by Roz Lee
She nodded, fighting back the tears she only shed in private as she filled in the blanks for her friend. “They were doing a concert in Denver. It was my tenth birthday and he promised to come to my party. He chartered a small plane, so he could leave right after a concert.” She took a shuddering breath. “His plane went down in the Rockies. It was just him and the pilot. They both died.”
“I’m so sorry.” Cathy squeezed her hand.
“There’s more.” She had never told anyone about that day, but Cathy’s quiet concern made her feel at ease.
“It’s okay, you can tell me.”
Maybe talking about it would make the memories less volatile. Keeping her thoughts bottled up inside, sometimes she felt like she might explode. Maybe if she pulled the cork on the bottle and let everything out it would be less deadly.
“Everything started out fine. I loved tea parties, so Mom made High Tea for me and my friends.” She closed her eyes, remembering the party decorations, the pile of brightly colored wrapping paper torn from gifts, the laughter. Everyone wore pretty dresses with hats and gloves borrowed from their mothers for the celebration. “He was supposed to be there before the party started, but he wasn’t. Mom told me he was running late.
“‘He’s always late,’ she said. Mom never missed an opportunity to remind me how unpredictable my father’s schedule was. Anyway, the party went on as planned. She didn’t tell me the truth until all my friends had gone home. I laughed and played games while my father was dying on the side of a mountain.”
Mel sucked in a fortifying breath. “I’ve never really forgiven her.”
“Oh, honey,” Cathy cried, pulling her into a bear hug. “It must have been awful for you.”
“Pretty much.” She reached for the tissue box on the end table behind her. After yanking a few out for herself, she offered the box to Cathy, who did the same. “Well, that’s my story. You can see why I have a rule against getting involved with musicians.” It was a damned good rule, one she had every intention of living by, no matter what. If she had learned anything from her parents’ marriage, it was that musicians would break your heart.
Cathy dried her eyes and settled back on her end of the sofa, pulling her bare feet under her. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Mel finished her wine, refilled her glass, and topped off Cathy’s while she waited for her to figure out which of her million questions she should ask first.
“So, why, exactly did you move here? I mean, why didn’t you stay where you were?”
Her heart raced as memories of the incident in San Diego came flooding back. Thanks to a casual comment from the building’s security guard, she and her mother had managed to escape out a rear exit and avoid the paparazzi waiting in the lobby. Just like when she was a child, on those rare occasions she went out in public with her father, the vultures circled their prey. She knew it was only a matter of time before someone added up all the clues and came up with the correct conclusion—Mel Harper and Melody Ravenswood were the same person.
“I had a close call with the paparazzi in San Diego. My inheritance came to me last year when I turned twenty-five. Before that, my life wasn’t of much interest to the media. My inheriting, coupled with the fifteenth anniversary of the plane crash…. Well, it spurred a lot of interest. Suddenly, everyone wanted to know what Melody Ravenswood had been up to, what she was going to do with the money.”
“I remember seeing a few stories on TV.”
She nodded. “Well, they almost found her. Someone tipped them off that Melody would be visiting her lawyer to sign some papers. They almost caught up to us as we were leaving his office downtown. It took some doing, but we managed to avoid them long enough for me to get out of town and come up with a new plan for my life.”
“You came here.”
“I was tired of living like a fugitive, always wondering when they’d catch up with me. I wanted to live in a place where I could walk the streets without worrying someone would pop out of the bushes with a camera at any minute. I thought Willowbrook was that place.”
Cathy twirled her glass by the stem. “It is.”
“It was,” Mel corrected. “You don’t know the paparazzi. One celebrity will bring them here, Hank Travis. And they’ll turn the town upside down. It won’t take them long to figure out Melody is here, too, especially if everyone in town finds out who I am.”
Chapter Five
Hank booted up his computer and typed Mel’s name in the search engine. Dozens of sites popped up. It was a common name. He checked out several social networking links before he noticed the link to a popular Ravenswood fan site. He clicked on it.
