Книга - The Christmas Violin

The Christmas Violin
Buffy Andrews


One Christmas. Three lives. One unforgettable story. A widower, a grieving mother and a homeless woman have one thing in common – a cemetery.Willow, a concert violinist, begins each morning by playing her son the lullaby she wrote for him at his tomb. The melody enchants Peter during his daily visit to his wife’s grave. The homeless woman, who finds refuge in the cemetery, is equally drawn to the haunting music.Like a violin concerto, the story unfolds in three movements, unexpectedly intertwining the fates of these characters.Praise for Buffy Andrews'5 Huge-Tear-Stained-Stars!' - Smut & Spitfire on The Moment Keeper'Be warned this is a tale about choices, bereavement and relationships in this book which may cause a few tears to fall…' - Cleopatra Loves Books on The Moment Keeper'Once again this author manages to provide me, on finishing this story, with a WOW moment! And once again she manages to add herself to my 'authors who made me cry' list.' - Fiona's Book Reviews on The Christmas Violin










Can there ever be an encore to true love?

It used to be that the only woman he could think about was Camilla. When he closed his eyes it was her that he saw. But now, he saw Willow. And it scared him and made him feel guilty. And yet he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help feeling what he was feeling…

The last thing grief-stricken widower Peter St John expects to find at the cemetery is love. But one evening, as he lays flowers on Camilla’s grave, he is drawn to the haunting melody of a solitary violin player.

And so he encounters beautiful concert violinist Willow Channing, who has her own grief to contend with.

A second, chance meeting fuels the fire. And soon Peter knows that as one song ended, another might begin.




The Christmas Violin

Buffy Andrews








Copyright (#ulink_239a4623-a948-5d86-bcb3-6ad8b6e92e7e)

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Buffy Andrews 2013

Buffy Andrews asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9781472054838

Version date: 2018-09-19


BUFFY ANDREWS

is an author, blogger, journalist and social media maven.

By day she’s a journalist, leading an award-winning staff at the York Daily Record/Sunday News, where she is Assistant Managing Editor of Features and Niche Publications and social media coordinator.

You will find her on a plethora of social networking sites, from Twitter and Facebook to RebelMouse and NewHive. She loves social media and loves to connect with her readers via the various platforms.

In addition to her writing blog, Buffy’s Write Zone, she maintains a social media blog, Buffy’s World.

She is also a newspaper and magazine columnist and writes middle-grade, young adult and women’s fiction.

She loves hats and everything Disney. Her favorite colors are lime green and pink. She hates odd numbers and arrogant people. And if you ask her what her favorite book as a child was, she’ll tell you The Little House by Virginia Lee Burton.

She lives in southcentral Pennsylvania with her husband, Tom; two sons, Zach and Micah; and wheaten cairn terrier Kakita. She is grateful for their love and support and for reminding her of what’s most important in life.


I thank God for His love, understanding and guidance.

I thank Beth Vrabel, Helen Williams and Alison Tulett for loving this work and helping me fine-tune it.

I thank Robin Bohanan, Kris Ort, Sharon Kirchoff and my sisters Dawn Beakler, Cindy Andrews and Tania Nade for their love and support.

I thank Colleen Rowan Kosinski, Krista Krueger, Katie Lee, Carrie Filetti, James Pottebaum, Louise Caiola, Christine Norris, Jessica Robinson, Linda Robinson Brendle, and Lee Richmond – the best cheerleaders in the whole universe!

I thank my sons, Zach and Micah, who remind me every day how blessed I am to have them in my life.

And, lastly, I thank my husband, Tom, my forever love.


In memory of mom and dad, who bought me my first violin and taught me to always follow my dreams – and my heart.




