All That Shines and Whispers

by Jennifer Craven

  Sensing her presence, the man looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun with a calloused hand. Lara waved.

  “Hello, darling,” the man called back. “Heading into the fields again?”

  “We’re going to have our music lesson outside today,” she replied with a warm smile.

  “Okay, be safe.”

  “Always.” She blew him a kiss and he pretended to catch it in midair, then gave her a wink.

  He returned to his work. From where she stood, Lara saw the lean outline of muscle in her husband’s arms. She clasped the case tighter, feeling a pinch where the handle pressed against the gold band on her finger. She looked down at the wedding ring, engraved with a swirling pattern of interlacing vines. It fit so perfectly, as though it had always been there.

  At times she still couldn’t believe this life was hers.

  As she walked up the narrow footpath toward the hills, she glanced over her shoulder and took in the sight. The house was far from glamorous, what with the clapboard siding and chipping cornflower paint, nothing like the sprawling mansion of her youth in Austria. An old farmhouse, it sat on a large plot of land just outside the city limits. Delightfully quaint with the charm of the previous century, it wasn’t what she envisioned—as a child—her future home to be.

  But it was hers—hers and Steffan’s. And somehow that made it exactly what she always wanted.

  They had met by chance. Nearly six months after her father had rescued Erich, Lara was accompanying Marlene to order a new bed for Erich—a small piece that would fit next to Lara’s own, as the boy was quickly outgrowing the small crib. They browsed the store, debating which style would match best. But instead of focusing on choosing a design, Lara was distracted by the tall, young man loading dark, cherry boards into the back of a pickup truck. It was his rugged good looks and strong arms to which she was instantly drawn. Later, Lara learned he was an apprentice to one of the most skilled carpenters in Zürich, a man who crafted custom furniture for many of the prominent families in the city.

  Among the headboards and boxsprings, they’d made eye contact and said hello, both flushed in the face. That first meeting turned into a request for a proper meal. And from there, the natural course of young love commenced. Steffan called on Lara at the Weiss’ home, and while Marlene met the young man with giddy excitement, Gerald displayed a more restrained air of caution.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Marlene said in private before her husband even had a chance to speak. “You think he’s beneath us because he’s just a woodworker.” Gerald stared at his wife, expressionless. Boldly, she continued. “Who are we to judge another man’s passion and talent? And how could we deny our daughter a chance at love? Real love. Don’t you think she deserves it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts, Gerald. Look at us. Who am I? I was a poor young woman with no means before I came into your life.”

  He considered her words, stubbornly. Marlene fixed her hands on her hips—she’d learned to hold her ground against his unbending nature.

  After a moment, Gerald’s eyes softened. “You’re right,” he sighed. “Thank you for always showing me the truth.”

  It was a lesson they’d both realized when their undeniable pull brought them together: Love is love, and there’s little one can do to stop it.

  From there, Marlene and Gerald gave their blessing to Lara and Steffan. The sweethearts spent hours together, discovering new places around the city. On the park benches, they sat just close enough to share one another’s heat. Steffan was respectful, never pushy. Somehow, he sensed a fragility—one he didn’t want to fracture.

  After several weeks, Lara decided to open up about Erich’s true identity.

  “He’s my son,” she revealed one night as they strolled through the streets of Zürich. She waited for his reaction.

  “The little boy I’ve seen playing in the yard at your house? I assumed he was your youngest brother.”

  “No. His name is Erich. And he’s mine.”

  Steffan thought for a moment, then grabbed Lara’s hand. He looked more deeply into her eyes than anyone ever had. “I’d love to meet him.”

  ***

  Lara watched as Erich ran ahead, through the tall grass that tickled his shins.

  “Stop when you get to the rock!” she yelled, pointing right to where the boy was galloping.

  “Okay, Mother!” He sprinted on, flapping his arms in the air. “Look at me, I’m a bird!”

