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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 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 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
