A Melody for James (Christian Suspense)

by Hallee Bridgeman

  One night while reading scripture, he came across a passage that read, "The truth will set you free." He set the Bible back in the drawer and slept like a baby having arrived at a new plan.

  James remembered that the gates above the Auschwitz death camp just outside of Krakow in Poland read, "Arbiter Mache Frei," which means, "Work will set you free." James ignored the greater truth and set about working. He worked so he didn't have to think about how much it hurt not to have his wife to go home to at night. He didn't have to think about how many times he listened to her final voice mail. He didn't have to think about how he would never see her again in this life. He worked and worked and worked.

  Now, for the first time since that horrible night, he had no desire to work. Exhaustion made him not even want to think about it. His thoughts, instead, kept going to thoughts of his late wife and the truth of his life as it must now take place without her beside him. Even now, he still felt utterly unprepared to cope with it and he had no default distractions left to him. He let his mind wander anywhere but there or work.

  Instead of opening his laptop and staring at the screen, for the dozenth time in the last half hour, his eyes wandered over to the woman sitting across from him. He remembered her from the terminal in London, but had not seen her on the flight. She looked to be in her early twenties with long curly black hair and a pretty face.

  She sat sideways in the little airport chair, her back to the arm. She had her legs pulled up to her chest with her arms around her knees. James thought she must be very flexible to be able to sit like that in the little airport chair. In the hour since he'd sat down, she hadn't moved. She just stared straight ahead, across the terminal, out the window into the blackness of the stormy New Jersey night.

  Her jet black hair fell in large curls around her face. As traditionally beautiful as she looked, that wasn't what caught James' attention. Instead, it was the sadness that seemed to emanate off of her in waves. There was more sadness than anger but there was something else, too. Betrayal? Loss?

  Did they have something in common? Could he help her to soothe her sadness, ease whatever made her so unhappy? In a very unexpected turn to his thoughts, he imagined what she must look like when she smiled. How beautiful must that smile be?

  Irritated at his thoughts, thoughts that followed so closely on the heels of his remembering times with Angela, he frowned and looked back at his laptop bag. Maybe he should start working instead of staring at some young raven haired beauty. Instead, he eyed her again, startled when he caught her looking back at him for the first time.

  He noticed how vividly blue her eyes were. They made his mind trip over itself and for a moment, he couldn't think about anything but those sad blue eyes. Then his mental system rebooted and he felt the air return to his lungs.

  "Can I help you?" she asked.

  James cleared his throat. "Sorry for staring."

  The woman raised an eyebrow. She obviously didn't expect his directness. "Is there something on my chin or something?"

  He smiled. When was the last time he'd smiled? "No." Deciding to follow her lead and to stay blunt he said, "You just look incredibly sad and I know something about that."

  "You know something about why I'm sad?" Her eyebrows lowered, her expression turned to a look of suspicion.

  James shook his head, his lips pursing a bit. "I know about sadness."

  He heard her sharply in-drawn breath. As she straightened in her chair, she pushed her hair off of her shoulders. "I would hardly think my feelings are any of your business."

  The sound of her voice — cultured, smooth, southern — flowed like warm honey from her lips and surrounded him. He wanted to keep her talking. "Of course not. We're perfect strangers. But, at two in the morning, after that tumultuous landing in this storm, and every flight in this terminal delayed, you caught my attention and I just started wondering what could make someone so beautiful look so sad."

  Honestly, he didn't know why he said that. It surprised him as much as it surprised her. Her blue eyes widened. Then they narrowed and icy accusation filled them. She pointedly looked at the ring on his left hand before meeting his eyes again. "And what would your wife think about your curiosity, I wonder?"

  James felt the blow as if it had been physical. The pain that tore through him before was a splinter, a hangnail, compared to the crushing weight of torturous agony that rose up at her words. His stomach churned and, nauseated, he tasted bile in the back of his throat. He habitually ran his thumb over his wedding ring.

  "She probably would have said we could pray …" Then it occurred to him that he didn't owe this young lady an explanation. He didn't need to explain to her why after so long he couldn't yet bear to remove that band of gold. He felt a hard lump growing in his throat and he cleared it loudly and said, "You know what? Never mind. Please pardon my intrusion."

  He reached for his computer bag and stood in one fluid movement. He stepped over stretched legs and then around someone sleeping against a duffle bag as he made his escape.

  Distance. Distance away from the sad, angry blue eyed woman. Distance away from the memories that flooded his mind while he stayed trapped in this airport.

  He stepped into the crowded bar at the end of the terminal. As he walked in, he spied a couple rising from a small round table. Moving quickly through the crowd, he grabbed the chair the man had just vacated, securing the table for himself before someone else could. He did not even want to suffer the temptation of sitting directly at the bar right now.

  He lay his palms flat on the table and stared at the backs of his hands. His wedding ring gleamed in the fluorescent light. He had large hands, strong hands. But they hadn't been strong enough to protect his wife. His wife who gave her life for the future of his company. Of their company.

