by Hope Franke
The intensity of his hunger and need overwhelmed her. She’d never seen this side of him. Never knew this existed. She was too breathless to speak. She let go of all her inhibitions, matching his passion in her expression, giving herself, losing herself. Loving him.
They missed their reservation.
Lennon flopped on his back, breathing deeply. Gabriele pulled the sheets up under her chin, feeling stunned by Lennon’s aggressive lovemaking. He’d never devoured her like this before. It excited and frightened her.
He rolled onto his side and stroked her hair. “Are you okay?”
She turned onto her side to face him. “Yeah, are you?”
“Never better.” He kissed her head. “But now I’m starving.”
Food was the last thing on her mind, but now that Lennon had mentioned it, her stomach woke up and growled. “Me, too.”
“I’ll run out for gyros,” he said. He jumped out of bed and dressed. Gabriele just nodded and mumbled. She hadn’t fully recovered from Lennon’s ravenous love making. Anything he said would be fine by her.
She roused herself out of bed and dressed in her pajamas. It was early in the evening, but she didn’t feel like putting on clothes. She brushed her teeth and washed her face, applying a touch of mascara. Lennon obviously didn’t mind her bare face, but she felt better with a little makeup on. After what they just experienced together, she wanted to look good for him when he returned.
She checked her phone and found a text from Julia asking if Gabriele wanted to go shopping with her sometime and one from Eva thanking her for the picture she’d sent of her and Sebastian from the night before.
She checked the time. Lennon had been gone forty-five minutes. The gyros restaurant was just down the street. He was normally there and back within twenty minutes.
Another twenty minutes passed and she picked up her phone once again, intending to text him, but before she had a chance, a text came in from him.
Lennon Smith
No matter what happens, I love you.
Gabriele froze. No matter what happens? What did Lennon mean by that?
Gabriele Baumann-Smith
What do you mean? What’s happening?
She waited for a response but when none came, she texted again.
Gabriele Baumann-Smith
Where are you??
She couldn’t fight the dense wave of rising panic. Something was wrong. Why didn’t he text her back?
Gabriele Baumann-Smith
Lennon?!
GABRIELE SPENT the morning walking up and down the beach. It was too cold to go barefoot, and even with the sun shining, she needed to keep her jacket zipped. She was fascinated with the ocean life the sea discarded on the shore: seaweed, shells, driftwood.
Gabriele imagined Lennon playing here as a boy. Fishing in a little dingy. Sailing. Maybe he brought his girlfriends to the pond on the other side of Callum Jones’s house. Close, but out of sight.
Her heart squeezed. Lennon never spoke of a specific girlfriend. Now that Gabriele thought about it, everything Lennon ever told her about his past was in broad, vague strokes. He told her he lived in England, outside of London, but not specifically where. Same with schools, no full names of friends. He worked at a car wash growing up, but Gabriele couldn’t say which one. She didn’t see a car wash here in Emsworth.
They had talked a lot about music, books and current events. Her schooling and their wedding. Always about the moment, but hardly anything about the past. And very little about the future, Gabriele realized. Except that Lennon made it clear he wanted to settle down into a quiet life, something Gabriele had agreed to consider after they had a little adventure.
She had been extremely busy with university and then with wedding plans. The truth was, she and Lennon were only together for a year before they wed. She loved him, that was undeniable, but had she really known him?
She had wrongly believed that she’d have the rest of her life to get to know him. Now she never would.
She wiped at tears that dampened her face and she headed back to the cottage. She needed to buy a few groceries as it was unlikely that another neighbour would be so kind as to bring her lunch. She headed out the backdoor to the narrow road and into town.
Gabriele paused at the corner that intersected with a main road and stared once again at the pub. It had white plaster walls with dark wood framing an old door with wrought-iron hinges. Across the street was a key-cutting shop tucked between a Chinese takeaway restaurant on one side and a natural herbs store on the other. The sandwich sign on the pavement in front of her informed Gabriele that open mic night was tomorrow. Not for the first time, she wished she’d brought her guitar. Impulsively, she stepped inside.
The room had low ceilings and was dimly lit. The interior walls, like the exterior, were whitewashed with exposed dark beams running along. High shelves housed a collection of beer mugs and other mementos.
Most of the tables were full with patrons eating lunch. Gabriele smelled the strong vinegary scent of fish and chips. According to the chalk-drawn menu hanging on the wall behind the bar, seafood was a specialty.
A redheaded girl about Gabriele’s age manned the bar. Her eyes were very dark, almost black and she wore no makeup which made them appear even more prominent against her silky white skin and high cheekbones. Her name tag read Ciara. She flashed Gabriele a smile revealing a row of very nice, white teeth.
“Can I get you something?” The girl’s voice had a playful, Irish lilt to it. Gabriele couldn’t help but smile back.
“Uh, no. I’m, I was just passing by.”
“Sure. Take a look around. Let me know if you change your mind.”
