Lost Melody

by Roz Lee

  “Smart girl. Some of the folks got a little carried away. I can help you sort through them to get to the real story.”

  “Thanks. You read my mind. It’s not too much of an imposition?”

  “Not at all. Just tell me when. By the way, congratulations.”

  “For what?” She frowned.

  “For snagging Hank Travis, of course. He never looked at me the way he looks at you. If he had, I might have accepted his invitation for a roll in the back of his pickup when we were in high school.”

  “He asked you to…uh, you know?”

  Cathy laughed and passed Mel’s usual order across the counter. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. It was a long time ago, and I turned him down flat. He has knobby knees, remember?”

  She told herself it wasn’t any of her business what he had done when he was in high school, and the event obviously meant nothing to Cathy. She pasted a smile on her face and quipped, “Knobby knees, I remember. I should have some free time on Sunday. Why don’t you come over, and we can go through all the stories and try to sort fact from fiction.”

  The date was set, and she headed for the farm. Hank was in the utility room when she arrived.

  “Do you always do your own laundry?”

  He stuffed jeans into the washer, measured liquid detergent into the machine. “I send out my shirts and dress slacks. When I’m at home, I do the rest myself. I also clean my own toilets, and vacuum.” He made a face. “Actually, I do all the housework.” He sounded pleased with himself.

  “Why not hire someone to do it?”

  “It goes back to paying my personal bills. Why invite trouble into my home? I could probably hire someone from Willowbrook, but there’s something about a stranger handling my underwear that bothers me.”

  She smiled. “You’re a man of many talents.”

  She followed him to the kitchen where she’d added a bag of doughnuts and two hot chocolates to his boxes of cereal on the table.

  “No fancy breakfast today?” she asked, motioning to the boxes of sugarcoated cereal.

  “Just lazy today. I see you brought your own food. Tired of my cooking already?”

  “No. I stopped to talk to Cathy, and she assumed I was there for my usual. We can save them for later.”

  He dumped a giant scoop of kibble into Betty Boop’s bowl and brought milk and orange juice to the table. “Frosted Flakes okay with you?”

  “You bet. They’re my favorite.”

  Mel fixed a bowl of cereal for herself and passed the box to Hank. Soon, all three of them were crunching away. Mel smiled at the simple domestic scene that felt more comfortable than she could have ever imagined.

  “What about you? Do you clean house yourself, or do you have a housekeeper?” Hank asked.

  “I do my own for the same reason you do. Privacy. I grew up doing chores around the house, so I don’t really mind.”

  He studied her for a moment then returned to his cereal. “How did you do it? Move to Willowbrook I mean, without anyone finding out who you are?”

  She put down her spoon and crossed her arms on the table. “My middle name is a pretty good disguise, like your haircut, and I’m incorporated, MHR investments. I bought the house in cash, through the corporation, sight unseen. I hired a real estate management company to rent it to me, and I pay myself rent every month.”

  “Clever. I’ll have to remember that one. It could come in handy sometime. Does anyone in town, besides me, know about you?”

  “My boss does. The IRS wants their share of the pittance he pays me, so unless I wanted to change my name, he had to know. Cathy Anderson knows.”

  “Did you tell her, or did she find out on her own?”

  “I told her. Why?”

  “Just wondering. You can add Dad to the list. He knew before I did.”

  Her stomach clenched. A wave of nausea swept through her. She fought the panic welling in her gut. “How did he find out? Who has he told?”

  He put a hand on her arm. “Relax. He hasn’t told anyone, I’m sure. He didn’t even tell me. He just arranged for us to meet, and rightfully guessed I’d figure it out myself.”

  “Are you saying he made the donation just so I would interview him?”

  “It’s worse. He lured me to his house and conveniently arranged to be late, giving us a chance to meet. I have to tell you, he’s pretty pleased with himself.”

