by Hope Franke
Gabriele ended with a shower, slipping into her pajama pants and a sweatshirt. She sat on the edge of the bed, wondering what she should do next. It was too early for bed and she hadn’t thought about dinner. Her stomach was always rolling, hunger a thing she experienced only in the past, but she knew she should eat something. Her mama had packed her lunch. Maybe she’d eat that.
She reached over to the pillow, pinched the corner and pulled it to her face. It smelled clean, with a mild musky scent?
Lennon? Was this Lennon’s scent? She sniffed it again. And again, filling her lungs. Was it him? She couldn’t be sure. Was she forgetting him already? Oh, Lennon! Tears erupted, dampening the pillow, its official initiation into Gabriele’s life.
Her phone rang, snapping her out of her weeping bout. A look at the call display confirmed it was her mama. She’d left her parents that morning at the Dresden Airport with looks of longing and worry following her as she passed through security and out of sight. They didn’t understand why she felt she had to go, or why she had to go so soon. “You need to think this through, Schatzi.”
Her boss wasn’t thrilled that Gabriele hadn’t given proper notice before quitting, but they were heading into the off-season, and the museum had enough staff to cover her absence.
Gabriele lightened her voice and slipped into German. “Hello, Mama. No, I’m fine. I just got here... The flight was fine... The cottage is nice... I’m okay... The sea air will do me good... I don’t know how long I’m staying... I should go... Take care.”
The cottage had grown chilly and Gabriele remembered the wood stove. Dusk had fallen so she clicked on a floor lamp which cast a warm glow. She shrugged on her jacket and slipped into her shoes, heading out for the small woodpile she spotted by the door when she arrived. She filled her arms with as much as she could manage, choosing pieces of every size.
Gabriele dropped the pile of wood beside the stove. Now what? She’d never built a fire before. She had watched it done at bonfires, but that usually involved a bit of petrol.
She found a pack of matches in the corner along with a box of old newspapers. Her first effort was a colossal failure. The cottage filled with smoke and she had to sprint to open the terrace door to air it out.
The cottage filled with the cool, evening air and she shivered. This time she examined the stove more diligently. Ah, a closed vent. She opened it, rebuilt the teepee of kindling over the crumpled newspaper and struck the match.
Much better. She had to blow to encourage the spread of the flame, and then she carefully added wood, and soon she had a roaring fire. She left the front panel open, the protective screen in front, so she could watch the flames. It was like a spectacular screensaver, orange flames dancing, weaving in and out, but with a mesmerizing soundtrack of crackle and hiss noises.
If she focused hard she could clear her mind, forget the pain for a little while. She almost dozed off.
A face in the window.
Gabriele’s head snapped up, her nerves on high alert.
Lennon?
For a split second she swore she saw his face. Rejecting the impossibility, Gabriele flew out the terrace door, eyes searching the darkness. “Lennon?”
A voluminous lump formed in her throat. She backed up slowly and closed the door. Sliding her back down its surface, she crouched and buried her face in her hands. Her mind had started playing tricks on her. She was going crazy.
Her tears turned to hard sobs and she wept bitterly into her sleeves. Lennon, why did you have to go?
Then . . .
GABRIELE BAUMANN-SMITH.
Frau Smith.
Lennon and Gabriele Smith.
Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
She was a married woman! Gabriele grinned down at her super gorgeous husband as he lay bare-chested under a white sheet on a warm, late September evening. He threaded his fingers together and wrapped them behind his head exposing nicely-toned arms, and he unabashedly watched her through messy, almost-black hair that fell across dark eyes. Wearing pink boy-cut panties and a grey cotton tank-top, Gabriele hopped on the bed, her laptop in hand, and sat cross-legged beside him.
“The photographer finally sent us our pictures,” she said with a happy lilt to her voice, and she flipped open the laptop. Its base warmed her bare legs as it whirled to life.
Lennon closed his eyes. “Don’t be too disappointed. Pictures are never as good as the real thing.”
