Lost Melody

by Roz Lee

  “Thanks for the invitation, Mr. Travis, but I’ve overstayed my welcome.” She stretched to her toes and placed a kiss on Henry’s cheek.

  “Stay, please?” his dad implored.

  She spoke to his dad as if they were old friends saying goodbye after a tea party. “I’d better go. I appreciate the invitation, but coming out here wasn’t such a good idea.” She patted his arm. “Let’s have dinner in town one day soon. My treat.”

  She turned back to Hank. “It was nice to see you again, Mr. Travis.” Her voice had more ice than a Blue Norther.

  Betty Boop raised her head from her grassy pillow, saw Mel walking across the lawn, and like the kiss-up she was, took out after her. Henry watched their progress across the lawn and around the corner of the house. When they were out of sight, he shifted his gaze to his son.

  Damn. Hank had seen the expression before. When he’d been a kid, he would have given anything for an old-fashioned spanking instead of receiving that look from his dad.

  He caved under the disapproval in his father’s eyes. Before Henry could lay into him about his manners, his long legs strode after her. “Ms. Harper,” he called as he rounded the corner of the house. “Wait.”

  He caught up to her just as she was about to get in her Jeep. Guaranteed, she was made of better steel than her car door, but she used it as a shield, nonetheless.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

  She glared at him through the open window frame. It wouldn’t be easy to convince her to stay, not after he’d acted like such an ass.

  “Look, Dad invited you, and anyone he invites is welcome in my home. It works both ways between us. Please accept my apology and stay for dinner.” Betty Boop nudged his hand with her wet nose. He glanced down, rubbed her head to placate her, and shifted his attention back to the woman who made his blood boil—in every way possible. “If you don’t stay, Dad will probably take a hickory switch to me.”

  He flashed her a smile that usually made the groupies scream but for some reason had no effect at all on Mel Harper. Her gaze continued to drill through his skull with laser precision.

  He had never had any trouble convincing a woman to stay with him before—well, not since high school. He should let her go and suffer the consequences. His dad would be mad for a day or two, but he’d get over it. Either way, stay or go, Ms. Mel Harper, reporter, spelled nothing but trouble.

  She studied him through narrowed eyes.

  Shit. He tried again. “Dad wanted you to come tonight, and that’s good enough for me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

  Her gaze darted between his face and the road. She had made up her mind. With a sigh, she shook her head and slid her right foot beneath the steering wheel.

  Suddenly, keeping her here wasn’t about what his dad wanted. It was about what he wanted. He didn’t want her to go.

  “Stay,” he said, grabbing her arm through the open window. Electricity shot up his arm and raced south to his groin. Her eyes went wide, and she jerked her arm out of his grasp.

  “Are you sure you want me here?” she asked as her right foot rejoined her left on the gravel drive.

  Oh, I’m sure I want you. Here. There. Damned near anywhere. “I’m sure,” he said, stepping back, giving her room to make her decision.

  She nodded. “Okay. Okay.” She hoisted her purse strap to her shoulder. “Apology accepted. You and I get along like oil and water, but I like your dad. He’s a good man. And from what I heard today, your mother was a saint. I’ll reserve judgment on you tonight, and I’ll stay for dinner.”

  The vise squeezing his chest let go and he took a full breath. She slammed her car door and swept past him in the direction of his backyard. He’d experienced this feeling before—usually as a result of conquering stage fright. Relief.

  As he watched her shapely backside sway across his yard he was pretty sure his relief would be short-lived.

  * * *

  Hank took over the grilling duties from his father and, true to his word, behaved himself for the remainder of the evening. Henry was an excellent host. He entertained her with dozens of stories, enough she almost forgot about her earlier tiff with his son. One thing she would never forget, though, was the spark of electricity that shot through her when Hank touched her. She had never felt anything like it before. She had been a lousy science student, but she’d read her share of sappy romances—enough to know what the spark meant. Attraction. But it didn’t mean she needed to act on it. Really, she could hardly stand the man. Hank Travis was rude, arrogant, overbearing, and confusing.

