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"   An exclusive excerpt from The Secret Life of Violet Grant, a twisty new romantic suspense novel. I nearly missed the card, stuck up against the side of the mail slot. But luck intervened. I tossed it on the table when I burst into the apartment Friday evening and didn&amp;#039;t look at it until late Saturday morning, wrapped in my dressing gown, drinking a filthy concoction of tomato juice and the devil knew what. &amp;quot;What&amp;#039;s that?&amp;quot; asked my roommate, Sally, from the sofa. &amp;quot;Card from the post office.&amp;quot; I turned it over in my hand. &amp;quot;There&amp;#039;s a parcel waiting.&amp;quot; I looked at the clock. I had 20 minutes until the post office closed. It was raining. On the other hand: a parcel. A mysterious one, yet. I&amp;#039;d only moved into the apartment a week ago. But there it was, misspelled in purple ink: Miss Vivien Schuyler, 52 Christopher Street, apt 5C, New York City. Perhaps my great-aunt Julie, submitting a housewarming gift? &amp;quot;If you&amp;#039;re going,&amp;quot; said Sally, &amp;quot;you&amp;#039;d better go now.&amp;quot; Of such little choices is history made. I darted into the post office at eight minutes to noon \u2014 yes, my dears, I have good reason to remember the exact time \u2014 and shook off the rain from my umbrella. The place was packed, and it stank of sour wool overlaid by cigarettes. I joined the line behind a man in blue surgical scrubs. A customer left the counter. The rest of us took a united step forward. Except the man in blue scrubs. His feet remained planted, but I only realized this after I&amp;#039;d knocked him right smack down to the stained linoleum. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m very sorry,&amp;quot; I said. He blinked like my dog Quincy did when roused from his beauty snooze. &amp;quot;Great guns, were you asleep?&amp;quot; He ignored my hand and rose up to his feet. &amp;quot;Looks that way.&amp;quot; He turned and faced front. Well, I would have dropped it right there, but the man was eye-wateringly handsome, stop-in-your-tracks, Paul Newman handsome. And this was New York; you took your opportunities where you found them. &amp;quot;You must be an intern or resident, or whatever they are. I&amp;#039;ve heard they keep you boys up three days at a stretch. Are you all right?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Yes.&amp;quot; Taciturn. But he was blushing, right up his sweet sunny neck. &amp;quot;Unless you&amp;#039;re narcoleptic,&amp;quot; I went on. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s fine, really. My cousin Richard was like that. He fell asleep at his own wedding. The organist was so rattled, she switched from a wedding march to a death march.&amp;quot; I thought I&amp;#039;d overplayed my hand, and then: &amp;quot;He did not.&amp;quot; Nice voice. Sort of Bing Crosby with a bass chord. Trying very hard not to smile. &amp;quot;Next,&amp;quot; said a bored counter clerk. Blue Scrubs leaped forward. I checked my watch. One minute to go. Ahead, a man threw up his hands, grabbed back his package, and stormed off. I took a step. The clerk stared at me and took out a silver sign engraved Counter Closed. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;ve got to be kidding me,&amp;quot; I said. The clerk tapped his watch and walked away. &amp;quot;Sir,&amp;quot; I called out, &amp;quot;I have a very urgent parcel\u2026&amp;quot; Blue Scrubs looked up from his airmail envelopes. &amp;quot;Excuse me.&amp;quot; I turned my head. &amp;quot;You stay out of this, Blue Scrubs. I&amp;#039;m trying to conduct a perfectly civilized argument with a perfectly uncivil post \u2014 \u2026&amp;quot; He cleared his Bing Crosby throat. His eyes matched his scrubs, too blue to be real. &amp;quot;I was only going to say, it seems there&amp;#039;s been a mistake. This young lady was ahead of me in line. I apologize, Miss\u2026&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Schuyler,&amp;quot; I whispered. &amp;quot;\u2026Miss Schuyler, for being so very rude as to jump in front of you.&amp;quot; He waved me in. And then he smiled, all crinkly and adorable. The clerk smirked. Well! I shook the card at his smirk, nice and sassy. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s Miss Vivian Schuyler, on Christopher Street. Make it snappy.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Make it snappy, please,&amp;quot; said Blue Scrubs. The clerk snatched the card and stalked to the back. Again, my hero cleared his throat. &amp;quot;My name isn&amp;#039;t Blue Scrubs, by the way,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s Paul.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Paul.&amp;quot; I tested the word on my tongue. &amp;quot;Is that a problem?&amp;quot; I liked the way his eyebrows lifted above his eyes, ever so blue. &amp;quot;No, no.&amp;quot; Smile, Vivian. I held out my hand. &amp;quot;Vivian Schuyler.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Of Christopher Street.&amp;quot; He took my hand and sort of held it there, no shaking allowed. &amp;quot;Oh, you heard that?