Songs Unfinished Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Can a love of music bring two women into harmony, or will their pasts create too much discord? Guitarist Jaymi Del Harmon is battling writer’s block and focusing on her band’s growing success. Love is a distraction she doesn’t need as she recovers from an ex-lover’s betrayal and her mother’s premature death. Singer Shawn Davies survives in LA in any way she can, even if it means exchanging sex for a place to sleep. She reevaluates her life when a desperate decision results in a brutal attack. Seeking a fresh start, she heads home to New Hampshire and tracks down her old friend, Jaymi.

  Their passion for music blossoms into much more than either woman was expecting. Can Jaymi find it in her heart to trust again, or will Shawn’s past mistakes destroy any chance of a future together?

  Songs Unfinished

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Songs Unfinished

  © 2015 By Holly Stratimore. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-288-5

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: January 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Victoria Oldham and Ruth Sternglantz

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Gabrielle Pendergrast

  Acknowledgments

  First, I must thank Radclyffe for seeing my potential, encouraging me to keep at it, and taking a chance on me. The talent you have assembled at Bold Strokes Books is second to none. I am continually inspired by the works of my fellow authors, and I love being part of this incredible family.

  A gazillion thanks to my amazing editors, Victoria Oldham and Ruth Sternglantz. The appreciation I have for each of you is immeasurable. I will always be grateful for your insight, contributions, guidance, hard work, encouragement, and humor. Collaborating on this project was a remarkable experience that I will never forget. Thank you for bringing out the best in me.

  Many thanks to everyone on the Bold Strokes team for their tireless efforts in pulling everything together. Special thanks to Stacia, Cindy, and Sandy. You ladies rock!

  Gabrielle, your cover took my breath away! I love how beautifully you brought my vision of these characters to life. Thank you so much for sharing your incredible talent.

  Behind every written work are unsung heroes that deserve our appreciation and recognition: our teachers. I salute you all.

  Thanks to my friends, past and present, old and new, who have supported me, shaped me, and been there for me through all the ups and downs in my life.

  Thanks to my parents for providing the foundation that makes everything good in my life possible. Not a day goes by that I do not acknowledge how fortunate I am to have such a wonderful family. I love you all so very much.

  Penny, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Thank you so much for your unconditional love and support, for putting up with my funky moods when I’m “in character” or writing scenes in my head, for giving me the time and space I need to write (despite how neglected you must feel in the process!), and for always believing in me. I love sharing my life with you. You are my rock, sweetheart. I love you to the moon and back!

  And of course, thanks to the readers.

  For you, Mom.

  You are forever in my heart.

  I miss you every day.

  You are my hero.

  Prologue

  Los Angeles

  Shawn Davies checked the pulse of the unconscious man sprawled on the bed. Still alive. Thank God, I didn’t kill him. She quickly checked the wound on his head. Through his thick black hair, a lump and a small amount of blood were visible. She wiped the lamp clean with her shirtsleeve and put it back in its place on the nightstand. She left his nearly empty glass next to it, poured hers and the rest of the wine bottle into the bathroom drain, rinsed out the sink thoroughly, and set the bottle next to his glass. Whoever finds him will just think he passed out drunk. He won’t call the police…What would he tell them anyway?

  She threw on her jacket, dropped her own glass into the pocket, and silently slipped out the door of the second-floor motel room, making sure it was locked before she latched it shut.

  She blew out a deep breath of relief and sucked in another, thinking it was the first time since she had arrived in Los Angeles that the smog-infected air actually smelled refreshing. She charged down the stairs as quickly and quietly as she could.

  She clutched her keys in a white-knuckle grip to ensure they wouldn’t jangle, slipped a key into the lock of her beat-up compact car, and fell inside. She did her usual swift inspection of the backseat, lifting up the blanket strewn across it. Guitar case and amplifier were still present, along with the backpack containing her life’s work. She turned the key in the ignition and sped out of the motel parking lot, made her way to Interstate 405, and headed south toward Long Beach.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she pulled into a convenience store and dropped open her glove compartment. She knew the way back by heart, but considering the night she was having, she wanted to refresh her memory by making sure she had the sequence of routes correct. She clicked on her dome light, unfolded the map, and confirmed that yes, she did know her way. She checked her gas gauge, and then her wallet. Was there enough? She sifted through the bills, counting and recounting, trying to figure out how much she would need later.