Contents


Cover (#ue0d5ad05-501c-51a3-8acf-b67b70622745)

Blurb (#uc90120b2-8584-5f3f-a909-8e26861d8a73)

Title Page (#uec78f76a-1e9b-514d-8930-e14b1984cef5)

Copyright (#uf86e6c67-637f-5212-b7c7-e4c745d22412)

Author Bio (#u5f75b2a1-774c-55f5-ad36-8b219120a699)

Acknowledgements (#u4358e32e-00c3-55c6-9dda-d1be6ffc38d0)

Dedication (#u195e53ed-79fe-54da-b58b-5f0fbb52fc76)

Movement 1: Despair (#ulink_5677fc8a-f72e-5cf4-a5bb-9021c91b0ceb)

Movement 2: Journey (#ulink_3fe26586-c06d-500b-ba0c-484458fb2e41)

Movement 3: Hope (#litres_trial_promo)

Encore (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Movement 1 (#ulink_2254d8ad-5f37-5dc6-8c81-0804a5f79bfa)

Despair (#ulink_2254d8ad-5f37-5dc6-8c81-0804a5f79bfa)


She went to his grave every day. It was like breathing. Automatic. Something she did without thinking. It had become routine. Not in a bad way. Not like when she recited the confession in church, saying the words but not really paying attention to what they meant. But routine in the way that if she didn’t go, her day wouldn’t feel quite right.

Once, she tried not coming. She almost got through the whole day, too. But when she closed her eyes that night, she saw him – his four-year-old head a tangled mess of red curls and his eyes, the color of the Caribbean, clear and bright. He beckoned her. Whispered for her to come. He needed her. Next thing she knew she was on her knees in front of the small granite grave, her floral cotton nightgown bunched up around her.

She didn’t know she had company. Didn’t see him staring from a few graves away. Normally, he came when the day was closing its eyes. But today was an exception. Today, he was there before the morning could finish its yawn. He had to be at the airport by eight.

He watched her slender fingers dance across her chest, making the sign of the cross. Her flaming red hair licked her back like a rolling fire. He wondered if she had a temper. Isn’t that what they said about redheads? She didn’t look like the temper type. She looked more delicate. Maybe it was her pale skin, or that a violin case lay open beside her.

It was the music that first drew him near. Her sweet notes drifted like snowflakes and he felt like a boy, wanting to capture them on his tongue to savor forever. When he followed the musical trail, he found her playing a lullaby. Sweet and flowing with a tinge of sadness. Her eyes were closed and she swayed as if she were lulling a baby to sleep, her bow tickling the violin strings.

For a moment, he felt guilty. Watching her meant he was not where he promised he’d be. He told Camilla that he would visit her every day and for nearly two years he had kept that promise. But the music, it was so beautiful that he couldn’t help himself. It pulled him like a magnet and when he found her playing, he was afraid to breathe for fear he would miss a note.

He was familiar with the grave at which she kneeled. He figured most people who came to the cemetery were. It was hard to miss. A holiday didn’t pass without something special tethered to the tomb, which was in the shape of a teddy bear. At Christmas, there was a small tree, trimmed in tiny teddies and plastic baseball ornaments. And at Easter, a basket full of colorful plastic eggs and an inflatable blue bunny. He never stopped to look at the name on the grave, but he knew it belonged to a child, her child.

Damn, he thought. The alarm on his cell phone beeped, reminding him of his flight. For a few breaths, he had forgotten about his trip. He found it odd that he could forget something so important even for a second. After all, it’s all he had been thinking about. This trip could change his life.

The woman jerked to attention, startled by the phone’s beeping. He nodded and she nodded back, her rosy lips slipping into a lazy smile. He turned to head to his car, parked on the narrow road that snaked through the century-old cemetery.

She slipped her bow into the holder and tucked her violin into its blue velvet cradle. She latched the lid, picked up her musical soul and headed to her car. She turned – she always turned – one last time, her heavy heart hurting more than she ever thought possible.

Neither the man nor the woman saw the old woman hiding in a nearby cluster of arborvitae bushes. Dressed in tattered and dirty clothes she had found in a nearby dumpster, the woman was used to blending in. The cemetery was her home. She watched who came and who went and took care of the grounds, especially the child’s grave. She was particular protective of it.

Once, a passerby stopped at the grave and, after looking around to make sure no one was watching, started to remove one of the tiny teddy bears wired to the small Christmas tree. The old woman, who had been watching from her leafy lair, lumbered over to the grave and grunted. The young girl jumped up and ran away.

