Heartland (True North #7) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,33

brown box in the center of her hand. “It’s adorable. And it smells like chocolate.”

“Put your seatbelt back on?” I prompt. “And then open it. Maybe it’s a little early in the day for treats, but…”

“It's never too early in the day for treats!” she says, clipping her seatbelt and then pulling the ribbon on the little box. “Oh, wow. These are adorable. Great presentation.”

“Show me.” She holds the box closer to me, and I take a quick look. There are four little chocolates inside, anchored in individual paper cups. “Nice. I spotted them in the bookstore. It’s toffee from a candymaker in Bennington. It’s a treat, but it’s also market research.”

“Thank you,” she says softly. Then she picks up a chocolate and studies it before taking a bite. “Umm! Wow.” She lets out a little moan. “These are magic.”

“Better than Rolos?” I ask.

“They’re so good. You have to have one.”

“But they’re for you.” I definitely have a thing for feeding her. I saw those little boxes on the counter and knew they were something she’d never buy for herself.

“Market research, Dyl. Here.”

She reaches up and slips one into my mouth. Soft fingertips graze my lower lip. The chocolate begins to melt on my tongue, and then I bite down. The toffee breaks immediately, with a nice crunch.

“Wow.”

“Right?” She closes the box. “I’m saving the other two for when we need a lift. Can I have a sip of your coffee?”

“Of course you can. You can have the whole thing, Chass. My coffee is your coffee.” And my stomach can’t handle it right now. Even the chocolate was a risk.

I step on the accelerator and push on toward the cemetery in Colebury, where my father is buried. Thanks to Chastity, I can almost make it on time.

That will have to be good enough.

I dread this day all year long, and yet it feels even worse than I even expected. Standing here in the carefully snipped grass, gazing down at the new chrysanthemums decorating dad’s grave? It never gets easier. Six times we’ve done this. No—seven if we’re counting the funeral.

My memories of the funeral are hazy. I remember the crowds of people standing around and all the hugs I was made to withstand. An itchy tag in the collar of my shirt. And the feeling that nothing would ever be right again.

The worst part about this ritual is my mom’s tears. I can’t handle them.

I mean—I do it anyway, standing here with a locked jaw as Father Peters says nice things about Dad. But I can’t concentrate, because the sound of her crying is like a knife through my chest.

It’s my fault, too. My father died alone, because I wasn’t home where I was supposed to be.

“Dylan,” Chastity whispers. A soft hand brushes mine.

I snap out of my daze to the realization that I’m supposed to play the fiddle now. It’s tucked under my arm, forgotten.

Quickly, I lift it to my shoulder. Everyone is looking my way. There’s Griffin, standing with Audrey and their baby boy. May and her boyfriend, Alec. Isaac and Leah are here. Even my twin sister made the trek home for the weekend from Harkness College.

They’re all expecting “St. Anne’s Reel,” the fiddle tune my father taught me when I was nine. It was our song. He worked out a harmony part, and we played it so many times that it’s part of my soul now.

It took me a year to touch my violin after he died. And I still can’t play our favorite songs.

Playing “St. Anne’s Reel” right now would be like slicing open my chest with Griffin’s pruning knife and carving out my heart in front of the whole family. So even though my bow lands on the A string, I start playing something else—a slower fiddle song called Planxty Irwin. It’s a perfectly good song, but not one that I ever played with Dad.

I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I just play the tune and let them wonder. They can think whatever they want to think. Every time I touch the fiddle I bleed a little inside.

Today the wound is a gusher. I grip the bow a little too tightly and play on, wishing I was somewhere else.

Thirteen

Chastity

There’s nothing like a Shipley bonfire. Beforehand, Griffin stacks the wood in a giant metal trough that was once used for watering cattle. It makes a bright, oblong fire, with plenty of access for marshmallow roasting.

He lights it at sunset, when the yellow flames will