Violet Rose: The Encroaching Sea

by Elizabeth Cooke

Overview

Violet Rose is the first book in The Rose Trilogy, which is set on the East End of Long Island in a resort town on the East End. The palpable animosity between summer visitor and local resident is vividly depicted.

The ocean itself is a metaphor for the love/hate turbulence in the lives of the characters. They encounter danger and lust. Malevolent storms beset them, both in tempests of weather and anguish of heart as the encroaching sea sweeps across their world.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781458221018
Publisher:	Abbott Press
Publication date:	05/05/2017
Pages:	154
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.36(d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

THE DEEP

1968

The house was bouncing on the water like a child's toy in a bathtub. But this was no porcelain tub with warm tap water: it was the Atlantic Ocean and it was cold, being September and hurricane season.

From the deck of a small stilt house planted in the sand, on Dune Road, Westhampton Beach, on New York's Long Island, Violet could see, through the early evening clouds and waves the color of steel, the top floor of a gray shingled home from the bay side that had been dislodged by the churning water. It was drifting, shifting up and down, headed out to sea.

Violet could hear people screaming. There was a woman's high-pitched voice calling 'Mercy, Lord. Mercy', then, a man shouting at the top of his lungs, 'Christ! What the hell! Jesus, help us. Where the hell are you God? There is no God!' Violet heard the sound of coughing, and strangled weeping, and finally silence, until there was the baby's cry.

It was then she ran off the deck, out of the rain, hair wet, and her pajamas clinging to her six-year old body. Violet crept under the lower rung of her bunk bed and trembled, hugging herself, until dawn. She clamped her hands over her ears to protect against the sound of the crashing waves and howling wind, but truly to deafen the desperate, disappeared voices she had heard, and the distinct sound of the baby's wail.

That wail would haunt her forever, for her whole life long. There would be no escape, no way to tamp the sound or to cover the ears when the cry beckoned. There would be no possible route to avoid the inevitable.

*
Surrounding the body of Long Island, lapping against the piers and jetties of New York City, the ocean reigns. It colors the life that bubbles within its perimeters, on the land, on city streets, in small resort villages and farmlands. The seawater seeps from underneath, into the earth of vineyards. Its presence demands ferries and bridges in order to move people and goods across space. The tides and waves give those on land a rhythm that does not exist in an ocean-less world, a desert world.

With all its bounty, the ocean can kill. It is all-powerful in its fury. It can sweep away the structures man has created; large buildings, small enclaves, businesses, vehicles, huge factories, mansions and hovels ... and of course, people.

Violet would never trust the ocean, and with good reason, ever since she had seen the sea rise up. From the deck of her father's stilt house, on Dune Road, Westhampton Beach, Violet had seen the large, two-story house, in- tact, sail by on the water. It had come from behind, from the bay side of Dune Road. The strong building was rising and crashing as it sped out into the Atlantic, and as it disappeared from view, Violet had crept under her bunk bed, as her father's house shook.

When the wind died down and the waves receded, she slowly emerged from her hiding place. Her parents were calling for her. They had not been able to find her during the earlier tempest and were frantic with worry that somehow, she had been swept out to sea. 'At six years old ... she's so light ... weighs nothing' ... her mother wept. At last, near 11 o'clock in the morning, with a pale sun constant in the sky, she clasped her child to her.

'Thank God for stilts,' her father exclaimed proudly. 'Thank God for stilts.'

The Annas family, George, and his wife, Anastasia, with Sasha, Violet's 15 year-old brother, and little Violet, stood on the deck of their house facing the ocean, looking down at sand and water swirling at the foot of the silts. Sasha was elated. He was the only one of the family who had been thoroughly exhilarated by the terrible storm, oblivious to the danger, relishing the wind and sea at its height.

"Did you hear those people screaming?" Sasha exclaimed, his eyes lighting up.

Violet looked at him with horror. "You're freaky, Sasha," she whispered.

"No, but did you ever ...?"

"Stop it, Sasha," his mother, Anastasia, cried out. "It's unnatural."

Where the wooden deck and steps to the beach had been, there was only broken lumber stretching away down the flattened dunes. The four Annas family members glanced at the landscape before them. Next door, there had been an expensive, single story home, all white, with, George Annas understood, some very pricey art objects and paintings inside. It belonged to an odd, ethereal young woman, who in summer, paraded on her deck at night in a flowing caftan, drink in hand.

Of course, at this September moment, she was probably in the city. She certainly was not there on Dune Road.

Neither was her house.

Completely gone! The only sign on the now lowered, windswept dunes, that there had ever been a house, was a garish, white toilet, alone, looking disgruntled, as it lay embedded in sand, deposited there by the arbitrary ocean.

Violet had a fearful respect for the ocean and its lethal power. As she grew, however, she learned to enjoy its charms: the summer day on the beach, swimming out a bit too far against the current, testing. She marveled at how gray and unruffled the water turned in a rain shower.

But always, always, at the back of her mind, she saw the sea rising and heard those voices calling from the doomed house.

