A Melody for James (Christian Suspense)

by Hallee Bridgeman

  The fire, the gunshots, the smell of the burning flesh — he lost control of the situation, lost two good men, and still didn't have the billions that had been promised to him.

  The satellite phone next to him signaled an incoming call. He had no desire to answer it, but he did anyway. No one would call him a coward.

  "Yeah," he said, knowing the caller would speak English.

  "What happened?"

  "Sometimes, plans don't work. I didn't have all of the information of their security."

  "Police are at a loss. At least you covered your tracks well."

  "I'm not concerned about the American police force. I'm just happy that my client doesn't know about my intent to betray them. They aren't happy with the failure, but at least I'm alive and not a rotting corpse staked to the side of the road to serve as an example." Needing to release some energy, Rikard picked up a stone and threw it as hard as he could over the cliff and toward the river. "Keep your ear to the ground. I won't return if there is any heat at all."

  "I wouldn't want you to." After a long pause, the caller said, "We might have another way."

  "Another way to what?"

  "We have all of the preliminary research, thanks to your guy's hacking skills. We just need the capital to fund continuing the project. That's where you come in."

  "Where am I supposed to come up with the capital to research a project worth billions?"

  He could hear the smile in the replying voice. "You will acquire it."

  ¯¯¯¯

  MELODY Mason stood in the shade next to the large pool house. All around her, Atlanta's creme de le creme mingled and networked. A few isolated teens took advantage of the cooling waters of the pool, but most of the adults remained dressed and coifed.

  Melody brushed at her white sun dress, feeling a little out of sorts. Two weeks ago, she'd graduated from college, and for the last couple of weeks, she'd struggled desperately to find her purpose in life.

  "Melly, there you are," Ginger Patterson said, wearing a vivid red dress and blue sun hat to protect her alabaster skin. Her blonde curls danced out from under the rim of the hat and her lipstick was as bright as the dress, if that were possible. "I'm so happy you were able to come to our little party."

  A uniformed waiter approached carrying a tray that contained a bowl of cocktail shrimps arranged around a bed of ice. He offered some to Melody, who wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

  "I have never missed a Patterson Memorial Day party in my life, to my memory," Melody said, lifting her heavy black hair off of her shoulders to catch a bit of the breeze. "It's like an official summer tradition."

  "Where is your sister? I thought Morgan would be here by now."

  "We came together. She's in the library with your Aunt Mildred, who is convinced that the room needs a decorating overhaul."

  Ginger giggled and put her hand to her mouth. "Oh poor Morg. I should probably go rescue her."

  A large man came toward them, wearing a patterned Hawaiian shirt that stretched over his large stomach. He was as tall as Melody's 5'10", but had such a commanding air about him that he always appeared much taller. He wore a cap with a Georgia Bulldog on it, and had a cigar clenched between his teeth. "Melody Mason, congratulations on your graduation. Dance and piano, eh? Plans yet?"

  Melody smiled and held her hand out in greeting. "David, it's so good to see you. I expected you in New York for the ceremony."

  As her late father's best friend and the guardian of her trust fund, David Patterson often acted as a surrogate father for Melody and her sister Morgan.

  "I had plans to attend, but a very last minute issue cropped up." He removed the cigar and clenched it between his thumb and finger. "Never been a fan of that city. Anywhere you can't get grits for breakfast is not the place for me."

  Ginger slipped her arm into her father's. "Daddy doesn't like to leave Georgia, do you Daddy?"

  "Not even for a minute, my peach." He was jostled from behind and turned to see who had bumped into him. "Beg your pardon," he said to the young man.

  "I'm so sorry, Mr. Patterson. I was trying to keep from getting splashed by the kid canon-balling into the pool." The man was incredibly handsome, with blond good looks and gray-green eyes. Melody looked him up and down. He wouldn't make a good dancer, no, but she thought he reminded her of a cowboy, with long lean legs, a small waist, and broad shoulders.

