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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.
