Her voice came out in short, fast gasps. “I never had sex with him…all we did was talk.”
“I told you I’d see you dead before I let you make me into a chump. I meant it. I told you not to talk to him and did you listen to me—no!”
“I didn’t tell him anything, Johnny. I thought about it but—”
“It don’t matter what you thought about, did or didn’t do, it’s too late now. In a matter of hours your copper won’t be talkin’ to anyone but the worms six feet under. Even now he’s walking into a trap. A robbery gone awry. Such a shame that he got shot to death.”
“Noo.” Her cry was anguished.
“Shut up already,” he shouted holding a hand over her deceitful, lying mouth.
A beautiful deceiver, he thought heartsick as he drank in her clearly defined cheekbones, high in profile and the delicate jaw line leading to her tiny ears. Her diamond earring, one he bought her glittered and teased even as she lay beneath him twisting and turning, furious to be held down, wanting to get away from him and knowing she could not.
He loved—hated her and enjoyed watching her struggle like a predator enjoyed playing with its food before moving in for the kill. As if sensing the futility of fighting him, she finally stopped fighting. Her breath was coming in short gasps as if she’d run a race. Her eyes were huge and scared but still, goddamn her, defiant. She speared him with a gaze that hit him like a punch.
Her pulse was racing in her slender neck, a neck he could easily break in a snap. Somehow, despite the fury that rode him, he restrained himself and like the cobra he’d oft been likened to he shook with the venom threatening to penetrate his carefully controlled façade. He removed his hand from her mouth, cautioning her with his finger at his lips to be quiet. “Shh!”
As usual, she ignored him and said, “I hate you…I’d rather be dead and free than to stay trapped in this life with you for one more New York minute!” Her sapphire eyes were shooting fire, anger and hatred at him and the hate stabbed like a knife in his gut. Her words trumpeted in his head like a chorus of bugles.
He let go, lost it, giving into the tsunami of fury that took control of him, no longer cognizant of the fact that he was shaking her like a rag doll, his thumbs behind the nape of her neck and his fingers encircling her throat.
He didn’t even feel her nails digging into his arms as he squeezed with all his might, closing his mind to everything but the acid of her disloyalty. All he’d ever done was to protect and love her and give her everything her heart desired. That she’d dared to betray him or even thought about it had him livid. In a blind fever, he cursed her, his voice a low murmur as he fed the fire of his rage. “Spread your legs for a damned copper, think about ratting me out…you’d rather be dead. Trapped. Ha. I’ll give you done. I’ll give you trapped. Here, have all the precious freedom you can handle now, Hannah.”
Drowning in passion, rage and sorrow, it wasn’t until her body shuddered violently and was still that he finally rolled aside, panting from exertion.
His hands were stiff, numb and shaking. He flexed his fingers, waited for the feeling to return. She’d taken everything to the limit—him. She’d made him crazy. Led them to this.
Fighting his own hysteria, shaking with it, the pain and shock of what he’d done, he lay cupping her delicate face in his hands before closing her now unseeing eyes. When he could bear to, he gently covered her lifeless limbs. He noticed her right hand was fisted, closed. He partially opened her hand; her fingers still warm to see what she held so tightly. He immediately saw the tiny trinket in her hand, one of the first gifts he’d ever given her, a gold songbird with sapphire eyes. He broke down, sobbing like a little boy.
Later, looking at her lying quietly in repose, her beauty even in death undeniable, he knew his suffering would never end. She’d fixed him for good. He wanted to chuckle at the irony of it, but…Christ were those tears in his eyes again? Damn her! Now she was forever free and he wasn’t. He’d never be.
He had enough presence of mind to wipe any evidence of himself from the room. He emptied the suitcase and put it away. In the bedroom Hannah’s dresses, skirts, shirts, coats, hats, gloves and other apparel were bulging out of drawers, out of closets or just carelessly strewn on the expensive furnishings or Persian carpets. It didn’t take much to make the room look ransacked. A few pieces of furniture overturned, a smashed lamp, objects on the floor, expensive objects; a Tiffany desk lamp, a Limoges vase and several porcelain bird figurines crushed to ruins and his work here was done. His alibi was as tight as a coffin lid. He was officially still out of town with lots of witnesses. Hannah would be just another victim of a robbery gone awry.
Glancing at his watch, he knew he had to go. He knelt by the bed to place a tender kiss on her pale lips. A farewell to the only dame he would ever love. She’d been the only one who would ever get that close. The grief of the loss momentarily threatened to overwhelm him, but it had to be this way. He couldn’t have let her leave him. Wouldn’t have.
Walking away, he thought he heard her laughter; the gay sound of it startling him. Glancing back at her body, pale and still on the bed, he tried to shake the chill that slowly crept up his spine. The memories would haunt him forever. Nervously, he made the sign of the cross against his chest. The gesture was comfortingly familiar although he harbored no real doubts as to where he’d end up.
It was a perfect day for a funeral. The dark Brooklyn sky was grim, poised for ferocity and filled with black clouds. There was a chill in the air and a thick gray fog blocked out any light. A gloomy day and one more suited to death than any kind of life affirming activity.
