Lost Melody

by Roz Lee

  Lost Melody

  Title Page

  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

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  LOST MELODY

  Dolores W. Maroney

  eBooks are not transferable. Please do not sell, share or reproduce in any way as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental and the product of the authors imagination or have been used fictitiously.

  Smashwords Edition

  ISBN - 978-0-9884344-2-4

  Copyright © 2013 by Dolores W. Maroney

  All Rights Reserved

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

  or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

  please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did

  not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to

  Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work

  of this author.

  www.DoloresWallMaroney.com

  Acknowledgements

  I conceived this story while driving down the interstate, all alone in my daughters old Taurus that just happened to have a kick-ass stereo. I don’t remember the exact song that triggered the idea, but it featured a drum solo that made me forget for a moment that long-haul truckers were buzzing past me at dizzying speeds. So, first I have to thank Sarah for the opportunity to drive her car that day. I doubt I would have come up with the story line under any other circumstances.

  Since I know nothing about music or the recording industry, writing about a musician was problematic. For this, I turned to my cousin Rod Wall who is a musician and songwriter. He was gracious with his time and his knowledge, and I suspect he rolled his eyes at my ridiculous questions a time or two. Thanks to email, I was spared knowing this and choose to think it only happened sparingly.

  Over the years, I entered the manuscript in a few contests and I can’t thank the judges enough for their honest feedback. As THE KEY OF LOVE, it came in second in the Celtic Romance Writers Golden Claddaugh Contest, and as LOST MELODY it won the Contemporary Romance category of the Music City Romance Writers Melody of Love contest.

  Without a doubt, this story would never have seen the light of day without the input from my friend, fellow writer, and cover artist, Talina Perkins. Many people read my original manuscript, but Talina, God bless her, took time out of her insanely busy life to critique for me. Her insight prompted a complete rewrite that I am satisfied now is ready for the world to see. The fabulous cover is all her doing, too.

  Many thanks to my editor, Laura Garland. Every time I receive an edited manuscript back from Laura, I am reminded that I am nothing more than a storyteller. She is the brains behind my grammar, punctuation, and sentence structure. Any errors in those areas are either intentional on my part or completely my fault.

  Lastly, I must thank my family for indulging me in my storytelling career. Without their support and encouragement, I would never have the courage to pursue my dream.

  For Terrell

  You make my heart sing.

  Chapter One

  Mel pumped a nickel into the antique parking meter in front of The Donut Hole and went inside. She paused to savor the intoxicating medley of aromas that never failed to jump-start her system—even after a near-sleepless night. Fatigue rolled off her shoulders. She smiled and greeted a few familiar faces with a wave over the crowded shop.

  She took her place in line and thanked goodness for the owner's hot chocolate making skills. In the few months she had been in Willowbrook, a cup of Cathy's concoction had become her morning addiction. It was rich and decadent enough to inspire her to give her new life another chance.

  At last, her turn at the counter arrived. Cathy smiled warmly at her. Gratitude for her friendship filled Mel with contentment.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Cathy said, taking in Mel’s appearance and coming to the correct conclusion. Nothing got by her. “Another bad night?”

  “So so. I think I'm getting better,” she lied. She'd hoped moving to a new place, one far away in both distance and demeanor, would be the magic cure for her sleepless nights, but it hadn't proven to be the case. It seemed her problems were destined to follow her wherever she went.

  “I don't get it, girlfriend. There's nothing in Willowbrook to keep a person awake in daylight, much less at night.”

  “I know. It's not the town. It's me. I just don't sleep well. Maybe I'm part vampire,” she joked, knowing it wasn't the undead keeping her awake.

  “I read something about an herbal remedy…Melatonin, I think it was called. The name reminded me of you. Mel…Melatonin. Get it?”

  She smiled at the well-meant help. At least her new friend cared enough to offer whatever she could. “Yeah, I get it. Thanks, but I've tried it. Didn't work.”

  “Oh well.” Cathy shrugged. “What will it be today, the usual?”

  “I've got an interview, so two hot chocolates, and pick out half a dozen doughnuts for me. Anything will do, but make sure at least one has chocolate on it.”

  Cathy filled the order and passed it over the counter. “I'll put it on your tab.”

  “Thanks. Remind me to settle up at the end of the week.”

  “Oh, don't you worry! Go on, I've got customers waiting.”

  Mel held the door open for the group of silver-haired ladies who met at The Donut Hole every morning to gossip over pastries and coffee. She’d love to write an article about them one day. They probably had a million stories to tell about the town, and every one of them would be good. The last one through the door thanked her, and Mel headed to her Jeep. She tossed the doughnut bag onto the passenger seat, stowed the two steaming cups in the built-in cup holders, and went in search of her interviewee.