  Doesn’t matter, she thought. I can’t stay here. Especially now. She went inside and picked up a few munchies, bottled water, and an extra-large steaming cup of coffee, and then drove a block and filled up with gas.

  It wasn’t until she had been on the freeway for almost an hour that she finally allowed herself to cry.

  Chapter One

  New Hampshire

  Jaymi Del Harmon locked the door behind her and dropped her keys on the bar. She stared at the disheveled apartment, with its secondhand furniture and piles of cardboard boxes, and thought that maybe now she would find the ambition to unpack and make this place a home. Up to now it just hadn’t been impo
rtant. She removed her long coat, made her way down the hall to her bedroom, and sat heavily on the bed. Reaching into the pocket of her gray blazer, she pulled out the small card with the scripted print. There it was in black and white: her mother’s full name, followed by two dates, marking the beginning and the end of a life. Below the dates was a short poem intended for comfort, little consolation for the insurmountable loss she was feeling. It wasn’t enough, but it was all that was left.

  The discomfort of her dress clothes finally prompted her to get up and undress. After stripping down to a gray thermal tank and underwear, she commenced throwing each article of the discarded clothing one by one against the closet door, as if she were a Red Sox pitching ace throwing blazing fastballs past Yankees batters.

  “Why, God, why?” Jaymi screamed into the empty room. “Why would you take Mom away from me? She was so young!” She pushed her anger into each thread of material as she flung her clothes across the room, the only way to get out the impotent rage swallowing her whole. “There are assholes out there molesting kids and killing people, and you take my mom instead of them?”

  Sobbing uncontrollably, she lowered herself onto the bed and curled into a fetal position, drawing her pillow into her arms and soaking it until her tears ran dry.

  She felt no passage of time, only the sensation that all the energy that remained within her was quickly draining away. She forced herself into the shower and, feeling slightly better, slipped into jeans and a sweatshirt and convinced herself to eat a bowl of soup. The sun had set. A single table lamp lit up the one possession in the living room that had been unpacked and stayed that way since she had moved in—an acoustic guitar. She lifted it off the couch and strummed it absentmindedly.

  She had moved out of her parents’ house and into her own place three months ago, at the urging of her mother, who was determined to help her daughter regain some sense of normalcy in her life. It had been an excruciating year. She’d given up her music career in Los Angeles just when it was about to take off in order to care for her mother, who’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d left everything, including her girlfriend, Peach. Well, ex-girlfriend. They’d had problems, and Peach had just finished entertaining someone else in their bed when Jaymi had gone home to try and work things out. The betrayal had hurt, but it was soon eclipsed by the need to take care of her family. She hadn’t actually seen the other woman, who had slipped out the back door as Jaymi had moved toward the bedroom, but it didn’t really matter who it was. What mattered was she was moving on with her life.

  Jaymi had returned to the apartment with her best friend Nikki and collected her belongings while Peach was in class. After three weeks of giving notice at their day jobs and tying up loose ends, the band set out on their long return trip to New England. Rather than give up entirely, the band followed Jaymi to New Hampshire so they could keep working together, a fact she would be forever grateful for. It wasn’t LA, but at least they were still playing.

  Once in New Hampshire, Nikki and their bassist, Kay, worked frantically to keep the band going by calling old contacts and setting up auditions at clubs at which they had played before they had headed west to pursue their dream. Drawing on her desperate need to escape her heartbreak over Peach’s infidelity and the agonizing turmoil of watching a wretched disease eat away at her mother’s life, Jaymi’s presence onstage stole the show every night. Audiences connected with the honest and vulnerable sincerity in her delivery. Her sweet voice carried beautiful melodies with evocative lyrics that were a welcome contrast to Nikki’s wilder hard-rocking style. And Jaymi could kick ass playing electric guitar just as well as she could acoustic. She let go at every show, putting her raw emotions on display and letting them carry her away. It was catharsis, and if she hadn’t had that opening, she would never have made it through the pain.

  She wrote more songs in that year than she had in all the previous years combined. Every one of them was about Peach. When she finally reached the point where she felt she would puke if her creative mind came up with just one more angry, brokenhearted song, she wondered if she would ever be over her. One day she tried to imagine how it would feel. She pretended she was over her. She took out a pen. She filled a page. She cried. She didn’t bother to wipe the teardrops off the paper. She closed the notebook. She dropped it in a desk drawer and forgot about it. It was the last time she cried over Peach.

