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By day BUFFY ANDREWS is a journalist at the York Daily Record/Sunday News, where she is Assistant Managing Editor of Features and Niche Publications and social media coordinator. She also writes a blog, Buffy’s Write Zone, maintains a social media blog, Buffy's World and writes middle-grade, young adult and women's fiction. Living in south-central Pennsylvania with her husband, two sons and wheaten cairn terrier Kakita. She is grateful for their love and support and for reminding her of what’s most important in life
Copyright
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..
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
This eBook edition 2021
First published in Great Britain by HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Copyright © Buffy Andrews 2021
Buffy Andrews asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
E-book Edition © 2021 ISBN: 9781472054838
Version date: 2021-04-16
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
Author Bio
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Movement 1: Despair
Movement 2: Journey
Movement 3: Hope
Extract of The Moment Keeper
Want More
Acknowledgements
Endpages
About the Publisher
Movement 1
Despair
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.
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