Guest Post & #Giveaway: Echoes on the Wind (Maggie O'Shea Mystery #4) by Helaine Mario

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40 minutes ago
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Book Details:

Published by: Suncoast Publishing

Publication Date: June 18, 2024

Number of Pages: 364

ISBN: 9781735184975 (ISBN10: 1735184977)

Series: A Maggie O'Shea Romantic Suspense, Book 4

@helaine.mario @partnersincrimevbt

@helainemario.author @partnersincrimevbt

#RomanticSuspense, #Mystery, #DualTimeline,

TWO STRONG WOMEN, GENERATIONS APART, CONNECTED BY MUSIC…

In 1943 war-torn France, a young woman on the Night Train to Paris has a chance meeting with two very different men who will change her life, setting in motion a Dual Timeline story that will resonate like ripples on water for generations to come.

Many years later, classical pianist Maggie O’Shea is drawn to Brittany by a long-lost letter from her Grandmother Clair and the memory-stirring music of Chopin. But before Maggie can discover the secrets of her past, a ruthless killer named Dane re-appears in her life, threatening her upcoming wedding and those she loves.

Set against the backdrop of the international music world, Maggie will learn her Grandmother’s story, chord by chord, through Chopin’s Preludes. She will face a final confrontation with Dane. And, in one shocking moment, her love story will take a heart-breaking turn that will change her life and echo into her future.

Past and present converge in this haunting tale of loss and sacrifice, friendship and family, courage and survival – and the transcendent power of hope, music, and love.

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OVERTURE

“Like so many things that matter, it began with an accident.” David Ignatius, 12/28/98

NOVEMBER, 1943. THE NIGHT TRAIN TO PARIS

Light and dark.

The bleak November landscape rushed past the train’s window. Black tree branches against the dark night sky, then a sudden flash of light. Then blackness again.

The blackout had claimed the streetlamps and cottage windows. Clair Rousseau stared out the rain-streaked glass, waiting for the next glimpse of light. A lone lantern. Car headlights tilted down, a sliver of gold beyond a cracked curtain. Sheet lightning over distant hills, a glimmer of light on water. But all she saw was the blurred, pale oval of her reflection staring back at her. Dark hair scraped back, framing huge eyes beneath winged brows, sharp cheekbones, the too-wide mouth.

No hint of the emotions flowing through her, except for the deep purple shadows beneath her eyes.

The dim, four-person compartment was cold, and she pulled her coat more tightly around her body. The seat beside her was still empty, thank God. Across from her, two German officers. One asleep, snoring loudly, his hands slack between thick gray-green uniformed knees. The other awake, a Gauloises cigarette clamped between thin lips, a jagged line of white scars marring his left cheek. The narrow fox-like face stared at her through thick round glasses and wreathes of curling blue smoke. His jacket was heavy with insignia, oak leaves, medals. Military Intelligence, she thought with a sudden chill. A high rank, SD or Abwehr. What was he thinking?

The watchful, unblinking eyes made her afraid. Like a snake’s eyes, waiting to strike. She looked away, forcing herself not to reach for her satchel, touch her identity papers for reassurance.

The carriage’s glassed door slid back and forth with an unnerving rattle as the train rocked around a bend. From the hallway came the sharp scent of burning coal, wafting back from the old steam engine several cars ahead. A cloud of steam billowed past the window like sudden fog.

She could feel the vibration beneath her, hear the rumble of the train’s wheels speeding along the tracks. The lonely call of a train whistle, echoing in the night. A quick flare of light, illuminating the rain like silver threads streaming down the window.

Light and dark. Light and dark.

Movement at the edge of her vision. A tall figure appeared in the hallway, beyond the door. Her chest tightened. Would she ever feel safe again?

A sharp crack of thunder, a sudden bright flash lighting her face.

“Mademoiselle Clair?”

Startled, her head came up. The stranger had stopped, was staring into the compartment. Across from her, the watchful German stiffened and slid pale eyes toward the voice.

Be careful.

There was something familiar about the gaunt face, the faint, questioning smile just visible above a thick woolen scarf. She stood quickly, stepping between the German and the carriage door to block the officer’s view.

“Oui,” she said softly, peering into the dim hallway. The man nodded and moved closer. Something about those gentle eyes, the arch of silver brows. Memory surged. Father Jean-Luc.

She flashed him a warning glance for silence and stepped into the train’s narrow corridor, closing the door firmly behind her. “Mon Père, is it really you?”

“Oui, ma petite, c’est moi.” The priest pulled the scarf down to offer a glimpse of his white Roman collar, then lost his smile as he gazed over her shoulder and saw the Germans. “But we cannot talk here. Come with me.”

He slipped a hand beneath her elbow and guided her to the end of the dark passageway, where an open exit door led across shifting metal plates to the train’s next car. She felt the sudden bite of night wind on her face, cold and wet with mist. Here the clatter of the train wheels was loud enough to hide their conversation.