  Ginger gasped and turned, rushing toward the kids in the pool. "Michael," she yelled, off to correct whatever kid would dare to splash some of the most important people in the southeastern United States.

  David nodded. "No problem, son. Be more aware of your surroundings." He turned back to Melody. "Melly, come to dinner tomorrow. We need to see what your plans are now."

  She smiled and broke her gaze off of the cute blond long enough to look at her guardian. "Sounds good," she said, not certain what she'd just agreed to.

  The blond held out his hand and she placed her thin hand into his big, warm one. "Richard Johnson," he said with a smooth southern drawl.

  "Melody Mason." She started to pull her hand away, but he resisted. She raised her eyebrow, and he smiled at her in a way that made her heart flip.

  "It is a pleasure to meet you." He looked around. "If I told you that you were quite easily the most beautiful woman I've ever met, would you think that was some cheap line?"

  Feeling her cheeks fuse with color, Melody nodded. "I likely would."

  Richard sighed and brought her hand up to his lips. He brushed a kiss over the knuckles before releasing her hand. "Then I shall avoid saying it and just continue thinking it."

  Melody laughed. "You're a charmer."

  "When you're a poor intern among such established wealth, you have to use all your skills." He gallantly placed a hand over his heart. "May I offer you a drink?"

  "That would be delightful, Mr. Johnson."

  "Richard, please. I have a feeling we're going to get to know each other rather well. Now, your parents wouldn't be those Masons would they? I seem to recall …"

  Melody confirmed his suspicions. "Yes, I am quite sure you are thinking of my parents. And, yes, David is in charge of my trust."

  "I read about that. I was a freshman in high school when it happened. Terrible thing, really."

  Melody forced herself to smile and pretended that she didn't once more feel the stabbing loss of her parents after all these years. "How about that drink, Richard?"

  He gestured for her to precede him toward the sparkling lemonade fountain. "I live to serve, ma'am, as every southern gentleman ought."

  ¯¯¯¯

  CHAPTER 2

  "LADIES and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking from the flight deck … Uuuuuuh …" The male voice blaring over the cabin speakers set Melody's teeth on edge.

  "Just wanted to give you a quick update from the tower. We are cleared to land at Newark International but … Uuuuuuh … It looks like all flights departing Newark are delayed due to weather. Uuuuuuh … At this time, I'll ask everyone to return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. Ensure all tray tables are stowed and all seats are locked in the full upright position. We are second in line for landing … Uuuuuuh … Flight attendants secure cabin for arrival." The announcement ended with a very loud electronic click.

  Melody pushed the button on her first class seat to raise it back up into the full upright position. She stacked her pillow and blanket in the empty seat beside her and then set all the of the remnants of her snack on the tray-table of the seat next to her. Within a few moments, the first class flight attendant collected everything and snapped the tray-table into place with a practiced movement.

  "Can I get you anything else before we land, ma'am?" she asked. Melody shook her head but didn't say anything. Her thoughts had wandered to the reasons that the seat beside her remained empty.

  The flight over the Atlantic to the romantic hideaway in England had been her very first international flight. This, the return trip to Atlanta, was h
er second. She had imagined that her first flight to another country would be spent alongside her husband. Now the very thought made her feel foolish and naive.

  Just two weeks ago, she'd carried two cups of coffee and a little bag of bagels up the steps to Richard's apartment at nine on a beautiful autumn Atlanta morning. She had admired her wedding manicure as she pressed the doorbell, then had looked behind her as if someone might catch her breaking tradition in so shameless a fashion.

  When he didn't immediately answer the bell, she'd raised her fist to knock. Finally, she'd heard movement through the door, and saw a curtain on the window next to the door move back a few inches.

  She'd raised one of the coffee cups and smiled as Richard peered out at her through the window. She thought she'd seen movement behind him, as if someone else went through the room, but at the time was sure that she was seeing things. Now, looking back, she realized she'd seen exactly what she thought she'd seen.

