings for lemons and Cocoa Puffs. Where did potatoes come from? Even Leon looked slightly confused. We both looked at each other and shared a secret smile.
    Regardless of everything that was happening around us and between us, we still understood each other.
    â€œOoh, there she is.” I heard the squeal even before she entered the room. “Girl, look at you, still looking good, well, considering.” Shavona Grant grabbed me from behind, spun me around to face her and swirled her hands all over my stomach, top to bottom, side to side as she spoke. I decided to let the invasion of her hands slide, but I could not ignore her scent.
    For reasons unknown to me, the woman always smelled of pizza. Perfume? Body wash? Couldn’t figure it out. The few times we’d met had been at our husbands’ social outings: a fishing trip two weeks after Leon and I married; a bowling night in January; a couples night out with some of Leon’s other old police buddies. We’d barely talked to each other outside of those meet-ups, and when we did have conversations, we swapped stories mostly about pregnancy and raising kids.
    They had none, but I knew they were trying, and had been trying for nearly a decade. “In God’s time,” was how she started and ended every conversation when the topic came up.
    â€œGirl, I’ve been watching you on TV, and I must say you sure have been handling yourself well with that smart-mouthed lawyer. I would have slapped her right across the eyebrows by now. Let’s say grace.” Shavona sat next to me at the table and had already started piling a plate high with all manner of potatoes. She passed the plate to me then bowed her head. Leon and Mike sat across from us, and although they had been engaged in a lively discussion about the Baltimore Ravens, Mike immediately bowed his head when Shavona’s head lowered.
    â€œFather, thank you for friends, food, and fellowship. As our dear friends face the ongoing difficulties that are disrupting their lives, I ask that this meal give nourishment and strength, and our home and lives give