A photo filled the screen. He recognized the man holding a small girl in his arms. His head spun as he read the caption beneath the photo. Sinking low in his chair, he studied the girl.
A fan had posted the picture along with assurances the girl in the photo lived in San Diego and currently went by the name Mel Harper.
Could it be? No. Melody Ravenswood couldn’t be in Willowbrook, Texas—the middle of nowhere, USA. What he was thinking wasn’t possible. He had to be mistaken.
A half hour later, he knew he had stumbled upon the truth. Melody’s mother, Diane Harper, had been a backup singer with RavensBlood until she became pregnant, married Hamilton Earl Ravenswood, and left the life behind—apparently—to raise her daughter in San Diego. There were no photos of Melody beyond the age of ten when she was photographed standing beside her father’s casket at the family cemetery on his estate, Ravenswood, north of London. Earl had been more than a nickname. Hamilton Ravenswood had been the Earl of Ravenswood. His title passed to a cousin, but Melody had received a sizeable inheritance, which included the family estate and her father’s extensive music library. One article listed her godfather, Sir Jonathan Youngblood, as the executor of the estate until Melody turned twenty-five. The milestone had passed last year.
His desk chair creaked as he leaned back, absorbing what he had learned in the last few minutes. It was almost too much to take in. She was Hamilton Ravenswood’s daughter. Incredible.
He had been fifteen years old when Ravenswood died. His death and “Melody”, the masterpiece he left behind, were the reasons Hank had chosen to be a musician. It was as though Ravenswood had translated Hank’s thoughts and feelings into music notes and lyrics. “Melody” had been his theme song ever since.
He pulled up the cemetery photo again, arranging it on a split screen with the earlier one. What must it have been like for her? Had she been close to her father? Judging from the one where Ravenswood held his daughter in his arms, the answer was yes. You couldn’t mistake a love like that. He held her protectively against what must have been a barrage of photographers while Melody clung to his neck. Hank didn’t know much about kids, but he figured she was around five years old in the photograph.
He couldn’t imagine growing up in the public eye, but as he searched for pictures, he realized, perhaps she hadn’t. There were a few photos of them together when she was really young, but after the one when she was five…nothing. Nevertheless, the expression on her face at the cemetery told another story. Melody had loved her father.
His heart ached for her. He knew what it was like to lose a parent. But to have to lay a beloved parent to rest with the eyes of the world on you? He couldn’t imagine how difficult it had been for her. He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw a little girl holding tight to her mother’s hand, her eyes and nose red from crying. He dressed in sweats and the old tennis shoes he kept on the back porch for the dirtier jobs around the place, and left the house.
He walked the rows of young cotton plants, formulating his thoughts. Betty Boop kept him company until the sun painted the eastern sky with broad streaks of pink, purple, and gold.
He wasn’t a big believer in fate, but something, or someone, had a hand in the way they met. Why was Melody Ravenswood in Willowbrook? He dismissed the idea that she had known he lived here. Judging from the disgust
on her face when she’d seen him earlier, she wished he didn’t live here.
As much as he wanted to ignore the fact that she was a reporter, good sense told him not to. From what he had seen of her writing, she knew how to make the most of a story without stooping to yellow journalism. Just the same, he needed to keep a close eye on her. An image of her in Smitty’s, looking like an angel in denim, was permanently etched on his brain. Keeping an eye on her wouldn’t be a hardship.
He hadn’t had much luck in the dating department. Karen had been his only serious relationship, and finding out she used him to get the inside scoop on him and the band, she’d never harbored any real feelings for him had pretty much put him off his feed.
Yeah, he’d been hungry since her betrayal, but not hungry enough. And besides, most women wanted only one version of Hank Travis—either the rock star side or the farmer side, but never both. They couldn’t understand how the two balanced themselves out. He needed both, and he wanted someone to share them with.