  Cold shivered down her spine, and an overwhelming desire to run as far and fast as she could raced through her system. All her careful planning really had been for nothing. The life she’d envisioned in Willowbrook was nothing more than an illusion.

  “Mel, it’s okay. He won’t tell anyone. He’s always been a RavensBlood fan. Your name rang a bell with him, so he did the same thing I did, he ran an Internet search.”

  She rose on shaky legs and took her cereal bowl to the sink. Dazed, she rinsed it and stowed it in the dishwasher, and turned to him. “What did he hope to accomplish by throwing us together?”

  He rose and crossed the room to her. He braced his hands on the counter, trapping her between them. “I think he’s hoping to get a couple of grandkids out of it.” He brushed his mouth across hers. “What do you think his chances are?” He kissed her again, harder, their lips the only contact.

  Her toes curled, and her heart did a somersault. Heat replaced the ice in her veins. His lips were soft, incredibly warm. Her body yearned to answer the invitation his kiss issued, but a small grain of sanity gave her the strength to push against his chest. She couldn’t do it, couldn’t give in to the things her body wanted. If she did, any hope she might have of building a normal life for herself would be gone. “I think he doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  He kept her imprisoned against the counter a moment longer before he stepped back and allowed her to slip away. She closed the cereal boxes and returned them to the pantry. Normal. If you act normal, you are normal. She was all too aware of his gaze following her as she took his bowl to the sink and returned the juice to the refrigerator.

  “I have work to do,” he said. “Are you coming out to the barn with me?”

  She froze with her hand on the refrigerator door while she wrestled with her conflicting emotions. It was hopeless. Her life in Willowbrook was a sham. Out of necessity, she’d told one person in town who she really was, and now the number was up to four. Every minute she spent in Willowbrook, and especially every minute she spent in Hank’s company increased the chances the whole world would find out who she was. So why wasn’t she running?

  The answer stood behind her, lounging against the kitchen counter as if he hadn’t just kissed her senseless. As if he wasn’t a threat to her sanity and her existence. Everything about him intrigued her—from his farm boy attitude to his immense talent and good looks. He’d pulled her into his universe, and she was helpless to break free of his gravitational pull.

  “I’m coming,” she said, turning to follow him out the door.

  Chapter Eight

  He pulled an electronic keyboard next to his desk and retreated into his own world, inaccessible behind a headset connected to the device, which in turn connected to the open laptop computer. Mel kept busy, writing out questions and observations while he worked on his composition. He tried notes on the keyboard, sometimes scribbling furiously on staff paper, sometimes working on the computer. With his reading glasses on, he appeared less like a rock star but still lethally sexy, reminding her of the first time she’d seen him. He seemed oblivious to his sex appeal, which made him even more appealing.

  Betty Boop jumped up on the leather sofa and curled up next to her. She stroked the dog’s ears, content to watch Hank work. The man had no idea what he did to women. Amazing. He honestly thought he was a simple man—which proved how much he knew. There was nothing simple or ordinary about Hank Travis.

  The room was silent except for the occasional muffled woof from Betty, deep in a doggy dream, or the click of the computer keyboard. He’d
been right about one thing. His work was mostly boring—at least from her angle. She stood, thinking it was time for a walk. She spied his MP3 player on the corner of his desk. She had it in-hand when he bolted from his seat and covered her hand with his, stopping her progress. He jerked off his headset, and peeled her fingers away from the player.

  “Not that one.” He opened a drawer and pulled out another MP3 player, identical in appearance to the one she’d picked up. He held it out to her. “You can listen to this one.” The off limits device disappeared into the desk drawer.

  Unsure what to make of the encounter, she accepted the replacement and retreated to her side of the room. “Sorry I disturbed you.”

  “It’s okay. The music selection is better on that one. I know hanging around while I work must be excruciating for you, but I won’t be much longer.” He gestured toward the device she held. “You can keep it if you want. It might help you get through the boring parts of my day.”

  “Thanks. It was just so quiet in here I thought I might go stir crazy.”