  Lara chuckled as he darted back and forth, dipping each of his wings toward the ground before turning in the other direction. After a few yards, Erich reached the rock and came to a stop, panting, bent at the waist with his hands on his knees.

  Lara walked slower, allowing the small set of feet beside her to keep up. She looked down at her hand grasped tightly by five little fingers. It was the perfect day—light breeze, puffy clouds and the smell of nature all around.

  “Come along, Trudy,” she cooed. The girl with ringlets the color of cinnamon glanced at her mother and smiled. They wore matching dresses, which Lara had sewn from pale green calico. Trudy—Lara, in miniature form—had the same sharp eyes and delicate features, although her red-brown hair was Steffan’s.

  They eventually made it to their spot at the rock. Erich waited patiently, blowing dandelion fluff into the air before plucking another weed from the ground.

  Lara delivered her instructions.

  “Alright,” she said. “Have a seat, Erich. Trudy, sit next to your brother. That’s good. Okay, today we’re going to learn a new song.”

  “Yay!” Erich cheered.

  Lara flicked open the buckles on her guitar case and pulled out the beautiful instrument, light sliding along its silver strings. A cloud shifted, sending a ray of light toward them like a drop of golden sun.

  “This is a special song,” she said. “Oma taught it to me. In fact, Tante Miriam was your age when she learned it.”

  Erich smiled and clapped his hands in his lap. Trudy copied him.

  With a strum of the strings, Lara played the first chord.

  “Now, let’s see where to begin. Ah, how about we start at the very beginning. It was, after all, always a very good place to start.”

  Did you know that reader reviews are the #1 way self-published authors gain visibility? In a world with incredible competition and mysterious internet algorithms, growing a fan base is a major hurdle. Authors count on reviews by the people who buy their books.

  If you enjoyed this book, please take a few moments to write a review of it on Amazon and Goodreads.

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  I’d also love for you to follow my writing journey on Instagram @jennifercravenauthor. So many more stories coming your way.

  Thank you!

  Acknowledgements

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved musical theater. I recall seeing Phantom of the Opera on Broadway as a young girl and being swept away by the pure emotion of the music. Likewise, there were many days I bypassed homework after school to get lost in Fiddler on the Roof on VHS in my grandmother’s basement. Something about the songs…

  You might be able to trace the inspiration of this novel, and truthfully, what drew me to this story was watching the film on repeat. To this day, it remains my all-time favorite. For that, I can thank my dad, who always seemed to be humming some tune or another. Now, decades later, he sings those beloved songs with my children.

  I owe a depth of gratitude to my editor, Jill, for her brilliant eye and ability to make my words soar. That, along with her genuine interest in my work, makes writing that much more of a pleasure. My early readers and launch team are also invaluable assets, to whom I’m so grateful.

  Thank you to my family and friends for being my biggest cheerleaders—hounding me for details about my books even when I remain tight-lipped
, and then singing my praises from the rooftops. Mom, Dan, Diane, Brian, Kelli, Gram, Torie, Megan, and many more…Your support means the world to me.

  Finally, to my husband, DJ—thank you for helping me plot stories. I owe a lot of this one to you. And to my three littles, who put up with my marathon writing sessions, and share in my excitement over writing milestones, you’ll never know the depths of my love.

  Enjoy a selection of Jennifer Craven’s debut novel, A Long Way From Blair Street, available on Amazon.

  A Long Way From Blair Street

  Prologue

  In her dreams, Jeanne was always running. Running down a cracked sidewalk with the neighborhood girls, giggling about what penny candy they would choose that day. Or playing tag with her three brothers in the backyard, keeping up and matching their pace step for step. Even in nightmares—the ones where she was being chased by a wild animal, or where a faceless monster threatened to eat her up—Jeanne was running. Unrestrained and able, with wild vigor.

  Feet pounding on the pavement, arms swinging back and forth, her body propelled her forward. She’d be exhausted from the exertion. Bending at the waist and resting her hands on her knees, she’d gulp in mouthfuls of air, letting the oxygen reach her brain. Her energy nearly depleted—but never fully. Because in her dreams, she always got back up and ran some more.

