Casey giggled and leaned in to plant a reassuring kiss on her grandfather’s cheek. “You’re making a total hash of this, aren’t you?”
Placing her hands on his shoulders, she squeezed them gently. “I’ll be fine, Pa. I am fine. I’m looking forward to this. Six hours on the road, I figure I’ll make Hambledown just in time for dinner.”
Lionel checked his watch and nodded thoughtfully. It was a little after 8AM.
“My flight is at three. You may actually beat me there if you head off now.”
Casey clasped her hands together with eagerness. “Right,” she declared.
Casey scanned her little courtyard as she checked off her mental list, ensuring there was nothing left she needed to do.
All at once, she stopped as she took in the tranquil space Lionel had created for her. She became wistful.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything.”
Lionel put his hands in his pockets and looked down at the ground with a bashful grin, scratching at the bricks with the side of his shoe. He was never good with receiving praise.
“This was easy, Casey.”
Casey flicked her head towards him. “You know what I mean, Pa. You gave me the kick in the arse I needed. Pulled me out of that awful hole I’d dug. If you hadn’t…”
Lionel nodded slowly. He gazed at his granddaughter. “You would never have given up, Casey. Somehow, you would have found a way. But, now it’s time to stop and take a well-earned breather.”
Casey leaned in and rested her head on her grandfather’s shoulder.
“There is one more thing I need to do,” she said.
Lionel raised his finger and turned around to a shelf behind him. He retrieved a posy of flowers from it. She inspected the bright pink and deep red rose blooms, interspersed with purple delphiniums and lilies.
“Will this do?”
Casey brought the posy to her nose and inhaled its scent.
She closed her eyes and smiled.
“They are perfect.”
___
The vast cemetery stretched out all around her as she pulled the car to a stop on the narrow roadway leading in from the outside. Scott’s black van followed a few lengths behind. As she turned the key and withdrew it from the ignition, Casey ruminated that at any other time in the last few years she would not have coped at being in a place as huge as this. She would have lost her nerve in an instant.
Stepping from the car, Casey raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she regarded Scott, who joined her on the kerb. He was dressed in his black trousers, matching shirt and jacket with the logo of The Blue Heeler Bar emblazoned on it.
Casey smiled. “Thanks for coming,” she whispered.
“I’m glad to,” Scott replied nervously. “Though we might not want to dally too long. I’m no bloody good in graveyards.”
Casey inspected her surroundings, noticing a smaller garden down a gently sloping hill, well hidden from the service road. It was connected by a long path that ran between the tightly arranged headstones.
Scott reached into his jacket and took out a map of the cemetery grounds. He handed it to Casey who had taken a piece of paper of her own out from her pocket. She compared the directions that were written on her piece of paper with the map in relation to where they stood now.
She nodded.
Lesia’s directions were unmistakable.
Reaching back into the car, Casey took hold of the small posy of flowers, checking to make sure the buds were intact. Then, locking the car, she signalled to Scott.
The garden was positioned away from the main section of the grounds across a broad expanse of lawn. It appeared separate from the cemetery—a small, independent corner that was circled by trees and containing a much smaller number of gravestones.
Many of them were quite old, Casey noted. Spotted with moss and cracks of age and wear, with little iron fences stained with rust. Other sites were marked by simple plaques.
Searching among them, Casey’s eyes came to rest upon a small, dark headstone. It was polished to a high shine. A fresh sprig of rosemary and mint leaves jutted out from a small holder in its top. She knew the moment she saw it that this was the one that she was looking for.
Reaching out, she squeezed Scott’s arm and gestured with her head. Scott remained as she stepped away from him and circled around the stone.
She needs to do this on her own, he thought.
Casey stopped in front of the grave and looked down. For a moment, Scott couldn’t tell if she had found it, but as he watched her, Casey’s eyes became glassy. Her lip trembled.
She gazed upon the inscription that was etched into the stone.
“Saskia Polina Andrutsiv. Born 8th September 1990. Died 17th March 2012. At peace with God.”
A portrait shot of Saskia imprinted in metal and housed in an oval frame sat underneath the engraving.
Casey lifted her hand to her chest as a familiar ache rippled across it. A tear trickled down her cheek.
Slowly, she stepped forward and bent down, touching her hand to the top of the headstone.
“We did it, Saskia,” she whispered softly.
She lifted the posy and set it down gently on the headstone before kneeling down and plucking a pair of weeds from the grave.
“I kept my promise.”
Weeping softly, her tears flowed freely, falling to the soil where they mingled momentarily on the top of some moss, vestiges of grief and gratitude, before seeping into the earth.
The gift was no longer a burden she refused to accept.
Casey’s eyes flicked up towards Scott, who watched on from his vantage point several feet away. She was surprised to find his own features filled with emotion. He drew a hand from his jacket pocket and wiped at his eyes furiously, hoping that she hadn’t seen him.
Through her tears, Casey smiled. She looked down. Pressing her fingers to her lips, she kissed them, then touched her hand to the headstone once more.
There was so much she wanted to say.
So much…
In the end, she could only conjure one phrase.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
___
The open road stretched out before her…four lanes of unobstructed freeway.
Lifting her hand to the rear-vision mirror, she adjusted it and inspected the view behind.
The city was already shrinking rapidly into the distance and with it the last echoes of her old life. Casey knew that when she returned, things would be different.
Adjusting her sunglasses, she took in the view on either side. Open pasture stretched out like a luxurious carpet of green, a smattering of cows grazing languidly in the meadow. Beyond that, a ribbon of Australian bushland draped the hilly horizon, fingers of tree branches reached up to touch the brilliant, cloudless blue. As Casey leaned forward and gazed through the windshield, she noted the thin contrail of a jumbo jet threading its way across the sky.
There was no anxiety in this vastness. No fear. Just pure and unadulterated freedom.
A large, green sign up ahead listed the various distances remaining for towns along her route. Hambledown was listed second from the bottom.
575 kilometres.
Reaching over, Casey thumbed the controls for the sunroof and watched as the glass panel slid back. The cool morning breeze tousled her hair and she smiled broadly.
Casey let out a victorious whoop as she shifted gears, gunned the accelerator, and felt the BMW pour on speed. The city shrank further in her rear-vision mirror.
Her heart felt full.
Her heart…
THE END
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank the following beta readers: Molly Ringle, Ashleigh Oldfield, Abbie Williams, Graham Adams, Scott (The Sasquatch) Taylor & Laura Laird.
Special thanks to Meghan Tobin-O’Drowsky and Bonnie Donaldson.
I want to single out Scott (once again) for allowing me to create a kick-arse sidekick who was a jo
y to write.
And, of course, Michelle Halket for her constant support and belief in me.
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Decades later, her eight year old granddaughter Ruby, plays the violin with the passion Virginia once possessed. Amidst poverty, domestic violence and social dysfunction, Ruby escapes her circumstance through her practice with her grandmother’s frail, guiding hand. Ruby’s zeal attracts the attention of an enigmatic music professor and with his help, she embarks on an incredible journey of musical discovery that will culminate in a rare opportunity. But with two cultural worlds colliding, her gift and her ambition will be threatened by deeply ingrained distrust, family jealousies and tragic secrets that will define her very identity.
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Dean Mayes, The Recipient
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