A Silver Willow by the Shore Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Praise for A Silver Willow by the Shore

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Annie

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Annie

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Annie

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Annie

  Nina

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Nina

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Ten Years Later

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Kelli Stuart

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  Praise for A Silver Willow by the Shore

  “Kelli Stuart is a master at the care and handling of the characters who people her novels. She writes them with sensitivity, cultivating them with dignity and seeing them through their troubles with empathy and integrity. In A Silver Willow by the Shore we meet three generations of women who we come to love, ache alongside, and learn to find hope with. In the reading, we become part of their family, wishing the very best for them as they overcome past hurts and secrets, and observing them realizing their great need for one another. For readers of The Nightingale and The Light Between Two Oceans. A beautiful, gentle, triumph of a book.”

  ~ Susie Finkbeiner,

  author of All Manner of Things

  “A deep, contemplative novel built around three generations of women asking the same timeless question: ‘Who am I?’ The answer unfolds with Stuart’s trademark attention to history and hauntingly beautiful prose.”

  ~ Jocelyn Green,

  author of Between Two Shores

  “A Silver Willow by the Shore is more than a story, it’s a tapestry. Love woven with grief. Brokenness threaded with redemption. The secrets we hold close and the choices that become a part of us. Kelli Stuart’s gifted pen breathes vivid life into both past and present—from the bitter hardship of survival in a Siberian gulag, to the shadow-world of Soviet Moscow, to a Tennessee family struggling to rediscover the meaning of hope. Layered, deeply moving, and ultimately inspiring, this is a novel that will linger in your heart far beyond the final page.”

  ~ Amanda Barratt,

  author of My Dearest Dietrich:

  A Novel of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Lost Love

  “I know her. She is me...or she was me.

  She’s the me who survived something terrible.

  “In A Silver Willow by the Shore, Kelli Stuart brings readers into the heart of humankind’s greatest resource: the strength of women. Three generations—Elizaveta, Nina, Annie—each faced with the turmoil of her time. Choices and circumstances the others could not imagine. One woman caught in the middle: could she have survived the crippling poverty of her mother’s post-war Russia? Would she be able to navigate the social pressures that come with her daughter’s modern day freedom? The contrast drawn between Cold War Russia and unfettered modern America draws a stark, unbreakable line, and we see that a simple change of time and place does nothing to dislodge the roots of pain forged in sacrifice. And yet, two resounding themes repeat: new life carries hope and new love restores strength. The subtle nod to cultural mysticism adds a fourth light, protective layer to the narrative. A Silver Willow by the Shore gives us a story steeped in secrets, stubbornly held from one generation to the next, across continents, across ideologies. Stuart draws you in while keeping you just a word away from full revelation. It’s my favorite kind of story—where shadows remain after the final page.”

  ~ Allison Pittman,

  author of The Seamstress

  “Kelli Stuart has crafted a deep and meaningful story spanning three generations—grandmother, mother, and daughter. Each of these women has her own secrets and her own narrative, but all three of their journeys are intricately connected. In A Silver Willow By The Shore, Stuart delves into the richness of Russian culture, and the harsh past of the Soviet Union. This novel weaves in the depth of love and the depth of loss in a powerful way that will leave the reader pondering long after the last page is turned.”

  ~ Catie Cordero,

  author of the Roaring 1920’s Series—Ramble & Roar and Marvel & Mayhem

  “I knew that Kelli Stuart could write. I read her first book Like a River From Its Course, and in it Kelli courageously revealed the love, fear, horror and sorrow of some of our species’ most hideous times and crimes. But when an author writes a first novel and blows us out of the water, one always wonders if she will ever produce anything that good again. Well she has! Her new book, A Silver Willow by the Shore, may even trump her last amazing work. This time we plunge into the lives of three exceptional and exceptionally brave and yet damaged women, and live with them through very real dilemmas, dangers, and damages. Yet, despite all the blows that mankind can throw at them, they survive and thrive. I began reading this book one morning and I couldn’t stop. Despite my rather busy life, I read it cover to cover in two days, and it was worth every moment spent! I wept with them laughed with each character, and in the end rejoiced. This is a job well done and a book worth celebrating.”

  ~ Douglas Gresham,

  Producer of The Chronicles of Narnia and author of Lenten Lands:

  My Childhood with Joy Davidman and C. S. Lewis

  “Stuart guides us seamlessly through three generations of women: daughter, mother and grandmother. But it’s not only a story about Annie, Nina, and Elizaveta—it’s also a story about memory, about things passed down, and about how every generation must make a way for themselves, through their own hardships. It is, in other words, a story about all of us. A wonderful read.”