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Lady, the whole building heard that,&amp;quot; said the clerk, returning with a box so enormous, it seemed to have sprouted legs and learned to walk. &amp;quot;Great guns. How am I supposed to get this back to my apartment?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Look, can I help you with that?&amp;quot; asked my hero. &amp;quot;No, I&amp;#039;ll manage.&amp;quot; I slid it off the counter and staggered backward. &amp;quot;On the other hand, if you&amp;#039;re not busy saving lives at the moment\u2026&amp;quot; He plucked the parcel from my arms, not without brushing my fingers first. &amp;quot;After all, I already know where you live. If I&amp;#039;m a homicidal psychopath, it&amp;#039;s too late for regrets.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Excellent diagnosis, Dr. Paul. You&amp;#039;ll find the knives in a drawer next to the icebox.&amp;quot; He hoisted the box to his shoulder. &amp;quot;Thanks for the tip. Lead on.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Just don&amp;#039;t fall asleep on the way.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Giddy&amp;quot; might have been too strong a word for my state of mind as I led my spanking new friend home with my parcel, but not by much. &amp;quot;Did I mention I&amp;#039;m on the fifth floor?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Of course you are.&amp;quot; On the last turn, I made a swift calculation of dishes left unwashed and roommates left unclothed. &amp;quot;You know, you could just leave it right here on the landing,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;I can manage from here.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Just open the door, will you?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Ooh. You sound so commanding.&amp;quot; I shoved the key into the lock and opened the door. Well, it could have been worse. The dishes had disappeared \u2014 sink? \u2014 and so had the roommate. Dr. Paul laid the parcel to rest on the table. &amp;quot;Whew. I thought I wasn&amp;#039;t going to make it up that last flight.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Don&amp;#039;t worry. I&amp;#039;d have caught you.&amp;quot; He was raking through his hair in that way we girls adore. &amp;quot;Well?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Well, what?&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;Aren&amp;#039;t you going to open it?&amp;quot; Again with the glittery smile. I sashayed the two steps to the table. The beast sat, brown and battered in the center, patched with an assortment of foreign stamps. &amp;quot;Well, well.&amp;quot; I peered over the top. Miss Vivien Schuyler, read the label, except that my name appeared over a scribbled-out original, and my address likewise. &amp;quot;It looks as if it&amp;#039;s been forwarded,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;The plot thickens.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;My mother&amp;#039;s handwriting.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Sounds reasonable.&amp;quot; He stood a few respectful feet away. &amp;quot;Someone must have sent it to your parents&amp;#039; house.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Apparently. From Switzerland.&amp;quot; He stepped forward at last. &amp;quot;You have friends there?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Not that I can remember.&amp;quot; I was trying to read the name beneath my mother&amp;#039;s scribble. &amp;quot;V something.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s not Vivian?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;No, it ends with a t.&amp;quot; An instant&amp;#039;s reflection. &amp;quot; &amp;#039;Violet?&amp;#039; They had the name wrong, I guess.&amp;quot; I headed for the kitchen drawer and withdrew a knife. &amp;quot;Ah, now the truth comes out. Make it quick.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Silly.&amp;quot; I gave the knife a friendly wave. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s just that I don&amp;#039;t have scissors.&amp;quot; The seams were sealed with tape. &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t know where to start.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You know, I&amp;#039;m a trained surgeon.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;So you say.&amp;quot; I sliced along one seam, then another. The paper shell gave way, then the box itself started to go. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s leather,&amp;quot; I said, peering inside. &amp;quot;And quite heavy.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Need a flashlight? Map?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;No, I&amp;#039;ve got it. Here we are. Head, shoulders, placenta.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Boy or girl?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Neither.&amp;quot; I yanked, propelling myself backward into Dr. Paul&amp;#039;s arms. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s a suitcase.&amp;quot; I called my mother first. &amp;quot;What&amp;#039;s this suitcase you sent?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;This is not how ladies greet one another, darling.&amp;quot; &amp;quot; &amp;#039;Each other,&amp;#039; not &amp;#039;one another.&amp;#039; Chicago Manual of Style.&amp;quot; A merry clink of ice cubes. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re so droll, darling. Is that what you do at your magazine every day?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You sent me a package.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Did I?&amp;quot; Another clink. &amp;quot;Oh, that&amp;#039;s right. It arrived last week.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Who&amp;#039;s it from?&amp;quot; &amp;quot; &amp;#039;From whom,&amp;#039; darling.&amp;quot; Oh, the ring of triumph. &amp;quot;It was sent to Miss Violet Schuyler on Fifth Avenue from somebody in Zurich\u2026&amp;quot; &amp;quot;It is yours. I don&amp;#039;t know any Violet Schuyler.&amp;quot; &amp;quot; &amp;#039;Violet&amp;#039; is not nearly the same as &amp;#039;Vivian.&amp;#039; Dr. Paul agrees with me. There&amp;#039;s been a mistake.&amp;quot; A gratifying pause, then: &amp;quot;Who is Dr. Paul?&amp;quot; I fastened my eyes on the good doctor. He was smiling at the corner of his mouth. &amp;quot;Just the doctor who carried the parcel back from the post office.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You met a doctor at the post office, Vivian?&amp;quot; I treated him to a slow wink and wound the phone cord around my fingers. &amp;quot;Oh, you&amp;#039;d adore Dr. Paul, Mums. He&amp;#039;s very handsome, seems to have all his teeth. Perfectly eligible, really, unless he&amp;#039;s married.&amp;quot; I put the phone to my shoulder. &amp;quot;Are you?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Not yet.&amp;quot; Phone back to ear. &amp;quot;He&amp;#039;s your dream come true, Mums.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;He&amp;#039;s not there, is \u2014 &amp;quot; Her words escaped me as I placed the receiver in Dr. Paul&amp;#039;s wide, firm palm. I liked it already. &amp;quot;Good afternoon, Mrs. Schuyler\u2026yes, she&amp;#039;s behaving herself.&amp;quot; He returned my wink. &amp;quot;As a matter of fact, I do think there&amp;#039;s been a mistake. Are you certain there&amp;#039;s no Violet\u2026&amp;quot; A blush climbed his neck. &amp;quot;Hard to say, Mrs. Schuyler, but\u2026&amp;quot; I snatched the receiver back. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s quite enough, Mums. I won&amp;#039;t have you embarrassing Dr. Paul with your remarks. He isn&amp;#039;t used to them.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;He&amp;#039;s a dream, Vivian. Try not to sleep with him right away, will you? It scares them off.&amp;quot; Clink, clink. Rattle. Click. I set the receiver in the cradle. &amp;quot;Well, that&amp;#039;s Mums. I thought I should warn you from the get-go.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Duly warned.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;But not scared?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Not a lick.&amp;quot; I tapped my fingernails against the phone. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re certain there&amp;#039;s a Violet somewhere in this mess?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;A cousin? On your father&amp;#039;s side? Lost her suitcase in Switzerland?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;A century ago?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Stranger things have happened.&amp;quot; I fingered the tarnished clasp. I couldn&amp;#039;t quite bring myself to open the valise. There was something sacred about it, inviolable. (Unlike my mother&amp;#039;s virtue, in that respect.) My hand fell away. &amp;quot;I think it&amp;#039;s time to call Great-Aunt Julie.&amp;quot;   &amp;quot;&amp;#039;VIOLET SCHUYLER,&amp;#039; did you say?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Yes, Aunt Julie. Does she exist?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Well, well.&amp;quot; I imagined her pristine 62-year-old brow making the ultimate sacrifice to this conundrum. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re certain it says &amp;#039;Violet&amp;#039;? Handwriting can be atrocious.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s &amp;#039;Violet.&amp;#039; Dr. Paul concurs.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Who&amp;#039;s Dr. Paul?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;We&amp;#039;ll get to him later. Let&amp;#039;s talk about Violet. Obviously you know the name.&amp;quot; I heard the scratching of her cigarette lighter. This must be serious. &amp;quot;Yes, I know the name.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;And?&amp;quot; A long breath against the mouth of the receiver. &amp;quot;Darling, she was my older sister. A scientist. She murdered her husband in Berlin in 1914 and ran off with her lover, and nobody&amp;#039;s heard from her since.