Then the old woman, clutching her nubby walking stick for support, lowered herself to the frozen ground. Her dirty fingers, poking through the ends of her tattered black knit gloves, twisted the bear back onto the branch. A smile crawled onto the old woman’s face. She didn’t smile often and when she did, it was like lifting a ten-pound sack of potatoes. Usually it took too much effort and she gave up, but she was proud that she had stopped the thief. Proud of what she considered her duty – to guard the graves here, especially the boy’s. She had been here the spring day he was put in the ground.

The old woman winced when she saw the small coffin. It was mahogany with paneled sides, pillared corners and brass handles. She had watched as two men carried the casket from the black hearse to the grave and placed it on straps attached to a chrome frame. The woman, she figured it was the boy’s mother, had wailed uncontrollably.

Two Septembers had passed since that overcast day and Halloween was sneaking up fast. The old woman hated Halloween. It always brought pranksters to the cemetery, and they disturbed her peace. They did stupid things. They said stupid things. They were just plain stupid, the old woman thought, and resented them for encroaching on her territory.

The old woman loved Christmas best. And she was especially looking forward to this Christmas. She figured the boy’s mom would return with the Christmas tree decorated with the tiny teddy bears. And, this year, she had something special to add.

The old woman watched as the young woman’s red car maneuvered through the cemetery’s ornate wrought-iron gates and onto the busy street. The old woman had never owned a car. The only thing she owned that had wheels was the collapsible metal shopping cart she’d found on a garbage heap at a house on the edge of town. Everything she owned was inside that cart, and where she went, the cart went.

The old woman crawled out of the bushes. She stood, shaking herself like a wet dog. Fall meant leaves and leaves meant extra grooming. So she always shook when she got up in the morning to chase away the dead leaves that had found refuge in her hair and clothes during the night.

She looked toward the teddy bear grave. She always checked the grave before heading out for the day. She stuffed her dirty plaid throw into the metal cart along with her walking stick. She pushed the cart over the lumpy ground to the grave. She couldn’t remember what day it was, but she always knew what holiday was near. The cemetery told her that.

Small American flags and red, white and blue flowers and ribbons meant Memorial Day, Fourth of July or Veterans Day. Purple and white meant Easter. Red and green, Christmas. Then there were the special flowers for Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, many of which incorporated “mother” or “father” in the arrangement. Lately, the cemetery had been a sea of yellows and browns and oranges. And on the little boy’s grave sat a big plastic pumpkin.

There was little about the cemetery she didn’t know. She had lived there for the better part of her sixty years. It was her home, her life. And she often wished that it would be her final resting place.

The old woman dragged her cart down the crumbling stone cemetery steps and headed toward town. The soup kitchen would be open by now, and her stomach hurt like she had been hit in the gut by a fastball. She licked her thin, chapped lips. She hoped for eggs. And, if she were lucky, maybe a piece or two of bacon.





Movement 2 (#ulink_1d02f456-3335-50eb-9e44-e3cf8cb8a605)

Journey (#ulink_1d02f456-3335-50eb-9e44-e3cf8cb8a605)


Peter James St John

Peter pulled into the long-term parking lot a mile from the airport. The shuttle had followed him to his parking space in the back row along the chain-link fence. He grabbed his attaché case and bags from the back seat and boarded the shuttle, joining a young couple who were obviously newlyweds. The young woman wore mouse ears with a veil attached and the young man wore a top hat with mouse ears.

Peter smiled. “Headed to Disney World?”

The couple nodded.

“First time?”

The woman touched her heart with her hand. “My first time. His second.”

“But it’s been twenty years,” the man explained. “I haven’t been there since I was seven. A lot’s changed since then.”

Peter nodded. “My wife and I went to Disney World on our honeymoon, too. Camilla, that’s my wife, loved everything about the place. Haven’t been back in a few years, though.”

“Any tips or suggestions?” the woman asked.

Peter shifted in his seat. “Just enjoy yourself. Life can change in a heartbeat.”

The woman nodded. Peter could tell by her puzzled look that she thought his response was odd, but he hoped she wouldn’t push it. He turned to look out the window.

He blinked back tears as the shuttle passed a string of hotels and restaurants on the road leading to the airport. Camilla loved Disney World. She wanted to get married in Disney’s Wedding Pavilion near the Magic Kingdom. But when her mother protested a destination wedding, she opted for a Disney-themed reception instead.

