Hearts in Harmony Read online

  Also by Gemma Brocato

  Five Senses

  Cooking Up Love

  Hearts In Harmony

  HEARTS IN HARMONY

  Five Senses, Book Two

  By GEMMA BROCATO

  LYRICAL PRESS

  http://lyricalpress.com/

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

  To my wonderful husband. Your love and support mean the world to me. If you were a wink, I’d be your nod.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Andrea Dalton, MA, MT-BC of the Kansas City Metro Music Therapists organization: Your guidance, insight and willingness to put up with my questions about your profession and read the manuscript for accuracy are greatly appreciated. As is your friendship.

  To my friend Elizabeth Kennedy: Thank you for answering my questions about physical therapy and for your excitement about my work.

  To my critique partners and the Midwest Romance Writers: To borrow one of Jack Kerrigan’s sayings You are all wicked awesome.

  1

  As days went, this one was made to order. Misty. Gloomy. A perfect day…for a funeral.

  Dark gray skies over Granite Pointe, Massachusetts contrasted with the unrelieved black of the mourners surrounding an open grave. Mother Nature shared her grief for the loss of one of her warrior sons with the world, her complaints audible as wind gusted through the leaves overhead, making them tremble and dance. The only people not grieving were the fools who’d decided to turn a soldier’s solemn goodbye into a protest zone.

  Pippa Sanders stood behind the minister, the corners of her mouth pulled south, struggling to control her anger at the group of zealots standing a mere one hundred yards away. Their chants and songs might be muffled, but she heard. And sweet baby Jesus, children the same age as her own twins held signs proclaiming God hated some of His children. Pippa shook her head slightly and blinked away tears. These people were making a statement. Even if she disagreed with it, this funeral was for Corporal Colin Wright, a man who had given his life defending their right to make it. The worst possible expression of irony.

  A line of people dressed in leather coats, jeans and bandanas stood tall and silent, at parade rest, a human barricade between the protesters and the mourners. The faces of the men and women guarding a position beyond the gravesite were stoic. If they were angry with the protesters behind them, it wasn’t evident. In a way, they reminded Pippa of the Queen’s Guard around Buckingham Palace. Eyes level…no emotion. Cold. Their flinty-eyed forward stares suggested they battled to maintain a shred of composure against the hate spewing behind them. Their military training held true. They didn’t react. Each person steadily obeyed orders to not respond. They did their jobs.

  Pippa’s job—to lead the gathered mourners in a song at the end of the ceremony—would begin shortly. She loved to sing, almost as much as she hated military funerals. Forcing her gaze away from the protesters, she focused on the minister’s comforting words, taking several deep, calming breaths in preparation for her portion of it.

  God give me strength. Please help me get through this. She repeated the words in her mind to bolster her courage.

  “Let us bow our heads and pray the Lord’s prayer… Our Father,” the minister intoned as the crowd around him took up the prayer in unison.

  Pippa bowed her head and spoke the words along with others. She’d never understood how it could be the Lord’s will to take a father away from a son, a husband from a wife. She glanced at Mary and Ethan Wright when the prayer ended, huddled together, clutching each other for comfort.

  Reverend Crane cleared his throat. “Mary told me that Colin and Ethan ended every video chat with a song. They loved singing. And, any of you here today who ever attended Sunday morning services when Colin came home on leave know that Ethan and his father shared of love of gospel music.” A ripple of laughter fluttered over the assembled mourners. Reverend Crane held his hand out to the young boy, an invitation to step to the head of the casket. When Ethan came forward, Pippa moved next to him, taking his hand. “They had a favorite song, Soon, and Very Soon. A song that sings of rejoicing and celebration. Of seeing the face of the Lord. Ethan specifically requested this as our final prayer today. Colin used to say nothing was sweeter than the sound of his boy’s voice. Are you ready, son?”

  Ethan nodded his head.

