Australian Denny Banister had it all; a successful career, a passion for the guitar, and Sonya - the love of his life. Tragically, Denny is struck down with inoperable cancer.
Andy DeVries has almost nothing; alienated from his family, moving through a dangerous Chicago underworld dealing in drugs, battling addiction while keeping a wavering hold on the only thing that matters to him: a place at a prestigious conservatory for classical guitar in Chicago.
As Andy recovers from a near fatal overdose, he is plagued by dreams - memories of a love he has never felt, and a life he's never lived. Driven by the need for redemption and by the love for a woman he's never met, he begins a quest to find her, knowing her only by the memories of a stranger and the dreams of a place called Hambledown...
_____________________
Chapter 1
How could it have come to this?
He had the world at his feet. He had a life that was the envy of all those around him. He was handsome, athletic, he was warm and funny. He had a loving and proud family. He had many friends. He was young and, seemingly, indestructible. With his university degree, he had a bright future to look forward to and could put his name to just about any architectural firm he wanted. It was said that he had wanted to draw buildings since he was six years old.
For this was his great love.
Denny Banister loved complex problems, raw ideas that could be assessed and developed and turned into a real thing: a building, a tower, a house, a home.
He was in love with a beautiful woman – a woman who was his kindred spirit. He had secretly held a desire to ask Sonya Llewellyn to marry him once they had graduated. Well, it wasn’t so much a secret between Denny and Sonya than something they wanted to wait for, once their respective degrees were out of the way and they could celebrate with their families. They had fallen in love through the guitar. He played for her, the most beautiful pieces - classical pieces, lyrical pieces, soulful pieces.
For the guitar was Denny’s passion.
He played for her songs of love, of traveling, of life, of living. Denny had exquisite fingers, which were able to dance across the guitar as though they were floating on air. But more than that, he was able to evoke the most vivid musical imagery. He poured himself into a piece of music. Sonya had once joked that Denny had cast a spell on her, for his music was the most enchanting she had ever heard. It had hypnotized her.
Their conversation was intimate. It was synchronous. They had similar values, beliefs and viewpoints, yet each of these differed just enough so that they challenged one another. Sonya was studying law, so Denny knew very early in their relationship that in order to be a good lawyer, Sonya had better be able to deliver a damned good argument. Denny and Sonya’s debates were the stuff of legend amongst their friends, that it was these that fired their imagination and gave a strength to their relationship. They were constantly challenging each other because they believed in each other.
For Sonya was Denny’s life.
Together they dreamed of traveling. Of visiting obscure galleries in Europe. Of making love in a villa on the shores of Lake Como in Italy. Of skinny-dipping in the Mediterranean Sea near Valetta in Malta. Of growing old together in the house that had once been Sonya’s grandfather’s on a hillside overlooking a quiet stretch of tranquil Australian coastline.
Now it was all about to be lost.
Denny lay in the bed, a shadow of what he had once been. The life - that vibrancy that had so drawn others in – was fast disappearing from his sunken eyes. His face, once strong and proud, was skeletal, his skin was bruised and pasty. His beautiful light brown hair was almost gone; a few faded tufts were all that remained. Those fingers, which had once danced across the guitar with such beauty and grace, which had translated onto the page complex algorithms and intricate equations, which had held the fingers of Sonya’s own hands. They were limp now, cold and barely useful. A warm feminine hand was entwined in them. He felt them, but he no longer had the strength to lift his own fingers.
It had taken mere months. A few days of feeling unwell, swollen glands in his neck. Denny had passed it off as the flu. Even though he had gotten better, the lump in his neck had refused to go away. Still he ignored it for a time, until it began to bother him. In what seemed like a matter of moments, it had become all too serious.
Lymphoma.
Under normal circumstances it was treatable, and the outlook for cure was good. This, however, was a particularly aggressive cancer that had already metastasized before Denny even knew he had it. Lymph nodes, liver, one kidney, four ribs on the left side and most cruelly of all, his brain. He was doomed from the start. Treatment was a stalling intervention only, and not a very good one. All it really did was halt the spread of his dementia and rob him of his hair.