  A trip to the ladies room gave her a glimpse inside his home. The back door opened into the spacious kitchen, which at first glance appeared to be typical 1950s era construction. Its perfection gave away the secret. Behind the vintage façade lurked state of the art appliances. She had seen similar kitchens in home design magazines. The clever disguise didn’t come cheap. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble and spent a ton of money on the renovation. She knew virtually nothing about farming, but she’d been in Willowbrook long enough to figure out it wasn’t a high-income profession. Her curiosity shifted into high gear.

  The two Henry Travises were a mystery. Henry dressed in typical Willowbrook fashion—JC Penney all the way. The solitary department store was as much a staple in town as Judd Spencer and his haircuts.

  Hank, however, was a walking contradiction. His faded Levi’s appeared to be authentic, worn threadbare from years of use and abuse in contrast to the holey jeans city slickers paid hundreds of dollars for. His crisp white dress shirt came from Brooks Brothers, the nearest store being in Dallas, several hours away yet he sported a ten-dollar Judd Spencer haircut. He made no mention of what he’d been doing in the barn before she arrived, and given their tenuous truce, she wasn’t inclined to ask.

  She had been in Willowbrook for six months and hadn’t seen Hank Travis until today. It would be hard to live unnoticed in such a small town, and if she had seen Hank Travis, she wouldn’t have forgotten him. He would stand out in a crowd.

  So, where had he been for six months? What did he do for a living? He wasn’t a farmer—not the legal kind anyway.

  She returned to their alfresco dinner with more questions than she had answers.

  “Your home is lovely, Hank, what I saw of it anyway. I would have pegged you as a more modern type,” she said.

  “Really? Why?”

  “Nothing specific. It’s just a feeling.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong, Ms. Harper. I’m a simple man. I inherited the house and farm from my grandparents. I haven’t changed much. I like it the way it is.”

  “I loved all the family photos in the hallway.”

  “My favorite is my grandparents’ wedding photo,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “They were so happy in the photo, but they still looked happy fifty years later. It’s a reminder that some things endure. It gives me hope.”

  “Hope? For what?”

  He shrugged. “You know. That I’ll find someone, too.”

  “It shouldn’t be too difficult,” she said. “I would think a simple life would appeal to a lot of women.”

  Hank poked a long fork into a steak. “You’d be surprised.”

  She let the comment slide. There was more to Hank Travis than met the eye. He was hiding something. A good-looking guy like him living all by himself in a big old farmhouse? There was money somewhere, but he’d hidden it carefully. Separately, none of her observations were remarkable. But together? Well, in Hank’s case, two and two did not make four. Perhaps his father had been right. Maybe she could get another story after all.

  “The farm has been in my wife’s family for generations,” Henry said. “The first Chilcote got it in a land grant for his service in the Army of the Republic.”

  As Henry recited the history of the Chilcote farm and Willowbrook, Mel snuck g
lances at his son. With his back mostly turned to them, tending the grill, she had plenty of opportunities to check him out. He moved with grace, as if some inner rhythm guided his movements. Music in motion, she thought as he poked at the steaks with the fork in one hand and using the tongs with the other, flipped them easily. Flames from the charcoal licked above the rack, highlighting the roped muscles in his forearm.

  When everything was done, Mel sat across from Hank at the old wooden picnic table that had seen more coats of paint than she had seen years. The food was delicious, steaks and farm fresh vegetables Hank had sliced and cooked on the grill just before the meat was ready. The simple meal was accompanied by slices of white bread, fresh from the wrapped loaf in the center of the table. Not gourmet, but she couldn’t remember ever having a better meal in her life.

  Henry kept her wine glass filled from a bottle he admitted snatching from his son’s wine cooler. She couldn’t bring herself to say no to a brownie for dessert, especially when Henry said he had made them himself.