  “I’m working on something for our next album, and I’m afraid it’s a long way from anything I would want anyone to hear.”

  “I understand,” she lied. She secured the earbuds and returned to her list of questions, to which she could add several more.

  After lunch, Hank spent several hours in a rehearsal room, his computer hooked up to a full-size electronic keyboard. He donned headphones, and retreated into his private world again. She watched, inexplicably feeling left out. She knew nothing about composing music, but she wanted to be a part of his world in some small way.

  They spent the rest of the week together, yet apart. Whenever she asked him about the music he was working on, his reply was the same—it wasn’t ready to share. She chalked it up to artistic temperament and amused herself while he worked, listening to the plethora of taped conversations, making notes, and jotting down more questions to ask.

  Ever since the scene in the kitchen on Monday, he had asked no more questions and hadn’t so much as brushed his arm against hers when they walked side by side. Their conversations focused exclusively on the business at-hand. He allowed her to ask anything she wanted, and he answered candidly, even when they crossed the invisible line between personal and professional.

  She was more than relieved when, over breakfast Friday morning, he announced he was leaving for New York in the afternoon and wouldn’t return until late Monday.

  “What’s in New York?”

  “My agent,” he said. “It’s a business meeting.”

  With the weekend free, she stocked up at the local supermarket and headed home for a well-needed rest. She knew sleep would be elusive, but she could relax in her cozy little house, and put aside the Travis tapes until Sunday when Cathy would be over to help her make sense of the childhood stories.

  * * *

  Hank joined the other members of BlackWing at their penthouse apartment in Manhattan. The apartment took up the entire top floor of the high-rise building on the Upper West Side. Against the image carefully created for the media, the band members were surprisingly boring people, preferring their wives and children to the groupies and fans who bought their records. With that in mind, they’d purchased the large New York apartment, so they could accommodate everyone at one time. A throng of excited children and frazzled wives greeted him when he arrived. He exclaimed over gap-tooth smiles, heard about new puppies, and admired the newest arrival, three-month-old Katie Sanders, daughter of bass guitarist Kevin Sanders.

  Hank held the tiny bundle in his arms, afraid of dropping her yet thrilled at the precious new life. His chest tightened, envisioning holding a child of his own. An image flashed in his mind of Melody, round with his baby. He fought back the longing, the instant need to make the image a reality. Passing the infant back to her mother, he mumbled something he hoped was appropriate and went in search of the band.

  They’d gathered in the conference room. He chuckled. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was meeting a bunch of insurance salesmen. They were an unlikely group to be successful Rock and Roll musicians. If not for the unexpected success of BlackWing, the lot of them would have spent their lives pushing pencils for a living. He shook hands all around.

  He grabbed Kevin in a macho guy hug, clapping him on the back. “I saw Katie. Congratulations, she’s a keeper.”

  Kevin’s smile covered his entire face. “Stay away from her, Hank. She can do better than you!” he joked.

  “Ain’t that the truth?” He asked no one in particular, “When is Guy going to be here?”

  Stephen Anderson, backup singer and master of several wind and string instruments, shoved a sheaf of papers across the desk to him. “He’ll be here soon. He sent the contracts so we could go over them before he gets here.”

  Hank snagged a copy. He knew all would be in order. Their agent, Guy Nichols, was a stickler for detail and never sent them anything that hadn’t been reviewed by at least half a dozen lawyers. Nevertheless, he would read it before signing. “Is Jonathan Youngblood coming with him?”

  A chorus of ignorance sounded around the table. He grunted his acknowledgement, and continued to read. He came to the list of songs specifically enumerated in the contract.

  It wasn’t there. He read it a second time, hoping he’d missed it somewhere. In his opinion, there wasn’t any point in doing the cover album if “Melody” wasn’t part of the deal. Belatedly, he noticed the silence surrounding him. He set the contract aside and scanned the faces of his friends. Sympathetic eyes met his.