“But this photographer came highly recommended.” Gabriele clicked on the appropriate links and downloaded the files. “And I paid her good money.” She held in a squeal. She was so excited to see these. Their wedding day had been perfect. Well, if she conveniently forgot about the tiny black mark put there by her drama-causing sister Eva and her famous boyfriend.
The laptop screen filled with thumbprint-sized icons and Gabriele clicked on the slideshow. She snuggled in close to Lennon. “Here we go!”
The first few shots were of the gathering crowds in the park on An der Dreikönigsstrasse. Some of the photos captured the blackened clock tower of Three Kings Church that poked the sunny, late August blue sky. Gabriele recognized almost everyone. She zoomed in on the faces of her childhood friends, family friends and distant relatives.
“There’s Onkel Alfons and Tante Ruth. They came all the way from Freiberg. It was so good to see them again.” A wave of sadness filled her when she recalled that Lennon wouldn’t be able to pick out a familiar face. The whole ceremony had been for her sake since Lennon hadn’t any family, something Gabriele found hard to imagine. He was an only child of only children. She almost burst into tears when he told her both of his parents had died. No wonder he didn’t want to go back to England.
Lennon would’ve been happy to have a simple civil ceremony with just the Baumann family present. “The honeymoon is the part I’m looking forward to,” he’d said with a mischievous grin, but he gave in, somewhat begrudgingly, so she could have her own fairytale wedding.
The next several shots were of her in the upper room. Pre-service close-ups—her hair had been expertly styled with a fat-rod curling iron and decorated with diamond-like Zirconia pins that reflected the lighting. Her chiffon gown draped beautifully along her body landing delicately on the grey tiled floor.
The next collection of photos was of her friends fussing over her. Julia looked like a movie star with her short, dark hair pinned and curled, and with so much makeup on that Gabriele barely recognized her. There were a couple photos of Eva standing demurely nearby. She wore a lovely sage-green satin dress with daring, spaghetti-strap sleeves. Daring for her anyway. Her long, straight, milk chocolate brown hair was curled and pulled into an updo. She looked beautiful, yet pensive as she leaned on the white cane Gabriele had purchased for her for the occasion.
There were several more of Gabriele as she approached Lennon at the back of the church. The focus was on her. The shots were taken from Lennon’s perspective, and he wasn’t in the frames.
He squeezed her. “What a gorgeous bride!”
Gabriele smiled. “But where are you? I can’t even tell you were there.”
Lennon nibbled on her arm. “I only remember what came after.”
She laughed, but her eyes never left the screen. Finally, she came to a photo with Lennon in it. It was a profile shot of them standing together gazing lovingly at each other. Lennon looked spectacular in his shiny grey suit.
“So handsome,” she said, “but your hair is hanging in your face.” She had asked him more than once to get a haircut, but he insisted that he liked the longer look.
Shot after shot of the happy couple. A view from behind as they sat in the two chairs in the front of the sanctuary facing her papa as he conducted the ceremony. Many of them kissing.
“Oh, I like those ones,” Lennon teased.
Gabriele felt a growing unease. So far she hadn’t seen one good shot of both of them. None of Lennon at all.
The slideshow continued. In every single picture Lennon was looking d
own or behind or had hair in his eyes.
Gabriele huffed. “I don’t believe this.” She slumped against the pillow and bit her bottom lip. Disappointment was a black balloon in her chest. “Not even one picture of us worthy to hang on the wall!”
Lennon gently lifted the laptop and placed it on the floor beside him. “It’s okay, Gabi. We can get more taken later.”
Gabriele whimpered and tugged on her short bleach-blond hair. “It’s not the same. I just don’t understand how this happened. I know she took hundreds of pictures.” She stared at Lennon. “How is it possible she missed getting one solid shot of your face?”