  Chapter Three

  Hank watched his dad’s old truck disappear down the dusty drive. Thankfully, his father’s stories had been old ones, nothing touching on the present. It was obvious Mel didn’t know who he was…yet. But it was only a matter of time before someone in town said something or she figured it out on her own.

  Six months. It must be some kind of record. Gossip usually spread faster than a prairie fire in Willowbrook. In all fairness to the gossip grapevine, he had been on tour most of that time. Out of sight, out of mind, they say. He was back, so tongues would wag. He could take to the bank.

  He checked on the grill, making sure the coals had burned down enough to be safely left alone, and headed for the house. He needed information and that meant tapping into his own personal branch of the gossip grapevine. It wasn’t early, but it wasn’t late either, so he made the phone calls. He’d known Chris and Randy his entire life and he could count on them for the latest news.

  The childhood friends gathered around the red Formica kitchen table in Hank’s kitchen, sipping coffee and eating Oreo cookies straight from the bag. Betty Boop sat nearby using her best begging skills to score an occasional illicit treat.

  “So, tell us, man. Let us old married guys live vicariously through you for a few minutes,” Chris said.

  “Yeah,” Randy chimed in, “throw us a few crumbs. How about those French women? Are they as uninhibited as everyone says they are?”

  Hank groaned. “You both know I don’t hook up with the groupies and I wouldn’t give you details if I did.”

  “Ah, man.” Randy sat back, adjusting his long legs beneath the table. “We were hoping for some good stories tonight.”

  Hank raised an eyebrow. “Have I ever told you a good story from one of our tours?”

  “Now that I think about it…no.” Chris frowned. “So what are we here for?”

  “Hey, it’s good to see you, too,” Hank groused, tossing a sliver of cookie at his lifelong friend.

  “Just kidding,” Chris said. He licked his index finger and pressed it onto the cookie crumb that had bounced off his chest and landed on the table. He ate the crumb off his fingertip. “But you got to give us something, man. We left our wives and screaming kids at home tonight to come all the way out here.”

  “Yeah, we made sacrifices,” Randy agreed. He popped a whole cookie in his mouth and chewed. How he ate the way he did and remained stick thin, Hank would never know.

  “You were both dying for an excuse to get out the house and you know it. But hey, I’m a nice guy, so I’ll give you the inside scoop. This hasn’t been released to the public yet so don’t go spreading it around town. The band’s going to do a RavensBlood cover album. If everything goes right, we’ll start in a few weeks.”

  Randy whistled and slapped the table.

  Chris let out a whoop. “That’s great, man! You’ve wanted to do one for a long time, haven’t you?” He grinned from ear to ear.

  He could always count on Chris’ support, and as Hank’s personal attorney, the new album meant more work for Randy, but his enthusiasm was personal rather than professional. Hank had made no secret about his desire to do the RavensBlood cover album.

  “Yeah. The cover album is my project. The others are onboard, too, but you know how I am about RavensBlood. We’ve been working on the arrangements for months. It should be finalized soon.”

  “So, everyone will invade the farm again in a few weeks?” Randy asked.

  “Yep. At least, I hope so. Summer is the best time for the guys and their families. If we don’t get it done this summer, it may have to wait ‘till next year.”

  Randy grabbed another cookie. “What are you going to do if it doesn’t work out?”

  “Watch the cotton grow, I guess. I don’t have any other plans.”

  “You’ve got a good crop this year if that’s what you’re worried about,” Chris was quick to assure him.

  “No,” Hank said. “I’m sure you have it under control, as always. I don’t know what I would do without you to run the farm for me. If it wasn’t for you, the place would be grown up in sunflowers and crab grass.”

  Chris had “done his time”, as he referred to it, at Texas A&M and had come back home as soon as he could to manage his family’s farm. Hank had turned his own acreage over to his friend and hadn’t regretted it for a moment.

  “So, why did you get us out here tonight? Do you need legal advice? The catching up could have waited until the weekend.”