They sheltered just inside the doorway, in the shadows, away from the rain. Outside, the countryside of France rushed by, then disappeared in a billow of black smoke. In the dim corridor, the planes of the priest’s face were lit by a tiny, flickering overhead bulb.

Light and dark. Light and dark.

The priest looked down at her, shook his head. “Little Clair Rousseau,” he murmured. “Now such a beautiful young woman. It’s been – what? – four years since we met? You were just thirteen, I think. Playing the piano in your parents’ apartment. Bach, yes? It was so beautiful, so stirring. I hope you are still playing?”

She shook her head. “You need hope to create music, Père.” She looked back toward her carriage compartment. The hallway was empty. “But I remember that day. The war was coming. You asked us to help you remove the stained-glass windows from Sainte-Chapelle. To save them from the bombing.”

“You were fearless, Clair. I remember watching you, swaying at the top of that impossibly high ladder. The morning light was coming through the stained glass, spilling over you like shimmering jewels. I’ll never forget it. I told myself, Clair means light, she is perfectly named.”

He leaned down. “And I can still see your sister, Elle – too young to help us, bien sûr – dancing around the altar.”

Her expression softened. “Elle loved to dance. It was the last happy day I can remember.” She lifted her eyes to his, took a breath. “Paris was another lifetime, Père.”

“You cannot lose hope,” he told her. “The glass pieces are in a safe place. Beauty and goodness cannot be destroyed. You will see the stained-glass windows back in Sainte-Chapelle when the war is over. I know it.”

She shook her head. “I wish I had your faith.”

“God has his plans. There is a reason we’ve met by chance on the night train to Paris.” Concern flashed in his eyes. “But you’ve been in Brittany? Dangerous times for a young woman to be traveling alone, Clair.”

She looked out at the black trees rushing past the doorway, and felt the blackness deep in her heart. “I am alone now, Père.”

“Mon Dieu. What happened?”

“My father knew that war was inevitable. Not long after we saved the glass my parents moved us from Paris to the coast near Saint-Malo to be safe. Such irony. They had no idea how dangerous Brittany would become. And then…”

She could not stop the sudden rush of tears that filled her eyes. “The Gestapo shot my father last year, in a retaliation roundup for an act of sabotage by the Resistance. He was with the Liberty Network, they had bombed a train track. He stepped forward, admitted it, hoping to save the others. But still they took thirty innocent people from our village, murdered them in the square.”

“Oh no, Clair.” The priest made a quick sign of the cross. “I am so sorry. And your mother, your sister?”

“I don’t know, Père. I was studying in Paris, I begged them to come stay with me. But Maman refused. When I returned last month to see them, the house was empty. They were just… gone. The neighbors said the Germans took them, in the night. The mayor was told they were being relocated to Poland.”

The priest paled. “Désolé. I will pray for their souls.”

Anger erupted, spilled out. “Prayers did not help my family! I have no time for prayer now. Or sorrow. Even avenging my father will have to wait. I need all my energy now to find my mother and my sister.”

He bent toward her. “I am afraid you are still too fearless for your own good. Tell me what you’re doing, little one.”

She turned once more to scan the dark hallway, then leaned closer. “I excelled in languages in my lycée studies these last years,” she whispered. “I am fluent in several languages, including German and English. I hope to find a new job, in the Hotel Majestic in Paris, where the German High Command is quartered. Then I will join the Resistance, find a way to get news of Maman and Elle. I must find them!”

He gazed down at her for a long moment, then put a hand on her shoulder.

“Perhaps I know of another way,” he murmured.

The sound of a door opening. Wavering shadows spilled into the train’s corridor. Then the red glow of a cigarette, a spiral of smoke. She froze as the German officer turned toward them.

“Find me at Èglise Saint-Gervais, in the Marais,” the priest whispered quickly. “I am with the Resistance there. You could work with me, we need someone like you to –”

A sudden terrifying screech of metal wheels. Clair felt herself thrown to the floor as the train braked, slammed to a shuddering stop. Stunned, Clair reached out, felt the still body of the priest beside her. “Mon Père…”

Shouts in German in the darkness, the clatter of heavy boots. When she raised her head she saw flashing blue lights against the night sky.

Light and dark. Light and dark.

IF YOU COULD LIVE IN ANY AGE FOR A WEEK, WHICH WOULD YOU CHOOSE AND WHY?

As an author of a Classical Music Suspense/Historical Series, I would accept the gift of Time Travel in a heartbeat. My choice would be Paris in the mid 1830s – not for the city (as beautiful as it is) but for the person living there – the pianist and composer Frédéric Chopin.

I first fell in love with Chopin almost fifty years ago, when my then-six-year-old son, Sean, asked for piano lessons. In the years that followed, we went from a ‘no-piano’ home to a ‘grand-piano’ home. Listening to my son practice, I discovered the soul-lifting music of Grieg, Rachmaninoff, Mozart, Bach and Chopin. Chopin’s beautiful, emotional Ballade No. 3 became my favorite piece. I knew that if I ever wrote a novel, my main character would be a classical pianist named Maggie O’Shea. And I knew that Maggie’s favorite composer would be Frédéric Chopin.