From the wedding invitations to the cake topper, everything was Disney-related. Instead of numbers on each table, there were names of Disney movies. The place card holders were in the shape of a carriage and the wedding favors were small glass slippers filled with miniature mints.

He smiled, remembering how happy Camilla was that day. He was her prince and they would live happily ever after. Neither of them ever imagined that she would be gone four years later. That’s the problem with cancer, he thought. It doesn’t care what your plans are; it has plans of its own.

Peter closed his tired eyes. He pictured Camilla walking down the aisle, her white sleeveless gown flowing behind her. Her blonde wavy hair, topped with a silver tiara, cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. So beautiful, he thought. So very beautiful.

“Southwest coming up,” the shuttle driver shouted.

Peter sniffed. He turned away from the window. The shuttle pulled into the drop-off zone and Peter stood. He smiled at the couple.

“Have a great honeymoon. And don’t miss the fireworks at Cinderella’s Castle. Tinkerbell flies through the air.”

“Thanks,” the woman said. “Have a good trip.”

Peter grabbed his attaché case and dug into his pocket for money to tip the driver, who was waiting on the sidewalk with Peter’s luggage.

As the shuttle pulled away, Peter wheeled his suitcase toward the curbside check-in kiosk. He dug into his pants pocket for another five. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man carrying a little girl with a mass of red curls.

He was back at the cemetery. He could hear the music, see her swaying as she played the sweet lullaby. Something about the song was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

Willow Elizabeth Channing

“Look, I told you. I’m not ready,” said Willow, clenching her cell phone to her ear.

“You’ve been saying that for nearly two years,” said her manager, Oscar Fiennes. “Don’t you think it’s about time?”

Willow took a deep breath and counted to five. She was tired of having this conversation with Oscar. She knew he meant well, but still. She stopped traveling to perform when Luke died. In her mind, it’s what caused Luke’s death. The way Willow saw it, if she hadn’t been traveling she wouldn’t have been at the airport. And if she hadn’t been at the airport, Luke wouldn’t have been there with his nanny, Miss Trotter, to pick her up. And if Luke hadn’t been at the airport with Miss Trotter to pick her up, he wouldn’t have darted across the busy street when he saw her. And if he hadn’t darted across the street to get to her, he wouldn’t have been hit. And if he hadn’t been hit, he wouldn’t have died. So, it was all her fault. At least, that’s what she believed.

So, for the past year and a half she couldn’t bring herself to leave him, even for a night. Each day, she’d visit his grave and play the lullaby he loved. She wrote it for him when he was still in her womb.

She played a concert or two at the local performing arts center, but it wasn’t like playing in Carnegie Hall or London’s Royal Festival Hall. But she figured she deserved that.

“Just tell me you’ll think about it,” Oscar pleaded. “No one plays Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto better than you.”

Willow bit her lower lip. Oscar knew the piece was one of her favorites. Nothing gave her more satisfaction than nailing that piece in front of a packed house. And especially at Carnegie, where she had made her debut as a featured soloist in the Easter Festival Concert.

“Willow,” Oscar said. “Please think about it. You need to return to the stage before they stop calling. You have to stop beating yourself up.”

“I’ll think about it,” Willow said.

Oscar smiled. It was the first time since Luke’s death that Willow said she would think about performing outside of the small city in which she lived. He wanted to get her touring again, but he knew he had to follow Willow’s lead. She determined the time signature. If it was too complex, too fast, he’d lose her. And he didn’t want to lose her, not when there was a sixteenth note of hope.

The Old Woman

The small boy, clutching his mother’s hand at the crosswalk, stared at the old woman. She wore a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap over her salt and pepper hair held in a ponytail with a piece of red yarn.

“I have that hat,” said the little boy, pointing with his inch-long finger.

The old woman looked at the boy, her cracked, thin lips peeling back to reveal a gummy smile. When the walking sign flashed, the mom and boy took off as the old woman shuffled across the busy city street, her metal cart clanking as she went.

The old woman was used to seeing fingers pointed at her and hearing people whisper about her. She was used to being called the “crazy cart lady.”