A dark look flashed behind Lennon’s eyes. It only lasted a split second, but Gabriele hadn’t mistaken it. She’d seen it before. Not often, only a few times. It happened so seldom, she’d always pushed her concern away. It didn’t mean anything.
It didn’t.
Lennon reached over and turned out the light. “Get under the covers, love,” he said. “Everything will look better in the morning.”
GABRIELE AWOKE TO NATURAL LIGHT. She groaned, gripped the pillow from under her head, and planted it on her face to block the brightness. She breathed in the scent of the pillow and her eyes opened to the muffled darkness.
She inched the pillow off her face, remembering.
Lennon’s cottage.
Her cottage.
A rumbling from her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before, and the lunch her mama had made her lay unopened on the dresser. The meat would be bad and the bread dry. She already knew there wasn’t anything to eat in the cupboards.
What she really wanted was a coffee, unsweetened and topped with foamy milk. She remembered the coffee shop she passed the day before. They probably had a nice selection of pastries. That would work for a start, then later, when she had a chance to shower and dress, she’d go back in for groceries. It was only a ten-minute walk, and the exercise wouldn’t hurt.
She gazed out the window, relieved to see the trees had stilled from a windless morning. The sun peeked over the horizon to the east, its rays dancing like diamonds over the much fuller sea. The tide was in and all the boats that had drooped over on the sand the evening before were upright and astute in the morning. She spotted a couple men in waders and with fishing equipment climbing into a small motorboat.
It promised to be a beautiful day.
Gabriele was tempted to just throw her jacket on over her pajamas but decided it wouldn’t kill her to put on a pair of jeans.
The house still had a faint smoke smell from the fire she’d started the night before. It reminded her of her meltdown—had she actually believed she’d seen Lennon in the window? She shuddered.
Gabriele opened the terrace door and stopped. On the tiled deck directly in front of her was a tray, like a room service tray. There were two croissants and a biscuit, two tiny bowls, one with whipped butter and one with red jelly, a larger bowl with sliced fruit, and a carafe of coffee.
She cupped her eyes from the brightness of the sun and scanned her surroundings. She couldn’t see anyone, but she noticed that someone had swept the leaves and sand off the terrace, and had draped a pretty floral tablecloth over the patio table.
What was going on?
A slip of paper had been tucked under the fruit bowl. She bent to remove it and read:
Welcome to the neighbourhood.
I hope you enjoy your short time here.
If you need anything, let me know.
Your neighbour,
(house next door)
Callum Jones
Beneath the signature was a phone number.
Gabriele frowned. Here one day and already she had a stalker? And how did he know if her time here would be long or short?
She did appreciate the gesture, though. She picked up the tray and set it on the patio table. She noticed that the chairs had been wiped down, too. Whoever this Callum Jones guy was, he knew how to clean up.
She reached for the empty mug provided and let out a sigh. The neighbour wasn’t so thorough after all, since he failed to provide milk or cream for her coffee. She wasn’t sure if she could stomach it black, though she’d heard the British made it pretty weak. She poured the liquid in her cup and stared. It wasn’t black, but a nice creamy color, and the milk had been foamed.
Her eyes darted to the house next door, to the windows that overlooked the cottage. She swore she saw someone in the closest one, standing behind the net curtains.
Was Callum Jones watching her?
A field of red flags sprang up. She almost took the tray and went inside, but then huffed. She was enjoying the morning sun seaside, an opportunity that didn’t come to her often. She wasn’t going to let a creepy neighbour rob her of that.
Though it did unnerve her that he knew how she took her coffee. How could he know that? She sniffed it. It smelled fine. Great, actually. Perhaps this was what small town hospitality looked like. She needed coffee and was willing to die for it. Figuratively speaking. She sighed and took a sip, deciding in that moment it didn’t matter. The flavor was perfect.
Gabriele pulled out her phone so that the neighbour would see that she was just a keyboard away from dialing 999 if necessary. She texted Julia.