And the child's cry.

CHAPTER 2

A RESORT TOWN - 1950s

Westhampton Beach on the East End of Long Island was a relatively sleepy town on the Atlantic Ocean in the 1950s. Coming from New York City, there was highway only half way out toward the East End, after which a two lane road took one the rest of the way to Westhampton Beach, the first of the 'Hamptons.'

"And the least expensive," was the general assessment.

"You mean the cheapest," was the more cynical appraisal expressed by George Annas. George was very possessive of his hometown. In fact, he was regarded, by the local residents, as something of a sage historian with unquestioned loyalty to Westhampton Beach.

There, the Main Street, had a large grocery store on one side named Wexelbaum's, where locals bought their comestibles and prime meats from an affable butcher named Al – who would cut to order.

"Hey, Al. Any steaks?" George Annas would ask.

"Prime, as always, George" was Al's ringing reply.

Of course in summer, the visiting population found supplies of food there too, including fresh vegetables and fruits from local farms.

Across the street was Gloria's. One went up a set of stairs to a general store where newspapers, souvenirs, small toys, beach items, candles, notepaper and cards, were available. Gloria, a plump, middle-aged woman in a challis dress, presided on a daily basis.

"You wouldn't have a needle and thread, by any chance, would you?" this asked anxiously, by a young woman in a sundress, of the proprietor, the intrepid Gloria.

"As a matter of fact, she does," interjected Gerge Annas, who happened to be buying his morning paper at the moment. "It's not an unusual request. In fact, Gloria has almost everything," this said with a smile and a bow of his head.

As one continued down Main Street, at the western end was the movie theater, with The Patio restaurant, (which had rooms to rent above) a distance away. Continuing on, one was met at the far end of the town by the Westhampton Country Club. It faced the whole township, straddling the landscape. Behind it was an exclusive golf course for the elite club members.

The young man named George Annas, upon separating out of the army after World War II, had returned to his hometown of Westhampton Beach in the late 40s. Although he had no College education, (only Westhampton Beach High School) he had learned a thing or two in mechanical maintenance during his stint in the army – tanks, armored cars, and large guns. In fact, he was a crack mechanic, a skill that came in handy in a peaceful environment.

George got a job at the local Ford dealership on Montauk Highway repairing used cars for future purchase. Within a short time, he became a pretty good salesman.

"Hey, George. Can't you sweeten this deal for me?"

"Only up to a point, Charlie ... maybe half a percentage," said with a smile and usually, the purchase was made.

George Annas was a straight arrow and a fair man. How he loved Westhampton Beach. He loved the dunes. He had grown up on them. He swam the sea – out deep and far, dove into the depths. He played volleyball on the warm sand.

In 1950, George had seen a young woman going into the entrance of The Patio at about 11:00 o'clock one July morning. He was struck by her blondness and her Slavic face with its high cheekbones and slanted eyes.

He was more than struck. He was determined, and he followed her into the restaurant, curious as to why she would go there before the lunch hour.

"Yes?" she turned to him as he entered the dim, empty bar area. "Can I help you?" this spoken with a soft accent.

"Sure," George replied, uncomfortable. He did not know what to say. Finally, "I didn't know the restaurant opened so early."

She laughed. "No. No, we are not open yet. Noon we will be ready for lunch. Come back then."

"Well ... er ... what are you doing here?"

She looked perplexed. "I work here. I am personal greeter and assistant manager."

"And your name?"

"Anastasia Theopolis."

"Anastasia. That's beautiful."

"It's Russian. My parents were from St. Petersburg."

And so it began. George pursued the young beauty, often taking her to the movie theater where they would sit in the balcony and neck. He even asked her to marry him in that balcony. The wedding took place the following spring.

"I love your new name," he told her. "Anastasia Annas. "It sounds right out of a book of poems."

They found a little house on Dune Road. It was on stilts, had a deck and steps going down to the sand and sea before it. In 1953, a son was born, Sasha, a devilish little boy. Two years later, they got a baby sitter (Anastasia's mother) and saw "Love is a Many Splendored Thing" with William Holden and Jennifer Jones at the movie theater, and they fell in love all over again.

George was proud working at the Ford lot. He adored his young wife, and now a son. But most of all, he loved living by the sea.

The bay separated the town itself from Dune Road on the sandy beach that was the main attraction and drawing card. The vacationers were there for the ocean itself, to bask in its magnificence, as well as the sun. They wanted to breathe in the power of the sea.

George was envied for his small stilt house on the dunes, in spite of the way it looked. He had what the visitor could not – the ocean, the sandy beach. He had it for the whole year long, year after year, with the sun and starlit nights and the wild, wild waves.

CHAPTER 3

A LAID-BACK SUMMER WORLD

Off Main, street, on a side street heading toward the bay was the town hardware store.

"Got new Deere lawnmowers just in," Davy, the owner would tout his customers. "I can give you a good price." As his was the only hardware game in town, Davy did very well for himself financially. He was also elected a Town Councilman.

However, it was the ocean side of Dune Road that brought the countless summer visitors and sun-seekers in droves. There were renters of group houses and established beach-house owners, and the occasional persons who used the beach as sleeping quarters. These were hustled off the sand by the local police (in the morning).

The population of the town of Westhampton Beach more than doubled every summer season – from Memorial Day to Labor Day – and although the locals appreciated the influx of money into the community, they really resented the intrusion and couldn't wait for fall to come.

In fact, the animosity between local and visitor, although coated with smiles, was palpable. Yet, Westhampton Beach was proud to have, in summer, such luminaries from the world of television as Dave Garroway who had a two-story house on the dunes. He sold it in 1956, for $40,000, but just before the new buyer took possession, a violent storm took the house out to sea. Fortunately, no one was home.

The house was no longer there! So Dave Garroway had to return the money to the buyer.

Some of the locals chuckled. "That will teach him respect for our ocean!"

Others, like George Annas, commiserated with Dave Garroway. "Poor Dave. Losing all that money ... as well as the house!" Of course, George felt lucky - and smart - that his own house was built on stilts. "Won't happen to me," he thought. "Water passes right under."

"Garroway's rich enough," still other locals would exclaim. "New York TV fella. He's got it made," said jealously, dismissively.

TV producer, Charlie Andrews and his wife, Jean, also summer residents, were genuinely concerned about their friend and invited Dave to a candlelit lobster dinner at the Lobster House on Dune Road. The restaurant was set high enough to overlook the ocean coiling on the sand under moon and stars. It was a romantic place, and the food from the sea was succulent.

The locals were justly proud to have the TV producer Charlie Andrews in their summer midst. Andrews' claim to fame was his airing on TV of the first African-American star to have his own show. It was Nat King Cole. The year was 1956, and truly, Charlie Andrews' efforts provided a breakthrough in a very 'restricted' media, as television was in the 1950s, (as was The Westhampton Country Club).

Charlie and wife, Jean, threw charming little dinners – barbequed ribs and martinis, on the back deck of their little summer house, nestled in the bulrushes on the bay side of Dune Road. There were always elegant jazz renditions playing. The bay before them beckoned to all manner of water athletes in motorboats, on water skis, or aquaplaning, showing off in bikinis to please the captive audience on the deck. Of course, everyone smoked cigarettes like chimneys. It was a delightfully relaxed way to spend a summer evening.

Another summer regular was Charles Addams, the famous New Yorker cartoonist and creator of The Addams Family. He had a tiny house, also in the reeds on the bay side of Dune Road. One August in the late 50s, he had a romance with Joan Fontaine, the movie actress, who moved into the minute space with him for several weeks.

This brought much comment from the locals.

"Wow! Have you seen her?" was the usual comment.

"She sure ain't as young as she used to be."

"Well, who is dummy? She's still a looker," this from George Annas.

"I guess," said with a snicker.

George no celebrity he, but a true local, continued working yearly at the Ford dealership on Montauk Highway, summer, fall, winter and spring. His stilt-house was across and west of Charles Addams' and almost directly next to The Swordfish Club. The Club was, for a membership fee, a beach haven with cabanas on the sand, an Olympic-size swimming pool with swimming instructor for small children, and a decent lunch available with crisp French fries and cold sodas.

However, the Annas house really was something of an eyesore – or so some of the Dune Road residents complained – because of the stilts. It was not nearly so grand as some of the other houses bordering the sea, although these were nothing compared to the mansions that would rise on Dune Road in later years. But George's house sat up there, high on sticks, and looked silly to his neighbors.

"Brings down property values" was the general criticism.

But the complaints did not bother George, nor his wife Anastasia.

"Stilts let the wild water through," George retaliated.

But the hostile remarks about the look of the house – how ugly' it was - did bother the boy, Sasha. They bothered him a lot.

Of course, in the '50s, Violet was not yet born. She didn't come along until 1962. Her father, George Annas was 45 when the baby was born, and he was enchanted with his new little daughter.

Sasha was a plumpish boy of nine years old, when his little sister appeared. He stuffed himself with chips and candy bars. He also bit his nails, and acne was claiming a place on his face. Hostility toward the baby, named Violet, started from the moment of her birth. Having been the center of his parents' world for all his years, accepting this new star in his firmament was altogether impossible. He just could not and would not acknowledge she was real. He would stare at her in her crib with clenched hands. It was hard for him to accept the fact that this little creature had stolen his father's heart.

"I'll take care of you. Just wait and see," he would hiss. When his mother appeared, Sasha would be all smiles.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Anastasia would crow, picking up Violet in her arms. This act did not bother Sasha. After all, the two were female. It was when his father held the baby up in the air, his big hands circling the tiny waist, as if he was offering Violet to the sun, it was then Sasha crumpled inside, poison rose at the back of his throat, and he learned to hate. It would last a lifetime.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Violet Rose"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Elizabeth Cooke.
Excerpted by permission of Abbott Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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