Peace & Goodwill: An Inspirational Contemporary Christmas Novella (A Guitar Girl Romance Book 4)

by Hope Franke

  Peace & Goodwill

  A Guitar Girl Inspirational Romance - a Christmas novella

  Hope Franke

  ESB Publishing

  Contents

  Permissions

  A Time and a Season

  The Generosity of Strangers

  I’ll Meet You

  The Great Escape

  Merry Christmas to Me

  Companion of the Loner

  The Millennium Wheel

  The Rose in the Briar

  Stupid, Stupid Girl

  The Kiss of the Lover

  Treasure of the Seeker

  Lying in Starlight

  Stay in the Moment

  Image of the Artist

  It’s Christmas Time

  New Year’s Eve

  The Gift

  I’ve Missed You

  Time In Between Times

  Live Your Life

  About the Author

  Song Links

  Acknowledgements

  Books by Hope Franke

  British Spelling is used for this book.

  Belle gets the best Christmas present ever, a man in uniform! Ian is a soldier home on leave. Neither of them has any idea how good it will feel to fall in love or how hard it will be to say good-bye.

  Anna is spending the holidays alone again with only her faithful dog, Angel, to keep her company. She can’t afford to pay the rent, and her landlord threatens to kick her out. At least she’s finished with her chemo treatments. She can be thankful for that. Plus, there’s Rhys, the handsome visitor with kind eyes.

  One fateful cold and snowy night, a chance encounter changes everything. Love is lost. Love is found. Life will never be the same.

  Peace & Goodwill

  a Christmas novella in A Guitar Girl Romance Series,

  grabs the heartstrings and pulls hard.

  Want more of A Guitar Girl Romance?

  Visit Hope Franke at: hopefranke.com

  and get the behind the scenes stories and photos on the characters, setting and music of A Guitar Girl Romance series.

  Don’t miss out on news of deals and the next new release! Sign up for Hope Franke’s reader list and get East of the Sun free!

  Get the behind the scenes stories and photos on the characters, setting and music of A Guitar Girl Romance, plus deals and updates at www.hopefranke.com

  THE CHRISTMAS SONG

  Words and music by Andrew Smith. Copyright Andrew Smith. Remake recorded by Bethany Petch, produced by Norm Strauss. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  Belle

  Belle Vaughn swallowed the gluey lump that formed in her throat as she arranged the winter scene in the window of King’s Used Book Shop. Mrs. Cowen could be very particular and she wanted the miniature replica of the popular landmarks of London and all its miniature inhabitants “to delight and entice” prospective shoppers into the shop.

  Belle arranged the little carollers around the mini version of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. Tiny trees and park benches dotted the edges of a curvy blue ribbon that represented the River Thames. Several small bridges along with the famed Tower Bridge. Miniature lampposts and streetcars, including the iconic red double-decker buses. She sprinkled shiny white confetti over everything for a snow-like touch, and plugged in the string of white lights she’d tacked around the window earlier that day.

  She gasped at her creation, a beautiful, perfect little world. The pang in her heart deepened. A glance through the window reminded her that the real world wasn’t so magical. She didn’t live in the romantic ideal of central London, but in the lesser-visited east end, home of a significant immigrant population, along with the poor and working poor like herself.

  Outside, holiday shoppers scampered, hunched over, chins buried into scarves, bodies pressed into the wind with no time or inclination to stop and gaze at the fanciful window display Belle had created. The real streets beyond the glass were dirty and the sky was a brooding grey. Nasty weather systems attacked the United Kingdom from the Arctic regions of the pacific.

  Belle sighed and returned to the counter where a stack of books waited for her to catalogue, price and shelve.

  “Any plans for Christmas this year, love?” Mrs. Cowen asked. She asked Belle this every year and every year Belle shook her head sheepishly. No. She was an orphan and without family. She’d lived alone in her little apartment for the last three years since her mother had passed away, and she didn’t even have a pet because her miserable landlord forbade it.

