by Roz Lee
In high school, he’d been busy with the marching band, and dorky as it had been, he somehow avoided the stigma associated with being a member. His friends had extended to every aspect of the social spectrum at Willowbrook High School. Chris and Randy had been stars on the football team, while he cheered them on from the band section.
In college, he’d made another set of friends. When a few frat brothers started a jam session to cope with the intellectual demands at Harvard, he’d joined in, buying a cheap drum kit from a Boston pawnshop. Of the ten original members, five had stuck it out through the years, picking up small gigs on and off campus. They’d been thrilled to pocket a few dollars for doing something they loved.
Their big break had come their senior year. They’d booked a gig at a Boston country club, a dance for the upper-crust teenage crowd. Guy Nichols was chaperoning his daughter’s dance that evening. As a result, none of them had ever worked a day in their chosen professions.
In the penthouse he co-owned, surrounded by people he considered family, he’d never felt so alone. He wanted to call Mel to tell her what he was doing in New York. He wasn’t sure she would understand why he hadn’t told her about the cover album though. She carried a heavy burden where her father was concerned, and there was a real possibility she would shut him out completely when she found out what he was up to.
Before the stinging letdown of the contract, he’d planned to ask Sir Jonathan about Mel. He probably knew her better than anyone else. He’d been the guardian of her estate for the last fifteen years, and he lived in her home in England, still managing her holdings for her. Everyone knew the legendary band had dissolved in the aftermath of Ravenswood’s death. Most of the members had continued their careers, eventually starting their own bands or launching solo careers. Jonathan Youngblood was the exception. He retired from the business and honored his best friend’s wishes by taking care of the daughter he’d left behind.
If anyone knew how to reach her, it was Jonathan Youngblood.
Hank fitted the headphone buds into his ears and turned on the MP3 player he was never without. “Melody” spoke to his soul, quieting his unrest. He slept.
* * *
The elevator opened directly into the exclusive suite occupied by Sir Jonathan Youngblood. Hank greeted the older man, grateful at last to meet him. He was, after all, the living half of RavensBlood and a legend in his own right. It was hard not to be intimidated in the presence of Rock and Roll royalty, even when said prince was dressed in worn jeans and a faded T-shirt from a long-ago concert. He’d lost none of his charisma in the years since his retirement. His graying hair and wizened features hinted at the hardships he’d endured in his lifetime. However, there was nothing soft or feeble in his handshake. The man was solid as a rock. Whatever else he did in his free time, he stayed in shape.
They exchanged pleasantries, and the older man instantly put him at ease with his casual manner and praise for Hank’s work. Uniformed waiters served breakfast then left them alone.
“Being here is surreal,” Hank said.
“Why?”
“Me…here…with you. I’ve been a fan all my life.”
“Well, that makes me feel old.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“No,” his host waved away Hank’s apology. “I am old. Let me guess, your parent’s listened to my music.”
Hank felt his face flush with embarrassment. “Yes, Sir. They did. And my dad is still a big fan. Truthfully, I wouldn’t be where I am today if not for the music you created with Hamilton Ravenswood.”
Waiters came to clear the table and they moved to the living room.
Sir Jonathan twisted his teacup between his hands. “I brought you here for a reason,” he said.
Hank waited while Jonathan gathered his thoughts. Judging by the grim expression on his face, whatever he had to say to Hank didn’t come easy for him. Hank’s stomach churned and he wished he hadn’t eaten anything. It couldn’t be good news.
“Milton Ravenswood was the best friend I had in this world, and I’ve done my best the last fifteen or so years to do what I thought he would want me to do for him and for the family he left behind.”
“I understand. He was lucky to have a friend like you.”
“No, he wasn’t. I was lucky to have a friend like him.” He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What I’m about to say is between you and me, Hank. It isn’t to leave this room. Agreed?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“I’d love for you to record ‘Melody’, and I think Milton would agree, but I can’t give you permission to record it.”
White-hot rage burned through the lining of Hank’s stomach and threatened to explode his skull. He gritted his teeth to keep it all in.
“Before you rip me a new one, let me tell you why.”
Hank forced himself to remain seated. Raging against Sir Jonathan would get him nowhere. “I’m listening.”
“I don’t control the rights to the song. I never have. It’s never been part of Ravenswood’s library.”
Hank played the words over in his mind, trying to make sense of them. “What do you mean? Ravenswood wrote it. If his estate doesn’t own the rights, who does?”
“She does.”
He knew he must look like a complete idiot, staring as if the man spoke an alien language, but he had no idea what Sir Jonathan was talking about. “Who, specifically, is she?”
The legend smiled a cat-who-got-the-canary smile. “Melody Ravenswood. She owns the rights to her song. She always has, since she was an infant.”
Hank’s world spun out of control. His universe collapsed in on him as the words took on meaning for him. He shook his head, marveling at his lifelong misunderstanding.