  She was always running. Perhaps because she knew when she woke up, it would all be an impossible hope.

  Chapter 1

  1932

  Before the sun breached the horizon, Jeanne Gildea’s eyes were already wide open. She didn’t dream last night, which was odd. But it was easily explained: she simply hadn’t slept, anticipation keeping her awake and tossing all night. Today was a big day—the biggest—in her young life. It was the first day of school. Finally, it was her turn to join her older brother, Dick, at the big, brick elementary school a few blocks away.

  Jeanne lifted her head, leaving behind a deep impression on the pillow. She propped her small frame up on her elbows and looked around the room. Her brothers were still sleeping. Dick was the only other one who would have to be up for school, as Joseph and baby Tommy had years before it would be their turn. She didn’t envy their ability to stay home.

  Jeanne liked sharing a room with her brothers. They spent their evenings whispering to each other after they were sent to bed, quietly enough so only their little ears could hear. Jeanne sang the alphabet, and Dick corrected her when she strung together L, M, N, O and P into one letter. She’d giggle. But never too loud. They certainly didn’t want Mother or Daddy coming up to scold them. Even one-year-old Tommy knew that. The four siblings made a game of seeing who could stay up the longest, the next morning’s bragging rights awarded as the sole prize.

  Jeanne never won.

  She was too tired. The abundance of energy her body burned throughout the day meant she couldn’t fight the urge to sleep. After Mother helped her into bed each night, her tiny form would melt into the mattress, releasing the tension her underdeveloped muscles had used that day. At last, her joints came to a much-deserved rest.

  But this morning, despite a fitful night’s sleep, Jeanne felt a surge of strength. As the dark morning hours gave way to blue morning light, her thoughts turned to the day ahead. Adrenaline kicked in as she realized her first taste of independence was within reach.

  “Psssst!” she whispered in Dick’s direction, an attempt to stir him from his peaceful slumber. His eyes fluttered open and he rubbed them, groggy, until she came into view—a mass of dark hair, cut into a short bob and blunt bangs, atop a skinny stem of a body. It took Dick a moment to remember the significance of the day, and Jeanne’s eager smile was an unmistakable reminder.

  Dick returned her smile, tossing the covers off his body and coming to a seated position. “C’mon,” he said quietly. “I’ll help you up.”

  He shuffled over to where she was sitting upright in bed, taking care not to wake the other two. Mother had chosen a dress for Jeanne to wear for her first day—the best one she owned, a hand- me-down from an older girl in the neighborhood. Jeanne reached for the ruffled collar of the garment that laid over the footboard of her bed. Gliding it over her head, she twisted in place so Dick could button the three ivory clasps in the back.

  She fingered the little embroidered rosebuds on the bodice, and she felt a flutter deep in her belly. The dress made her feel special.

  From the floor, Dick grabbed Jeanne’s leg braces and slid each leg through the splints and into the tiny back shoes attached. Jeanne shimmied her legs into position, adjusting the braces on either side of her knees. With her crutches in hand, she gingerly slipped off the edge of the bed, placing both feet onto the hardwood and finding her balance.

  Her feet barely touched the ground before she turned to her brother and whispered, “Let’s go!”

  Dick raced from the room, heading toward the stairs. Jeanne faltered behind, grabbing onto furniture as she hobbled out of the room. At the top of the steps, she lowered to her bottom, sliding down the stairs one at a time, feet first until she reached ground level.

  “Wait for me,” she hissed, but Dick was already out of sight.

  Rounding the corner to the kitchen, Jeanne found Mother at the counter, buttering a piece of toast for each of them. Madeline, normal height with soft curves and short curly hair, wore an apron around her waist, a dish towel thrown over her shoulder. She placed the crispy brown bread on a small saucer next to a child’s size glass of orange juice.

  Their father, Raymond, sat at the little wooden table, newspaper in hand. He folded it as the children entered the room.

