The time keepers, p.1
The Time Keepers, page 1
PRAISE FOR THE WORKS OF ALYSON RICHMAN
THE TIME KEEPERS
“Once again, Alyson Richman entrances the reader with her signature lyrical prose and captivating storyline. Powerfully humanizing various perspectives of the Vietnam War, The Time Keepers interweaves the journeys of a wonderfully diverse cast.” —Kristina McMorris, New York Times bestselling author of Sold on a Monday
“The Time Keepers holds so much power. It has the power to stop a bitter word on the very tip of your tongue.… And like any truly great book, it has the power to bridge divides, to remind readers of the redemptive power of love and forgiveness, and to heal.” —Katherine J. Chen, author of Mary B: An Untold Story of Pride and Prejudice
“A powerful and emotional saga, woven with themes of love and compassion.… This novel will make your heart soar.” —Sofia Lundberg, international bestselling author of The Red Address Book
“A powerful story of longing, the pain of war, and the transformative effects of friendship. The hands of time may always move forward but Richman deftly reveals how a constant pull between past and present can co-exist in our hearts.” —Marjan Kamali, bestselling author of The Stationery Shop
“An astounding novel of unlikely friendships and true love gone awry.… Once again, Richman’s brilliant storytelling doesn’t just immerse us in the past, it tells us how to live with grace and bravery today.” —Ariel Djanikian, author of Barnes & Noble Bookclub Pick The Prospectors
THE SECRET OF CLOUDS
“A riveting tale that explores the bond between an isolated student and his connection to the outside world: his tutor.” —InStyle
“An exquisite story.… Richman’s great strength in designing the emotional ebb and flow of her engaging narrative should win accolades and a heap of new readers.” —Washington Independent Review of Books
“A story of family bonds, heartbreak, healing, and hope.… The tenderly written ending will bring you to tears, but in the best possible way.” —Lisa Wingate, New York Times bestselling author of Before We Were Yours
“A tender, captivating, and ultimately satisfying story.… Thank you, Alyson Richman, for another heartrending tale.” —Jamie Ford, New York Times bestselling author of Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet
THE VELVET HOURS
“Richman’s writing sings.… A beautiful and compelling portrait of two women facing their unknown past and an unimaginable future as their world begins to crumble.” —Kristin Hannah, New York Times bestselling author of The Women
“Richman fills her novel with vibrant details, much as Marthe decorated her apartment: always with care, craft, and a sharp eye.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A love letter to the stories we tell and the stories we keep.… Imaginative, rich, and emotionally satisfying, The Velvet Hours is a treasure.” —Jewish Book Council
THE LOST WIFE
“Staggeringly evocative, romantic, heart-rending, sensual, and beautifully written.… [It] may very well be the Sophie’s Choice of this generation.” —John Lescroart, New York Times bestselling author of The Missing Piece
“One of the best. The horrors of war serve as the backdrop to a love affair that spans a lifetime, and that love story stayed with me long after I put down the book.” —Lauren Weisberger, New York Times bestselling author of When Life Gives You Lululemons
UNION SQUARE & CO. and the distinctive Union Square & Co. logo are trademarks of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.
Union Square & Co., LLC, is a subsidiary of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.
Text © 2024 Alyson Richman
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 (including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
All trademarks are the property of their respective owners, are used for editorial purposes only, and the publisher makes no claim of ownership and shall acquire no right, title, or interest in such trademarks by virtue of this publication.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-4549-5323-4
ISBN 978-1-4549-5324-1 (e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2024012316
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
For information about custom editions, special sales, and premium purchases, please contact specialsales@unionsquareandco.com.
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Cover design by Jared Oriel
Cover art © Elisabeth Ansley/Trevillion Images (hands); arteria.lab/Shutterstock.com (background)
Interior design by Kevin Ullrich
For Pete
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part II
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Epilogue
Author’s Note and Acknowledgments
Topics and Questions for Discussion
“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.”
—Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
PROLOGUE
Vietnam, 1978
THEY HAVE BEEN WAITING ALL NIGHT BY THE RIVER, THE DARK water smooth as glass. They carry nothing but a bundle filled with food and canteens of fresh water all tied in a square piece of cloth. A single tin pot. A sack of lemons and a box of sugar.
The boat is late. The children are hungry. The men and women who are with them are standing still as trees.