  “You’re welcome to spend it with us,” Mrs. Cowen said with a small smile. “Again.”

  Again. Mrs. Cowen was being polite. But the truth was Belle’s presence at Mrs. Cowen’s family Christmas was an intrusion. For the last two years she was the only non-family member sitting around the Cowen’s dinner table. Everyone was always pleasant and polite—how could they not be? Belle was to be pitied. No parents, no family. It was their duty to include her. If the dinners were uncomfortable, her arrival to the Christmas morning gift opening was downright painful. After Mrs. Cowen’s daughter and two granddaughters greeted her with fake smiles and stiff hugs, they basically pretended she wasn’t in the room.

  Being alone was preferable to being invisible.

  Mrs. Cowen wore billowing blouses and skirts that hung loosely on a tall, thin frame. Her greying blond hair was permed in tight, short curls, and she penciled in her eyebrows, thin stark lines above sagging eyelids too tired to resist gravity any longer.

  Belle put on her brave face and stared at her employer. “Thank you so much for the invitation, Mrs. Cowen, but I’ve accepted another this year.” It was a lie, but by the expression of relief that flickered briefly across Mrs. Cowen’s face, Belle knew she did the right thing.

  “That’s fantastic,” Mrs. Cowen said. “I’m so glad you’re making friends.” Finally. She didn’t say it, but it was implied. Finally, she was recovering from her mother’s long drawn out illness and death. Finally she was making friends her own age (presumably), finally, she was moving on.

  If only it were true. Belle sighed and physically shook her shoulders in an effort to break free from the gloom that plagued her. Christmas was supposed to be the happiest time of the year, but for her the opposite was true.

  She donned her reading glasses and got to work. Nothing like losing oneself in a mass of accounting numbers to forget ones problems.

  The bell tinkled above the door and a blast of cold air came in with a customer. Belle glanced up over her glasses. Standing inside the shop was a man, about her age, mid-twenties or so, dressed in army fatigues. He removed his hat when he saw her. She slipped off her glasses.

  Air escaped her lungs and her jaw went slack. He was very good looking—what girl didn’t love a man in a uniform? His hair was buzzed short, blond with a hint of red, his face shaved clean, and he had a firm jaw and straight nose. His skin was ruddy with a smattering of freckles. His eyes were dark in the light of the shop and they crinkled at the corners when he smiled. At her. Belle’s heart flittered around like a bird wanting out of a cage. She pushed her short, dark hair behind her ears in a nervous response.

  “Can I help you?” she squeaked out.

  The soldier ducked his chin as he shook his head. “Just looking.”

  Belle was grateful she didn’t have to stand or walk about the shop for the soldier because quite honestly, she didn’t trust her knees at this point. Her joints felt like pools of water.

  She put her glasses b
ack on and pretended to busy herself, but who was she kidding? How could she concentrate on bookwork with a guy like him in the shop? Her eyes darted repeatedly to the soldier, careful that he didn’t catch her staring.

  Until he did. He glanced from the book in his hand to where she sat behind the counter and then away again. They played that game for several minutes until a chuckle escaped her lips and she slapped a hand over her mouth.

  It appeared the soldier had selected a book and approached her. Belle removed her glasses and wiped damp palms on her black trousers.

  He slid a gently used version of Stephen Lawhead’s book The Paradise War, first book in the Song of Albion Trilogy, across the counter.

  “Nice choice,” she said.

  “Thanks.” The soldier stared at her name tag, then added, “Belle Vaughn.”

  Belle rang up his order, and the soldier handed her a five-pound note. “I’m Lieutenant Ian Connor, by the way. Since I know your name, I thought it only fair to tell you mine.”

  “I appreciate the equal opportunity,” Belle said with a grin. She motioned to his uniform “Are you recently back or on your way out?”

  “I’m on leave for a month.”

  “Nice for you to be home for Christmas.” She slipped his purchase into a bag and handed it to him.