  Grief choked him. Raw, fresh. Six months later, and the ache still twisted painfully. His heart ached. His stomach hurt. He wanted to find a hole and die, too. Maybe ripping his clothes and rubbing his head with ashes and wailing remained available as an option.

  ¯¯¯¯

  MELODY felt the anger at the man immediately dissipate at the fallen look on his face. Before he even stood, she realized, instinctively, that there was no wife. At least, not anymore. The raw pain that flooded his eyes made her heart ache for him.

  His long legs covered the ground in the terminal quickly, and Melody barely hesitated before scooping up her carryon bag and rushing after him. If nothing else, she owed him an apology.

  She saw him sit down at the little table in the bar, but when he didn't order a drink, she elbowed her way through the crowd and ordered two coffees. Armed with a cup in each hand she approached his table. Approaching strangers was entirely out of character for her, but she smiled and stepped forward as if she did it three times a day. She couldn't help but remember the last time she carried coffee in a cardboard cup to a man.

  He sat perfectly still, as still as stone, staring at his hands that gripped the top of the table. When she set the coffee cup in front of him, he visibly jumped.

  Melody lowered herself into the chair across from him. His angry glare did little to dissuade her. She took a sip of the hot brew and set the cup gently on the table. "I'm on my honeymoon," she said. "Well, returning from it."

  The man raised an eyebrow, brown rimmed glasses bringing out the brown flecks in his hazel eyes. He had dark hair just long enough to show some curl. He wore a light blue dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. She could see the end of his red tie hanging out of his jacket pocket. The fabric of the shirt stretched across his broad chest. After working with the dancers at Julliard, Melody could recognize the build of someone who worked out with dedication.

  "Honeymoon?" He looked at her bare left hand as pointedly as she had looked at his wedding ring moments earlier. "Alone?"

  Melody no longer felt the sting of shame or tears at the thought. She had intended this trip to be a time of renewal. Of decision making. She had spent fourteen days in a hotel in Lo
ndon crying, praying, planning, deciding.

  "Well, you know, there wasn't room for three." She waved a hand dismissingly. "Me, him, his lover."

  A look of understanding gradually relaxed the anger. "I see." He took the coffee and raised it. "It's clearly no reflection on you. Though I just met you and don't know him, I already know that the man is obviously a fool. One hopes you exercise better taste in suitors next time around."

  Melody giggled. "One certainly hopes." She liked the way he spoke, his diction and his careful enunciation. Stepping further out of her character and way out of her comfort zone, she reached forward and touched the ring finger of his left hand. She felt his muscles tense as if he were going to pull back, and felt them relax again. "What happened to your wife?"

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Melody started to pull her hand away, but he moved quickly and turned his hand around, so that their palms touched. Her skin tingled at the contact. He opened his eyes and cleared his throat. "Her name was Angela. And as crazy as it sounds every single time I say it out loud, she was murdered."

  Melody might have expected almost anything but that. With a gasp, she leaned forward and took his hand with both of hers. "That's … awful."

  Something inside him clicked and James found words pouring out of his mouth. "I keep expecting to wake up from this nightmare. Every night, when I go to bed, I want to wake up next to her." His eyes widened at his candor and he shook his head as he pulled his hand away. "I'm sorry. I must be more exhausted than I realized."

  He started to stand, but Melody quickly spoke. "Please don't go."

  He stopped halfway out of the chair and slowly lowered himself again. "I'm not sure —"

  "You don't need to apologize. And we don't need to talk about it if you don't want to. It's just, for the last two weeks, the only people I've spoken to are the room service waiters at the hotel. I'd love to just talk. We can talk about anything you want."

  His smile was a bit forced. "Anything?"

  "Sure." She took another sip of coffee. "Where are you headed?"

  "Home," he said. He cleared his throat. "Atlanta."

  "Fancy that. I'm from Atlanta, too."

  "Born and raised?"

  "Yes, sir. Five generations worth of my family hail from Atlanta."

  He leaned back in his chair and grinned a grin that made her heart skip a little beat. "A real Georgia peach."

  Melody felt her cheeks burn a little. "What do you do?"

  "I own my own business."

  "What kind of business?"

  "Mainly, I bury my head in circuit boards and technical manuals."

  "Sounds exciting." She smiled a flirty smile. "I mean, who doesn't love a good technical manual?"

  Picking up his coffee cup, he saluted her with it. "What about you?"

  "Me?" She ran her tongue over her teeth. "I'm an heiress."

  "An heiress?" His eyes skimmed over her. "Sounds complicated. Are you any good at it?"

  "Not particularly."

  He shook his head and laughed. "Seriously. What do you do?"

  With a shrug, she propped her chin on her hands. "I have a degree from Julliard. I compose, some. And sing, some. And dance, a lot."

  "A singing heiress alone on her honeymoon."

  "That's me." She felt lighter. She kind of liked this game. It almost removed them from the real world.

  "And now that the honeymoon is over?"

  With a sigh she said, "That's the question, isn't it? I've considered going back to school."

  "You could top Julliard?"

  Melody laughed. "Right? I was thinking something along the lines of seminary."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Now that is surprising. You don't strike me as a fire and brimstone kind of girl."