The moon cuts through the darkness like a scythe. As they wait, looking for the boat they were promised, the tide inches closer to their silhouettes. They walk backward, retreating into the marsh, tall spears of reeds behind them. The cicadas loud in the wet grass.
It is the youngest boy who first sees the flash of light. A small beacon from a torch pulsating atop the head of the fisherman.
They walk into the river. Treading past the water hyacinth, a mass of green leaves and singular pink flowers. First, ankle-deep. Then, knee-deep. Finally, waist-deep. The children are afraid. Seaweed wraps around their legs, pulling them down. Still, they inch toward the boat. The weight of the river slowing them with each step until there is no sand or silt beneath their feet.
They reach their arms up toward the boat. The current flows against them. In the shadow of the ship’s hull, they see a woman extending her hand. A rope is thrown out to reach them, curling first on the surface of the water before sinking down.
PART I
CHAPTER 1Long Island, 1979
GRACE GOLDEN WOULD NEVER KNOW WHY, ON THAT SUNNY afternoon in late May, she had chosen to walk down Gypsum Street after Mass instead of her usual route to the grocery store. Maple Avenue had always been the fastest way from Saint Bartholomew’s to Kepler’s Market.
Her husband, Tom, believed Grace picked Gypsum Street because the cherry blossoms there were at their peak. That was the thing about his wife, he explained. She’d always go out of her way to encounter something beautiful. But neither of them could have anticipated on that fine spring day, as Grace’s heels rhythmically struck the sidewalk, her shopping list tucked inside her leather purse, that she would notice a little boy curled up against the side of a building. Sleeping on the hard cement, his body was tucked so tightly, he reminded Grace of a small whelk nestled into its shell.
She stopped and hovered
“Are you lost, love?” The lilt of her Irish accent, still detectable after years of living in New York, floated through the air. “Let me help you up,” she offered her hand.
But the boy remained fixed in a fetal position, his arms locked even tighter around himself and his feet inched closer to his bottom. One of his tennis shoes had a hole in its rubber sole. The other was missing its laces.
She still could not see his face, only the tiny edge of his ear and the shock of straight black hair.
“Please.”
His head rose slightly, revealing his dark eyes, heart-shaped lips, and small nose.
It was the face of a child, frightened and alone.
CHAPTER 2
“I’M GRACE.” SHE OFFERED HER NAME, HOPING HE’D ALSO SHARE his. But he remained silent. His body fixed to the sidewalk, still as a stone.
She unlatched the clasp of her handbag and pulled out a candy wrapped in shiny silver foil.
He studied her, then cautiously accepted the sweet. Grace took another piece from her purse and unwrapped it, placing the small chocolate in her mouth.
She looked around to see if she could spot anyone searching for a lost child or if a policeman was patrolling nearby. But Grace saw no one.
“Are you lost? Why don’t you come with me,” she said as she reached her hand out and guided the boy up from the ground.
He found his footing and now stood before Grace, but his eyes still avoided hers. His pants were too short, exposing his thin ankles, and the Incredible Hulk decal on his T-shirt was peeling. But Grace’s hand remained open, and eventually his fingers found their way into her own.
* * *
The warm touch of a child’s hand was instantly familiar to her. But through his grasp, she also felt his fear. The skin was clammy. The fingers were slippery.
He walked beside her, his hand fidgeting against her own. Every few minutes, she turned to catch a glimpse of him sideways: the bony limbs, the long lashes, the angular eyes. She estimated he might be around ten years old, close to the age of her younger daughter, Molly.
She did not stop at Kepler’s to pick up the eggs and milk and the various other provisions on her shopping list. Instead, she gripped his hand tighter, not even noticing the cherry blossom petals falling on their shoulders and hair.
A few blocks from home, she saw Adele Flynn walking toward her car.
“Grace?” Adele paused for a moment, her keys in one hand. “Is everything all right?” Her eyes scanned the boy with the worn clothes, the foreign face, and the averted gaze walking next to her friend.
Grace did not stop to chat. “Everything’s fine!” she hollered over her shoulder, ignoring Adele’s look of confusion as she led the boy toward her home.
Once there, she opened the front gate and walked past the rose-bushes that grew exuberantly along the short path to her house. The child hesitated when they reached the front steps. He let go of her hand.