A group of people, predominantly men, solemn as a flock of ravens stood a respectful distance behind a man and a child. Head bowed as if in deep meditation, the man gently grasping the child’s hand bent to whisper something in his ear before straightening to his full length as the graveside ceremony ended. The little boy perhaps uncomfortable with having to stand still for so long and feeling his oats sprinted ahead of everyone.
Spotting something shiny on the grass by the tree, the boy bent to pick it up. Giggling happily he ran back to show off his treasure. He tugged on the man’s coat as the man spoke to another.
“Papa, papa, look at what I found. It might be real pirate’s gold.”
The man glanced down at what was in his son’s hand and visibly paled as he recognized the object. Impossible. Swallowing hard, he took it from the child’s hand and studying it, tensed. “Anthony, where did you find this?”
The boy pointed towards a large tree. “Where those two pretty ladies were standing.”
“What ladies?”
“The ones that were watching us. The lady with white hair like an angel’s. She was so pretty, Papa. She looked so sad. She asked me if I was happy. I said I was and she smiled at me.”
If the man thought the child was lying, he didn’t say so. Instead, he said, “What did the other lady look like?”
“Tall with black hair. She said her name was Meg and she waved and patted the pretty angel like the sisters do to us when they tuck us in bed at night or when we’re scared. Is my treasure real, Papa? Can I keep it, please?”
There was no way the kid could have known… Spooked, Johnny Gallo looked all around. He’d been aware of everyone who was there and he hadn’t seen a soul by that tree. The last time he’d seen the trinket, Hannah had it. With a look to the sky, whispering a silent prayer he crossed himself and then as quickly as he could, handed the songbird with sapphire eyes back to Hannah’s son.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
They say it isn’t about the destination; it is about the journey. These past sixteen years, having lived the experience, I can unequivocally say truer words have never been spoken.
When you type “The End” to a novel, it is quite exciting. It is also the first hurdle of many to jump. From critiques to edit, to querying for an agent and publisher to your first rejection or acceptance, writing a novel and trying to g
et it published is like most creative endeavors – fulfilling and frustrating and filled with high highs, low lows and lots of learning in-between. However, if I write fifty more books in the years to come (if only) no story will ever mean as much to me as this one because Hannah’s story began as a strange personal and professional journey that has been as enlightening and inspiring and long as it was sometimes eerie.
In 1995, I moved from the glorious sunshine of Southern California to the rainy gloom of Portland, Oregon’s coast range with my husband and then eight and five year old children. I left family and a prosperous career in graphic arts and publications to pursue the “dream” of writing a novel. Not just any novel, but a New York Times bestselling novel! I even had the audacity to boast to my husband that I’d need three years to do it and then we’d be on easy street. I figured I would just churn out a new novel every two to three years. Right! Reality check!
I learned fast that there is no such thing as easy street and here I am, still pursuing the “dream” and still busy “churning”.
‘The Songbird with Sapphire Eyes’ is my fourth full-length novel, yet it is also my very first book. It is a story I had to tell and one I felt guided to write, sometimes by otherworldly forces and unusual coincidences since it began with a dream I had in 1985.
As a young newlywed and a graphic artist, I was working on a project with a gifted author, channel and psychic who soon became a close friend. After many lively discussions about the possibility of past lives, none of which proved or disproved reincarnation, months later I had an exceptionally memorable dream. I was both intrigued and emotionally affected by what I experienced through this dream. It was so vivid and detailed, I could not forget it.
In 1987, on maternity leave from my job as Director of Publications at a local college, I thought I might start investigating it further, but 1990 brought another child, and a return to a full-time career, raising two small children and never having enough time to breathe, let alone pursue writing a book about some dream phantom. However, Hannah continued to haunt me.
I’d be daydreaming and she’d pop into my head. The compulsion to write her story became more frequent. Sometimes I’d wake up from a dead sleep in the middle of the night dreaming about her and the people and places she knew. I could feel their emotions as if they were mine, picture them and even hear their voices, unique inflections, accents and all. I worried I was losing it.
In 1995 we made the move to Oregon after several life-changing events forced us to start our lives over again. The best part about that difficult time was that I would be able to stay home and pursue my desire to write. I’d always been an avid reader and had taken several writing courses over the years. I wrote for advertising and corporate publications but writing a novel was an entirely new adventure for me—and using what I remembered from the “dreams” and piecing together an actual story was going to be as interesting as it would be challenging. Sometimes I wondered what made me think I could even do it.
I knew very little about the places and times I wanted to write about and was going on instinct more than anything else. I even underwent hypnosis. There were so many details that gave me pause, so many times that what I’d only thought I’d guessed turned out to be fact. How did I know what types and sizes of farms were in that area, what nationalities the people were and that it wasn’t far-fetched for a rural farm-girl from Kansas to hook up with an Italian gangster from New York?
We have all heard stories of writer’s and their muses, but this knowingness or help from otherworldly sources, (or whatever Hannah was—is) often sent shivers down my spine. The prologue where Hannah speaks is exactly what she said and sounded like to me.
In telling Hannah’s story, I was compelled to wonder if this was a past life experience or if I was just talking to ghosts. I decided it didn’t matter.