Denny was 25.
The room was nice. As far as hospice rooms went. There was a pretty rose garden through the single window. Denny had looked through there sometimes, but hadn’t been able to venture out to appreciate them. Today, the sky was dark and brooding. A thunderstorm threatened.
A Simon Marty guitar stood on its stand in a corner of the room where Denny could see it. The handmade instrument had been a gift from his parents on his 18th birthday. For a while, just having it there was soothing. In his fractured mind, he could hear his favorite sonatas and fantasias and movements, and it helped him to block out the pain. Now the only thing that helped was the morphine that slowly dripped into his body from a pump via a needle in his arm. At the end of the bed lay his puppy Simon, a black-and-white crossbreed, curled up and fast asleep. Denny’s lovely nurse had allowed Simon to be here.
Sonya sat beside him; her head lay on the bed near his arm. He could smell her lustrous auburn hair, freshly washed. The scent was a combination of rosemary and mint – a shampoo she loved. He could hear her soft breathing, even and steady. He could feel the warmth of her skin, the touch of her fingers. Sonya had been there for days, or what had seemed like days. Denny was no longer sure of time anymore. All he was sure of was that she was still there. Occasionally she would stir, lift her head and gaze at him through those wondrous eyes. Though their world was falling apart around them, her face kept him anchored. She kept everyone anchored. Throughout their ordeal Sonya had never fallen apart. She tended to Denny’s needs unfailingly. When others were losing control of their emotions, she was there for them, too, with an arm around a shoulder, a hand in a hand, a loving, comforting hug.
Now, in these final hours, they were all here. Denny’s mother, father and younger sister, Sonya’s mother and older brother. All sitting quietly, waiting.
Denny flinched reflexively, causing everyone else in the room to do the same. He grimaced and attempted to move himself, but was prevented from doing so. His abdomen was so distended from fluid collecting inside, it made simple movements impossible. The catheter that drained urine from his bladder caused him intense pain, and it had done so now.
Sonya squeezed his hand and slid hers up his right forearm, her gentle touch soothing him. Her fingers passed over a faded tattoo on the inside of his forearm - an inscription in a cursive font - Ancora Imparo.
How could it have come to this?
The single lucid thought punctured through his narcotic haze. The pain in his penis settled and he blinked, looking up at his family who were all gathered around his bed.
His mother and father, eyes reddened and tear-filled. His sister, normally vivacious, a perennial social butterfly, was stony-faced now, barely able to hold it together. Denny knew this must be ripping her apart. Sonya’s mother, her brother - his best mate, similarly wooden with barely contained grief. Sonya...
Denny turned his head slightly towards her. Sonya met his eyes with hers and held them. She stroked his brow gently and smiled warmly. Oh, how he wished to kiss those lips...
His breath caught in his throat suddenly, and his eyes rolled up towards the ceiling. The room began to spin, and Denny’s heart thumped noisily in his ears. He was overwhelmed by a surge of panic and with a great effort he grasped Sonya’s hand as firmly as he could. When he looked back to her Sonya’s face had swollen with tears and a single drop trickled down her porcelain cheek. In that moment Denny knew.
It was time.
In that last terrible moment, when all else was spinning out of control, as lightning crackled ominously outside the window, Denny gazed firmly and deeply into his beloved’s eyes. When he spoke, his voice had never sounded stronger.
“This is not over...”
And with an abrupt finality the eyes fluttered closed, the body sank back, the life dissipated. Denny was dead. Simon the puppy let out a yelp, leapt from the bed and disappeared down the hall.
Sonya sat there stunned, the grip of his hand relaxed in hers. The warmth disappeared quickly. As the family gathered around her and held her collectively, Sonya’s expression remained frozen. Tears welled in her eyes and they fell down over her cheek, but she did not cry. She could not bring herself to let go.
