Everything You Are(57)

Silence. The raven flies down from the tree and settles into the grass no more than ten feet away, his black eyes fixed on the crust. Phee ignores him and keeps talking to her grandfather.

“Yes, I know he could still technically play. ‘Three Blind Mice’ or something horrible. Broken notes and bad bowing. Asking him to do that, though—that’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

More silence. Phee reaches into her paper sack and pulls out one of the cookies she lifted from her mother’s kitchen. “No, you don’t get this, stubborn old man that you are.” She takes a bite of buttery, chewy sweetness.

Clouds obscure the sun, the graveyard darkens.

“Nice try, but I’m not buying it,” she says, taking another bite. This time of the year, the weather is mostly rain, rain, drizzle, fog, mist, and more rain, so the sunshine of the morning was a blessing and the rain clouds rolling in have nothing to do with supernatural displeasure. They’ve been hanging on the horizon for hours.

“And don’t tell me I’ve gone soft,” she says. “I’ve never agreed with these deals you’ve made with musicians, like you’re some sort of Dr. Faust broker for the devil. And I still haven’t forgiven you for tricking me into agreeing to this. Just so you know.”

The raven stretches his wings. Ruffles his feathers. Hops closer.

“Fine. All right,” Phee grumbles. “Yes, I love Braden. I hardly know him, it makes no sense, and it’s a very bad idea. And yet, there it is. So you see my quandary. If there’s any mercy to be had for either Braden or for me, now would be good. If you can hear me at all. Which, of course, is doubtful.”

The first raindrops splatter cold on her head. The wind picks up. As usual, she’s forgotten her umbrella. Phee tosses the last bite of cookie to the raven. “It’s yours. Eat up.

“Really, though,” she says to her grandfather as she stands and brushes grass off her jeans. “Give it some thought. If you have any ideas about how he’s supposed to play, or how I’m supposed to make him do it, that would be fantastic. Enjoy your whiskey. Come on, Celestine.”

The dog follows, bringing his bone, as Phee stalks off to visit the other graves on her radar. Truth is, she feels worse rather than better, a small but insistent clamor inside her wishing she’d poured the whiskey down her throat rather than into the grass. Probably she should stop bringing it to him. It’s a dangerous game that one of these days is going to lead her right into a relapse. Especially now.

Her next stop is a plain marker for Evan George, beloved husband and father, 1927 to 1999.

Evan is collateral damage, a man the curse should never have touched. Phee’s guilt over his death feels woven into her soul.

“Hey,” Phee says, standing respectfully at the foot of his grave. “I just needed to say, again, that I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. There was no reason at all for you to get sucked into this, and I formally apologize on behalf of my grandfather and myself. And the violin. It didn’t have any volition in this matter, and I sincerely hope you know it meant no harm.”

She draws a simple bouquet of daisies and ferns out of her bag and sets them on his tombstone. Rain pelts down on the flowers, flattening the petals.

“All right. I’m not going to linger. May the music be always with you.” She bends at the waist in a little half bow, and moves on. One more stop, one more apology.

Through the gray curtain of rain, she sees from a distance that there is already a visitor at the place where Braden’s wife and son are buried. A visitor or a victim.

A human form lies facedown on one of the graves, head pillowed on folded arms. Long dark hair. No jacket. Just a cotton hoodie and jeans, soaked and clinging to a slender female form. Motionless, despite the pouring rain.

Phee’s heart jolts in her chest and she starts to run.

Celestine beats her to it, poking at the obscured cheek with his wet nose.

The prone figure screams and explodes into action, sitting up and scuttling backward in one wild leap. Celestine, undeterred, follows, trying to lick her face.

“Hey,” Phee says gently. “Allie, right?”

The girl crouches in the wet grass beside the grave, dark eyes wide, every muscle taut and ready to flee or fight.

“The dog just wants to lick you. We didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Phee, remember? The luthier who cares for your cello.”

“It’s not my cello.” Allie spits the words at her, vehement.

Fight, then, Phee thinks. Not flight or paralysis. Good to know. Her own heart is pounding like a sledgehammer. “All right,” she agrees. “That’s the truth of it.”

“We’re getting rid of the cello, anyway,” the girl says, wrapping her arms around Celestine’s neck to avoid being bowled over as a big, wet tongue swipes her cheek.

Phee says nothing, feeling her way into this scenario, her mind rabbiting for the best thing to say, the best action to take, even as her heart breaks and breaks again. Allie is shivering. Her eyes are swollen and red, her clothing mud stained from the fresh graves, not yet softened by grass.

“What are you doing here?” Allie challenges, as if the graves are her territory and Phee an intruder.

“I was visiting my grandfather. And I stopped here to pay my respects.”

“Are you done?”

“I am. Why don’t we walk out together?”