  Ian smiled. “It sure is.” He tucked the bag under his arm. “Thanks.”

  Just as he grabbed the doorknob, Belle blurted, “Thanks for shopping at King’s Books. We hope to see you again!”

  Oh, God. Her face burned with embarrassment. Why did she feel compelled to yell out that dumb, rote response? Mrs. Cowen had drilled it into her, but there was a time and a season for everything (a quote from her mother, God rest her soul), and this was not the time or season for that.

  Ian’s eyes narrowed quizzically. “I hope so, too.”

  Belle wiggled her fingers. “Bye, Lieutenant Connor.”

  The soldier disappeared out the door, and Belle slumped into her chair with a groan. No wonder she was still single.

  Anna

  Anna pulled her winter jacket closed over her chest as she padded across her cramped flat in worn-out slippers. A tug on the fridge handle just confirmed what she already knew. Except for a near-empty container of orange juice and a quarter block of butter it was empty.

  A cold nose nudged her arm and she reached down to scrub the ears of her collie. “Mornin’ Angel.” Anna filled her bowl, frowning at the almost-empty bag of dog food.

  She poured the juice into a glass and tossed the empty carton into the trash. The citrus burned her throat but she chugged it down anyway. She didn’t feel hungry but dropped two pieces of bread in the toaster and buttered them when they popped.

  She stared out the window as she ate, fighting against the constant shivering that wracked her body. Even though there was a break in the cold weather she couldn’t get warm. It didn’t help that Mr. Hutchens, her landlord, had cut the heat. Cranky old coot.

  Anna frowned. She couldn’t pay the rent again and all Mr. Hutchens had to say about that was that she better not die before squaring up.

  She had thirty days to either kick off or pay up and since the doctors couldn’t say for sure how long she had left, she better try to scrounge up some rent. Anna put on an extra layer of clothes and tightened the thin, cotton-blend scarf on her bald head before adding a wool cap. Her temples throbbed under her fingertips, and a painful bolt seared her head causing her to yelp. She reached for her pills and quickly swallowed one, chasing it with a glass of tepid water.

  If there was one good thing about Christmas, it was that it put people in the mood for giving.

  “Come, girl,” Anna commanded and was rewarded by a wagging tail and a lick on the hand. She snapped the leash to the collar then clasped the handle of her guitar case. Her upper-floor flat exited out onto several sets of weather-worn, open-slat stairs to a narrow lane below. It was getting tougher to manage in her weakened physical state and she gripped the tarnished iron rail tightly. She was glad it hadn’t started snowing yet. Mr. Hutchens told his tenants they needed to do the shovelling themselves. Anna sighed and continued down, unsure how she would manage that task when the time came. She couldn’t afford to hire help. All she could do was pray that it wouldn’t snow.

  Anna rounded the bend of the first flight of stairs ignoring the litter that had piled up in the corner. Angel looked up at her with wide, brown eyes, her tongue wagging as if she was cheering on Anna. The dog never tugged on the leash, always descending at the pace Anna dictated. She paused at the bottom to catch her breath and then made her way to the street with her dog and guitar in hand, the only two things of value that she owned.

  She walked past the bus stop just as a red double-decker stopped for a Nigerian family dressed in colorful jackets to board, and then she ventured down along the shopping district of Station Parade.

  Angel barked as Anna hurried past the used book store. She frowned and tugged gently on her pet’s leash. “Shh, girl.” Anna’s eyes darted to the window—at the tired-looking mini-London display—for just a moment until she pulled her gaze to the train station ahead.

  Anna chose a spot near the entrance, around the corner from a small WH Smith bookstore that faced the ticket counter. The slight rise in temperatures had brought the shoppers out in hoards, many heading into London via the tube so that they walked right by the spot where Anna positioned herself to play. She removed her guitar, leaving her case open, hoping for the generosity of strangers.

  “Angel sit,” she said, and the animal’s hind end promptly lowered to the ground. Anna stood near the brick wall. She closed her eyes, breathed in as deeply as possible and then played her favourite Christmas carol.