  ~ Shawn Smucker,

  author of Light from Distant Stars

  A Silver Willow by the Shore

  © Kelli Stuart, 2019

  Published by Fine Print Writing Press, a division of Fine Print Writing Services, LLC, Tampa, Florida.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieved system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photoshop, recording, or otherwise- without written permission of the author or publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews.

  Distribution of digital editions of this book in any format via the Internet or any other means without the author and publisher’s written permission of by license agreement is a violation of copyright law and is subject to substantial fines and penalties. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights by purchasing only authorized editions.

  This is a work of fiction. Any representation that resembles a person living or dead is purely coincidental. The persons and events portrayed in t
his work are creations of the author.

  Cover and interior by Roseanna White Designs

  Cover images from Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-0-578-50430-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  Praise for A Silver Willow by the Shore

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Annie

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Annie

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Annie

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Annie

  Nina

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Annie

  Nina

  Nina

  Annie

  Elizaveta

  Nina

  Elizaveta

  Ten Years Later

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Kelli Stuart

  For my dear friend, Sveta.

  You are an inspiration.

  A silver willow by the shore

  trails to the bright September waters.

  My shadow, raised from the past,

  glides silently toward me.

  Anna Akhmatova

  Elizaveta

  Keep it hidden. Share as little as possible.

  I know when someone’s holding a secret. There’s a certain nuance that cannot be fully disguised when one is harboring hidden news. Most people wouldn’t recognize it, but I do. Of course I do. I’ve lived my entire life in whispers.

  She steps into the room, and I see it. The secret trails its scent behind her, heavy and thick. It weighs her down, a prisoner’s chain clamped tight around her soul. She moves like a shadow, quiet, as if the very breath escaping her lungs might draw our eyes in her direction. Her eyes flit to my face for only a brief instant before turning down. She runs her hand over her hair self-consciously, the long braid hanging limp down the middle of her back. Her hair is still wet, and I cluck my tongue at such carelessness.

  She turns her back to me and faces her mother. The two speak in murmured tones. I can’t hear them, but even if I could, translating their harsh syllabic dialogue is still difficult. So I sit mute, and I take in the sounds, the gestures, the unspoken words that shimmer between mother and daughter. And I fight the memories.

  They haunt me. Though I’ve spent a lifetime rearranging the facts, I still can’t seem to escape the images. They move through my head in the quiet moments like a mirage. Real or fake? Even I’m not sure anymore. But I’m old, and I’m tired, and I no longer have the energy to fill my days with meaningless tasks to keep the secrets at bay. So they chase me, and they are catching up.

  I can’t speak of the memories, of course. Not to anyone. The key to keeping a secret is to replace the hidden news with something different, and then to make yourself believe the new story. Roll the facts through your head until they’ve muddled the reality of events. This is what I’ve done. What I’ve tried to do. This is what she’ll try to do.

  Keep it hidden. Share as little as possible. She and I are not so different after all. We’re both rewriting our own history.

  Annie

  Annie flips her head up, her hair falling in cascades over bare shoulders. Picking up the brush, she rakes it through her golden strands, smoothing them out until they hang long and straight down to the middle of her back. With shaking fingers, she lays the brush back down and runs her hand over her stomach. Water falls off her hair in shimmering droplets onto the tile floor behind her. Those are the tears she refuses to shed.

  Another wave of nausea hits and Annie rushes to the toilet, leaning forward just as her insides find their way out. When finished, she pulls the towel off the floor and wraps it around her trembling body.

  Stepping into her closet, Annie glances at her clothes and sighs. Today is the first day of school, her senior year. Today is exciting.

  Today was exciting.

  Sinking down onto the floor, Annie leans her head against the wall. Her mind drifts to the test buried in the trashcan. One little stick that changes everything; just two small pink lines is all it took.

  “Annie!”

  The call from her mother pierces Annie’s thoughts, and with a sigh, she pushes to her feet and dresses quickly: jeans and a plain white t-shirt, boring and bland so she won’t stand out.

  “Annie!” her mother calls again.

  “Coming!” she calls back. Her voice comes out angrily, but she doesn’t mean it. Mostly she’s just tired.

  Quickly weaving her hair into a long braid that hangs down her back, Annie glances again at the mirror. Soft, blue eyes look back at her, and they tell the story. Squeezing them shut, she takes a deep breath.