&amp;quot; Aunt Violet. I had a great-aunt named Violet, an adulteress and murderess, about whom I&amp;#039;d never heard. I turned to tell Dr. Paul the news. But it was not to be. He lay upon my sofa, so profoundly asleep I was tempted to hold my compact mirror to his mouth and check for signs of life. &amp;quot;Aren&amp;#039;t you just too much,&amp;quot; I whispered. Aunt Julie blew into the apartment half an hour later. &amp;quot;Where is this suitcase of yours?&amp;quot; she demanded. &amp;quot;Haven&amp;#039;t you opened it yet?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Of course not. It&amp;#039;s not mine.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;For God&amp;#039;s sake, my dear. Did your mother raise you with no standards at all?&amp;quot; She put her hand on the valise&amp;#039;s clasp. &amp;quot;Well, well.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Now, wait just a minute.&amp;quot; I darted over and snatched her hand away. &amp;quot;Darling, she&amp;#039;ll never know.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;How do we know that?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Nobody&amp;#039;s heard from her for 50 years. A pretty decent indication.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Look, Aunt Julie\u2026&amp;quot; But Aunt Julie had already turned. &amp;quot;Vivian, my dear,&amp;quot; she said slowly, &amp;quot;there&amp;#039;s a man on your sofa.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You don&amp;#039;t approve?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Oh, I approve wholeheartedly. But I do feel compelled to ask why he isn&amp;#039;t dressed more suitably.&amp;quot; I came up and slipped my arm about her waist. &amp;quot;Isn&amp;#039;t he a dream? I found him at the post office.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Delivered and signed for?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Mmm. Poor thing, he works such long shifts at the hospital. He carried up the package for me with his last dying surge of energy, and then just&amp;quot; \u2014 I waved my hand \u2014 &amp;quot;collapsed.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Imagine that. What do you plan to do with him?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;What do you suggest?&amp;quot; She resumed her journey to the liquor cabinet. &amp;quot;Just don&amp;#039;t sleep with him right away. It scares them off.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Funny, Mums already warned me. Tell me about Violet.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;There isn&amp;#039;t much to tell. Not that I know, anyway. I was only 9 when she left for England. That was 1911, I believe.&amp;quot; Aunt Julie wandered back from the kitchen and leaned against the table, drink in hand, staring lovingly at Dr. Paul. &amp;quot;Was she sent away?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;No, the opposite. She wanted to be a scientist, and that didn&amp;#039;t go down well in Schuylerville. But they let her go \u2014 there&amp;#039;s not much you can do with a girl if she&amp;#039;s got her heart set on something.&amp;quot; Aunt Julie cocked her head. &amp;quot;What color are his eyes?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Blue. Stop trying to distract me.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ve changed my mind. Get him in bed, pronto.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You know, he can probably hear you in his subconscious.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I hope he does. You could use a good love affair, Vivian. It&amp;#039;s the one thing you&amp;#039;re missing.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Regardless, I&amp;#039;m not going to sleep with him. Poor exhausted darling.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I find,&amp;quot; said Aunt Julie, swishing her gin, &amp;quot;they can generally summon the energy.&amp;quot; I went to my bedroom and took the extra blanket from the shelf. I called back: &amp;quot;Now, talk. What did Violet do in England?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Got married to her professor, like the sane girl she was. She was very pretty, Violet, though she didn&amp;#039;t care about anything except her damned atoms and molecules.&amp;quot; I spread the blanket over Dr. Paul. &amp;quot;Then she murdered him?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t think there was a trial. But yes, the fellow was murdered, and Violet ran off with her lover. From a suite at the Hotel Adlon. She did have taste.&amp;quot; She snapped her fingers. &amp;quot;And poof! That was that.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;There must be more to it.&amp;quot; She spread her hands. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ve told you all I know.&amp;quot; She played her part well, did Aunt Julie. &amp;quot;I can&amp;#039;t believe I had a great-aunt, all these years, and nobody ever mentioned it.&amp;quot; Aunt Julie looked at me with a pitiful smile. &amp;quot;We&amp;#039;re the Schuylers, darling. Nobody ever would.