The Lyre and the Lambs

By Sydney Avey

"Ordinary people face extraordinary circumstances that are overcome by perseverance and grace. Wonderful places in Basque, Spain and the Greater Bay Area serve as backdrops." - The Rt. Rev. Douglas B. Weiss

A feast of family can be a plate load of problems!

It's the Sixties. Modernity and tradition clash as two newlywed couples set up house together. Dee and her daughter Valerie move with their husbands into a modern glass house Valerie built in a proudly rural Los Altos, California, neighborhood.

When their young relatives start showing up and moving in, the neighbors get suspicious. Then a body is found in the backyard and the life they are trying to build comes undone.

Father Mike is back to guide Dee through a difficult time with humor and grace, even as his own life is unraveling. Now he's going to have to take some of his own advice about love.

The sequel to The Sheep Walker s Daughter, The Lyre and the Lambs explores the passions that draw people together and the faith it takes overcome trauma.

"I thoroughly enjoyed the flow of family values and their unwavering trust in each other. A definite plus was the quiet voice of spiritual faith and persuasion...always pulling me to a “feel good” place." Diana, Goodreads

"Another beautifully written story that is compassionately told. It was a joy to read, well written and a story I will not forget. I highly recommend this book." Karen, Goodreads

Enjoy the beauty of a story by Sydney Avey
The Sheep Walker's Daughter
The Lyre and the Lambs
The Trials of Nellie Belle

Sydney Avey's sequel to The Sheepwalker's Daughter masterfully walks the reader through the winding path of relationships, faith, and discovery. Set in the sixties, tradition clashes with modernity in one neighborhood. Karen, Goodreads

The Lyre and the Lambs is an enjoyable read for pleasure and for an insightful look at how we sometimes judge differences. Karen, Goodreads

Ordinary people face extraordinary circumstances that are overcome by perseverance and grace. Wonderful places in Basque, Spain and the Greater Bay Area serve as backdrops. - The Rt. Rev. Douglas B. Weiss

Loved the different generations and how they interacted with each other. Such an easy read with a wonderful spiritual message. Jeanie, Goodreads

The Lyre and the Lambs, a sequel to The Sheep Walker's Daughter, grabbed me from the first page.... As with The Sheep Walker's Daughter, Ms. Avey shows that we are all works in progress no matter what our age. Lisa, Goodreads

I thoroughly enjoyed the flow of family values and their unwavering trust in each other. A definite plus was the quiet voice of spiritual faith and persuasion...always pulling me to a feel good place. Diana, Goodreads

Another beautifully written story that is compassionately told. It was a joy to read, well written and a story I will not forget. I highly recommend this book. Karen, Goodreads

The pace was fast enough to engage, the descriptions were believable. I loved the characters, with Father Mike at the top again. Mary, Goodreads

• Language: English
• Publisher: Independent Publishers Group
• Release date: Dec 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781611532661

Sydney Avey

Sydney Avey writes about ordinary people who muster faith and courage to step over uncertainty and continue the journey. Her novels invite compassion for the stumbles of the past and offer hope for the future, if only a glimmer. Sydney Avey is the author of The Sheep Walker’s Daughter,The Lyre and the Lambs and The Trials of Nellie Belle, in which she tells the story of the great grandmother she never knew. Reputed to be the first female court reporter in the Pacific Northwest, she left a legacy of short stories about life in the West during the progressive era, where justice was swift and common sense overruled. Avey’s poetry, short stories and articles have appeared in Foliate Oak, Forge, American Athenaeum, Unstrung, Blue Guitar Magazine, Ruminate and MTL Magazine. She has a degree in English from the University of California, Berkeley and has studied at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival as well as many other conferences and seminars. Fans describe her writing as having ”an artist’s gift for using strong visual language, and a counselor’s gift for describing the conditions of her characters’ hearts,” with an “impeccable grasp of structure, pacing and character development” that “paint(s) a lovely word picture.” Avey has an artist’s gift for using strong visual language, and a counselor’s gift for describing the conditions of her characters’ hearts. – Jan, goodreads I found Avey’s descriptions delightful and not contrived – clear, real, and vivid – Susan, Goodreads Sydney Avey’s impeccable grasp of structure, pacing and character development is what separates The Sheep Walker’s Daughter from the average debut novel. – Calder Lowe, Goodreads The 60's were a time of change in America . Sydney Avery is able to capture that change and spill it out onto the pages of her novel. – Karen, Goodreads It left me satisfied with a good wrap up. I hope to see more work from Sydney Avey – Heather, Goodreads I thoroughly enjoy this author’s use of colorful and descriptive language.- Shari, Goodreads I found myself rereading passages just to hear the way the words blended together to paint a wonderful word picture. Sydney Avey has a real gift for creating such wonderful imagery with her words. Avey is gifted in her ability to take many plot lines and weave them together into a wonderful story. – Shari, Goodreads Series - It was a fascinating book and I was sorry to finish it. However the story continues into the 1960's in The Lyre And The Lambs - so pick up both books, and settle down for a nostalgic read! – Julia, Goodreads I highly recommend these novels.- The Rt. Rev. Douglas B. Weiss