  Pippa bent to whisper in his ear. “Okay, Ethan. Hold my hand and think about how big your daddy’s smile will be when he hears your voice. If you get sad, just squeeze. Alright?” At the eight-year-old’s nod, she hummed in his ear and straightened.

  On cue, the child began singing a gospel spiritual. “Soon, and very soon, I’m going to see the Lord. Soon, and very soon…”

  Pippa joined him and looked at the congregation, lifting her hand, a request for them to sing along. Tears shimmered in nearly every eye, but the faces were lined with encouraging smiles. Once they got going, several mourners began clapping their hands, even Mary, although she stopped frequently to brush her tears away. Ethan squeezed hard, drawing Pippa’s eyes. She swung their joined hands, singing louder, covering for the boy until he regained his control. He was doing remarkably well, considering he was only eight. Much too young to lose a father.

  When the song ended, Pippa turned and embraced Ethan before steering him back toward his mother, who waited with tears on her cheeks, her arms wide. The boy flung himself into her hug as the sun peeked through the clouds, sending warm light across the cemetery.

  Mary looked up at the light shining through the top of the awning, then back at her son. “Oh, Ethan. Your daddy heard.” She smothered the child with kisses, then stood, holding him close, and accepted the condolences of family and friends who’d come to bid her husband farewell. In the background, the sorrowful sound of a bagpiper playing Taps echoed against the gray sky.

  “Thank you, Pippa. For being here for Mary and Ethan,” Crane said as mourners moved toward their cars. He gestured toward the protesters behind the unbreakable line of the motorcycle Honor Guard. “Funerals like this are just made harder by people who breathe hatred. But when you were singing, even they shut up.”

  “I’m glad the Guard was here. I hope the celebration of Colin’s life blots out what the protesters chanted.” Pippa watched the line of former soldiers snap to attention as Mary and Ethan walked to the waiting limousine. The ride would carry them forward to their new life—without a husband and father. She shook her head sadly. “My heart breaks a little more with each of these funerals.”

  Reverend Crane patted her shoulder. Pippa raised her hand and laid it over his, acknowledging the thought behind the knowing, comforting gesture.

  “Are you coming back to the church now?” he asked.

  “Not right away. I want to talk to Mark. I’ll try to stop in later,” Pippa responded, glancing across the cemetery toward a towering maple tree that had started to put on its fiery red autumn coat.

  “Well, don’t stay too long.” Crane’s eyes echoed the concern in his voice. “It’s getting dark, and I’ve heard some protesters linger behind to harass straggling mourners.”

  Most people had left the cemetery. The Patriot Honor Guard, released from their somber duty, made their way to the parking area. Motorcycles thundered to life as they prepared to leave as well.

  “Thanks, but I don’t plan to stay long. I’ll be fine,” she reassured him.

  He shook her hand and walked toward his car.

  Pippa traveled the short distance to the maple tree, noting only a handful of people remained. Some stood in small groups, chatting, while others visited gravesites, as she was about to do. One of the men who had stood with the Honor Guard sat quietly on a stone bench. His post
ure was pure military, rigidly upright in spite of his seated position, making him appear cast in stone. If he hadn’t been wearing blue jeans and a dark red t-shirt, Pippa might have mistaken him for another sculpture. He nodded toward her as she crossed in front of him, then returned his attention to the headstone he’d been contemplating.

  A gust of wind ruffled the leaves over her head and lifted her short hair as Pippa reached her destination. She reflected on the music of the wind in the trees, reveling in the fall song, before kneeling in the grass next to the grave that was the final resting place of her husband, Mark.

  “Hello, love,” she murmured as she pressed her palm to the cold stone. “I got a letter from your mom the other day. She’s really enjoying her new home in Florida. She’s already made some new friends.”

  Pippa settled herself more comfortably next to the grave marker and leaned into it. She idly plucked the deadheads on the mums she’d planted on his grave six years ago. Before protesters had marred the sanctity of entombment rituals for fallen soldiers. Before Mark’s children had been born. Before they faced growing up never knowing the good, kind man who was their father. Pippa had been four months pregnant that horrible day when the Reverend Crane had knocked on her door and sent her world crashing out of control.