  Silent Night, Holy Night

  All is calm, all is bright

  Despite the rush brought on by the holiday season, passersby stopped to listen. Anna’s voice remained strong and clear, contrary to what her physique suggested. The words of the carol were very familiar to her, but today, as she closed her eyes and sang toward heaven like she had nothing to lose, she felt overwhelmed. A lone tear streamed down her face unbidden. She didn’t have much to show for this life, but she’d loved and had been loved, and that was all she could ask for.

  “So beautiful,” a voice said, breaking her reverie. Anna opened her eyes to see a man smiling kindly at her. He was middle-aged with short dark hair greying at the temples. His eyes were a warm hazel and they crinkled at the corners.

  She smiled back and wiped at her face, hoping the handsome stranger hadn’t noticed her emotion. “Thank you.”

  “I’d like to buy a CD.”

  Anna’s eyes widened in surprise. She had a small stack sitting in her guitar case, but it’d been ages since anyone had bought one, at least since the summer. She motioned to the case and named the price. “Help yourself.”

  The man picked one up and examined the cover. There was a photo of her on the back from before she’d lost her hair. It had been long and brown and she used to have dark eyebrows. Now she had neither. The man’s eyes flickered from the picture to her new hairless look and back to the picture. He dropped twice the amount she’d asked for into her case.

  “That’s too much,” she said. “Why don’t you take two?”

  “You don’t have that many left. I don’t want to rob others of the pleasure.” He knelt down in front of Angel.

  “Nice dog. He or she?”

  “She.”

  “Can I pet her?”

  “Of course.”

  He scrubbed Angel’s ears and she panted happily in response. “You’re a nice girl, now, aren’t you?”

  Anna couldn’t help but smile at the two of them.

  The man stretched back into a standing position and stepped away. “I won’t keep you any longer.” He offered a lazy salute. “Merry Christmas, miss.”

  “Merry Christmas to you.” Anna blew on her red fingers and started playing again.

  Belle

  Wi
th only one bay window facing the street and flanked by a variety of shops on either side, Kings Used Book Shop wasn’t a large store. It ran about three times as deep as it was wide and rows of old wooden bookshelves took up most of the floor space. Belle hung Christmas decorations from the ceiling and along the counter to give the space a holiday feel, but most people came for the nostalgia found in the pages. Many books were older than the patrons themselves.

  A young woman entered holding the hand of a preschooler. A bluster of cold air followed them in.

  “Can I help you?” Belle asked.

  “I hope so,” the woman replied. “My mother-in-law is a Jane Austen fan and I’m hoping to find a special edition of one of her classics as a Christmas gift.”

  “Ah, Jane Austen is a favourite, and happily we have many editions to choose from.” Belle led the woman and her daughter to the appropriate shelf. She pulled out an early edition of Persuasion. “This came in recently. Still in very good condition.”

  “Thank you.” The woman flipped through the pages and examined the spine. “I’ll consider it.”

  Belle wiggled her fingers at the little girl and smiled wistfully. She wondered, would she ever know the joy of motherhood? She muffled a groan. Not at this rate. She was destined to be one of those cat ladies, except her landlord wouldn’t let her have a cat, so she’d just be alone with an ancient telly to keep her company.

  Her mind flickered back to the soldier from the day before: Lieutenant Ian Connor. She couldn’t keep the handsome man from her daydreams which only underlined how pathetic she was. She rested her chin in her palm and closed her eyes. Yes, in her dreams the soldier returned to the shop, swept her off her feet and whisked her away to somewhere warm and exotic, freeing her from the solitude and drudgery her life had become. They’d walk hand in hand among frothy, lapping waves, and eventually, when the sun burned orange on the horizon, they’d collapse onto the sandy beach, their bare legs twisting together. He’d snog her passionately like lovers do (she wouldn’t know from personal experience, but she had read a lot of romance novels) and profess his undying love.