&amp;quot; From the window over the back courtyard came the sound of crockery smashing. The cramped squalor of my apartment was so foreign to the rarefied quiet of the Long Island summer I was used to. I adored every piece of makeshift furniture, every sound that shrieked through the window and told me I was alive. &amp;quot;Let&amp;#039;s open the valise,&amp;quot; said Aunt Julie. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s where you&amp;#039;ll find Violet.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;God, no. What if it&amp;#039;s a skeleton? Her dead husband?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;All the better.&amp;quot; Dr. Paul stirred on the sofa. &amp;quot;Clamp, not screw,&amp;quot; he muttered, turning his face into the cushion. I dropped my voice to a whisper. &amp;quot;See what you&amp;#039;ve done! Now, be quiet. He needs his sleep.&amp;quot; Nobody could invest an eye roll with as much withering contempt as Aunt Julie. &amp;quot;You won&amp;#039;t open the suitcase sitting on your own kitchen table. You won&amp;#039;t go to bed with that adorable man sleeping on your sofa.&amp;quot; I opened the door for her and stood back. Aunt Julie swept into the hallway, calling over her shoulder, &amp;quot;Youth is wasted on the young.&amp;quot; Aunt Julie&amp;#039;s Max Factor faded from the air. I spent a few moments tidying up and generally hiding all evidence of sin. I did this not to favorably impress Dr. Paul when he woke (well, not exclusively), but because I liked to keep busy while my brain wrestled with a problem. And my new Aunt Violet was a doozy of one. Not only was she a female scientist, poor dear, but she was a scientific female. She&amp;#039;d have sat at the lonely table wherever she made her home. I couldn&amp;#039;t blame her for marrying her professor. The question was why she&amp;#039;d killed him afterward. I touched my finger, as Aunt Julie had, to the sturdy leather. That&amp;#039;s where you&amp;#039;ll find Violet, Aunt Julie had said, but it seemed to me that the marks of her life&amp;#039;s actions lay scattered out in the world, and the contents of this valise were the detritus of her soul. I had no right to them. What if someone opened up my suitcase? I rose from the table and went to the kitchen, where I measured water and coffee grounds into the percolator. Dr. Paul would need coffee when he woke up, and lots of it. Ah, the scent of brewing coffee. It bolts a man from slumber faster than the words &amp;quot;Honey, I&amp;#039;m pregnant.&amp;quot; I watched his big blue eyes blink awake. I savored the astonished little jerk of his big blue body. &amp;quot;Hello, Doctor,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;Welcome to heaven.&amp;quot; He looked at me; his head relaxed against the pillow. &amp;quot;You again.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I made you grilled cheese and tomato soup. And coffee.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You didn&amp;#039;t.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You carried my parcel. It was the least I could do.&amp;quot; He smiled and sat up, all blinky and tously and shaky-heady. &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t know how I fell asleep.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;It seems pretty straightforward to me. You made the mistake of lowering your poor overworked backside onto my unconscionably comfortable sofa. Have some coffee.&amp;quot; He accepted the cup. Eyelids down. &amp;quot;I think I&amp;#039;m in love with you.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Aw, you big lug. Wait until you taste my grilled cheese.&amp;quot; Eyelids up. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;d love to taste your grilled cheese.&amp;quot; Well, well. I handed him the plate. &amp;quot;So tell me about yourself, Dr. Paul.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I do have a last name, if you&amp;#039;d care to hear it.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m not sure I&amp;#039;m ready to be on a last-name basis with you.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s Salisbury. Paul Salisbury.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;ll always be &amp;#039;Dr. Paul&amp;#039; to me. Now, eat your sandwich.&amp;quot; He nodded at the suitcase. &amp;quot;Haven&amp;#039;t you opened it yet?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Oh, that. It belonged to my secret great-aunt, Violet, who murdered her husband and ran off with her lover, and the damned thing is, of course, locked tight as an oyster with a lovely fat pearl inside.&amp;quot; Dr. Paul&amp;#039;s sandwich paused at his mouth. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re serious?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;In this case, I am.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I hope you don&amp;#039;t mind my asking whether this sort of behavior runs in the family.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Well.