Everything seemed to stop. Time, space, air, life. And nothing would ever be the same again.
Andy DeVries has almost nothing; alienated from his family, moving through a dangerous Chicago underworld dealing in drugs, battling addiction while keeping a wavering hold on the only thing that matters to him: a place at a prestigious conservatory for classical guitar in Chicago.
As Andy recovers from a near fatal overdose, he is plagued by dreams - memories of a love he has never felt, and a life he's never lived. Driven by the need for redemption and by the love for a woman he's never met, he begins a quest to find her, knowing her only by the memories of a stranger and the dreams of a place called Hambledown...
_____________________
Chapter 1
How could it have come to this?
He had the world at his feet. He had a life that was the envy of all those around him. He was handsome, athletic, he was warm and funny. He had a loving and proud family. He had many friends. He was young and, seemingly, indestructible. With his university degree, he had a bright future to look forward to and could put his name to just about any architectural firm he wanted. It was said that he had wanted to draw buildings since he was six years old.
For this was his great love.
Denny Banister loved complex problems, raw ideas that could be assessed and developed and turned into a real thing: a building, a tower, a house, a home.
He was in love with a beautiful woman – a woman who was his kindred spirit. He had secretly held a desire to ask Sonya Llewellyn to marry him once they had graduated. Well, it wasn’t so much a secret between Denny and Sonya than something they wanted to wait for, once their respective degrees were out of the way and they could celebrate with their families. They had fallen in love through the guitar. He played for her, the most beautiful pieces - classical pieces, lyrical pieces, soulful pieces.
For the guitar was Denny’s passion.
He played for her songs of love, of traveling, of life, of living. Denny had exquisite fingers, which were able to dance across the guitar as though they were floating on air. But more than that, he was able to evoke the most vivid musical imagery. He poured himself into a piece of music. Sonya had once joked that Denny had cast a spell on her, for his music was the most enchanting she had ever heard. It had hypnotized her.
Their conversation was intimate. It was synchronous. They had similar values, beliefs and viewpoints, yet each of these differed just enough so that they challenged one another. Sonya was studying law, so Denny knew very early in their relationship that in order to be a good lawyer, Sonya had better be able to deliver a damned good argument. Denny and Sonya’s debates were the stuff of legend amongst their friends, that it was these that fired their imagination and gave a strength to their relationship. They were constantly challenging each other because they believed in each other.
For Sonya was Denny’s life.
Together they dreamed of traveling. Of visiting obscure galleries in Europe. Of making love in a villa on the shores of Lake Como in Italy. Of skinny-dipping in the Mediterranean Sea near Valetta in Malta. Of growing old together in the house that had once been Sonya’s grandfather’s on a hillside overlooking a quiet stretch of tranquil Australian coastline.
Now it was all about to be lost.
Denny lay in the bed, a shadow of what he had once been. The life - that vibrancy that had so drawn others in – was fast disappearing from his sunken eyes. His face, once strong and proud, was skeletal, his skin was bruised and pasty. His beautiful light brown hair was almost gone; a few faded tufts were all that remained. Those fingers, which had once danced across the guitar with such beauty and grace, which had translated onto the page complex algorithms and intricate equations, which had held the fingers of Sonya’s own hands. They were limp now, cold and barely useful. A warm feminine hand was entwined in them. He felt them, but he no longer had the strength to lift his own fingers.
It had taken mere months. A few days of feeling unwell, swollen glands in his neck. Denny had passed it off as the flu. Even though he had gotten better, the lump in his neck had refused to go away. Still he ignored it for a time, until it began to bother him. In what seemed like a matter of moments, it had become all too serious.
Lymphoma.
Under normal circumstances it was treatable, and the outlook for cure was good. This, however, was a particularly aggressive cancer that had already metastasized before Denny even knew he had it. Lymph nodes, liver, one kidney, four ribs on the left side and most cruelly of all, his brain. He was doomed from the start. Treatment was a stalling intervention only, and not a very good one. All it really did was halt the spread of his dementia and rob him of his hair.
Denny was 25.
The room was nice. As far as hospice rooms went. There was a pretty rose garden through the single window. Denny had looked through there sometimes, but hadn’t been able to venture out to appreciate them. Today, the sky was dark and brooding. A thunderstorm threatened.
A Simon Marty guitar stood on its stand in a corner of the room where Denny could see it. The handmade instrument had been a gift from his parents on his 18th birthday. For a while, just having it there was soothing. In his fractured mind, he could hear his favorite sonatas and fantasias and movements, and it helped him to block out the pain. Now the only thing that helped was the morphine that slowly dripped into his body from a pump via a needle in his arm. At the end of the bed lay his puppy Simon, a black-and-white crossbreed, curled up and fast asleep. Denny’s lovely nurse had allowed Simon to be here.
Sonya sat beside him; her head lay on the bed near his arm. He could smell her lustrous auburn hair, freshly washed. The scent was a combination of rosemary and mint – a shampoo she loved. He could hear her soft breathing, even and steady. He could feel the warmth of her skin, the touch of her fingers. Sonya had been there for days, or what had seemed like days. Denny was no longer sure of time anymore. All he was sure of was that she was still there. Occasionally she would stir, lift her head and gaze at him through those wondrous eyes. Though their world was falling apart around them, her face kept him anchored. She kept everyone anchored. Throughout their ordeal Sonya had never fallen apart. She tended to Denny’s needs unfailingly. When others were losing control of their emotions, she was there for them, too, with an arm around a shoulder, a hand in a hand, a loving, comforting hug.
Now, in these final hours, they were all here. Denny’s mother, father and younger sister, Sonya’s mother and older brother. All sitting quietly, waiting.
Denny flinched reflexively, causing everyone else in the room to do the same. He grimaced and attempted to move himself, but was prevented from doing so. His abdomen was so distended from fluid collecting inside, it made simple movements impossible. The catheter that drained urine from his bladder caused him intense pain, and it had done so now.
Sonya squeezed his hand and slid hers up his right forearm, her gentle touch soothing him. Her fingers passed over a faded tattoo on the inside of his forearm - an inscription in a cursive font - Ancora Imparo.
How could it have come to this?
The single lucid thought punctured through his narcotic haze. The pain in his penis settled and he blinked, looking up at his family who were all gathered around his bed.
His mother and father, eyes reddened and tear-filled. His sister, normally vivacious, a perennial social butterfly, was stony-faced now, barely able to hold it together. Denny knew this must be ripping her apart. Sonya’s mother, her brother - his best mate, similarly wooden with barely contained grief. Sonya...
Denny turned his head slightly towards her. Sonya met his eyes with hers and held them. She stroked his brow gently and smiled warmly. Oh, how he wished to kiss those lips...
His breath caught in his throat suddenly, and his eyes rolled up towards the ceiling. The room began to spin, and Denny’s heart thumped noisily in his ears. He was overwhelmed by a surge of panic and with a great effort he grasped Sonya’s hand as firmly as he could. When he looked back to her Sonya’s face had swollen with tears and a single drop trickled down her porcelain cheek. In that moment Denny knew.
It was time.
In that last terrible moment, when all else was spinning out of control, as lightning crackled ominously outside the window, Denny gazed firmly and deeply into his beloved’s eyes. When he spoke, his voice had never sounded stronger.
“This is not over...”
And with an abrupt finality the eyes fluttered closed, the body sank back, the life dissipated. Denny was dead. Simon the puppy let out a yelp, leapt from the bed and disappeared down the hall.
Sonya sat there stunned, the grip of his hand relaxed in hers. The warmth disappeared quickly. As the family gathered around her and held her collectively, Sonya’s expression remained frozen. Tears welled in her eyes and they fell down over her cheek, but she did not cry. She could not bring herself to let go.
Everything seemed to stop. Time, space, air, life. And nothing would ever be the same again.