Book preview

Lambs

Dedication

To the men in my family, Robert, Joel, and Devin, and to my grandson Tristan, with thanks to all for your wisdom and humor.

I will incline my ear to a proverb;

I will solve my riddle to the music of the lyre.

Psalm 49:4 (ESV)

Acknowledgements

Acknowledgements

I am blessed to have family and friends who support me by reading early manuscripts with a critical eye and consulting in areas of their expertise to make sure the telling details are accurate. Thank you to April Trabucco, Virginia Gustafson, Etty Garber, Cheryl von Drehle and Father Doug Weiss for the notes you gave me on story development. Special thanks my consultants: Father Doug Weiss educated me about Anglican politics; Reverend James von Drehle shared his experiences as a chaplain in a psychiatric hospital; Joel Avey served as my weapons consultant; and Jeff Trabucco consulted on the technical and marketing aspects of the fictional product my characters invented in a garage and turned into a manufacturing operation at an exciting time in history when enterprise was part of the American Dream. I also want to thank my community of Groveland, California, that is so hospitable to writers, and all the readers who have encouraged me to write this sequel to The Sheep Walker’s Daughter. Finally, thanks to first edition publisher Lynellen Perry at HopeSprings Books, who worked to promote realistic Christian fiction, and to the second edition publishers at Torchflame Books who champion meaningful books.

Part I—Kindred Hearts

PART I

Kindred Hearts

A Sudden Passing

A Sudden Passing

Fall 1963

On the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death, my friend Laura and I discovered her husband Fred hanging from a Western Sycamore over the creek that runs behind our houses. If Laura had registered Goldie’s yips coming through the back porch screen, she would have known something was wrong. Fred always took Goldie with him on his early morning walks. Not today.

After showering and dressing, Laura had returned to the bedroom to make up the bed and found Fred’s note tucked under her pillow. Her desperate phone call brought me screeching through red lights just after dawn to reach my old neighborhood where I found her weeping and shaking at her front door.

Since I had returned to Los Altos a year ago, Laura and I had met for lunch a few times, sometimes at restaurants, sometimes at my apartment, but this was the first time I had been past her front door. I followed her through the house out to the patio. We walked along the deer trail until we spotted Fred’s body hanging from a low branch, toes trailing in the bubbling creek water.

R

I worry a hard knot in the muscle of my arm while I tell my story to the police. My arm has been sore ever since I gripped Laura’s shoulder with enough force to spin her around and propel her back to the house. I had left her sitting in her easy chair, face in hands, rocking and sobbing while I went to make phone calls, first to the mortuary, then to the police.

Now, investigators down at the creek are cutting a section of thick sisal away from the tree branch to release it from its gruesome weight. The gurney squeaks and groans as paramedics push it up the grassy hill leading back from Permanente Creek. Its wheels thud against exposed tree roots that snake near the surface of the over-watered lawn. I lock eyes with the police officer who blocks my view of the corpse. At the same time, I try to catch what Laura is telling the detective. Pretty Laura, dressed for Saturday morning errands in a flower-print sheath, French twist pinned in place as effortlessly as the ease with which she has lived her life. So it appears, but it’s an illusion.

R

When my mother died, I had the mortician’s phone number written on a list by the telephone. Involving the police, however, is a new step in this sad process. My mother died in her sleep, in the house we shared up the street, a bungalow that burned down ten years ago. The difference is, her death was anticipated. Leora gave out. Fred gave up.

Even now, the image of Fred’s body, head hanging, shoulders slumped, pant legs rolled up to his calves to bare the shocking whiteness of his legs and feet, glues itself in my brain. Why did Fred take off his shoes before he stepped up on a stool brought down from the garage, stuck his head through a looped rope knotted to a tree branch, and kicked the stool away? His shoes lined up under the tree, socks neatly folded inside, stick in my memory like a perfectly exposed photograph gum-cornered into a picture album.