“Thanks,” Gabriele said as she moved towards the door. The atmosphere appealed to her. Maybe she would come tomorrow night to listen to the local talent.
Gabriele put on her sunglasses the minute she stepped outside. She noticed a man standing on the corner, broad shouldered in a navy blue jacket, a black cap on his head, and dark sunglasses on his face. He spun away, turning his back to her the moment she glanced at him and then he disappeared.
Not everyone in Emsworth was the friendly sort.
She took her time in the grocery store, amusing herself with all the different kinds of foods. She was disappointed by the lack of “real” bread, the dark, dense, seedy kind she loved to eat back home, but allowed herself to be adventurous and try something new. At least the fruits and vegetables were recognizable.
She almost bought too much to carry and made a note to buy less next time and make extra trips if necessary.
She blinked twice, sure she’d seen the man in the blue coat again. He’d disappeared behind a service van, and when the vehicle passed, the man was gone.
Gabriele broke out in goose pimples. Was someone following her?
Then . . .
GABRIELE PUT a hand to the hard pounding in her chest. She stood frozen to the spot, unsure of what to do next. Call the police? And tell them her husband just texted her a strange love note? That he’s been gone for less than two hours?
Instinctively she knew she should get dressed. Whatever explanation Lennon had for her when he got home, she didn’t want to be wearing her pajamas when she heard it.
Gabriele dug through her wardrobe until she found a clean pair of jeans and then slipped a comfortable, light knit cardigan over her head.
She brushed her hair and worked a palm full of mousse into the strands, giving it life. She examined her dark roots. She’d have to get another cut and colour soon.
The mirror only distracted her for so long. Her stomach stirred with sour juices. Where was Lennon?
She checked her phone again. No new messages.
No matter what happens, I love you.
Gabriele’s heart thudded in her chest. Lennon hadn’t been himself lately. Now that she thought about it, he’d seemed quieter than usual. Tense. Was he in some kind of trouble? Why hadn’t he confided in her? Wasn’t that what married coup
les did?
She lowered herself onto the sofa and waited. She repeatedly checked the time on her phone. She called and left another message on his voice mail.
A thick knot of dread brewed in her belly. Lennon.
Down deep she knew. She just knew.
A knock on the door. Oh, God. Lennon wouldn’t knock.
Her legs were like lead, barely able to carry her through the growing emotional smog. She opened the door, and her eyes burned at the sight of the two policemen standing there.
“Are you Frau Gabriele Baumann-Smith?”
Gabriele nodded once.
“There has been a shooting incident. We regret to inform you that your husband, Lennon Smith, has been killed.”
THE BULKY WEIGHT of the grocery bags in her arms caused Gabriele to navigate the walk back slowly. Her heart jumped when she arrived at the front door. A guitar case sat on the step. Gabriele dumped her bag of groceries on the ground beside it. A white piece of paper trapped under the instrument flickered in the breeze. She snapped it out and read:
I heard you like to play guitar.
Please feel free to borrow mine for the length of your stay.
Callum
Gabriele’s heart jumped with anxiety. Who was this guy? She felt more than a little unnerved by the fact that this man, this stranger, seemed to know so much about her. If he was trying to freak her out, it was working.
Gabriele stepped around the guitar to bring the groceries inside and put them away. Then she went outside, and stared at the guitar case.
It looked expensive. Unmarred. Almost new. It wasn’t new, was it? He didn’t buy it just for her to play, did he?
Oh, God.
Was he the guy in the blue jacket?
Gabriele twisted to scan the trees and the walled area that divided the cottage from the house. She stared up at the upper-floor windows. Was he watching her from there?
A rush of cool adrenaline flooded her chest. She no longer felt safe sitting outside alone.
She almost left the guitar outside on the step, but feared Callum Jones would come over if he spotted it left outside. She carried it in and locked the door.
Tears burned at the back of her eyes. Maybe she should go back to Germany sooner than later. Sell the cottage like Lennon had wanted her to. He must’ve had a reason not to tell her about this place, and Gabriele wouldn’t doubt if those reasons had something to do with the elusive, yet intrusive, overly generous neighbour.
Her fear was slowly eclipsed by indignation. Who did this guy Callum Jones think he was? Why would she let him, someone she hadn’t even met, scare her away? She would go back to Germany when she was good and ready. She would sell or not sell because she decided to, not because she felt pushed out.
Gabriele’s nerves settled enough that she could make herself a pot of soup and even managed to force down a soft sweet bun. She made coffee, foaming the milk with the hand foamer she’d brought with her and then stared at the guitar case where she’d left it in the living room.
She wouldn’t play it. Tomorrow morning, hoping Callum Jones had a job and would be at work, she’d drop it off with a “thanks, but no thanks” note.
By mid-afternoon, Gabriele was already exhausted. The events of the last few days had taken their toll. Her adrenaline rush had lapsed and fatigue had rushed in to replace it. She meant to lie down for just a few minutes, but when she awoke, it was already dark.
