by Hope Franke
Like the first time she baked a cinnamon cake. Or got an A+ on her English paper and how Mr. Oswell praised her work in front of the whole class. The last Christmas she spent with her mother.
This moment right now. Kissing Ian good-bye at the front entrance of the Barking train station. Tears ran down her cold, red cheeks, but she didn’t bother wiping them away. Her arms tightened around Ian’s neck as she consumed his lips.
Stay in the moment.
Ian’s embrace tightened until she felt she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want to breathe. She didn’t want to live through the part where they had to say good-bye.
“I love you, Belle.”
Belle choked back a sob. It bubbled in her chest, a mounting volcano she couldn’t contain. It escaped with her response, “I love you, too.”
She sobbed into the rough canvas of his army jacket. The puppy at the end of the leash yelped as she sensed Belle’s heightened emotion and bit at her heels.
Belle forced a laugh and bent to swoop her up. “She feels left out.”
“It’s only eight months,” Ian said. “It’ll pass before you know it.”
Her eyes burned and leaked like miserable old taps.
Ian cupped her wet cheeks in his rough hands. “I want to memorise your face. I’ll take this memory of you, of this moment, and fall asleep with you on my mind. When I wake up, it’ll be you that I think of. You will get me through the monotony of the day.”
He kissed her again and Belle devoured his lips. Stay in the moment. This was Ian’s body pressed against hers, his lips on her lips, his cheeks brushing against hers.
Stay in the moment.
She hated this moment. Hated it. She didn’t want to say good-bye, didn’t want to let him go.
“Ian,” she whimpered.
“Shh. It’s going to be okay.” He glanced at his watch and frowned. “I have to go. I can’t miss this train.”
“I know,” she said.
Ian grabbed her one last time and kissed her softly on her forehead. “Until we meet again, my love,” he whispered.
He walked backwards towards the station, the invisible band that held them stretching, crying, calling until he disappeared from her view.
Snap.
She ran home awkwardly through the grit piled up on the pavement, the puppy pressed to her face covered in hot, messy tears.
Good-bye, Ian.
Anna
Anna pushed against the cemetery gates. She hadn’t been there in a couple of years and without thinking about the damage it would do to her heart, she entered the grounds.
Early dusk threw a low angle glow that reflected an ethereal pink and blue across the snow. She stopped when she reached the headstone she was looking for. Her knees trembled, from the cold or something deeper, she wasn’t sure, and she fumbled with the frosty snaps on her guitar case.
Anna strapped the instrument over the thick shoulders of her winter coat and played with the tuning pegs until the strings tightened in tune. Angel sat obediently at her side, waiting for the song to come like she had a thousand times before.
Treasure of the seeker,
Reward of the martyr
The voice of the Father
Companion of the loner
The rose of the briar
The kiss of the lover
She sang to the man whose name marked the grave. Lieutenant Ian Connor, September 19, 1981-August 9, 2006. When she finished the song, she knelt down and ran her finger over her love’s name.
“I can’t believe it’s been eight years since I kissed you good-bye.”
Anna’s fingers burned from the cold as she packed away her guitar. Her heart hurt, too, but not as bad as last time she visited. The sharp brittle pain had numbed to something softer and manageable and though her eyes felt watery, not one tear escaped.
She stumbled towards the gates. Her head pounded and she found it difficult to walk, vaguely aware that her gait and motion resembled a drunkard. Angel barked. People passed her by, giving her odd and disapproving stares. She was half a block away from the graveyard when her foot lodged on a stone and she fell.
Pain exploded in her head and she cried out.
Then it was gone. In its place was light. A bright light, warm and comforting. She felt herself reach for it. So beautiful and comforting. Her heart knew it was the light of God.
A woman’s face appeared in the whiteness. “It’s okay, darling. I’m here now.”
“Mummy?”
Her mother’s face was young and her cheeks a rosy, healthy red. “Yes, my sweets,” she said gently. “It’s me.”
Anna groaned as her consciousness pulled her back. The cold wind whipped her face. Her ankle throbbed. Snow fell softly on her eyelids. She closed them, longing for the bright light to return, to stroke her and erase the fear.
“It’s me, love, wake up.”
Her eyes opened once again to the gentle light. Ian, her Ian, stood beside her. Her heart jumped. “Is it really you?”
“It is. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too. So much.”
He extended his hand and she took it, and suddenly she was on her feet. She noted how her skin was no longer grey and loose on her bones, but firm with a healthy pinkish glow. Instead of winter rags, she wore a lovely, white dress. Her dark hair hung in waves along her face. She felt energetic and free, and more alive than ever before.