  She pulled to the curb in front of 755 Pecan Street and cut the engine. The house looked like all its neighbors, except for the rioting scarlet azaleas in bloom along the base of the raised porch. She peered through the open front door behind the rusty screen. Seeing no one inside, she rapped her knuckles against the screen door sending it clattering against the jamb.

  “Mr. Travis? Anyone home?”

  She stepped back, taking a moment to admire the neat yard and well kept flowerbeds. The next-door neighbor tended her rose bushes, wearing a broad brimmed straw hat a
nd rubber gardening clogs. The woman turned, revealing a sleeping infant in one of those backpack things hanging from her shoulders. Mel squashed the ping of envy that inevitably came when she saw a mother with her kids. Maybe one day….

  No. It was a dream she’d let go of a long time ago, along with the one about finding a guy who didn’t mind her being a fugitive from her own life.

  A bee buzzed around her head and zeroed in on the bright spring buds surrounding the porch. She closed her eyes and breathed in the morning air tinged with the intoxicating sweetness of roses and the fresh clean scent of wet earth. Aromatherapy at its best. If peace had a scent, this she thought, was it. As tempting as it was, she couldn’t stand on the porch all day. She had a job to do.

  She knocked again, and getting no answer she turned to leave.

  “Just go on in,” the woman next door spoke, halting Mel halfway down the steps. “Henry is in there somewhere. He won’t mind.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that. He is expecting me.”

  She wiggled her fingers at the neighbor—the best she could do with her hands full—and backtracked up the steps. Life in Willowbrook, and in rural north Texas, was different than anything she had ever experienced. Few people locked their doors, and everyone knew everyone else’s business. In a few short months, she had grown to love the lifestyle. At first, the similarities between her busybody neighbors and the paparazzi had shaken her, but it hadn’t taken long to figure out the difference. Folks in Willowbrook took care of each other—like a family.

  She juggled her offering of doughnuts and hot chocolate and tried the screen door. It was unlocked. No surprise.

  She stepped cautiously into the living room. The furniture was dated but not worn out. Morning light through the front window illuminated a faded floral rug over a hardwood floor. Other than a novel resting on a small table next to an overstuffed recliner, the room appeared little used.

  “Hello! Anyone home?”

  Silence.

  She moved with caution, announcing her presence as she went. She could just see tomorrow’s headline—Reporter Frightens Elderly Resident to Death. Or another possibility—Elderly Resident Mistakes Reporter for Burglar and Opens Fire. Neither one held any appeal.

  She passed the tiny dining room and kitchen. They were both empty, which left only the short hallway and the bedrooms to explore. She entered the passage on trembling legs. Her imagination conjured every terrifyingly possible scenario. Poor Mr. Travis might be incapacitated on the bathroom floor…or worse.

  Only three doors opened off the hall. Two bedrooms and one bath, she surmised—much like her own house a few streets over. She peeked around the first door and breathed a sigh of relief. The tiny bathroom was empty.

  She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Her heart beat a wild rhythm in her throat and a pent-up breath rushed past her lips. She took a moment to gather her courage and checked the next room. A bedroom. It, too, was scrupulously clean and empty.

  “Thank heavens,” she muttered.

  A faint rustling of papers drew her attention to the final door. Adrenaline flowed and her heart raced even faster. Fearing the worst, she sucked in a steadying breath and stepped into the open doorway.

  She gasped.

  Oh, Lord!

  The man seated at the antique secretary didn’t fit the house. Literally. He overwhelmed the small bedroom-turned-office. Long, denim clad legs stretched across the room. His feet, encased in canvas sneakers, tapped a silent rhythm. An overweight black Labrador Retriever slept on the floor next to his chair. The useless watchdog rolled her brown eyes at Mel but didn’t move from her position.

  “Hello,” she called. Neither one stirred. The dog was either very well trained or the laziest canine on the planet. She couldn’t imagine what the man’s excuse was. Then she noticed the thin wire snaking across his chest from his shirt pocket to the tiny earbud headphones he wore. She shrugged and leaned against the doorframe. No wonder he hadn’t heard her. He probably had the volume so high he wouldn’t hear a freight train bearing down on him.

  If this was Mr. Travis, he was younger than she expected—perhaps thirty. Certainly no more than thirty-five. His sandy hair was cut in a familiar style. Willowbrook had one barbershop and one barber, Judd Spencer. Her first week on the job she had been asked to write an article on the aging barber who had been doling out the same haircut to any and all comers for the last forty years.

  She noted the man’s strong, cleanly shaved jaw. He wore surprisingly stylish reading glasses, Ralph Lauren if she knew her logos, and she did. The sleeves of his starched dress shirt were rolled to reveal the corded muscles of his forearms. He held a sheaf of papers in long fingers.

  He looked like he should be in a magazine ad for…something. Men's cologne, a sexy watch perhaps. Whatever. He was too sexy to be in this house—or in Willowbrook for that matter.