  “I see she sent flowers for your birthday. Your mom is so good about that. She called too. To check on us. I miss her, but I can tell she’s happy there. Mason asked if we could go visit over Thanksgiving.” Pippa smiled as she recalled her son’s hopeful face after they hung up the phone with her mother-in-law. “Mia still hates flying, so, who knows. We could drive, but…” She shrugged and slipped the dead blossoms in her pocket. It was silly, but she couldn’t bear to litter the area around Mark’s grave. She always took the debris away with her.

  Pippa continued her narrative, sharing her life with the presence of her husband in this place where she felt closest to him He wasn’t there, but this small patch of land was all that remained of him physically. “I have a new patient this week. A lady in her sixties. She had a stroke a month ago. I wish they’d called me sooner. It could be a tough road.”

  She focused her gaze on the leaves overhead trembling on a gust of wind. Mother Nature was finally going to unleash the rain she’d promised all day. Pippa’s sigh went all the way to her toes. She’d have to cut her visit short. “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer. I can still feel you here, but I can’t hear your voice anymore. I miss—”

  “Of course you can’t hear him. He’s just another dead fuckin’ soldier.”

  The brusque male voice startled Pippa. Skittering away from the boots planted beside her, she scrambled to her feet, heart racing.

  Where had he come from? She hadn’t heard his approach. Shoving her hand in her pocket, she gripped her keys, the only weapon she had against the intrusion. She eyed him warily, not recognizing the roughly dressed, overweight man who’d snuck up on her. Reverend Crane’s warning about the protesters echoed through her mind. Oh God! Why hadn’t she listened?

  “Do I know you?” She took a cautious step backward.

  “I doubt it. But I know you. You just sang at the graveside ceremony for Corporal Wright, didn’t you?” the stranger asked, his voice grating.

  Pippa looked sharply at him. “Did you know Colin? I’m sorry, I don’t remember seeing you at the funeral.”

  “I was behind enemy lines, so to speak. Frickin’ Honor Guard kept my battalion from getting too close to the bereaved.”

  A protester. That’s just flipping great.

  Pippa flicked her gaze around the cemetery, looking for any sane person to whom she could turn for help. Reverend Crane’s words of warning jangled in her mind again, making her take another step back.

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I just wanted a little time with my husband—”

  “Your dead husband, don’t you mean?” The man interrupted with a snarl. “The husband who died because your government decided to play war illegally.”

  Where did everyone go? How long had she sat next to Mark’s grave? There were a few people around immediately after the funeral, but now—no one. Even stone man from the nearby bench had left.

  Jeez, when would she learn to take more notice of her surroundings?

  She clutched her keys tightly, slotting them through her fingers, and drew her hand out of her pocket, ready to defend herself if need be. Surely, it wouldn’t go that far.

  “I’m going to leave now,” Pip said. Turning, she ran right into a brick wall masquerading as a man.

  When she bounced off the solid chest, a large hand encased her elbow, steadying her. Pippa panicked and pulled her arm free. She looked up at the face of the man standing before her. A small, reassuring smile flitted across full lips, giving her a tantalizing glimpse of white teeth. She got a fast glimpse of vivid green eyes and thick, lustrous, dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail before the newcomer shoved her behind him.

  “Well, fuck me. If it ain’t Clay Mathers.”

  “Dewey. I’d heard you’d resurfaced. I guess it was too much to hope you were dead,” her savior said, his gravelly, deep voice resonating through Pippa’s body.

  “I’ve been in the shadows too long. It’s past time to put some of my training to good use.”

  The man named Clay stood at ease, but Pippa felt tension radiating from him as easily as she felt the sudden gust of wind against her back. “We went through the same training. I don’t remember harassing and frightening women in the graveyard being part of it. What the hell are you doing protesting at a military funeral with those lowlifes?”