Blessedly, Fred chose to face the creek bank opposite the house when he swung his 210-pound frame out over the water. Laura was spared having to look into the purple bloat that was once a pleasingly boyish face.

It was I who followed the police down to the creek bank and identified the body. Now Laura stands in the backyard, one hand splayed across her chest as if she is trying to hold her heart in place, the other hand rubbing her left temple.

Fred wasn’t doing well. He was very depressed. IBM was talking to him about taking an early retirement, and he seemed to be adjusting to the idea. He’s always fought so hard to, to...

The two officers close ranks to form a tight conversational circle as the paramedics wheel Fred’s body up the path around the side of the house. The ambulance, motor running and lights flashing, has attracted the attention of the neighbors. Closing his notebook, the detective asks to see the note Fred left. Laura pulls it from her pocket and offers it up. The detective reads the note and passes it to the officer.

Alright then, that will do it I think. The officer refolds the note and hands it back to Laura.

Ma’am, we are sorry for your loss. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions, but I don’t think that’s likely. Is there anything we can do for you before we go?

The detective shifts his body slightly to shield Laura from the eyes of the crowd drifting closer to get a better view. The sun catches the gold of his wedding ring and I say a silent prayer of thanks for a man who understands that Laura’s adrenalin is about to run out. I put my arm around her shoulder and lead her back into the house.

R

If I’ve learned one thing, it’s not to let a group of neighbors congregate for too long. They will make up their own stories to explain what they think they are seeing.

Detective...I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.

Ramos, Manuel Ramos.

Detective Ramos, would you walk out front with me while I talk to the neighbors?

The detective leads the way. He raises his hand as he joins the main circle of concerned citizens gathered around Gunther, the self-appointed neighborhood spokesperson. Young Lukas, who has been bicycling in circles in front of the house, pulls up alongside his father.

Go get your mother, Gunther tells the boy. An old tug in my gut draws the air from my lungs. Fat angry flies buzz in my head. I wave a hand in front of my face to chase away the invisible pests. This gesture must look strange, so I pull my hand to my brow as if I were shielding my eyes from the sun. The detective takes charge.

Folks, I know you are concerned about what has happened here, but please clear the street so the ambulance can move out.

There is really no place for them to go. Los Altos doesn’t believe in sidewalks. The crowd moves onto Laura’s asphalt driveway. As the ambulance rolls slowly up the street, all eyes are on me now. I take a deep breath and pull my hands together in prayer position. Will my shoulder-to-shoulder stance with Detective Ramos lend me credibility with my former neighbors?

When I lost my bungalow to a fire caused by bad wiring, I deeded the lot to my daughter, Valerie. She cleared it then let the weeds grow and did nothing to abate rumors that she planned to build some sort of group home. That was not her plan, but as her grand design takes shape, they aren’t any happier.

Hello Gunther. I compose my face into a sad smile, take a step backward, and extend my gaze out over the crowd. There has been an unfortunate accident. This morning, Laura found Fred’s body down by the creek. We really don’t know what happened. All we know is that he died early this morning.

Gunther’s eyeballs look like they are going to pop out of his head. He erupts in a righteous torrent of words.

Accident? That was no accident! I saw the paramedics cut Fred down from a tree! He was hanging from that tree over the creek!

Lukas has not budged from his father’s side. His mouth drops open.

Detective Ramos steps up in front of Gunther and aims his forefinger at the man’s heaving chest.

Calm yourself, sir. Gunther shuts up and Ramos takes over. Folks, we have a grieving widow inside. From what I’ve seen here today, this will most likely be ruled a sudden death. I suggest you be respectful and all go home now.

This is not what I would have said, but thankfully the crowd begins to disperse. Only Laura’s next-door neighbor Ivy hangs back.

Dolores, I know that Laura has a good friend in you, and that you will stay with her as long as she needs you. Her kindness works like cool water on the indignant words still burning in my heart. Please know that I’m here too, and I’d like to help in any way I can.

Grateful words tumble from my mouth. Would you please call Father Mike?

R

Back inside, I make two cups of chamomile tea and sit down with Laura at the kitchen table. She slumps in a chair, staring at Fred’s note. Outside, Goldie’s whine takes on a howling quality. I unlatch the screen door and walk out on the lawn to free the dog. Goldie bounds through the open door ahead of me and plants her chin on Laura’s knees. Laura bends over and buries her face in her dog’s soft fur.