  The curtain had fallen and seconds later she'd heard the sliding sound of the chain lock. With a grin, she held up both cups of coffee as he opened the door.

  "Happy wedding day," she'd said, just as happy and ignorant as a lark. "I know we aren't supposed to see each other today until I walk down the aisle, but I just couldn't stand not —" She'd started forward and stopped when she saw him shirtless, a sheet wrapped around his waist. A movement behind him had caught her eye as the door to his bedroom shut. Looking past him, she'd seen a pair of woman's high heels on the floor next to the bar that separated the living room from the kitchen. On the bar, an empty bottle of champagne sat next to two glasses. The red impression of lipstick could clearly be seen on one of the glasses, even from the doorway.

  Cold fury had spread from her stomach to her chest. With a gasp, she'd looked at Richard's face. He'd looked — angry. How dare he look angry at her? "What is going on?"

  "You aren't supposed to be here right now," he'd said in a clipped tone.

  "Is that so?" she'd asked. "Well then, exactly who is supposed to be here? Who's here with you?"

  Richard had relaxed his face and smiled with all of his charm, then stepped forward, forcing her back, and shut the door behind him. "No one is here. Don't be ridiculous. You better go, or we'll have bad luck. Isn't that how it goes?"

  Melody remembered clenching her teeth so hard she feared that she would break one of them. "Yeah," she'd said with a dry throat. "Something like that."

  Somehow, she'd managed to hold back from throwing the hot coffee in his face when he gripped her elbow and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "That's a good girl," he'd said. "Off you go. I'll see you at four."

  "Four. Right." As she walked away, she'd dropped the coffee cups and the bag of bagels in the garbage bin on his landing. Getting into her car, she'd started back home, but changed her mind. Instead, she had headed toward the airport.

  She'd already packed her honeymoon bag. So, she parked in one of the many Atlanta Hartsfield International Airport's remote long term parking lots, popped the trunk of her little white Mercedes, and grabbed her suitcases and carryon bag.

  When she arrived at the terminal from the shuttle, she'd gone straight to the ticket counter, butterflies leaping about in her stomach until she feared that she'd get sick. When it was her turn, she slid her passport toward the agent. "Hi. I have two tickets in my name — Melody Mason — leaving for London at midnight. Could I get on an earlier flight? And, maybe cancel the other ticket?"

  The clerk's fingers had tip-tapped on the keys. She'd frowned at her screen. "There would be a charge."

  Melody had smiled and just pulled out her onyx American Express. "Not a problem," she'd said. "I just want to make sure that second ticket is canceled."

  "Is Mr. Johnson with you now?"

  Melody had felt the burn of tears in her throat. "Why no. He's with some other woman in his apartment on our wedding day." Despite Melody's desire to hold tears at bay, her eyes had flooded. "Please," she'd whispered.

  A look of sympathy had crossed the face of the clerk. "You know, it just so happens we have a special discount today. Let me see about waiving that fee." She'd worked quickly, her fingers clackity-clacking on her keyboard in a sing-song rhythm. "There."

  She'd paused only long enough to grin, her eyes sparkling. Then clackity-clack, clickity-click until she'd said, "Looks like I have a flight leaving in an hour?"

  "Perfect," Melody had said, scrubbing at her tear stained face.

  A barrage of clackity-click-click-clacks followed then, in the space of a few heartbeats, the clerk had handed her a new boarding pass. "Thank you."

  She had looked at her hand holding the boarding pass for her First Class flight. Her eyes could not move from the 2-karat ring on her left finger. "Are we all set?"

  She'd had to buy it, because Richard had no money. That didn't matter to her in the slightest. They would soon be married — would become one in Christ. What did it matter whose name had originally been on the bank account?

  "All set, ma'am. Have a safe flight."

  Foolish girl, she'd thought to herself. Without hesitation, she'd slipped the ring off and set it in front of the clerk. "Here," she'd said, "go buy a new car or something."