  "No?" With a shrug, she sat back. "I really mean becoming a worship leader. Writing my own stuff."

  "I see."

  She narrowed her eyes. "What does that mean?"

  He held up his hands. "Nothing negative. I don't know a lot about it."

  "A lot about what?"

  "Seminary. Worship. Church. Everything I know about religion I learned from my wife. Angela attended pretty regularly and I had just started going when —"

  He broke off and she thought maybe they needed to steer the conversation away from his wife again. "Did you ever worship? Didn't your parents ever take you to church?"

  "My parents," he said, sitting back and hooking his foot on his knee, "died when I was five. I remember them a little but I grew up in a home with eleven other boys. We didn't do church although some local churches brought us Christmas presents once a year. I usually scored some new socks or underwear."

  Melody nodded. "I see." How different could their lives possibly be, even growing up in the same city? Her childhood consisted of private schools and débutante balls. He spent his youth in an orphanage where he desperately hoped for socks under the tree on Christmas morning. "That sounds really sad. I'm sorry."

  He raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. "I told you I knew something about sadness."

  Melody bumped her cup against his and they sipped. Then she said, "But look where life has led you. All the way to, well, New Jersey anyway."

  With a shrug he took another sip of coffee. "Life always ends in death." He pulled a phone out of his pocket. "At least, that's been my experience." He glanced at the screen on his phone. "The airline just texted me to give me updated flight information."

  Melody consulted her phone. "Me too."

  He looked at his watch. "Looks like we'll be getting out of here in the next hour."

  Melody raised her cup to him. "Praise the Lord," she said.

  ¯¯¯¯

  CHAPTER 3

  A light touch on her shoulder startled Melody awake. It took a moment for her to regain her bearings. "Please put your seat up, ma'am. We're approaching Atlanta." The flight attendant moved to the next sleeping passenger in the first class cabin as Melody sat up and slipped her feet back into her shoes. She lifted the shade on her window and squinted against the bright dawn.

  She turned her head and looked around behind her again, her eyes carefully scanning the full cabin. Every seat, save the one next to her that should have been her husband's, was taken. The curtain separating first class from business class remained closed. She'd hoped to catch a glimpse of her coffee companion. Maybe she'd spot him when she collected her luggage.

  She looked out the window and watched Atlanta approach. She saw the sprawling estates on the outside of town and pinpointed a few owned by friends. The closer they got to the city, the smaller and smaller the yards got until she saw perfect picturesque neighborhoods that looked like little dollhouse towns. Outside of the airport, she saw the already heavy traffic on the knots of interstate systems working through one of the most heavily traveled cities in the United States. Already she didn't look forward to the commute home in the morning rush hour traffic.

  Once the jet landed and they arrived at the gate, she grabbed her tote from under the seat in front of her and stood, relieved to be home. As Melody entered the terminal, she strode past the red jacket clad greeter and scanned the boards until she found the one that directed her to the appropriate baggage claim area.

  After a brief stop in the ladies' room and freshening up by brushing her teeth and running a comb through her hair, she continued to baggage claim, hoping to catch a glimpse of her handsome stranger. Something about him made her hope she got the chance. She wanted to get to know him better.

  As she waited for her luggage, Melody looked all around but never saw the man from the Newark layover. Disappointment weighed heavily on her heart. She should have waited for him on the plane. He would have had to pass her to disembark, and she could have walked with him. They could have at least traded names, if not phone numbers. But, that cup of coffee she'd shared with him before the flight had made the trip to the ladies' room an essential first stop. Now she'd missed him.

  A few minutes later, after secu
ring all of her luggage together, she headed to the exit to catch the shuttle to her car. The bright Georgia sunlight covered her in welcoming warmth after hiding in a soggy London hotel room for so long. She filled her lungs with warm Georgia air. As she slipped on her sunglasses and turned, her heart fell straight into her stomach and panic gripped her throat.

  Richard stood outside the baggage claim door, clearly waiting for her. When he saw her, he stuffed his phone back into his pocket and clenched his fists as he stepped forward. "There you are. I've been waiting here for hours."

  "The flight was delayed," she whispered. Then it occurred to her that she didn't owe Richard any kind of explanation. She cleared her throat and raised her chin defiantly. "What are you doing here? What do you want, Richard?"

  ¯¯¯¯

  JAMES loitered near the taxi stand wondering what he thought he was doing. If the singing heiress was so interested in him, she would have waited for him to get off of the plane. Instead, by the time he entered the terminal, she had vanished clean out of sight.

  He should have taken that as a hint that she just wasn't interested. But for some reason, he wasn't willing to believe it no matter how many times he told himself.

  When she finally came through the doors, he straightened to intercept her. If nothing else, he wanted to learn her name. Maybe, when the pain of Angela's death didn't feel so fresh, he'd look her up. Maybe they could get to know each other better. Maybe they could just be friends. Maybe a genuine new friend would do him some very real good.

  He watched her freeze as she slipped on her sunglasses. Even behind the dark frames, he could see the blood drain from her face. She put a quivering hand to her stomach. All of his senses came fully alert and James tried to spy out whatever had her so shaken.