Ian wrapped his arms around her and smiled. “We meet again,” he said, “like I told you we would.” She smiled back, her heart filled with the warmth of love that spanned all the years they’d been apart, pulling tightly as if time never existed, a mere time in between times. Like they’d never really parted ways.
Annabelle
Annabelle Vaughn looked down at the body of a woman covered in snow. A dog, her Angel, pressed her furry body along the woman’s side in a vain effort to keep her warm. Angel whimpered and nudged her owner’s cheek.
A man passed by and Angel barked, standing but refusing to leave her owner’s side.
Annabelle knew the man. Handsome with greying hair and lines around friendly hazel eyes.
“What is it, mate?” the man asked. He bent low, staring at the dog’s face and said, “Angel?”
Angel barked.
“Angel, where’s Anna?” That was when he spotted the form, just beyond the animal, covered in snow. “Oh, no.” He rushed to the body, shook it and listened for breath. He pulled a mobile out of his pocket, dialled 999 and reported his find.
Annabelle turned to Ian. “Why am I seeing this?”
He stroked her hair and let his head fall forward until it touched hers. “You can go back.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not your time if you don’t want it to be. Belle, go back. Live your life.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll always be here.” He tapped the spot above her heart. “And here.”
Annabelle heard Angel whine as if the sound came through a long tunnel. Ian gently pulled out of her arms. “Good-bye, Belle.” His voice grew distant. Her vision darkened.
“Anna!”
Pressure pounded on her chest as she heard Rhys’s voice counting: five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three… She gasped and her burning lungs filled with icy air.
“Anna? Oh, Anna!”
Her eyes popped open and Rhys’s concerned face filled her view.
“You’re going to be all right, love,” he said. “Help is on the way.”
He pulled her onto his lap and rubbed her frozen hands until the police and ambulance arrived. “I’ll meet you at the hospital,” he told her as the paramedics lifted her onto the gurney. “You aren’t alone.”
With a low raspy breath she asked, “What about Angel?”
“Don’t worry about her, love. She’ll be with me. I’ll take good care of her. Don’t you worry about anything.”
Rhys
Rhys Williams was a widower. He’d
met his wife in uni, fallen deeply in love and married her the first summer after graduation. His family was well off and he and Myra had enjoyed everything life had to offer: enriching careers, he an engineer, she a school administrator, lots of travel, a nice house on an acreage north of London. They had two daughters who brought them both immense joy, though the teen years were a little difficult. Still they’d turned out well. The oldest one Janie married an Irish lad and lived in Dublin with a wee one still in nappies. The youngest one Bette was traveling in America.
They kept in touch but the reality was he didn’t see them very often. Everyone was so busy.
Rhys considered moving out of the big house after Myra died. There were so many memories at their home that pained his heart unbearably.
It was also those very memories that had prevented him from selling. Still, the place was lonely and so terribly quiet. It was why he had agreed to go to Barking to visit Myra’s family for the holidays. It was Janie’s husband’s turn to have Christmas with his family and Bette was staying with people she met in California. Rhys didn’t relish spending the holidays alone.
Myra’s family was financially poorer than his own, but they were rich in many ways that counted far more. The holidays spent with them were pleasant. But the most surprising thing, the most precious thing that came from that vacation was Annabelle Vaughn. It was fortunate timing that he’d gone to visit Myra’s grave just as Anna had collapsed in the snow.
She and Angel had stayed in his guest house since the moment she’d been released from hospital. At first she refused his offer of accommodation stating she had no way to repay him, but just filling this place with life and conversation was payment enough for him.
The warmth of early spring filled the garden behind his vine-covered brick home. Rhys brought a tray with tea and biscuits out to where Anna sat at a wrought-iron patio table in the sun, a soft rug folded over her lap. Angel lay in a tired, contented heap near her feet.
“Here you go, love,” he said while pouring for her.
She looked up at him kindly. “Thank you, Rhys.” She spooned in one teaspoon of sugar and stirred before taking a careful sip.
Her hair had grown in a little, but it was short like a pixie’s, and her dark eyebrows had returned enhancing her beautiful green eyes. The doctors couldn’t explain her recovery. It happened sometimes to people who had a near-death experience, they said. It was a scientific mystery. Rhys’s minister called it a miracle.
Over the course of their weeks spent together Rhys had told Anna all about his happy years with Myra, and Anna had shared about her soldier. It seemed unfair that he had years of memories with his first love where Anna had only a few weeks.
A warm breeze stirred and the floral scent of spring blossoms filled the air. Anna breathed it in and Rhys was pleased to see the rosy flush in her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with life in a way he hadn’t witnessed before.