Once Goldie is settled at Laura’s feet, Laura slips Fred’s note across the table to me. I unfold the lined piece of memo paper and read Fred’s last words, his simple goodbye:

Laura, I’m sorry to hurt you this way. I’ve tried so hard, but every day is torture and I can’t do it anymore. I love you. That’s all.

I am so acquainted with this kind of grief that I don’t ask questions. Not that anyone in my family ever committed suicide, but my parents kept secrets and left their daughters to sort it all out. Fred cloaked his family life in mystery, leaving people to wonder why no one except his three poker buddies were ever invited inside the house, why warm-hearted Laura remained childless, what attracted her to such a strange man.

Laura and I sit in silence at her kitchen table. She stares down at Goldie and slowly shakes her head.

You know, Dee, I almost feel relief. Raising her face to mine, she looks at me through swollen, tear-filled eyes. Isn’t that awful?

It’s not awful, Laura, it’s honest. There is no way on God’s green Earth that any of this is your fault. You did everything possible to make a good life for Fred.

I tried so hard. What am I going to do now? Fred and I were married for twenty-three years.

I put my hand on top of hers and stroke her hand. My fingers run lightly across her wedding rings as if they are fresh wounds I wish I could heal.

At a quiet tap on the front screen door, Goldie raises an ear, but the normally vigilant dog doesn’t seem alarmed. Laura pulls her hand back from mine, touches her hair, and twists around in her seat. A familiar figure pushes through the screen. Laura rises from the table, barely taking a step before she finds herself enfolded in the burly arms of Father Mike.

It’s as if the sun that rose this morning now lights and warms Laura’s kitchen. Father Mike has had that effect on me since the day he showed up on my own front porch, right after Leora died. He helped me make sense of the way Leora lived and sort out the mystery of why she hid from me the existence of my twin sister Alaya. Why then does my stomach do an unpleasant flip-flop as I watch him embrace Laura, who needs his comfort so much? Father Mike shoots me a sympathetic look and then ushers Laura into the living room where the two of them sit close together and talk in hushed tones. It is pretty clear to me that this is not the first time he has been in her house.

Pockets Full of Change

Pockets Full of Change

Iwalk on unsteady legs into the post office to pick up my mail. Laura tried to talk me out of staying with her for a few days, but I know a thing or two about being in a house alone with the specter of the departed. Although I pried open the window to allow my mother’s soul to fly home, her presence was still evident in the house for days, in a whiff of the Estee Lauder powder she used to wear, or the snatches of Tangerine she used to hum. My skin would detect a change in the air when I walked out to the screened porch where she used to feed her dogs. Once, I swear, I saw her bending over to dump a can of Friskies into the dog dish, but of course there was no dog dish. The dogs had been gone for years. And then, she was gone too. And Laura is right. It was a relief. I want to be with Laura now, to help her let Fred go.

Having the mail delivered to a post office box seemed like the best choice when Roger and I moved back to Los Altos. We still can’t figure out where we want to live, so for now home is a rental apartment on Los Altos Avenue.

Good morning Mrs. Russell! I just put another letter from Spain in your box. Frank Lee, the postmaster, does not know the meaning of the word discretion.

Were I a secret member of a seditious cell group plotting to fund Basque separatists, it would quickly become the topic of conversation at every Bridge game in town. Fortunately, not many people are aware of the political unrest in that part of the world.

Had a pretty stamp on it too, Dee. I haven’t seen one like that before.

I’ll cut it out and save it for you, Frank.

Frank is a stamp collector. The only thing I collect is past lives, although they are converging rapidly. The letter from Spain will be from Alaya, who still lives in Navarre--Navarra I call it when I visit her.

I met my twin sister for the first time in Bakersfield when we were forty-seven years old. My daughter Valerie was the one who finagled a way to introduce her mother to her aunt. It was Valerie who figured out Leora’s deception when she met Alaya by chance in a publishing house in Barcelona. Of course, I know now there is no such thing as chance. Father Mike taught me about providence. When I was finally ready to face the truth, God provided the answers.

Alaya and I have spent the last eight years getting to know each other. She comes here every two years, usually with her husband Elazar or one of their twin boys. The years she doesn’t come, I go visit her at Moragarena, our family home.