Gabriele Baumann-Smith
Sorry I didn’t text last night. It was pretty emotional, but I’m okay. Drinking coffee on my patio. Watching sailboats bobbing in the distance.
Gabriele didn’t expect an immediate response. Julia had a degree in Early Childhood Education and worked days as a kindergarten teacher.
The channel’s cry was mellower today. The briny air invigorated her, and she actually felt a moment’s peace as she let the sun’s rays massage her face. Despite its dubious origins, the breakfast was lovely, and Gabriele was glad she hadn’t had to make the trip into town: otherwise, she would’ve missed the melodic rhythm of the waves slapping the shore, the call of hungry sea birds, the warm saline air. Here she didn’t have to deal with the mind-numbing chatter of strangers surrounding her, or waiting in a long queue. Or worry if she had enough British change. She almost forgot they didn’t deal in Euros here, but remembered in time to have some converted at the airport before hiring the taxi.
But now what to do? Did Callum Jones really expect her to call? What about his dishes? Gabriele didn’t want him to come to collect them. Besides the fact that he’d already gone over and above the call of neighbourly duty, she would feel awkward. She didn’t want to be put in a position where she had to make polite conversation. And she didn’t know what, if anything, he’d want in return.
And it kind of creeped her out that he had entered her private property, her terrace, sometime in the early morning while she was sleeping.
HE WATCHED her through the upper-floor window, standing back from the net curtains to avoid being spotted prematurely. Her surprise at finding the breakfast he’d so painstakingly provided for her amused him.
He raised the mini binoculars to his eyes and examined the new neighbour. She was on the taller side for a woman, nice curves, heart-shaped face framed by silky auburn hair. Sure she was attractive, but so were millions of other women. What was so bewitching about this particular one?
She took the bait and sat outdoors. It was worth taking the time and trouble to clean it up. He wanted her outside so he could watch her.
Her expression when she poured her coffee moved quickly from surprised to suspicious. Her gaze cut to his window, and he made sure she glimpsed him before he drew back.
He wanted to startle her. Unsettle her. Make her uneasy.
His phone buzzed and he frowned at the text message. He had less time than he thought. He’d have to amp things up. Do whatever he had to do to run this woman out of town.
Then . . .
GABRIELE AND LENNON, the Smiths as Gabriele liked to think of their coupling now, had been attending Baumann family dinner on Monday evenings long before they were married. Today Mama had made roasted pork loin with grav
y, potato dumplings, boiled red cabbage, and a rugola leaf salad with chopped orange and red peppers, sheep cheese, topped with a vinaigrette dressing. A basket of buns sat in the middle of the table.
Gabriele turned to Eva as she helped herself to the potato dumplings. “Where’s Sebastian?”
Her sister handed her the bowl when she finished with it. “He’s coming,” she replied. “Hollow Fellows is recording at the Castle Studios in Röhrsdorf this week. He didn’t know how long they’d be working today.”
Hollow Fellows was the name of Sebastian Weiss’s band. Gabriele had been very worried about her sister when he first showed up in her life, but now, the way Eva’s green eyes sparkled with life every time she spoke of him, Gabriele knew she had no reason for concern. The look in Eva’s eyes when she regarded Sebastian mirrored the look in Gabriele’s similar green eyes when she thought of Lennon.
Lennon sat dutifully beside her, his usual quiet self. Her papa used to try to draw him out in conversation, resorting to comments about sports and politics, but after a while, he’d given up on small talk with his son-in-law.
Mama passed the buns around. Her short brunette bob was sprinkled with grey and deep lines fanned from the corners of her eyes when she smiled, which thankfully, was often. Papa sat at the head of the table, his broad shoulders rumbling as he laughed at something Eva said. Gabriele missed the joke. She’d been distracted by Lennon who was staring blankly ahead, his mind elsewhere.
She tapped his leg. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, sorry, no.” He smiled, but somehow it seemed forced. “Just daydreaming.”
Eva caught Gabriele’s eye. “When do you start your new job?”