  One day she was washing dishes when a melody came into her head. She rushed to her recorder and quickly hummed the tune over and over. She played it back a few times and dug out her guitar and worked out the notes and a chord progression. Within a day, she had recorded keys, drums, bass, and acoustic rhythm guitar. No lyrics came to her, so she played the melody in a beautiful electric guitar solo. Satisfied with the results, she decided it needed no lyrics. It was the first song she had written in months that actually gave her feelings of hope, and she entitled it “On My Way”—acknowledging that she wasn’t quite 100 percent yet, but it was a sure sign that she was getting there.

  Now, months later, reflecting on her mother’s funeral, she knew life would never be the same without her mother in it. She could never again pick up the phone and talk to her mom about her day. Or ask her, again, for the ratio of vinegar to water to get the stains out of a coffeepot, or what seasoning she used on her roasted chicken, or to tell her one of the many amusing anecdotes about her grandfather so that she could keep the facts straight.

  The questions she wished she had asked formed themselves from ink to page, and thus another song was born. Guitar wasn’t right for this one, though, and she found herself sitting at the piano and pecking out the chords and working out the melody in a quiet hum. After a few run-throughs, she attempted to sing the words. And that was when she lost it. The waterworks were on again in full force and she had to walk away.

  *

  Jaymi’s low beams barely lit the salt-worn paint that defined the lanes. It had been a long, harsh winter in New England, though not atypical. She didn’t care. At least the frigid February morning air told her she was alive. The relentless sunny days of Southern California, along with the heartache of a cruel city and an unfaithful lover, were behind her now.

  There were times that she questioned whether or not she would survive her broken heart. There had been too many nights of uncontrollable sobs, pleading prayers, and a desperate desire to escape her own skin. There were times, over the last six months, she’d thought losing her mother to cancer would be the final push over the edge. She’d felt completely and utterly out of control. Her career had been up in the air, and her heart had been torn to shreds.

  But her band, Passion Play, was back on track now. They had sent home recordings of four of their songs to an independent radio station in Boston. The station now featured the group regularly on a weekly show that played local unsigned artists. Increasing requests for these songs were giving them more airplay every day. With a strong lesbian following and a growing fan base, it was only a matter of time before they hit it big.

  Jaymi smiled as she parked her truck and headed inside Blayne’s Courier Service. It wasn’t a bad job and it paid the bills for now. And being alone on the road all day allowed her to work on songs in her head. Sometimes new songs would come to her, and when she got home she’d hum the melody into her trusty 4-track recorder.

  Giving up on California didn’t mean she was giving up on her music career, and she refused to let the choice diminish her determination. Boston also had its fair share of bragging rights when it came to launching the careers of many successful musicians: Tracy Chapman, The Cars, John Mayer, its namesake band Boston, and New Hampshire’s own Aerosmith, just to name a few. Even Jaymi’s hero Melissa Etheridge spent a year at Berklee College of Music and started playing clubs in Boston before she went to LA.

  As her workday dragged on, her good mood faded. To cheer herself up, she decided to have lunch at New Horizons Bookstore and Café, which was within walking distance from where she worke
d. Her friend Devin still worked there part-time, while she continued to write for Happenings, the magazine she’d done an article for on Jaymi’s band. Like Jaymi, she was paying her dues with jobs that paid the bills until she found a way to become a full-time working novelist.

  Devin welcomed her with a hug.

  “Do you greet all your customers like that or am I special?” Jaymi asked, unzipping her coat and shaking off the cold.

  Devin smiled widely. “I think you know the answer to that question.”

  “It would boost sales, you know.”

  “Or prompt harassment charges.”

  “Anyone who’d complain about a hug from you would be crazy. You had lunch yet?”

  “I’m just going now. Your timing couldn’t be better, but that’s normal for you musicians, isn’t it?”

  “True, all true!” Jaymi smiled and thought about how much Devin had come out of her shell since coming out of the closet. A dark-haired, brown-eyed woman with an athletic five-foot-six build and a warmth and sweet innocence to melt anyone’s heart, Devin Carita was always a welcome sight. Sara had been good for her. They’re good for each other, she thought. I used to think that way about me and Peach, before… She forced herself to discontinue the thought and instead focused on making a selection from the café’s menu board.

  They made themselves comfortable in a booth and began to eat.

  “What’s on your mind, Jaymi? You okay?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “It is to me,” Devin said.

  “Just missing my mom, I guess.” Jaymi sighed. “God, I can’t wait for winter to be over.”