It was true. She was crazy. Sometimes she spent the entire day walking the city streets talking to herself. And sometimes she couldn’t get the voices in her head to shut up. They whispered to her. Told her she was a slut. A piece of trash. No good.

The only friend she had, if you could even call him that, was the cemetery caretaker. He was a kind man who sometimes left her a thermos of soup and some hard, crusty bread, the kind that’s good for sopping up broth.

She licked her lips. A cup of chicken broth would taste mighty fine right now, chase the autumn chill from her old bones.

She had met the caretaker on a morning much like today. Autumn was tumbling into winter and the caretaker noticed a lump wrapped in a green blanket wiggle in the bushes behind the storage shed. Then he saw her head peek out of the fuzzy cocoon and he realized it was her home.

His first act of kindness was purposely hiding the key to the storage shed under a nearby rock while she watched. She suspected that he viewed her as a feral cat; he wanted to help, but didn’t want to get too close. In all the time they’ve known each other, they’ve never actually spoken. Their communication consists of nods and gummy smiles.

She wheeled her cart past Dollar Mart, Mama’s Pizza; past Little Funeral Home and Christ Lutheran Church. When she turned the corner at Broad and Main streets, she stopped abruptly, braking like a driver who sees a stop sign too late. The line to get into Our Daily Bread soup kitchen was already a block long. Her hope for a piece or two of bacon faded faster than a wet sidewalk on a sunny day.

Peter James

Peter weaved through the queue at the airport, past the TSA agent and to the scanner. He flipped off his leather loafers and threw his keys and loose change into a gray plastic bin. He didn’t mind flying, but he thought the screening process had become a huge pain in the ass. Still, he understood why it was necessary. Damn terrorists, he thought. World hasn’t been the same since.

He watched his attaché case enter the scanner. Even though he knew there was nothing in his attaché case to worry about, the scanner spooked Peter. It made him think about Camilla and the day they found the tumor. Scanners could reveal secrets you didn’t know you had.

On the outside, Camilla looked well. She worked out a few times a week and prided herself on eating healthy. She rarely got sick, and when she did, it was usually nothing she had to see a doctor about. But the migraines had gotten worse and Camilla eventually relented. She went to the doctor.

They slid Camilla inside that doughnut-shaped machine and found what was causing her terrible migraines – an invasive brain tumor.

Damn, Peter ran his hand through his thick brown hair. Everything reminds me of her. Even the damn luggage scanner.

It was one of the reasons he had agreed to the interview in Tampa. He wasn’t looking to relocate. Fact was, he was happy at the brokerage firm, happy living in Pennsylvania. And, despite the poor economy, he had been consistently lauded for being a superior analyst. It was because of his record of making the best long-term calls in an economic downturn that got the competitor’s attention.

And as much as Peter loved Camilla, he felt as though he were suffocating. Life had its hands around his throat and he was sucking for air. Maybe a change would be good.

When he got to the gate, he grabbed a seat by an outlet and plugged in his iPad. A young girl asked if she could plug her phone into the outlet, too.

“Help yourself,” he said.

“I’ll be over there,” the girl pointed.

As the girl walked away, Peter noticed how young she looked. Probably a college student. He thought she was pretty, a natural beauty who didn’t need makeup to be noticed. It occurred to him that he hadn’t really noticed women in the past two years. He talked to them, sure. But he hadn’t allowed himself to indulge in any possibilities beyond friendship.

Sure, he was lonely. But he found it difficult to move on in the shadow of Camilla’s grave. It was only in recent months that he found himself wondering what was beyond. It’s one reason why he gave the Tampa gig a second thought. Maybe a new home and a new job would do him good.

Willow Elizabeth

Willow shook the box of Life. She was getting low on her favorite cereal and made a mental note to stop at the store when she went out later. She usually ate breakfast after visiting the cemetery.

She touched the letters on the box – a blue “l,” red “i,” yellow “f” and green “e.” It occurred to her that Life’s packaging had changed over the years. It maintained the same color scheme of blue, red, yellow, orange and green, but there were tiny changes that Willow figured most people never noticed. Like the letters weren’t always the same color and sometimes the dot above the “i” was a circle and sometimes it was a square. And sometimes the “l” was capitalized and sometimes it wasn’t. Funny, she thought, that despite changes in packaging, the cereal remained the same at its core – same color scheme, same taste, same Life. She hated when she had these metaphorical moments that led to too much thinking. And she hated that she noticed such details; it was her blessing and her curse.