  “They can’t know,” she whispers. “No one can know.”

  “Anastasia!” This time it’s her mother’s turn to sound angry. Annie grabs her bag and her phone, and then quietly makes her way down the stairs. When she enters the kitchen, she feels her grandmother’s stare drilling a hole through the air between them. Glancing up, she briefly makes eye contact, then shifts her eyes away, reaching up to smooth her still-damp hair.

  “Baba is staring at me again,” she murmurs to her mom. Nina glances over her daughter’s shoulder at her mother sitting tall and stern in the corner.

  “Well,” she answers, raising one eyebrow, “if you’d talk to her every once in awhile maybe she wouldn’t have to stare at you like that.” Nina’s accented English comes out thick.

  “Whatever,” Annie mutters. Nina tosses a wary glance at her daughter, then pushes a bowl in her direction.

  “Eat your breakfast before it’s spoiled,” she says.

  Annie looks down at her feet and doesn’t see the way her mother looks at her, full of longing, wishing she knew and understood her daughter.

  “I’m not hungry,” Annie says, biting her lip to keep it from quivering. Her stomach churns at the bowl of kasha, a sticky oatmeal that her mother insists on serving her because “it’ll make your bones thick.”

  “Of course you are hungry,” Nina responds with a tight-lipped smile. “It will make your bones thick and your brain strong.”

  Annie flops into the chair and shovels three large bites into her mouth. With a gag, she manages to swallow half of it before spitting the rest out.

  “Oy, Nastia! What is the matter?” Nina tosses a towel at her daughter who wipes her mouth with trembling hands. Pushing back from the table, Annie grabs her book bag and heads for the door.

  “My name is Annie!” she barks over her shoulder before stepping out and slamming the door behind her. Drawing a deep, shaking breath, she takes in the sights around her. Their small townhouse sits nestled in a thick, Tennessee suburb just outside of Knoxville. Low lying fog hangs all around her, like the sky is constantly fighting off tears. The last heat of summer causes mountain moisture to kiss her skin and send shivers down her legs. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone, the screen lighting up and framing her pale face. She punches at the last number dialed—the only number she’s dialed in weeks.

  �
�Hey,” she says, the phone pressed tight against her ear. “Can you come get me?” She forces back the lump in her throat. “Yeah I’m fine,” she says, pushing her mouth into an insincere smile and blinking hard.

  Nina

  “A dream is wandering at night,

  A nap is following his way.

  A dream is asking, ‘Dear friend,

  Where shall we now stay?’”

  Russian lullaby

  Nina stands still for a moment, staring blankly at the table in front of her. Her daughter’s last words roll through her head. “My name is Annie!”

  Swiping a weary hand over her eyes, she pushes herself back from the table, grabbing the discarded bowl of kasha and heading to the sink. She can feel her mother’s eyes piercing through the room.

  “I don’t want to talk, Mama. Please. Ne nado,” Nina says, immediately flipping back to the language of her youth, the words flowing over and off her tongue like a comfortable friend.

  “What did I say?” Her mother’s words are braided with accusation, the pointed look in her eyes further exacerbating Nina.

  “Oh, Mama, not now,” she says, her words laced with fatigue.

  “If not now, then when?” Elizaveta Andreyevna squeezes her hands tight in her lap, pursing her lips at her daughter’s admonition. “I am an old woman,” she says, letting the hurt permeate her words. “I could die any moment, so I cannot wait to say things.” Leaning back, Elizaveta smooths her skirt out over her legs.

  “Besides,” she murmurs. “I didn’t say anything...but if I was going to say something, I would say you shouldn’t let your daughter speak to you that way. And what is this ‘Annie’? Such a crude sounding name for a girl.”

  Elizaveta goes on muttering while Nina finishes cleaning the kitchen. She tunes out her mother, a skill she’s long since mastered, but the few words she ingests kick around in her head. She frequently hears this complaint from her mother, and it always sends her back to the same memory.

  It was six years ago, when Annie was eleven, that she’d barged through the front door of their home, tears streaming down her face.

  “I don’t ever want to be called Nastia again!” she’d sobbed, flopping onto the couch with all the drama a preteen could muster.

  Nina sat by her daughter that day, letting her cry all her tears dry. She’d stroked her hair and whispered soft words of comfort in her beloved Russian language. She quietly sang her the lullaby that her own mother had sung when Nina was just a child, humming it in the still spaces of the night when Nina couldn’t sleep: