Heart & Soul: A Guitar Girl Contemporary Inspirational Romance (A Guitar Girl Romance Book 3)

by Hope Franke

  Callum folded his hands in front of his chest. “I’ll collect you in the morning and deliver you to the airport myself. Good-day.”

  Like a storm, he left as abruptly as he came. Gabriele felt like she’d just been hit by a tidal wave, her feet knocked out from under her, her body twisting and jerking under silt-strewn water. Blind. Deaf. Drowning.

  Then . . .

  QUIET AND SOLITUDE. That was all Gabriele wanted. Somehow she’d made it through the funeral. It was sad, much like her wedding had been, in that all the people who had come were there for her. Lennon didn’t have anybody but her.

  It was like she had married a ghost.

  She curled up in a tight knot in the bed she’d shared with Lennon. It felt too big now. She could spread eagle her arms and legs—there was space enough, but the act made her feel exposed and vulnerable. She was like a newborn who found comfort in her strange, new scary world by curling up in a fetal position, knees to chin, thighs pressed against her chest, containing the pain.

  It had been a week already, and she still couldn’t believe he was gone. When she closed her eyes, she could imagine him lying beside her. She often moved in and out of restless sleep where he’d meet her. She’d stretch out her arm to touch him, only to be reminded like a cold slap to the face that he wasn’t there.

  Every morning she’d wake up and listen for the sound of the shower, evidence that Lennon was still with her, that her life hadn’t been randomly tossed upside down, that she wasn’t in some kind of horrific, haunted fairground ride, spinning her around and around out of control.

  Sometimes her dreams were so real, she could smell his skin and taste his mouth. She’d sit up breathless, only to remember the horrible truth that Lennon was gone.

  He knew. She didn’t know how but he knew. That last night when he loved her like he was dying, like he’d never see her again, he was saying good-bye.

  A deep moan escaped from an unquenchable place in her soul.

  If she could only just sleep and sleep and sleep and never wake up. They could be together again.

  She curled up tighter.

  Her phone buzzed on the mattress by her pillow. She knew who it was. It was always the same person.

  Eva Baumann

  Do you want company?

  Gabriele Baumann-Smith

  I just want to be alone.

  Eva Baumann

  Mama and I could come with a meal.

  Gabriele groaned. The last thing she needed was to engage in small talk, meaningless banter about anything and everything that wasn’t Lennon.

  Gabriele Baumann-Smith

  I just want to be alone.

  Eva Baumann

  You can’t hole up alone forever.

  Gabriele Baumann-Smith

  I’m not asking for forever. I’m just asking for today.

  And tomorrow. And maybe forever.

  Eva Baumann

  Okay. I’ll check in tomorrow.

  Gabriele Baumann-Smith

  Okay.

  Maybe.

  CALLUM WAITED in the darkened second-story room, awake long before the first light in the cottage went on. Gabriele was up in plenty of time to make the first flight out of London to Dresden and Callum grinned smugly. This was going to be easier than he thought.

  He’d gone for the jugular the night before, and a small part of him felt badly for the girl. Her anguish was clear. He had dropped a bomb and then left without helping the wounded.

  He sipped his coffee and checked the time. He couldn’t wait until it was time to pick her up. He just wanted to get this over with.

  Callum didn’t doubt that Gabriele was a nice girl. His brother had only been attracted to nice girls. But Mick was gone now, and his widow was partly to blame for that—a fact that coated his heart with lacquer, making him more eager than ever to ship her away for good.

  Unless he could use her to lure his brother’s killers out in the open? Had Mrs. Smith stayed in Germany she would’ve remained under the radar. They’d silenced the one who could testify and had the power to send them all to prison. Mick was the only one they had cared about.

  But if they found out his wife was here in England, they might make a move, purely out of revenge or whatever other insane reasonings they had for all the things they did. If he played his cards right, using Gabriele Baumann as bait, he could nail them once and for all.

  Tempting.

  Except that he’d promised his brother to keep her safe. And that meant returning her to Germany before their enemies knew she was on British soil.

  The sale of the cottage could proceed. Callum didn’t resent his brother too much for leaving it to his wife. Callum had enough money and though it would’ve been nice to continue to rent the cottage, he was also ready to be relieved of the responsibility.

  He couldn’t wait to get back to his flat in London, back to the work that awaited him there. His colleagues were more than capable, but he didn’t like the feeling that he wasn’t pulling up his share of the workload. The time he spent here chasing Gabriele away was valuable and wasted.

  The terrace door of the cottage opened, and Callum sat up. Gabriele’s pretty head stuck out and she looked up at his window. He pulled back slightly even though he knew she couldn’t see him sitting in the dark, especially behind the net curtains.

  Gabriele exited and locked the door. She glanced up at him one more time and then skipped on the stairs to the beach and took off at a jog.

  What the heck?

  Callum sprinted down the stairs, grabbing his blue jacket on his way out. He shrugged it on while jogging, and removed the hat and glasses from his pockets and put them on. It wasn’t so early that people weren’t out and about, and he was recognizable. His family had lived in Emsworth for a long time, and his dad had been well known and respected in the community. If anyone recognized Callum, they wouldn’t hesitate to pull him over to chat, especially in light of the tragic circumstances that surrounded him. Callum was one of theirs. He pulled his cap down lower.

  He caught sight of her purple autumn jacket and slowed his pace. It wasn’t like he could drag her by the hair to the airport. He pulled his stunt the night before hoping that she’d want to run back to her mama in Germany. She had more gumption that he’d given her credit for. He regretfully acknowledged a sprig of admiration.

  He turned the corner by 36 on the Quay and panicked when he didn’t spot her on the road. That girl was moving more quickly than he’d thought. He broke into a jog, hoping to catch sight of her around the curve in the road but couldn’t spot her auburn ponytail anywhere.

  AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT of fitful sleep, Gabriele found herself sitting blurry eyed on a tall stool at the bar in the Irish Pub. She’d outsmarted her neighbour by taking the long route and circling back to the pub. Bike riding to work in Dresden had kept her in shape. She smirked. Callum Jones could take the next flight to Dresden and shove it.

  Gabriele ordered coffee.

  “Top of the morning to ya,” the bartender said, pouring her a strong cup. He was lean with pale skin and black hair. His face was attractive, with dark brows over grey eyes, a strong jaw and a flirty smile. He extended his hand. “The name’s Riley.”

  She shook it in response. “Gabriele.”

  “Where ya from, Gabriele?”

  “Germany. Let me guess. You’re from Ireland.”

  “Ah, she’s astute and beautiful.”

  Gabriele let out a guffaw. She usually considered herself attractive, but not today. She didn’t even bother to put on her makeup and she knew her eyes were bloodshot and frightful.

  She was just finishing her second cup when the redheaded girl, Ciara, began a new shift. She had her hair swept up in a messy copper bun, like she’d forgone her brush and used her fingers instead. Gabriele liked her.

  “Oh, good,” Riley began, “the help has arrived. Finally.”

  The girl smirked and took her spot behind the bar.

  “This is our guest Gabriel
e,” he continued. “I’ll leave you in Ciara’s capable hands.”

  “Hi, Ciara,” Gabriele said. Would it be weird to switch to something stronger?”

  Ciara cocked a brow, then placed a clean mug under the spigot. “Well, this is a pub.”

  “I’m just kidding.”

  Ciara grinned. “At least you could walk home.”

  “How do you know that?” Gabriele demanded. “How does everyone already know my business? I’ve only been here for one and a half days!”

  Ciara laughed. “It’s a small town.”

  Gabriele grunted. “So I’ve heard. With your name and your accent, I gather you aren’t a local either.”

  “Nah. But my brother bought this place. I came for a summer job and have been here for two years now.”

  Gabriele narrowed her eyes as her gazed moved from Ciara to Riley. “That’s your brother?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  His hair colour was different than Ciara’s but Gabriele could see the resemblance.

  “I take it you’re from Germany?” Ciara asked.

  “Is my accent that strong?”

  “Not really. Small town, remember?”

  “Dresden.” Gabriele lowered her voice and cricked her finger, calling Ciara closer. She whispered conspiratorially. “How much do you know about the Jones brothers?”

  Ciara shook her head and whispered back. “Don’t know no Jones brothers.”

  “What about Smith brothers?”

  Ciara shrugged. “Jones and Smith are very popular surnames. Nothing jumps out to me.” She tilted her head and arched an auburn brow. “Do these brothers have something to do with your choice of breakfast?”

  Gabriele grunted. “You could say that.”

  “I can get you eggs and toast.”

  That sounded good, but before Gabriele could respond her attention was grabbed by a stir behind her. The pub had been filling up with patrons looking for breakfast. A cute blond girl had entered and pulled up a seat at a crowded table. The guys and girls there seemed quite taken with her.

  “Who’s that?” Gabriele asked.

  “Now there’s a story,” Ciara said. “That’s Clover Swift. She dated a guy straight through year ten and into uni. One day, he just disappeared. Poof. And only a week after his father had passed. People still talk about it. Some think he went off the deep end, just unable to handle his grief. Others are imagining something much more sinister.”

  Gabriele’s heart skipped a beat. “What was the guy’s name, the one who disappeared?”

  “Mick Leatherby.”

  Gabriele exhaled. It wasn’t her Lennon.

  “I never met the bloke myself,” Ciara continued while drying a beer mug by hand. “It all happened just before I came to town, so the news was big then. Only the twin brother left now. Apparently their mum died in childbirth.”

  Twin?

  “What’s the brother’s name?”

  “Callum.”

  Gabriele’s breath hitched. A coincidence, that was all. Callum was a common name in these parts, wasn’t it? She dug up her phone, pawing at it until she pulled up the photo she’d taken of Lennon the day before he died. The one that made him so angry.

  “Is this... Mick?”

  Ciara squinted. “Could be. Could be an old picture of Callum. That’s what he looked like before he joined the army. He came in here a couple of times before he left.” She studied Gabriele with narrowed eyes. “How did you get that?”

  Gabriele swiveled back to look at Clover Swift. She had been Lennon’s girlfriend? She was slender with platinum blond hair, the same hair colour and style Gabriele used to have.

  Suddenly she felt sick to her stomach.

  “Are you all right?” Ciara asked. “You don’t look well.” She pointed. “The loo’s down the hall. Turn left by the entrance.”

  Gabriele threw a bunch of bills on the counter and grabbed her purse. “Thanks, Ciara.”

  “Sure. Come ‘round again.”

  Gabriele just wanted to go home, crawl into bed and suffocate herself with the pillow. She pushed through the door, turned around the corner and ran smack into a hard muscular body.

  Blue coat. Black cap. Sunglasses. The disguise helped to conceal his identity, but she knew who he was.

  Her stalker Callum Jones.

  Or should she say Callum Leatherby.

  He lowered his glasses and stared down at her. With Lennon’s face. Lennon’s beautiful face.

  Grief sprung suddenly, tearing and ripping, like loose seams pulled apart thread by thread. The sob exploded from a deep place and she couldn’t stop herself from throwing herself at him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and heaved into his chest. For this moment, this one sliver of time, she let herself believe it was Lennon. That he was alive and had come back for her.

  Callum’s arms stayed resolutely by his side, his stiff stance reminding her, confirming to her, that this body, this face, didn’t belong to Lennon.

  Didn’t belong to her.

  She pulled back awash with embarrassment.

  “Forgive me.” She pushed past him, digging for a tissue to mop her face.

  She heard his heavy footsteps follow from behind.

  “I know my way home,” she said, really wanting to be alone.

  “It’s my way home, too.”

  They walked in silence, except for the call of the birds yet to head south for the winter, down the narrow road that led to the cottage and the house. Gabriele put a hand up when Callum began to follow her down the path to her front door. “I can manage from here.”

  “I’m going to walk you to your door if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind.”

  “I’m going to walk you even if you do mind.”

  Gabriele huffed, unsure of how to manage the bundle of emotions swirling in her, including exasperation and a rapidly growing dislike for the brother of the only man she ever loved.

  She thought for a second that he was going to follow her inside, but he stopped a metre away. She glanced back, amazed at how Callum’s face caused her so much pain.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, 8 a.m. sharp,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m taking you to the airport, remember? Be ready. And don’t try to dodge me again.” He disappeared into the trees, and she seethed.

  A new determination hammered a stake into the ground. She wasn’t leaving without getting answers to her questions about Lennon. She had to learn everything she could about him. What were his parents like? What was his childhood with Callum like? Who exactly was Clover Swift and did she grieve over Lennon the way Gabriele did?

  Why did Lennon change his name?

  Why didn’t he tell her about his girlfriend?

  Gabriele set her alarm for 07:00. She would disappear somewhere in this tiny town before Callum Jones, aka Callum Leatherby swooped in to ship her away.

  Then . . .

  GABRIELE MOVED BACK into the Baumann flat two weeks after Lennon died. Her mama had encouraged her to come back. “It’s not good for you to be alone with only memories.”

  And even though her boss had said she’d hold Gabriele’s job for a month, which was now up, Gabriele could only commit to part-time work. She still felt too fragile to engage with the public for more than a few hours a week, which meant she couldn’t keep her flat on her own and she had to accept her parents’ invitation to return to her childhood home.

  She spent most of her time in her bedroom lying on her narrow bed, staring at the ceiling while holding a cushion to her stomach. It was a revised version of the fetal position, but since she now shared this space with her sister, she didn’t want to be caught in obvious mourning.

  Mourning was a private affair. People didn’t want to witness her grief. Lennon had only been gone for four weeks, but they had already moved on. The living have to keep on living and all that.

  She went through the motions of recovering to ease their discomfort, but her pain settled in lik
e a wild furry creature hibernating through the winter. It wasn’t easily seen on the surface, but it was there. A quiet angry bear.

  Her mama knocked before poking her head in. “How are you, today, Schatze?”

  Gabriele mumbled, “I’m fine.”

  Mama sat on the edge of her bed and took her hand. “Let me pray for you.”

  Gabriele tensed. Her mama came in every day to pray. What good did it do? No prayer large enough could bring Lennon back. No amount of sermonizing would explain why God had taken him away. A stupid, senseless shooting. The police couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say who the shooter was. Was it a random robbery? Or a case of mistaken identity?

  Something more sinister?

  Regardless, no perpetrator had been apprehended.

  A bitter taste coated the back of her throat. How could Lennon be taken and no one held to account? Where was the justice?

  She pulled her hand free. “I’d rather you not.”

  “Gabi.”

  “Please, Mama. I think God has done enough. Or not enough. I really don’t think he cares.”

  Her mama’s eyes welled up again. One of a thousand times she’d shed tears and shared in her daughter’s pain. “Of course he does.”

  “Please, Mama. Just let me be. I’ll be fine eventually, okay? I just need more time.”

  Like eternity.

  Mama stood and stared at her with uncertainty. Gabriele sat up and reached for the guitar on the stand by her bed. Her mama’s concern softened a little. Music was therapy in her eyes. She listened to Gabriele play for a few minutes, smiled weakly and left the room.

  Gabriele continued to play. Her guitar was the only thing that brought her a measure of solace. The calluses on her fingers had thickened over the last weeks as she played often, sometimes for hours at a time.

  She never sang along. She couldn’t stand to sing a happy song. She couldn’t bear to sing a sad one. She could only hope to lose herself in the melody.