The tea kettle whistled, and she turned off the stove and filled her favorite mug, the one with Luke’s baby photo on it. Willow remembered seeing the ceramic photo mugs at a kiosk in the mall and mentioning it to her mom. That Christmas, she found the mug wrapped in gold paper under her tree. The gift tag said: “To mommy; from Luke.”

Most people Willow knew filled a mug with water and heated it in the microwave. But she preferred the old-fashioned way, the way her grandmother had taught her. She even used the charcoal cast-iron kettle her grandmother had passed on to her. Willow never used tea bags; she preferred loose leaf tea. This morning she had chosen one of her favorite herbal blends – a mix of peach and sweet pineapple.

She unfurled the newspaper. Unlike most thirty-somethings, she still subscribed to the print edition. Not that she never read the news online or watched it on television, but she liked holding the physical paper. Just like she preferred reading a physical book over an ebook. She understood that the world was going digital, but there was something permanent about print that comforted her, and she wanted to hold on to the things she knew and loved for as long as she could. Like Life.

But Willow was no fool. Sooner or later she would have to make a decision about her career, and she prayed that God would send her a sign. She needed to know that she was doing the right thing.

Her Mom was right. Oscar was right. She was punishing herself for Luke’s death. Not only did she feel responsible because he had died at the airport when he came with his nanny to pick her up, but she also felt God was punishing her for the affair that had led to his conception.

The Old Woman

The old woman wheeled her metal cart to the back of the line, behind a man she had never seen before. Must be new in town, she thought. He towered over her five-foot frame and his feet were so big, the old woman wondered where he found shoes to fit him.

She was a size seven, but she could wear up to a nine if she had to. She stuffed the tips with toilet paper. She never had too much trouble finding shoes when she went fishing in people’s garbage. Once, she found an entire bag of shoes, most of which looked like they had never been worn. She loved shoes and finding a whole bag of them was like opening a present you never expected to get. But, the old woman thought, she had never found any as big as what the man in the muddy jeans and red plaid shirt in front of her was wearing.

The man turned around when he heard the old woman pull up behind him. He smiled, his big yellow teeth peeking out of an avalanche of hair that covered most of his face and hung six inches below his chin.

The Old Woman remembered her first time eating at the soup kitchen. She was in her late teens. Raised by a procession of foster families who cared more about the money she brought in each month than her, she skipped town the first chance she got. She didn’t care where she went; she just wanted to get away from the filth and stink that her life had become. She copped a ride from a trucker in Florida who was headed north, and eventually ended up in this southcentral Pennsylvania town. She thought about leaving from time to time, but she liked the cemetery and caring for the graves. She felt a sense of purpose, and it was the only place where people didn’t look at her like she was a rabid dog, the only place where she could talk to herself and no one gave a damn or thought she was crazy.

“Good morning,” said Charlie Shue, greeting the old woman at the door. Charlie, who was neck and neck with the old woman in age but looked a good fifteen years younger, had been running the soup kitchen for the past ten years. And in all that time, the old woman never returned his cheerful greetings. Some days, she barely looked at him. But that didn’t stop cheerful Charlie from trying. He was determined that one day she’d look him straight in the eyes and shout, “Good morning!” It just wasn’t today.

The old woman found a spot at the end of a table near the large plate glass window that looked out onto the busy downtown street. She liked watching the business folk bustle about with their brief cases and arms loaded with manila folders she was sure contained top secret information.

Sometimes, though, if she was having a particularly bad day, she was sure the manila folders contained information about her. She thought that everyone on the street was out to get her. On these days, she stayed at the cemetery, trying to shush the voices that roared inside her head, telling her to hurt herself – or worse yet, hurt others.

She had never hurt anyone, but staying in the cemetery where people were already dead made it less likely she would. So that’s what she did. On days when the voices boomed in her pin-size head, she ate the packs of crackers she had swiped around town and coated them with ketchup from the packets she had collected.