  Dewey took an aggressive step toward Pippa’s rescuer, only to back away as the other man drew himself up to full height, folding his arms menacingly across his broad chest. Even from her restricted vantage point behind the big man, Pip saw muscles bulging and rippling beneath his snug fitting t-shirt.

  “You always did have shit for brains, Dewey, you know that? It’s time for you to go.” The deep voice had an authoritative tone that brooked no disobedience.

  Still, the man called Dewey balked. “I have as much right to be here as anyone, Mathers. Whether I’m protesting, or grieving, or just visiting. You make sure we don’t get close to the families, you and the other fuckin’ patriots in the Honor Guard.” Dewey’s voice had developed a whiny element that hadn’t been there when it had been just the two of them.

  “I said time to go.”

  “You ain’t seen the last of me, Clay. You and me, we still got a score to settle. You know that for a fact.”

  “Yes, I do,” the tall man said as he jabbed a finger toward Dewey’s nose. His voice got very quiet, sounding deadly in the quiet fall afternoon. “And you haven’t seen the last of me, either. We’re watching you and the other Battalion scum buckets. Everything you clowns plan, we know about it before you do. The government knows where you go, who you hang with…when you take a shit. Now, go!”

  Dewey cast one last glare at Pippa, who shrank behind the man standing protectively in front of her, before walking away. Neither Pippa nor Clay moved until they saw Dewey jump in a nearby truck. He gunned the engine, his tires squealing when he pulled onto the road and sped away.

  “Oh, my God! Thank you. I’m so glad you were around. I don’t mind telling you I was kind of nervous—”

  The large man named Clay wheeled around, glaring at her. “Lady, I don’t know what the hell you were thinking. It’s late, it’s getting dark, and you just attended a funeral where a bunch of ass—idiots protested. When are you women going to learn personal safety? Didn’t you see them standing over there, just looking for someone to harass?” He blinked when the skies finally opened up, fat raindrops splattering on them. His scowl deepened. “Shit, now it’s starting to rain. Saving your butt means I have to ride my motorcycle home in unsafe conditions. Sonofabitch!”

  Her mouth had dropped open when he’d begun his rant. She blinked as raindrops hit her face. Some saving this was turning out to be.r />
  “Look,” she said, backing away, “it’s a cemetery. Most everyone here is dead. I’ve been here plenty of times before, without any problems.”

  Clay snorted. “Oh, you’ve been at a military funeral when the fu—freakin’ Liberty Battalion protested, have you?”

  “Well, no. This is the first time they’ve protested a funeral in Granite Pointe.”

  “I’ve stood guard for at least ten funerals since they became active. Let me tell you, these are not nice people.” Clay brushed rain off his face as he threw another disgusted look at her. “Keep that in mind next time you want to come out here alone. They’re on Homeland Security’s terrorist watch list for a reason. A bunch of bubbas who wouldn’t think twice about using you to further their agenda.” He released an explosive breath and pointed a lean, elegant finger toward the road leading out of the cemetery. “Now, it’s time for you to go too.”

  Pippa, offended by his abrupt dismissal, glared back at him. “You needn’t use that tone of voice.”

  “I also didn’t need to interrupt my day to rescue your sorry ass. But I did. Everyone has a right to free speech. I’m just exercising mine.”

  Pippa opened her mouth to retort, when the irony of his words hit her. Yes, he did have a right to speak his mind. It was a privilege her husband had fought and died for. She just wished he wasn’t so crude about it.

  He eyed her and crossed muscular arms over his powerful chest, daring her to respond, obviously waiting for a chance to chastise her again for her stupidity.

  She swallowed the words she’d intended to use to put him in his place and said, “You’re right. Thank you for helping me.”

  Shock and confusion rippled across his strong face, and laughter tickled the back of her throat. She’d managed to shut him up. The same way she might have with one of her kids when they needed to listen to reason, but couldn’t help themselves. It was a little fun to take the wind out of his sails this way. She’d done it all her life with her three brothers and had seen the same look of consternation floating on their faces.