“It’s about her, isn’t it?” He rose and paced the room, letting the new information sink in. “I feel like a fool. All my life I’ve loved the song because it described the essence of my love for music, the way it feeds my soul. ‘Gently it comes, born of my soul, making me whole,’” he quoted.
“It’s a misconception Milton would have understood,” Sir Jonathan said. “The song works on several levels. You’ve discovered two of them. It was so much a part of him. He wrote it the day she was born, you know. He never really talked about it much, even to me, and we were as close as brothers.”
Hank collapsed into the nearest chair. “Why was it only recorded once?”
Sir Jonathan hesitated. “Our last concert was a live recording in Denver. Milton added the song at the end as a birthday present for Melody. It was the first and only time he sang it to anyone other than his daughter. He brought the house down.” He looked away, focusing on a scene only he could see. “I’ll never forget the way the audience reacted to the song. There was complete silence when he finished. No one made a sound in the entire place until he walked away from the piano. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. Still haven’t.”
He sipped his tea, studying the dregs as if they had answers. “He left the stage and never came back out for the standing ovation. It went on and on. I didn’t think the audience was ever going to leave, so we played three encores, trying to get them to calm down.”
He paused. Hank saw the strain it took to remember, the tight set in his jaw, the moisture glistening in his eyes.
“I never saw him again. He’d already left for the airport when the rest of us got off stage. He had a copy of the recording with him on the plane.”
Sir Jonathan raised his head, locking his gaze with Hank’s. “Milton left to go to Melody’s tenth birthday party the next day. He never made it. Diane knew, but she let the party go on anyway. She didn’t tell Melody her father was dead until after the party was over.”
Dear God. Hank nearly doubled over, feeling as if he’d been mule-kicked in the gut. He knew the pain of losing a parent, but the circumstances of her father’s death sent him reeling. What must she have gone through? He remembered the photo he’d seen of the stoic little girl stand
ing at her father’s graveside, and he remembered the brave woman who’d told him he was nuts.
Sir Jonathan left the room. He returned some time later with the glass of orange juice he shoved under Hank’s nose. “Drink this. It’ll do you good.”
He did as ordered, the alcohol-laced drink scalding away his fugue. “Damn. You could have warned me.”
The older man laughed. He took a seat across from Hank. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
Was he? Hell, yes, he realized. He’d been in love with her from the moment he first saw her, long before he knew who she was. Finding out she was Ravenswood’s daughter had only confirmed what he had already known deep inside, they were meant to be together. Being in love with her explained a lot, like the ache in his stomach when he was away from her, his new dragon slaying instincts where she was concerned. How could he not have recognized the signs? And he wrote about love for a living. Lord, he was an idiot.
He wondered how many more surprises Sir Jonathan had for him. “So you know?”
“There isn’t much I don’t know about Melody. She’s as much my daughter as she was Milton’s. But don’t think I’ve been spying on her. No, she’s on her own in Willowbrook, just as she asked to be.”
“Then how do you know about us?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Your reaction to the story I told you. If you didn’t feel so strongly about her, you would have said something like, wow, tough luck, or poor kid. Instead, you felt her pain. She could do worse than you.”
He wasn’t so sure. He could see where his career would be a major roadblock in winning Melody’s love. “What am I going to do?”
“I don’t know. Seeing how you feel about her, I need to tell you something else, something no one knows except Melody and her mother.”
He braced for another blow. He’d come to breakfast expecting to argue his case for recording a song, and instead his life had been put on a centrifuge, spinning completely out of control.
“Milton called Melody every night of her life, including the night he died, just before he got on the plane, and sang her song to her over the phone.”
He thought he was prepared to hear anything. He was wrong. “Oh Jesus!”
Leaning over, he rested his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hand. Her sleepless nights were rooted in a very real nightmare.
“Christ, Jonathan. What am I supposed to do? How can I compete with the ghost of her father?”
“You can’t compete with a ghost. You’ll have to find a way to put the ghost to rest, once and for all.”
Hank sat motionless, his world slipping away, his dreams crashing and burning as if they’d been on the plane with Hamilton, Earl Ravenswood.
“Record the song.”
Had he missed something? “You told me you don’t have the right to authorize it. How can I record it?”
“I’m confident you can carry the song. Not many people could. I’m also confident you'll do an excellent cover of it. You’ve probably been working on it for years. Of course, you may want to rethink it, given your new understanding. Record it. Play it for Melody. Better yet, do it in person, just the two of you. She’ll authorize it. Trust me.”
Chapter Nine
He had no idea what he was going to tell the others. He arrived at the penthouse and went directly to his room. Moments later, he stood in the shower, hoping the cold water would provide the answers he needed.
Guy arrived with enough take-out to feed half the building. Hank declined. They gathered in the conference room after lunch, eager to hear what he had to say. He took his seat, snagged one of the pens in the center of the table, and asked Guy, “Do you have the contract?”