“Perhaps, if the weather holds, we can go into London,” Rhys said. “We could see a play or a concert if you’d prefer. My treat.”
“It’s always your treat,” she said with a hint of chastisement. “I’m not sure that’s fair.”
Rhys knew Anna was concerned about the imbalance of wealth between them. She had nothing in the form of monetary value to bring to their friendship—their relationship—but she had so much more. “Your company is a treat to me,” he said with a smile, hoping to encourage her.
Annabelle may have lacked earthly riches, but she was rich in so many other ways. She was strong, determined, kind and thoughtful. Yes, she was young, at least fifteen years his junior, but she was mature beyond her years. A hard life made a person grow up quickly.
His admiration ran deep.
Truth was, he more than admired her. During these past three months he’d fallen in love.
A flush of happiness swirled through his being at the thought, immediately followed by a disconcerting thud in his chest. What if these feelings only flowed one way? Was it possible Annabelle Vaughn felt for him the love that had sprouted in his heart for her? Or did she simply see him as a middle-aged man with a generous heart who helped a poor girl out in a time of need? Or worse, did she see him as the lonely, old guy that he was?
Anna’s expression tightened with concern as she watched him. She reached over and covered his hand with hers. “Is everything all right?”
His gaze settled on their hands. Her skin was so soft, her fingers so very delicate.
His eyes met hers. “That would depend on you.”
“Oh?” Anna said.
Rhys shuffled his chair closer, then took both of her hands in his. “What I mean is I want you to stay with me. Forever. I love you Annabelle. I’m hoping that you’re feeling something for me. Even a little. Enough to say yes. Enough that you might see yourself one day as my wife.”
Tears welled up behind Anna’s eyes. “Oh, Rhys, are you sure? I don’t know how long I have on this earth. Do you really want to take that chance?”
Rhys reached up and gently stroked her chin. “Darling, no one knows the number of their days. All we can do is live each new one we have to its fullest. I want to spend every new day with you.”
Anna laughed and cried and laughed again.
Rhys grinned back at her. “Can I interpret your response as a yes?”
Anna smiled brightly. “Yes. Yes, you can.”
He leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “In that case, would it be okay if I kissed you?”
Anna simply nodded.
Rhys closed the gap between them and rested his lips gently on hers. They were soft and moist and his whole body trembled as he took her in. He tasted the saltiness of her tears on her cheeks and kissed each one away. She pressed her lips to his neck and said softly, “I never thought I could be so happy again.”
He held her close, hardly believing this wonderful, beautiful woman agreed to be his. “Neither did I, darling. Neither did I.”
The End
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About the Author
Hope Franke is the inspirational romance author of The Guitar Girl Romance series and other standalone novels. She loves to travel and all the GGR books are set in European places she's lived in or visited. She writes young adult as Elle Strauss and sci-fi mystery thrillers as Lee Strauss.
Hope-Franke-1760694050830328
www.hopefranke.com
[email protected]
The Christmas Song (remake) by Bethany Petch
The Christmas Song by Andrew Smith
Listen to all the songs from A Guitar Girl Romance series on Bandcamp at songsfromtheminstrel.bandcamp.com
Want more info and features about A Guitar Girl Romance series?
Visit hopefranke.com.
A big shout out goes to my fabulous beta readers, A.M. Offenwanger, Denise Jaden and Juanita Rose; my editor Marie Jaskulka, and formatter Ali Cross, who all play a very important role in getting my books out! A special shout out to Debbie Moore for her British authenticity notes!
Thank you to Andrew Smith for writing an amazing song.
I would be lost without the on-line writing community. I’m so grateful for each and every friend I’ve made, even though I haven’t met most of them in real life. Kudos to my street team for cheering my on and helping me to spread the word!
Thanks to Hans Christian Anderson for writing The Little Matchstick Girl.
As always I’m forever grateful to my husband, Norm Strauss who not only offers me an abundance of moral support but produces the music that goes with this series, to my kids for making my life a joy, and to my friends who keep me grounded, especially Marie Clarke, Lori Van Zyderveld and the “noble girls” - Donna Petch, Shawn Giesbrecht and Norine Stewart for your enthusiasm, prayer and laughs.
Books by Hope Franke
Inspirational Contemporary Romances
A Guitar Girl Romance series
Sun & Moon
Flesh & Bone
Heart & Soul
Peace & Goodwill (a Christmas Novella)
Standalones
East of the Sun
(20th Century Romance)
Jars of Clay
(Ancient Rome Historical Romance)
Copyright © 2015 by Hope Franke
Formatting by NovelNinjutsu.com
Originally published as part of The Minstrel Series as Lee Strauss.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.