My current novel, Echoes on the Wind, is a Dual Timeline featuring two strong women, generations apart, who connect through the echo of Chopin’s Preludes. Pianist Maggie O’Shea is searching for the secrets of her Grandmother Clair’s past in WWII Paris. In a letter to Maggie, pianist Clair writes, “When I play, I talk to Chopin. You must talk to Chopin, ma chère.”

How could I not accept the gift of talking to Chopin? And so I take a deep breath and tumble through time, waking up in a fourth floor garret on the Île de la Cité with a view of the Seine and the rooftop chimney pots of Paris. It is 1836, and Paris is the center of European culture and the Romantic Movement. At a writers’ luncheon at La Tour d’Argent, I meet novelist George Sand, who invites me to an intimate concert in a Parisian Salonto enjoy the music of her new friend, Chopin.

That night, in an uncomfortably long dress of stiff brocade and mutton sleeves, I listen, rapt, as Chopin plays his intricate ‘Black Keys’ Etude No. 5, his right hand flying over only the black keys. Afterward, surrounded by elegant couples, huge bouquets of roses and the pop of champagne corks, I am introduced to the pianist. He is only twenty-six, slight and of medium height, with an aquiline face, long chestnut hair and warm brown eyes. There is an air of fragility about him. But then his long, strong fingers close around mine and I feel the energy spark between us. After introducing me to his friends, the artist Delacroix and fellow composer Franz Liszt(oh, my heart!), Chopin agrees to an interview in the morning.

Later, in my garret room, I dream of a long-ago trip to Paris with my husband. We visited Chopin’s tomb at Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, his stone surrounded by flowers and wild cats. This evocative setting would become a pivotal scene in my first Maggie O’Shea novel, The Lost Concerto.

The next morning, over croissants and café au lait at Café Procope, Chopin talks of his birth near Warsaw, Poland; being drawn to play the piano at age six (like my son…); and his childhood years as a piano prodigy. Then, as a horse-drawn carriage takes us along cobblestoned Left Bank streets, he describes his Vienna debut and his move to Paris in 1832. Chopin admits that he prefers the smaller concert spaces of Paris, as his works are too intimate for the great music halls. We reach Notre Dame at noon, just as the great bells begin to toll. He gazes up at the Gothic towers. “Someday soon,” he murmurs, “I am going to compose an emotional, reflective prelude that will open with the melancholy sound of those bells. But I will refuse to name it.” I smile, knowing he will compose the heart-stirring Prelude No. 6 – and that future musicians will name it ‘Tolling Bells’. It’s hard not to tell him that my favorite scene in Echoes on the Wind will be inspired by the bells in his prelude.

We walk along the Seine, near the Louvre, just as it is beginning to rain. Chopin coughs sharply, clearly affected by the dampness, and my breath catches. I know he will be diagnosed with tuberculosis and die too soon, in 1849. But I take comfort in knowing that during his illness he will spend years with George Sand in Nohant, south of Paris, and call it his ‘happiest, most productive time.’ I wish I could tell him that he will compose one of the world’s most beloved, heart-stirring pieces while he is there – his Heroic Polonaise.

As we stand together under his umbrella, Chopin asks, “Do you hear the music in the raindrops?” He tilts his head, listening. “I tell all my students, first, you must listen.” Then he turns to me. “Head. Hands. Heart. Listen to yourself, let your hands find their boldness, then find your own sound and play as you feel.”

I look at him, knowing he will be described in future history books as moody and mercurial, a melancholy, tragic figure. But standing before me listening to the rain, I see a brilliant, inspiring, sensitive and loving man.

Too soon, it is time for me to leave. I cannot resist asking Chopin if he has plans to compose any ballades. “I have composed two,” he says slowly. “My Ballade No. 3 is only in my head, but I’ve been inspired by a poem called Undine and already I can hear the emotion and drama, the elegance and grace. This one will end on a note of joy.”

I say, “Thank you for your beautiful music.”I tell him that his music will echo over the centuries, performed in all the great concert halls of the world. And that one day a young mother will listen to her son play his Ballade No. 3 and be inspired to write a novel about a concert pianist, and the transcendent power of music to tell our stories, take us on a journey, and make us feel. Chopin smiles wistfully at me, disbelieving, and turns to walk away, disappearing into the mists of time.

Best-selling author Helaine Mario grew up in NYC and is a graduate of Boston University. Now living in Arlington, VA, this mother of two, grandmother of five, and passionate advocate for women's and children's issues came to writing later in life. Her first novel, The Lost Concerto, won the Benjamin Franklin Award Silver Medal. Echoes on the Wind is her fifth novel and the fourth in her Maggie O'Shea Classical Music Suspense Series. Royalties from her books go to children's music and reading programs. Helaine recently lost her husband, Ron, after 57 years together. Her new book echoes with loss, grief, and, ultimately, the healing power of love.