The agent produced the original contract from his briefcase, and slid it across the table. Hank remembered Sir Jonathan’s words, “Record it,” and praying the man knew what he was talking about, he asked, “Where do I sign?”
He scrawled his name in the designated places, offering no explanation to the group for his change of heart. He returned to his room, needing the solitude to sort through his emotions. Hunger forced him to face his friends late that evening.
He helped himself to a plate of leftovers and joined them in the living room. The conversation centered on their families and lives at home, catching up with each other as old friends do. He answered questions about his dad and Willowbrook. They had all spent many months there over the last few years, ever since he turned his barn into a recording studio.
“Let’s go ahead with the project. I have a few things to work out before we can include ‘Melody,’ but I’m pretty sure it will make the album. In the meantime, let’s concentrate on the other tracks. We’ll save ‘Melody’ for last.” He hoped he wasn’t lying to his friends. In truth, he didn’t have much faith he could convince Mel to let him record the song, and with his new understanding of it, he was already working on a new revision in his head.
Satisfied the project would go forth, the discussion turned to the logistics. They agreed to meet at the farm in two weeks to begin the summer-long recording process.
* * *
Mel caught up with her household chores, cleaning, doing laundry—all the things she’d neglected while shadowing Hank. She was overjoyed when her Uncle Jonathan called to say he would be coming for a visit in a few weeks. He’d stepped in when her father died, offering his broad shoulders to carry her burden. He was as much a father to her as Hamilton Ravenswood had been. She still had another two weeks to spend with Hank, and then Jonathan would arrive. His timing couldn’t be better.
Cathy came to Mel’s on Sunday morning after the early church service, bearing doughnuts and hot chocolate. Mel laughed at the obvious jab at her interviewing style. She and her friend spent the day listening to tapes from the picnic, seeking the truth in the stories. Cathy proved to be knowledgeable as well as grounded, and the work went more quickly than she thought possible. Finishing early, the two women ordered pizza and found a chick-flick on cable. Cathy left shortly after, having to be up long before dawn to open the Donut Hole.
Mel was organizing her notes when the phone rang.
“It’s me,” Hank said. “I came home early.”
His voice warmed her all the way to her toes, but there was something in the way he spoke that worried her—as if he were reaching out for a lifeline. “Did everything go all right?”
“Yes and no. I don’t want to talk about it. When can I see you?”
She’d done a credible job of denying how much she missed him, but when she heard the desperation in his voice, she gave in and admitted it to herself. It was beyond foolish, but she really wanted to see him. “Why don’t you come over? I’m still up.”
She replaced the receiver, wondering what insanity had possessed her to invite him to her home. I can’t get involved with him. He’s a musician. She fisted her hand against her rapidly beating heart. She had the sinking feeling it was too late to worry about getting involved. She had passed involved and was well on the way to hopelessly involved. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up just like her mother—alone, and pining for a man she couldn’t have.
The instant she opened her front door and saw his face—the pain etched in the set of his jaw, the depth of his gaze—she knew she was a goner. She’d do whatever it took to erase that look.
He stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him. She took a step back in one last attempt to save herself from doing something really stupid. He reached for her, and without saying a word, folded her into his arms. He held onto her like a drowning man would a life vest, as if his survival depended on her. No one had ever needed her as much as Hank needed her right this minute. She’d never been anyone’s lifeline.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, flattening her palms against the solid strength of his back. She pressed her cheek against his chest. His shirt had lost some of its starch in his travels, but it still smelled fresh and felt cool against her skin. Instinctually, she moved her
hands over the tight muscles in his back, and slowly he relaxed in her embrace.
“What’s wrong, Hank? What happened in New York?”
Everything. Holding her, he could almost believe everything would be all right. He never wanted to let her go, but it was too soon to tell her, so he kept his thoughts to himself. Her gentle caress began to melt the solid block of ice at his core, and the scattered pieces of his sanity slowly slipped into place. Loosening his hold, he gently let her go.
“Nothing. It was just business. The usual.” He ran his hands along her arms from shoulder to elbow, loving that he could touch her again. “Thanks for letting me come over. I just needed to see you. Two days was too long to be away from you.”
Her eyes held so much compassion and understanding, and she didn’t have a clue what had him so worked up. He was lost, beyond saving. Sir Jonathan was right—he was in love with her.
“I missed you, too,” she said, her words just a whisper. The compassion he had seen in her eyes vanished, replaced by something he knew well. Desire.
He pulled her to him, one hand at her waist, while the other swooped to her nape. He threaded his fingers through her hair. When their lips met, she rose to her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, urging him closer. Her lips parted, allowing his tongue to swoop in. She tasted of sweet wine, and when he thrust his tongue deep, she parried and pressed her breasts against his chest.
He groaned and moved his hand lower to caress her bottom. He ground his hips against her belly, making his desire for her clear. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth and wiggled her lower half against his erection.
Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her into his arms and carried her down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Stopping just inside the first door he came to, he tore his lips from hers. God. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on her, assure himself she was okay.