“Don’t worry,” she reassured him. “I’m going to make a call.” She pretended with her fingers to make a telephone to her ear. “We’ll get you home.”
She turned the doorknob and walked inside, the boy silent beside her.
“I’m back,” she announced, laying her bag on the sideboard. Her eyes fell upon Molly’s shoes by the stairwell and the girls’ coats on the floor, their sleeves carelessly inverted. Then to Katie’s backpack spilling out papers and brightly colored folders. The house bloomed with children.
For a split second, Grace tried to reconcile the reality of her household with the fact that she had brought a complete stranger into it.
“You’re home?” She heard Molly’s voice ring through the air before the girl bounded down the stairs, and her face immediately revealed her bewilderment.
“Mommy?” Her eyes were fixed on the strange boy next to her mother. “I thought you were going to Kepler’s.…”
Before Grace could answer, she turned and caught the reflection of her and the child in the large oval mirror beside the door.
He was shaking.
* * *
Tom was down in the basement with his ear pressed to an old wall clock that needed tuning when his wife returned. He stopped the pendulum with his finger and went to greet her.
Walking up the basement stairs, he pushed through the stiffness in his bad leg, gripping the banister tightly with each step. In the vestibule, he found Molly at the base of the stairwell, staring wide-eyed at a little boy standing beside his wife.
“Gracie?” Tom stepped closer. The faded image of the Hulk on the boy’s orange T-shirt seemed ironic; the boy’s arms were the width of a pine sapling.
“I found him curled up sleeping in a corner near Maple Avenue. I didn’t know what to do.”
Tom crouched down. “What’s your name, little fella?”
The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other but still didn’t answer.
“We’ll have to call the police, Grace. Somebody out there has to be looking for him.”
“I know. I just thought it would be better to make the call from home. Not at Kepler’s, with everyone staring at us.”
“Want to wash up?” Grace made a simple pantomime of rubbing her hands together, then pointed toward the powder room.
He lifted his arm to move the hair out of his eyes, and that’s when she observed the scar on his left wrist. The shape of an open mouth, like someone had bitten him.
The boy noticed Grace staring at the old wound and covered it with his hand.
She opened the door to the bathroom and then went into the kitchen to call the police.
CHAPTER 3
THE POLICEMAN ON THE OTHER END OF THE LINE PRESSED Grace for more details.
“Can we have a physical description? We’ll need to look into if the child’s been reported missing.”
“He’s maybe four foot three … and he’s quite skinny with dark eyes and straight black hair. Asian. He’s wearing an Incredible Hulk T-shirt and tennis shoes … if anyone’s reported a boy missing who’s wearing that …”
“You’ll have to bring him down to the precinct,” the officer instructed, his voice was flat and detached.
“I’d like to feed him before I bring him to you. I don’t know when he last ate, and I’d hate to him to go so long without a meal.”
“Fine. But bring him in as soon as you can.”
* * *
Tom rubbed her back as they waited for him to emerge from the washroom. “I bet his mother is worried sick.”
But something struck Grace as not being quite right. The scar on the boy’s wrist was still troubling her.
“He’s so little, Tom. He looks the same age as Molly—can you imagine her all alone out there like that?”
“No, I can’t.”
After a few minutes, the door unlocked, and the boy came out. The smudges on his face erased, his hair pushed out of his eyes.
“Are you hungry?” Grace tapped her belly.
He nodded and followed her toward the kitchen.
* * *
* * *
She made him scrambled eggs and a cup of warm black tea. It was something her own mother would have made her back in Ireland when she wasn’t feeling well or needed something mild to fill her stomach.
“This might be easier.” She reached into the drawer, replacing the fork she’d given him with a spoon. He took it and began shoveling the eggs into his mouth.
Grace glanced at her watch. Katie would be home from her friend’s house any minute now, and then she could leave the girls alone and go with Tom to the police station.
She was just putting the dishes away when Katie walked through the side door and went straight to the fridge, grabbing a Tupperware of cantaloupe from the shelf. Only when Katie turned around did she see the boy sitting at the table. “Who’s that, Mom?” she asked, raising a single downy eyebrow.
“A little boy …”
“I get that, but …”
“I found him alone this morning.…” She tried to find the right words to explain the situation. It seemed incredible to Grace that she could discover what looked to be a homeless child on the streets of Bellegrove. “Katie, we don’t know all the facts yet, but I think he’s lost.”