  “Good morning, Jeanne,” Madeline said with a smile. “Morning, Dick. Ready for your first day? It’s a big one for you, Jeanne.” She bent to help her daughter into a chair, pushing it close to the table.

  Jeanne nodded, her toothy grin a testament to her excitement. Raymond gave Jeanne a blank stare before returning to his paper, never uttering more than a mumble. Madeline glared at her husband, her eyes burning through the paper. Her annoyance went unnoticed by him, although he wouldn’t have cared anyway.

  “C’mon, you two,” she said, returning her attention to the children. “Eat up. I don’t want you late on the first day.”

  The children ate their toast in silence, Jeanne guzzling her juice and finishing before Dick. With too much in her mouth, a squirt of juice dribbled down her face, leaving a bright orange trail on her soft pink dress.

  “Jeanne!” Madeline scolded, hurrying to blot the stain before it set into the fabric. “Now you look like Gravel Gertie.” The phrase was a reference to the ragamuffin children in town, whose torn clothes were a clear indication of their social standing. The Gildea family didn’t have much money, but Madeline insisted her children appear put together.

  “Sorry, Mother,” Jeanne said in a quiet voice. Then, with a surge of optimism, “I can just wear my sweater over top!” Madeline chuckled under her breath. Always full of life, her daughter, regardless of what obstacles threatened to block her path. Unfortunately, a sweater wasn’t appropriate on a seventy-five-degree day in August.

  “I think I got it all,” Madeline said, giving the dress a final wipe. A large water mark settled on the front, and Jeanne could feel the cool moisture on her skin. “It’ll dry before you get to school.”

  “Don’t worry, Jeanne, I’m sure the kids will still like you,” Dick assured his little sister. Once Dick finished his breakfast, Madeline helped Jeanne off the chair and outside, down the narrow porch steps of 703 Blair Street.

  Still in the kitchen, Raymond laid a heavy hand on Dick’s shoulder. “You’re in charge of Jeanne on the way to and from school, Dick,” Raymond said, his tone firm and insistent. “Take care of her. You know she’s fragile. You must always protect your little sister.”

  It was the most his father had spoken to him in over a week. Raymond was an inward man, so the children knew that when he did speak, it warranted their full attention. Dick nodded i
n acknowledgement. He liked the sense of responsibility that Jeanne’s entering school bestowed upon him. He’d be her caretaker, of sorts. Her guardian. At least for the short walk to school. Besides the fact that he loved his sister, he felt a greater desire to make his father proud.

  So with another slight nod in Raymond’s direction, Dick grabbed his school sack and bounded out the door, catching up to Madeline and Jeanne near the sidewalk. Their mother had placed Jeanne in the small wagon, a rolled-up blanket propped behind her back for comfort. The girl’s braced legs stuck straight out in front of her and the skirt of her dress pressed flat in her lap.

  “Ready, Jeanne?” Dick asked, circling around to the front of the wagon and reaching down to grab the metal handle.

  “Yep!” She clasped her fingers around the sides of the red wagon. “Bye, Mother!” She waved enthusiastically.

  And with that, they took off toward school, eight blocks away. Dick pulled her along, chattering about what to expect, the ins and outs of being a kindergartener.

  “What if no one likes me?” Jeanne asked.

  “Of course they’ll like you,” Dick assured her. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  From a young age, Jeanne understood she was different. Her family normalized her condition as best as possible, but Jeanne was wary of how she would be treated by strangers. Even as a toddler, she’d seen the stares when the family was out in public.

  Only a few feet into their journey, Jeanne glanced over her shoulder. Mother and Daddy were back inside the small white house. She imagined Mother cleaning up the breakfast dishes and getting her little brothers ready for the day. Jeanne was about to turn around to continue her conversation with Dick when she noticed a slight movement in the window. Squinting a bit more, she saw her Daddy’s face peering through a slit in the curtains. Her protector: he was always safeguarding, always concerned about her. Knowing this made her heart happy.