I never knew I had a family home until the day I met Alaya. The short story is that my mother and father split up when we were babies. Alonso took Alaya back to his homeland and Leora went on the road with me. My mother never bothered to tell me about this episode in her life, or about her big Greek family in New York, so it came as quite a shock to discover I had people all over the place. It has taken years to learn how to forgive, but now that I have what I thought I always wanted, I’m discovering that a feast of family can be a plate of problems.

I pull two par avion letters out of my box. Before heading back to the apartment, I walk into the park next to the post office and sit on a bench to read Alaya’s letter. The other letter from Israel I set aside. It has Roger’s son David’s return address, written in the Palmer perfect penmanship David picked up so quickly the few times we brought him over for a visit. Alaya’s handwriting is perfect too, where mine is a scrawl. We are mirror twins. I’m the left-handed one.

The breeze exhilarates, passing scents of Bay leaves under my nose, washing smells of rosemary and mint through my hair. Cocooned in my car coat, I read through the tissue-thin pages of Alaya’s letter again and again. It’s not good news. It gives me a lot to think about on the short drive to the apartment.

R

Roger is on the phone when I burst through the door. He cups his hand over the receiver mouthpiece. I just heard. I’m on the phone with Valerie.

I wind my finger in a circle to let him know to wrap it up. I want his full attention right now.

Okay Valerie, your mother just got home. She’ll fill me in on the rest of the details. … No, I don’t want to put her on the phone right now but I will have her give you a call later today. … Yes, I promise.

I plop down on the sofa like an overstuffed bag of groceries about to split and look up into the face of this man I married only six months ago.

R

Roger and I had conducted the classic office romance after my mother died. Well, it was classic in the sense that we had been secretive about our relationship. The day I quit my job there was no longer a need for secrecy, but there remained a need for discretion. Roger always respected my status as a middle-aged widow living in a conventional suburban neighborhood.

Then, I adopted a more unconventional lifestyle, living in a one-bedroom rental and running an art gallery in Carmel-by-the-Sea, and Roger took a transfer to the East Coast. We agreed that our commitment to each other was exclusive but we were unwilling to set parameters beyond that. To say that our bi-coastal arrangement put a strain on what we were both hoping would be a happily-ever-after outcome would understate the situation.

To everyone’s surprise, we hung in there for seven years, nurturing our romance with long weekends in San Francisco and New York City. Every year Roger would declare this was his last year with General Electric and every year they would promote him, pay him more, pile on the incentives and ply him with that one last project that would secure his position in the financial world’s hall of fame. Money and perks weren’t terribly big motivators for this talented man, but the chance to make a lasting impact on how business gets done tempted him every time.

Time slipped away. I was busy running the gallery and negotiating showings of my found-object collages. Invitations to teach, to speak, to jury art shows and to mentor young artists were pouring in. I was on the road so much it made me laugh when I realized, I’ve become my mother. But this was no laughing matter.

I took a quick trip back to Los Altos to explore this revelation with Father Mike. Leora sacrificed all her relationships for her work as an itinerant court reporter. She loved the life. When her health failed and she could no longer travel on the court circuit, she just shriveled up and died. I loved my life in Carmel, but was I willing to put Roger off forever?

Seek God’s will, Father Mike told me. He knows your heart better than you do.

Roger and I pondered all this in our weekly long distance telephone calls.

Dee, he would say, let the gallery go. You don’t own it. You don’t need the money. Spend your time doing what you like to do.

Well that’s the problem, I would say, I like everything I’m doing. I like business and I like art. And now I find I like sharing what I know with other people. I just wish I had more time to do everything I like.

Then we would spend the rest of our dimes talking about how much we missed each other and how much we wanted to be together, but we never made any real plans.

Father Mike cautioned me about putting my relationship with Roger on hold for too long. We experience God when we show our love to other people, he told me; an absolute revelation to a girl raised by a mother who pushed everyone away. A wonder, also, that such advice came from a man wedded only to his calling.

It was Leora who actually brought this dear Anglican Scotsman into my life, post-mortem. In her last years, she succumbed to a neighbor’s prodding and began attending Saint Matthew’s, an activity she hid from me for reasons I cannot fathom. Force of habit, I guess. Father Mike showed up to help me through a grief I didn’t know I had, and to help me connect with my family. I would have been content to file those faith lessons away for reference when I felt I needed them, but that’s the thing about God. He has this way of upsetting the file cabinet and resetting the agenda. I