Mel was perfect. Of all the people on the planet, she, more than anyone else, should understand his crazy life. The seed of an idea took root, and with each step he took, it grew until it blossomed into a full-blown plan…sort of.
First, he needed to find out exactly why she was in Willowbrook. If she wanted a normal, simple life, if she was searching for a place to put down roots, well…the roots on his family tree went deep.
* * *
Purse in hand, she stormed out of her boss’ office before she lost all control. In the parking lot, she debated the wisdom of driving in her state of mind. She needed chocolate and a friendly face. She slung her purse over her shoulder and turned in the direction of The Donut Hole.
Her new assignment was all Hank Travis’ doing—she knew it as well as she knew her own face in the mirror. But, why? He’d told her himself he didn’t give interviews. She stewed over the dilemma while Cathy worked the line down to her.
“I need a half dozen, assorted, to go.” She leaned over the counter, signaling for a more private conversation. When Cathy met her halfway, she asked in a hushed voice, “Do you have any laced with rat poison?”
Cathy raised an amused eyebrow. “Not today, sorry. How about a few artery-cloggers, instead? It’s slower, but it’ll still get the job done.”
She straightened, deflated in the face of her friend’s cheery attitude. “They’ll have to do. Load me up. Make sure there’s some chocolate in there, too.”
“Who’s the unlucky interviewee today?”
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was close enough to hear. “Hank Travis.”
“Oooh. No wonder you’re in such a good mood. What did he do, donate a new school?”
“Nothing so benevolent. He has deemed himself the savior of my career and granted me his first interview in seven years.”
Cathy’s eyes lit with interest. “You’re kidding. That is a coup. I didn’t think you’d dare ask him though, not after what you told me last night.”
“I didn’t.” She rolled her eyes. No matter how she examined the situation, it didn’t look good. “He called Ralph this morning and offered to put the Gazette on the map, provided I do the interview. And, get this…it’s a month-long assignment. Exclusive. I’m supposed to follow him everywhere for the next thirty days, so I can write about the real Hank Travis.”
Cathy’s lips twitched, but she couldn’t keep a smile from bursting across her face. “It sounds like something he would do. I know you don’t want to hear this, but it could make your career and get you out of this two-horse town.”
“But, I don’t want out. I like it here, or at least I did until I found out about Hank. I may have to find another place to live since he lives here, too.” She lowered her voice and leaned in close. “Sooner or later the rest of the media is going to get wind of the two of us living in the same town and then, watch out Willowbrook. I can’t do that to the town. I like all these people.” Her arm sweep encompassed the tables full of locals. She’d spent a lot of time thinking about it and had come to a depressing conclusion. “Willowbrook can’t handle both of us. I’m the outsider. I’m the one who’ll have to go.”
“That’s nonsense.” Cathy slid the filled bag across the counter. “Go on, don’t keep him waiting.”
* * *
Hank had put his plan into action. All he had to do was wait and see what she did. Ralph seemed sure he could convince her to go along, but there was a chance she would tell Ralph just what he could do with the assignment and his newspaper. He didn’t have a plan B. He was trying to come up with one when the phone rang.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Hank.”
“Cathy? What are you talking about?”
“Mel Harper is what I’m talking about. She was just in my store. What are you up to?”
“I’ve decided to grant an interview with the local paper. Don’t you think the citizens of Willowbrook want to know what I do all day?”
“You flatter yourself. We know what you do, and we’re not particularly interested in it. So what are you really up to?”
“I don’t know. I have a crazy idea she may be worth getting to know. Who knows? Maybe I’ll ask her to marry me.”
“Seriously?”
“Hey, you never know,” he said. “She keeps me awake at night.”
“Wow. I take it that’s never happened before?”
“Never. I think she may be the one, but I’ve got to get close to her to find out, and I couldn’t think of any other way.”