Sometimes, if she was lucky enough to find a jar of peanut butter in the trash that wasn’t scraped clean, she had a real feast. She noticed that most people didn’t wash their peanut butter jars before discarding them. Too much work, she guessed. But not for her. If she didn’t have a plastic knife, she used a stick to scrape the jar clean and spread it on her crackers. And if she didn’t have any crackers, she’d eat it right off the stick, sometimes eating a little bark along with it.

Peter

Peter boarded the plane and took an aisle seat about half way back. It was a full plane and the two-hour flight was on time. He’d be there by noon.

An older couple stopped at his seat.

“Are those seats taken?” asked a white-haired man with large ears and thick glasses.

“They’re all yours,” said Peter, standing to let the older couple in.

The man sat at the window and the woman, a foot shorter than the man but hair just as white, sat in the middle.

“Going to Tampa on business?” asked the woman, stuffing her oversized leather purse under the seat in front of her.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “And you?”

The woman coughed and wiped her mouth with a white linen hankie trimmed with lavender lace. “Excuse me. I’m not used to this cold weather.” She buckled her seatbelt. “We live there. We used to live here but we moved to Tampa when we retired. Warmer, you know. These old bones can’t take the cold anymore.”

“You don’t look old at all,” said Peter, the compliment rolling off his tongue as easily as the Lord’s Prayer.

The woman patted his arm, which lay on the arm rest. “You dear, sweet young man. We just celebrated our sixty-fifth anniversary.”

“Sixty-five years,” Peter said. “Congratulations.”

“Are you married?” the woman asked.

Peter shook his head no. “My wife passed away a couple of years ago. Brain cancer.”

“Oh, you poor boy,” the woman said. “I’m so sorry.”

The pilot came over the loudspeaker. “At this time I’m going to ask you to fasten your seatbelts.”

Peter checked his seatbelt and turned off his iPad. The old woman settled back in her seat and opened her paperback. Peter glanced over and saw it was a romance. Something about Amish, and it was in large print.

Peter thought about the last time he had flown. He and Camilla went to Disney World. She wanted to see it one last time. He tried to be upbeat during the trip, but he found himself inside the men’s room time and again swallowing his tears. He wanted the trip to be perfect for Camilla. He even arranged for them to renew their vows at the Wedding Pavilion. It was the highlight of the trip. He smiled, remembering how happy Camilla was that day.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked as they got off the monorail at the Grand Floridian Resort.

He smiled and took her hand, leading her to the Wedding Pavilion, fringed with palm trees on Seven Seas Lagoon.

“Oh, Peter,” she cried. “I can’t believe you arranged this.”

He got down on one knee and proposed to her all over again. “Will you marry me one more time?” he asked.

Tears streamed down Camilla cheeks. “I’d marry you a million times.”

The pilot came back on the loudspeaker. “We’ve been cleared for take-off.”

Peter closed his eyes. He hated take-offs. He felt his heart race. The plane picked up speed and then lifted off, climbing steadily into the air.

Willow

Willow read the front page of the newspaper and scanned the other sections. She’d read the rest later when she had more time. She had an OB-GYN appointment across town. She hated going to the doctors, especially this doctor. It reminded her of what she no longer had and of the night that changed her life forever.

The affair had taken Willow by surprise. She didn’t plan on it; neither did Dan. But when it happened, they weren’t strong enough to overcome their attraction and aching need for one another.

He was older than her by twenty years, stuck in a marriage that had gone south almost before it began. He was lonely. She was lonely. Until they found each other one night at a hotel bar in Boston where she was performing.

He was a neurosurgeon, in town for a convention. He was drinking a Scotch on the rocks with a twist and she sipped a gin and tonic. They just started talking. Small talk at first. What he did. What she did. The sort of talk that usually fades into a handshake and a “Nice to meet you.”

Then they met the next night. Same two padded, mahogany stools at the end of the bar. Truth was, she enjoyed talking to him and had decided on a whim to have a drink before she retired to her room for the night. If she were lucky, maybe he’d stop by. She didn’t want to sleep with him. She wasn’t that kind of woman. But conversation with him came easy, like hitting eighty on the highway. You never feel the pedal depress until a siren shrieks behind you and you see a swirl of flashing lights in your rear-view mirror.





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