  He ran a finger down the page, his focus complete. Her skin tingled. Lucky piece of paper. What it would feel like to have him study her with the same intensity, and oh Lord, to have those hands explore every inch of her body?

  She licked her lips and swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. She had never seen a sexier man. Just watching him made things itch and ache that shouldn’t be itching and aching—not for someone she was supposed to interview. It wasn’t professional.

  She mentally kicked herself. She had a job to do.

  She took another step into the room and waved a quickly cooling cup of hot chocolate into his line of vision. “Hello.”

  Mr. Travis jumped to his feet, pulling the headphones and glasses off in the same motion. Summer green eyes framed by long lashes took stock of her in a brisk head to toe sweep. He dropped the papers and reading glasses to the desk. The earbuds swung on thin wires from his pocket, and the distinct chords of “Melody” by RavensBlood filled the air. The lump in her throat threatened to cut off her air supply, and those earlier tingles turned to icy shivers of dread. Memories battered at her defenses and threatened her hold on reality. She took a step back—as if distance could lessen the impact.

  She forced the memories into the neat little box she had assigned them and mentally shoved it into the cellar where it belonged.

  You can do this.

  The job. Willowbrook. It was a new beginning, a chance to put the painful memories behind her. She would not blow it because the man had that song on his player. Hell, everyone on the planet had that song. It was something she had to learn to live with.

  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I-I’m looking for Henry Travis.” She nodded down the hallway in the direction of the front door. “I knocked several times. Y- your neighbor said I should come on in.” Another more welcome idea blossomed in her chest. Perhaps he wasn’t the man she’d come to interview. Please, God. Let it be someone else, anyone else. Just not a man with the ability to make her tingle, and long to run away at the same time. “Is Henry home?”

  “Which Henry Travis are you looking for?”

  His voice, like hot chocolate with an edge, coated the icy points of her nerve endings and brought back that tingly feeling. Insanity. It was the only explanation. “Um, I don’t know exactly. Is there more than one?”

  “Yes. I’m Henry Travis, Jr., but everyone calls me Hank. Henry is my dad.” The dog roused from her stupor and stood next to him. He rubbed her head, earning the dog’s adoration. “This is Betty Boop. She’s harmless.”

  “Obviously.” She spared a glance at the dog and returned her gaze to the man who most decidedly was not harmless—at least not to her, not with that infernal song still playing from the earbuds dangling from his pocket. She entertained the idea of asking him to turn it off but doing so would only invite questions she didn’t want to answer. “Do you live here?”

  He flashed a quirky half-smile that weakened her knees. “This is my dad’s house. I have a farm outside of town. The Chilcote place. Maybe you know it.”

  She shook her head. “No, I don�
��t think I do. I’m sort of new around here.” Her legs wobbled under his scrutiny. Damn. She needed to get a grip, and fast. The way his eyes raked her from head to toe made her conscious of the way her silk blouse draped over her breasts, and judging by the way his gaze lingered there, he had noticed, too. So much for the professional appearance she’d been going for when she’d selected her wardrobe this morning.

  “What have you got there?” He nodded toward her hands.

  “Oh. I brought doughnuts and hot chocolate.” She raised the bag as evidence.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Okaaay. Why don’t we go to the kitchen, and you can tell me why you’re here.”

  She heard his low whistle when she turned and led the way. With each step, she silently cursed her other wardrobe choice, a sleek cotton and spandex blend pencil skirt that molded to her curves but allowed her hips to move when she walked. Heavy footsteps lagged behind—far enough to get the full effect. She placed her burden on the vintage oak kitchen table and turned. He stopped just inside the doorway, his face unreadable as he lounged against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest and his hips cocked to one side in a casual yet wary stance. The interview was not going well. Not at all. If she didn’t get this back on track, she would walk out of here with nothing—and that just wouldn’t do.

  She pasted a smile on her face. “Maybe I should start over.” She extended her right hand. “I’m Mel Harper from the Willowbrook Gazette.”

  Betty Boop ambled past her master and sniffed the doughnut bag. She plunked her rear end down and turned pleading eyes on the man in the doorway. Hank ignored the dog and Mel’s outstretched hand.

  “Well, Ms. Harper. I don’t do interviews, doughnuts or no doughnuts.”

  His tone cut her bravado off at the knees. She dropped her hand to her side. “But I have an appointment at nine-thirty to interview you about your donation to the Willowbrook High School Band program.”

  He straightened, dwarfing the kitchen as he had the small office. Gulliver in Lilliput, and she was definitely a Lilliputian. She gripped a chair back to steady herself. The earbuds swung from his shirt pocket, but thankfully, he had turned the music off. He was close enough she could smell his aftershave—something woodsy with expensive undertones. Sexy.