&amp;quot; I settled back in my armchair. &amp;quot;I can&amp;#039;t say the Schuylers are the most virtuous of human beings. Still and all, outright psychopathy is generally frowned upon.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I can&amp;#039;t tell you how relieved I am to hear it.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;That being said, and as a general note of caution, psychopaths do make the best liars.&amp;quot; I clapped my hands. &amp;quot;But enough about little old me! Let&amp;#039;s turn our attention to the alluring Dr. Paul Salisbury \u2014 his life and career and, most important, when he&amp;#039;s due back at his hospital.&amp;quot; Dr. Paul set his plate on the cushion next to him. His eyes took on a darker shade, or maybe it was the sudden rush of blood to my head, distorting my vision. &amp;quot;Midnight.&amp;quot; I lost my breath. &amp;quot;I was supposed to return to the hospital from the post office, change clothes and go back to my apartment to sleep.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Where&amp;#039;s your apartment?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Upper East Side.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;My condolences.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Thanks. I should have found a place closer to the hospital.&amp;quot; I looked at the clock. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;ve lost hours already.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I wouldn&amp;#039;t say that.&amp;quot; I untangled my legs and rose to fetch the tomato soup. &amp;quot;I hope you don&amp;#039;t mind the mug. We don&amp;#039;t seem to have any bowls yet.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Whatever you have is fine.&amp;quot; He took the mug with a smile of thanks. Oh, the smile of him, as wide and trusting as if the world were empty of sin. &amp;quot;Wonderful, in fact. Sit here.&amp;quot; He whisked away the plate and patted the sofa cushion next to him. I settled deep. I was a tall girl \u2014 an unlucky soul or two might have said coltish, in my impulsive adolescence \u2014 and I liked the unfamiliar way his thigh dwarfed mine. Dr. Paul cupped the soup mug in his palms. &amp;quot;What would you like to do now, Vivian?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Did you have anything particular in mind, Doctor dear?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I was asking you.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Well, Mother said I shouldn&amp;#039;t go to bed with you right away \u2014 it would scare you off.&amp;quot; I couldn&amp;#039;t see for certain, but I&amp;#039;d have bet my best lipstick he blushed. If I closed my eyes, I could feel the warmth on my nearby cheek. &amp;quot;Aunt Julie concurred,&amp;quot; I added. &amp;quot;At first, anyway.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m not saying they&amp;#039;re right,&amp;quot; he said carefully, &amp;quot;but there&amp;#039;s no rush, is there?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You tell me.&amp;quot; He cleared his throat. &amp;quot;I didn&amp;#039;t mean to imply that I&amp;#039;m not tempted. Just to be clear. Extremely tempted.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Mind over matter?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Exactly.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;d hate to lead you astray from the well-worn path of virtue.&amp;quot; He blushed again, the dear. If he kept giving off that kind of thermodynamic spondulicks, I was going to have to change into something less comfortable. &amp;quot;Yes, of course,&amp;quot; he mumbled. I lifted my eyes and the table appeared before me, my great-aunt Violet&amp;#039;s suitcase atop it. Aunt Violet, who had run away with her lover into the Berlin summer. Had they made it to Switzerland together? She would be in her 70s now, if she were still alive. If she had succeeded. Dr. Paul rose from the sofa. His hand stretched toward me, palm up: &amp;quot;Let&amp;#039;s go somewhere, Vivian.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;What about your sleep?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ll catch up eventually. This is more important.&amp;quot; I took his hand and let him pull me upward. &amp;quot;Where do we go?&amp;quot; He stood close as a whisker, solid as a deep blue tree. &amp;quot;How about the library?&amp;quot; He reached around my back, untied my frilly apron, and lifted it over my head. &amp;quot;We&amp;#039;re going to find out all about this aunt of yours.&amp;quot;  From The Secret Life of Violet Grant, to be published by G.P. Putnam&amp;#039;s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC. Copyright 2014 by Beatriz Williams. A graduate of Stanford University with an M.B.A. from Columbia, Beatriz Williams lives with her husband and four children near the Connecticut shore, where she divides her time between writing and laundry. Visit her at beatrizwilliams.com. Photos: Mladen Cvjeticanin/Getty; Cassia Beck/Getty "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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