The singing trees, p.40
The Singing Trees, page 40
Annalisa felt a tear roll down her cheek. She and Celia leaned in, saying, “I love you too,” and they hugged Emma as best they could, her frail body nearly disappearing in their hands.
Then there was someone at the door, and they all turned. Annalisa said, “Give us just a—”
Thomas Barnes, seventy years old but still clinging to his younger years, stepped into the room, his hat and coat in his arm. Annalisa nearly lost her balance. He smiled at his wife and daughter and then looked past them to the woman on the bed.
“Emma?” He approached and took his wife and daughter into a hug. Then they stepped aside so that he could get to his sister in time.
As he took her frail hand, Annalisa and Celia held each other and wept. This was her hero, Annalisa thought, the man she loved more than any other. And this was one of the many thousands of reasons why she loved him.
“Can you hear me?” he asked Emma, whose eyes had glazed over.
For a second, Annalisa worried that she’d passed before speaking with him.
Turning back to Annalisa, Thomas asked, “Can she hear me?”
“I can hear you,” Emma uttered, filling Annalisa’s heart with joy. He’d driven down from Bar Harbor just in time.
Thomas turned back to his sister with relief. “There you are.” He leaned down to kiss Emma’s cheek, and she let loose a smile that said it all.
“You took your sweet time, didn’t you?” Emma said as the two stared happily into each other’s eyes.
Then Annalisa watched Thomas’s shoulders bounce as he succumbed to a cry like she’d never seen, and the two siblings fell into a hug that lasted a long time. Holding her daughter, Annalisa felt so much love in that room that she thought the snow outside might melt and give way to an early spring, all in a few seconds. People loving people. Was there anything better?
Unraveling his arms from his sister, Thomas stayed very close to her, holding one of her hands with both of his. The two whispered back and forth, and at one point Emma even laughed, albeit weakly. Then she closed her eyes. No heart monitor was needed to know that she was departing.
Annalisa came up behind her husband and put her hand on his back, red paint still on her fingers from painting that morning. Never had she been prouder of him, and perhaps never had she loved him more. Celia approached from the other side of the bed, leaned down, and kissed Emma’s forehead, and then the three of them met eyes, now knowing for sure that theirs was a bond of love that nothing could break.
What Annalisa would never forget—what no one in that room would ever forget for the rest of their lives—was that seconds later, as they felt the life of Emma Barnes rise up out of her body, the wind chimes began to sing.
She turned and looked up. Sure enough, as if they still hung among Emma’s choir of singing trees, without a draft, without a breeze, the chimes she’d made of Walt’s old timepieces had gently come alive. Annalisa had always been a religious woman, but she’d never witnessed proof of God until that moment.
They didn’t sing a loud song, and one had to listen closely to hear them, but the chimes were certainly moving and pinging against one another, evoking a wondrous melody. And Annalisa knew, deep within, that the unseen breeze stirring in that room was Emma’s spirit singing a song of happiness, her unseen spirit singing a song of love.
Acknowledgments
John Burroughs wrote “leap and the net will appear.” Never has this quote been more applicable in my life than with this novel. I leaped, and the net that appeared was woven tightly of a team of talented and brilliant people who helped me realize the story I was after. I am eternally grateful to all of you.
Chris Werner at Lake Union Publishing has a mesmerizing understanding of story, and I don’t know how I pulled off writing my novels before we started working together. Thank you for taking the wheel and setting me on the right course in the early drafts.
Thanks to the entire Lake Union team. A writer couldn’t be luckier than to be under your roof, and I’ve felt your amazing support from day one.
My developmental editor, Tiffany Yates Martin, is a dream come true. There were moments when I thought this project was slipping through my fingers, and she jumped with me into the trenches offering abundant and brilliant guidance. From helping me find the exact purpose and direction of the story to your incredibly wise and subtle suggestions that served like last-minute brushstrokes to bring a painting to life, this book is far better because of you. Thank you, my friend.
My agent, Andrea Hurst, is incredibly multitalented. Aside from my wife, she’s the only one who can talk me off the ledge. In addition to her exceptional work as an agent, she is nothing short of a literary wizard wielding a wand of astounding editing prowess. Andrea is a master at finding the cracks in the foundation of a story, and even better, she knows how to fix them. Thank you, Andrea, for being you and for telling me the one thing that got me here, to the end of this book. You said, “Boo, there’s a reason you couldn’t let this story go; you’re meant to write it.” Those words never left my side during this project. While I’m at it, there was something else you told me. “Replace the word writing with painting. That’s how you can feel her passion.” Bull’s-eye.
Patty Bonner, I hope I made you proud. Much of this was your journey, and it was exhilarating to live it for a while. You are unequivocally the best mother-in-law in the multiverse.
Liz Thurston, with your wind chimes you gave me the soul of this story. We’ve never even met, and I feel a deep bond. The world needs more people like you.
To my beta readers, I couldn’t do it without you, truly. Thanks for always making me look more talented than I really am. Big hugs.
Jenan McClain, how dare I even start this novel without talking to you. Enormous thanks for helping me understand the painter’s journey. Technique is only the beginning, isn’t it? The true magic of art lies in the artist tapping into the depths of their soul, a fact you prove time and time again with your pieces.
Jean Johnson, my dear friend for so long, thanks for offering up your love of fashion to help me dress Annalisa. I hope you enjoy what we did together.
Three Facebook groups were tremendously helpful during my research. I suppose I should apologize first, as I’m sure I got a million things wrong, but hopefully I got a few things right. Thank you, “Portland Maine Encyclopedia of the 1960s, 70s, & 80s,” “Growing Up in Bar Harbor,” and “VietnamWarHistoryOrg.” It was wonderful getting to know you and your worlds, and I hope you don’t mind if I continue to linger.
Though I wouldn’t dare pretend to understand being a soldier, my research led me deep into the Vietnam War, and I’ve come away with even greater respect for you warriors who fought and continue to fight for our country. Thank you to the vets who spent time answering my questions, including Dr. Chris Christenson, Steve Kearns, Ross Tarver, and Mario Ortega. Y’all are inspirations to me. Thanks to all the heroes of the Vietnam War; I am in awe of your courage.
You, my readers, are who make this all worth it. I am so appreciative for your continued support and steady flow of encouragement. I vow to keep entertaining you until they dig my grave. And maybe even afterward, if I can manage it.
My wife, Mikella Walker, you are the reason I get out of bed in the morning. You are my everything. Thank you for your brilliance, your kind heart, your support, your love, and your editing and writing skills. When I look at the cover of my books, I always see your name next to mine, especially when I think of the intimate scenes that I first mangled and you had to rescue. I love you, Mikey.
And to our son, Riggs, thank you for constantly reminding me what matters and giving me endless writing fuel. If we’re being honest, you’re the reason I get out of bed in the morning . . . because you’re jumping on my head. Don’t ever stop.
About the Author
Photo © 2018 Brandi Morris
Boo Walker is the author of An Unfinished Story and the Red Mountain Chronicles. Boo initially tapped his creative muse as a songwriter and banjoist in Nashville before working his way west to Washington State, where he bought a gentleman’s farm on the Yakima River. It was there among the grapevines that he fell in love with telling stories. A wanderer at heart, Boo currently lives in Valencia, Spain, with his wife and son. He also writes thrillers under the pen name Benjamin Blackmore. You can find him at www.boowalker.com and www.benjaminblackmore.com.
Walker, Boo, The Singing Trees