She fumbled with the lamp on the nightstand, feeling momentarily discombobulated, before remembering once again where she was and why.
She went through the motions of starting a fire, no mishaps this time, and made herself a cheese and tomato sandwich.
Gabriele’s eyes darted back to the guitar case. She sighed. Since the guitar was here anyway, she might as well try it out.
Out the window she could see the night sky was clear, sprinkled with a host of sparkling stars. She stared at them and thought of Lennon. He was in a better place. She had told herself this over and over again over the last year. She thought maybe now she was starting to believe it.
She unbuckled the case and gasped. Inside was a classic Fender. She picked it up gently and cradled it on her lap. The mahogany top was smooth and unmarred. The strings were new, and she spent a few minutes tuning, running her fingers along the rosewood fingerboard, then she began plucking, filling the cottage with its warm, bright tone.
She hummed a tune, letting new words tumble in her mind. She quickly reached for her notebook sitting on the coffee table and began to scribble.
We say that the stars are just
Holes in the night sky
Letting the light shine in
From a better world
She played and wrote furiously until her fingers ached and the fire in the woodstove died out. Once she felt the song was done, or at least as done as she was capable of doing in one sitting, she put the guitar back into its case and buckled the snaps, feeling the sense of euphoria that came with creating something.
Her phone buzzed on the table where she’d left it. Eva again, she assumed. Her family worried about her so much.
She froze when she saw the name.
Callum Jones
Gabriele, is the guitar to your liking?
Gabriele collapsed into a chair. Why hadn’t she taken the time to write and deliver a stupid thank-you note for the breakfast? Texting her gratitude was a dumb thing to do.
Should she answer or ignore?
Ignore.
Ten minutes later.
Callum Jones
Perhaps I’ve overstepped. If you don’t like it, just leave it on the step and I’ll collect it in the morning before work.
So, he did work. Which meant he didn’t spend his days following her. Now she felt stupid and ungrateful.
Gabriele Baumann-Smith
It’s very nice. Thanks.
Callum Jones
I hear you are the new owner of the cottage and want to sell. I may know of a buyer.
How did he know that?
Gabriele Baumann-Smith
How do you know that?
Callum Jones
It’s a small town. People talk.
Oh. Was that all there was to it?
Gabriele Baumann-Smith
I’d be curious to know who knew I liked foamed milk in my coffee or that I played guitar. Especially, since I didn’t arrive with a guitar and had yet to order a coffee in town.
Callum Jones
It’s best if you just sell and be on your way.
Now Gabriele was annoyed. She wasn’t about to be told what to do by a virtual stranger.
Gabriele Baumann-Smith
What makes you think I want to sell?
Callum Jones
You want to. Trust me.
Gabriele huffed.
Gabriele Baumann-Smith
Why should I trust you? And for the record, I don’t.
Another ten minutes passed and Gabriele thought maybe she’d shaken him. Then her phone buzzed again.
Callum Jones
I think it’s time we met.
Gabriele Baumann-Smith
I don’t think so.
Callum Jones
I’m coming over now.
Gabriele Baumann-Smith
If you do, I’ll call the police.
Callum Jones
You don’t want to do that.
Gabriele Baumann-Smith
I think maybe I do.
The lock on the terrace door clicked and the door inched open. Gabriele screeched. A man stood in the doorway with a mobile clenched in one hand and a key in the other.
“I don’t mean to scare you,” he said, “but there’s no good way to do this.”
The blood drained to Gabriele’s feet as she gawked at his familiar face. “L-lennon?”
“I’m not Lennon. I’m his twin brother.”
GABRIELE GRABBED AT HER CHEST, a rattling tin can, and tried to catch her breath. She paced the floor with short jagge
d steps, casting piercing glances at the man before her, the man who looked exactly like her husband.
She felt faint and her forehead grew damp.
She sat. Then stood.
She stared hard at Callum Jones. He looked so much like Lennon. It took all her willpower not to throw herself into his arms. “Oh, mercy,” she said breathlessly. “Why didn’t he tell me about you?”
“He had his reasons.”
“His reasons? I am his wife! This is a pretty big secret!”
She sat again. Frowning, she took a long look at her husband’s brother. On second thought they weren’t exactly the same. Where Lennon had hair long enough to cover his face, Callum’s, though the same dark colour, was much shorter. Where Lennon was lean and walked with a relaxed swagger, Callum was bulkier like he spent a lot of time working out. He stood straight with his shoulders back, not at all relaxed.
Where Lennon smiled, at least when looking at Gabriele, Callum’s expression remained stern. It was Lennon’s face, but rock hard. When Lennon had watched her, his gaze was always filled with adoration. Callum’s eyes were filled with something else. Distrust? Dislike?
“I need an explanation,” she finally said.
“I’m afraid I can’t give you one.”
“I’m not leaving until I get some answers.”