  “Why isn’t it here?” he asked, knowing in advance, the brilliant Harvard graduates would plead ignorance.

  He threw the contract on the table and growled, “Don’t anyone sign this contract until we find out what’s going on.” He stormed out of the room, knowing he needed to curb his anger before Guy arrived, especially if Sir Jonathan was with him.

  An hour later when Guy arrived, alone, Hank had tempered his rage, but like a dormant volcano, it simmered just below the surface. He wasted no time getting to the point.

  “Why isn’t ‘Melody’ on the list?”

  “You’ll have to ask Sir Jonathan,” the agent said. “He’s agreed to meet with you in the morning to discuss it in private. His driver will pick you up at seven and deliver you to his hotel for breakfast.”

  “What the hell is going on? You know I’ve been working on the cover for over a year. I won’t do the album if ‘Melody’ isn’t on it. What would be the point? ‘Melody’ is the single, defining work of Hamilton Ravenswood. Any cover album would be incomplete without it.”

  An uneasy murmur went around the table. He ignored it, convinced he was right. The rest of the band had spent countless hours working on other songs, and the demo tracks were almost ready for Sir Jonathan’s approval. As executor of Hamilton Ravenswood’s estate, and co-owner of the songs, Sir Jonathan would have to sign off on the songs before BlackWing could record them. He knew he was being unreasonable and unfair to the rest of the group by taking his all-or-nothing stance.

  “Look, Hank, meet him for breakfast tomorrow and find out what’s going on. He wouldn’t tell me,” Guy said, trying to appease him. “He specifically asked which one of you wanted to do the song and asked to meet with him, alone. That’s all I know. As many times as you’ve spoken to him over the phone, I’m surprised the subject hasn’t already come up.”

  Hank drummed his fingers on the table instead of letting loose the string of curses running through his head.

  “He hasn’t said no. Not yet anyway.” The agent glanced around the table. “My advice is to wait until tomorrow, until Hank meets with Youngblood and finds out what’s going on. I’ll come for lunch tomorrow, I’ll even bring the food, and we’ll hear what Hank has to say. Then you can decide if you want to scrap the album or sign the contract.”

  They sat in silence long after Guy left. Hank didn’t know what to say to his friends. He knew he was being an ass. He wasn’t
considering them or their wishes regarding the album.

  “I’m with Hank,” Chad said, breaking the silence. “If we can’t do ‘Melody’ I don’t know what the point of the album would be.” He addressed Hank. “You’re right. It’s his signature song, the legacy of Hamilton Ravenswood.”

  “I know if Youngblood heard you sing it with the changes you’ve made, he’d agree to the cover,” Kevin chimed in. “Your version is a tribute to the masterpiece. To the master. No one but you could cover that song. We all know it, and he must know it, too.”

  Mike and Stephen added their support. Hank’s anger cooled, his obsession somehow validated by his friends’ unwavering loyalty. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate the solidarity. I wish I knew what was going on, but I don’t.”

  “Go have breakfast with Sir Jonathan and find out. We’ll decide what to do when you get back,” Mike said.

  “It seems I have a breakfast date tomorrow.” He stood. “I should get some sleep so I don’t fall asleep in the scrambled eggs.”

  * * *

  Hank tossed and turned. He put the breakfast meeting aside, no need dwelling on something he had no control over, but he couldn’t get Mel out of his head. He missed her. He wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to touch her.

  Lying in bed listening to his friends and their families outside his door laughing and planning to spend time together opened a mental portal that allowed Hank to see the empty cavern of his life. His music filled a need, it was an expression of his soul, but it wasn’t enough. Not anymore. He needed Mel.

  He’d never needed anyone before. As an only child, he’d never really been lonely. His house was always full of neighborhood kids, welcomed by his mother with a batch of cookies or brownies. She was always ready to feed the gang he brought home with him. Living in town, he’d played on the street until the streetlights came on, the universal clock by which all mother’s called a halt to the evening’s fun.