“I’ll say it again—wow. You mean it, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I think I do. Why? Are you afraid you’ve lost your chance to grow old with me? You should have taken me up on my offer back in high school.”
“Yeah, right. As I recall, you offered a romp in the back of your pickup. If you’d included a wedding ring with the offer, I might have overlooked the knobby knees and gone for it.”
“Ha, ha. Is she on the way out here?”
“Yes. And she is worth getting to know, but you’ve got your work cut out for you. You know how you are about reporters? Well, she’s the same way about musicians. She’s likely to shoot you for pulling this stunt. I’d make sure the gun cabinet is locked up tight before she gets there.”
“She’s mad, huh?” He couldn’t care less how mad she was. She was on her way. The next step would be to convince her to hear him out.
“She asked me to put rat poison in your doughnut.”
Hank laughed. “I appreciate the warning. I think I’ll be okay, but maybe I will check the gun cabinet and make sure the rat poison is out of sight, just in case.”
“You do that. Good luck, Hank. You’re going to need it. Oh, and by the way? If you hurt her, I’m coming for you.”
“Good to know.” Yeah, convincing Mel his plan could work wasn’t going to be easy, but at least she was on her way. “Thanks for the heads-up, and you take care.”
* * *
Why now? Why me? If Hank wanted publicity, he surely had a publicist who could get him better coverage than the Willowbrook Gazette.
She should turn around, head back into town, and forget all about Hank Travis. What could Ralph do to her if she refused to interview Hank? Fire her? Thanks to Hank, her time in Willowbrook was limited anyway, so what did it matter if she lost her job? At least she wouldn’t have to see him ever again.
Whom was she kidding? The truth was she wanted to see him again. Despite everything, she was still attracted to him, to his rich voice, his quirky smile, his nerdy haircut.
Somewhere around milepost twenty-nine, she had made up her mind to see this assignment through, but her first glimpse of him made her rethink her decision. He held the screen door for her, looking too damned good, too damned sexy, and too damned pleased with himself. He might as well have had a flashing neon sign on his head—Danger! Unreliable, narcissistic heartbreaker ahead!
She stepped into the kitchen, all too aware of his size as she brushed pas
t him in the narrow doorway. He snared one of the insulated cups from her as she passed. “Is this for me?”
Ignoring him, she popped her hot chocolate into the microwave, her fingers punctuating her mood as she stabbed at the buttons. The dog ambled into the room from parts unknown and sniffed at the back of her leg.
“Leave her alone, Betty.” Hank steered his four-legged friend in the other direction.
She opened cabinets until she found a plate and dumped the contents of the bag onto it. The dish made a satisfying thunk when she dropped it in the middle of the table. An old-fashioned style doughnut bounced off and rolled to the floor. Betty Boop pounced on it, disappearing with the purloined treat.
“I brought doughnuts.” She removed her hot chocolate from the microwave, hyper aware of the man leaning against the refrigerator watching her every move. “Today is the one and only time I’ll do it for the duration of our project.”
She took a seat and rummaged through her purse for her voice recorder. She slammed it down with enough force to rouse the dog from under the table—probably hoping to catch more flying pastries. Hank took the seat next to hers. She scooted her chair back until her thigh bumped the table leg. “I don’t take notes. If you have a problem with being recorded, speak up now.”
“You can record anything you want, except my music. I have contractual obligations regarding my creative process. I’m sure you understand, Melody.”
She faltered. Coincidence. A lucky guess. That’s all it was. Her tongue felt like sandpaper, but she managed to force words out. “My name is Mel.”
“If you say so, Ms. Ravenswood.”
Oh God. Her heart raced. Her vision blurred, and her throat closed. A black fog swam through her mind, threatening to take her under. She couldn’t breathe. She’d had panic attacks before, but that didn’t make this one any less frightening. She had to get out, away. Why hadn’t she listened to her instincts earlier? She stumbled to her feet. Trembling legs miraculously carried her to the door.