Hannah admittedly had her faults. She wasn’t perfect and she lived a very selfish life that ended tragically. Still, she was a woman with a zest for life and aside from developing a strong passion for the era in which Hannah lived and an understanding that the world she lived in was a very different one than the one we as women live in today, if she has taught me anything life changing, it is this:
Life and living is the ultimate performance. People influence and inspire the choices we make but we write our own scripts, and in spite of ourselves, we fulfill our destinies. Life offers a vast selection of experiences. Personally, and through others we explore the world. However, the drama of living often overshadows objectivity, direction, purpose and truth. But, what happens afterwards when those ties are finally severed?
The existence of human spirit or soul, however much debated cannot entirely be dismissed. It is at the forefront of most religions. While as living beings we are denied absolute certainty of a greater design for our lives, as spiritual beings we must accept the possibility that a greater design is at work. Perhaps, free from direct emotional entanglements we are given the gift of understanding and forgiveness? Perhaps life viewed from a distance causes a different perspective to emerge? Consider this.
For some the idea that we are born, live, and die to no greater purpose simplifies much. As biological entities alone, this is indeed true. It is only in the philosophical and ecumenical landscape that life and death are viewed with considerably more depth. In memory, our lives are reduced to an outline. Shadowy fragments of a whole. Death is considered by many to be the conclusion of life. A final act. The end. But, is it? Or do we have other lifetimes from which to continue to learn, to grow, experience, and evolve?
I am already anticipating beginning the sequel to ‘The Songbird With Sapphire Eyes’ and am already being “haunted” by Anthony Gallo, Hannah’s son who was raised by Johnny Gallo as his own. Anthony also has an interesting story to tell. Please keep in touch, I would love to hear what you thought of the story and always believe or as Hannah would say, ‘Bee’s Knee’s, the possibilities!’
I love to hear from readers. You can contact me via email at [email protected] (mailto:[email protected]) or through my website at http://www.annabrentwood.com (http://www.annabrentwood.com). I am on Twitter@annabrentwood and would love to be liked or friended on Facebook at facebook.com/annabrentwood. I hope you have enjoyed reading ‘The Songbird with Sapphire Eyes” and taking this journey back through time with me.
Sincerely,
Anna Brentwood
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This is a long one, but this book took a long time and it is my first published novel so I have a lot of people to thank.
First, I want to thank my husband Rod for believing, encouraging and supporting me through all the highs and lows and for making it possible for me to pursue my dream. He demonstrates strength and courage daily and I am so lucky to have him as my love and very best friend.
To my children now grown; Dakotah who I admire for knowing what she wants and going for it; son-in-law John for growing up with adversity and striving to always be the best he can be and being a great husband, dad and son in the process. A special thanks to them for giving me the two best gifts anyone could ever receive my precious grandchildren, Chloe and Peyton.
To Colton, my gifted and talented genius son who not only did the fabulous cover for this book but who is growing up in the shadow of my obsession and is determinedly pursuing his own dreams in writing and filmmaking and with so much promise.
Additional gratitude to all my four legged and feathered kids here or now passed; Tatia, Waldo, Keechay, Destiny, Bandit, Dozer, Lucky, Warlock, Muggles, Tiger, Angel, Cinnamon, Cheyenne, Abbey, Beo and Keecho.
Thank you to my mother Elaine who both inspired and aggravated me by nagging “when will it be done” but has always come through when it counts most; to my in-laws Jean and Stan for their support; to my sisters-in-law Deeanna, for the author photos; to Ariel for her guidance; Gabrielle, my sister in all the ways that matter—thanks for helping with Italian phrases and a love of all things Italian, and to her husba
nd, my brother Mark, who is such a character, I could not help but write him into this story.
To my friends; Teresa Urutia-Keown who with daughter Chelsea bravely tackled my first drafts over lunches, and made me laugh by saying, “He seems to be chuckling all the time.”
Jamie Sams for her early encouragement; David Mann for showing me how following a dream is done and for playing guitar and singing while I wrote. I might just use you in a story yet, but you’re safe for now.
To my wild women friends; Jakie Roylance for being a soft place to fall, for sharing a love of reading and for helping with reading and grandbabies; Bonnie Cormier, for lending her energy and enthusiasm and impressive marketing skills; Ro Murillo, the rough and tumble Harley gal who inspired Rosie; Diana Hengerer, a fabulous musician who continues to sing her dream and reminded me that wild women don’t get the blues, to Shannon Guinn who aided with much needed phone breaks and to Kellie Crowdis and Theresa Koppang for being such great people to work with.
Unfortunately, realizing the dream took me much longer than expected and regrettably some of my earliest supporters didn’t live to see this day even though they believed it would come. I miss them all so much and am so glad I had them in my life!
First, thanks to my dad Leon who helped numerous times when my computer conspired to drive me crazy and kept us all laughing even during the darkest days as he faced dying with such amazing bravery and courage; Former nun and my fabulous Aunt Lois; family & friends Edie O’Neill Davis and Marty Russell— amazing people with strong spirits and a lively penchant for the good times—both taken far too soon.
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