  Leave it to Randy voice the question they’d been dancing around from the start. Hank shook his head. “No. I don’t need my lawyer, I need information.” He slouched in his chair. “There’s a new reporter at the Gazette. What do you know about her?”

  Chris whistled low. “She’s a looker, I know that.”

  Hank scowled. “You’re a married man. Should you be noticing other women?”

  “Hell, Hank, I’m married, not dead.”

  Randy laughed. “He’s right. She’s beautiful. Classy sort, big city girl, I think. Uncle Ralph hired her away from some magazine in Los Angeles. Or maybe it was San Francisco.” He ran his fingers through his perpetually disheveled hair. “I don’t know for sure, but she’s from out there somewhere. He did say she went to college in Virginia. I can’t remember the name of it right off hand. I could ask him for you.”

  “No. Don’t bother. She’s from L.A.? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure she’s from California, beyond that, I couldn’t say for sure. The word around town is she paid cash for her bungalow over on Sycamore Street. You know, the one old lady Williams used to live in?”

  “Yeah, I know the one. I used to mow Mrs. Williams yard.”

  “Yeah, I remember that,” Randy said.

  Chris set his coffee cup down. “Why do you want to know about her?”

  Hank sighed, running his fingers through his newly cropped hair. “Dad made a donation to the high school band, and she’s doing a story about it for the paper. He invited her out here for dinner tonight. She didn’t act as if she knew anything about me. If she’s from California, it could be a cover. Some reporters will go to any extreme to get a story.”

  Randy and Chris looked at each other then at Hank.

  “Do you really think she could be up to something?” Randy popped another Oreo.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but after what Karen did, I can’t be too careful. It’s taken years to clean up my image and people still call me by that ridiculous name.”

  “At least you found out what she was up to before you married her,” Chris said.

  “True. It was a narrow escape though. I learned a valuable lesson from the fiasco.”

  Chris frowned and tapped his finger on the table. “You think Mel Harper took the job here just to get to you? That’s a little extreme. No offense, Hank, but it’s pretty farfetched. You might be getting a little too full of yourself.”

  He knew the lengths a reporter would go t
o in order to get a story. Been there, done that—lesson learned. Only someone who lived in the public eye could really know what the media spotlight was like, and he’d given up trying to explain the experience to his friends long ago. They’d never get it, no matter how many times he tried to make them to understand. To them, getting their name or picture in the local paper was exciting. They couldn’t comprehend what it was like to see your photo in the gossip rags every day along with a story fabricated from the flimsiest bit of truth, or more often, no truth at all. Anything to fill column inches.

  He ignored Chris’s question, seizing on the reprimand for the good-natured set down it was. “I’m full of it huh? Just exactly how do you propose to remedy that?”

  Randy and Chris answered in unison, “Pool challenge!”

  God, it was good to be home. “When and where, smart ass?” Hank asked.

  “Tomorrow night. Eight o’clock at Smitty’s,” Randy said.

  They agreed on the particulars before Hank walked them to the back door.

  “Tell the women folk I said hi,” he said.

  “Will do.” Randy slapped him on the back as he stepped out onto the porch. “Glad you’re home.”

  “Yeah, it’s good to have you back,” Chris said, adding his own back slap and handshake.

  “It’s good to be here,” Hank said. “And it’s good to see ya’ll. Thanks for coming out tonight. Next time, you’ll have to bring the women and the brats.”

  “Just name the time,” Randy said. “You know how much the kids love to run around this place.”

  “Man, we had some good times out here when we were kids,” Chris said.

  “Yeah, we did,” Hank agreed. “Your kids love it, too.”

  “They do. I’m glad it’s still here for them.”

  “Me, too,” Hank said.

  “See you tomorrow night. Don’t forget your wallet,” Chris said, following Randy down the steps.

  “Yeah, right. You better bring yours, my friend,” Hank countered.

  Chris dismissed Hank’s comment with a wave of his cowboy hat as he crossed the yard.