  The clerk had gasped and looked at Melody. "Ma'am, I cannot —"

  She'd slipped her purse onto her shoulder. "Then throw it away. I don't care." She had turned her back on the clerk and the ring.

  From her first class seat returning to the United States, as she looked out the window and watched the lights of Newark, New Jersey, grow closer and felt the shudder of the plane as it fought an east-coast storm, she wondered what she was supposed to do now that the honeymoon was over. She wondered if her ring was waiting for her in Atlanta.

  ¯¯¯¯

  FOR the last several weeks, James Montgomery had worked and worked, stopping only to sleep and barely to eat. Being forced to sit in an airport terminal in Newark while trying to get back to Atlanta from London as a November northeaster raged outside might possibly be considered a good thing. He felt only mild irritation at the weather induced airport delay. After all, he'd needed a break. A forced stop. A forced rest. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back.

  He momentarily looked at his laptop bag sitting at his feet and felt weary. Likely, he should open it and get some work done. Strangely, he didn't want to — not at all. The last e-mail he'd seen from his business partner, Kurt Lawson, encouraged him to take a few days off before returning to work. Kurt had run all the interference with the U. S. Government to ensure that the company remained in full compliance with all export laws. James didn't envy him that task.

  While Kurt had worked like a mad man back home, James had spent the last week in London securing the partnership deal for a security monitoring equipment contract with an intelligence agency in England and still kept up with all the developments and progress of his Albany research and development, or R&D team, back in the States. That translated to twenty-hour days while suffering from serious jet lag. But, the timing was critical and he'd had no choice.

  Now that he had wrapped up the deal and tied London up with a pretty bow, he had a little bit of breathing room. This contract would last for four years. It would take intense effort and a serious work schedule to meet all of their service level agreements, but he knew his company would not only meet, but would exceed the expectations of the British government. He knew it was only due to the development of the system that he'd secured the contract in the first place, and all of the glory for that belonged to his wife, Angela.

  The thought of his late wife still brought a sharp twist of pain. In his near exhaustion, the back of his throat burned while he forced back the sting of unmanly tears. Why was the pain still so sharp six months later? When would that finally go away? Did he even really want it to go away?

  Did the fact that he still felt this pain mean that he still had her beside him? If he let it go was he letting her go forever?


  Two weeks after her death, he had been in a meeting with Kurt and one of the development teams. In the middle of the meeting he had said, "We need to run this by Angie," before he realized that he could never run anything by Angela again. Not ever. Not for the rest of his life.

  Kurt had dismissed the team and pulled him into a bear hug until he cried like a baby in his best friend's arms. It was the first time he had cried in over 10 years and it took him completely by surprise.

  More than once in the last six months, he had very seriously contemplated drowning his sorrows in a bottle. Angela would never approve, of course. Instead of toasting with champagne she preferred to celebrate with cheesecake. That sobering thought brought him back to honoring his late wife while he grieved her loss.

  Angela's faith would have led her to encourage him to seek God instead of oblivion even though he didn't know how to do that. How does one seek an omnipotent being? He had no idea how one did that every day. Not like she did. Still, he had tried it. He had prayed and, in quiet moments, he had even pulled out the Gideon's Bible from the bedside table in his hotel room and read it late into the night or into the early morning hours.

  Nothing seemed to help. Everyone treated him with such deference, and such copious amounts of dignity. "Don't mind him. His wife was murdered. You probably saw it on the news." It made him so angry; their sympathy, their condolences, their pretended understanding of what he was going through.

  He'd tried working it away to no avail. He didn't know what else would solve his grief problem. He went to the hotel gym nearly every night and ran until his sides ached and his heart raced and his entire body hurt and it didn't help.

  He occasionally thought about ripping his clothes and covering his head with ashes and screaming himself hoarse but always thought that notion through to its logical conclusion. It concluded with him never having enough ashes or screams to assuage the pain he felt. So he skipped it and got back to work.