by Roz Lee
It was the truth. He couldn’t imagine going through the day without her near, close enough to touch, but he didn’t think it would be a good enough reason for her—not yet anyway. She felt the connection between them, he was certain of it, but because of who they were, she refused to acknowledge it. She would. Eventually. He needed to keep her close so he could convince her what they shared could overcome any obstacle in its path.
“You can watch us work,” he said. “I talked to the guys, and they agreed to let you write about the band. You could write a book about the recording process from start to finish.”
She sat up and pulled the sheet around her. “You don’t know what you’re asking me to do, Hank.”
“Yes, I do.” He scooted up so his back was against the headboard. “I’m asking you to confront your past. I know how hard it will be for you. I want to be with you, Mel. I’m a musician. It’s who I am, and if you can’t learn to accept it, then I’m not sure what kind of future we have together. I want a future for us, and I think you do, too.”
He was right. She did want a future with him, but she was enough of a realist to understand it could never be. If she was smart, she’d pack her bags and leave Willowbrook today, but apparently, she was the stupidest person on the planet because she wasn’t going anywhere. She wanted more time with Hank, and if she had to confront her past to do it—she would. But it would be on her terms.
“Okay. I’ll spend some time at the farm. I can interview the band members and their families, maybe write a few articles for the Gazette, but I can’t do it twenty-four-seven. I still have a job, you know.”
“Quit the Gazette,” he said. “If money is an issue, I’ll pay you.”
Mel shook her head. “You are paying me, in a roundabout way. Since I own the rights to every song you’re recording, I’m going to make a lot of money off this cover album.”
“True enough. So quit the Gazette and spend the summer at the farm.” He reached out and stroked his index finger along her arm from her shoulder to her elbow. “With me,” he added, his voice dropping an octave.
His finger left a ribbon of heat on her skin, a reminder of the way he warmed her from the inside out. Tell him no.
“I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not going to promise anything.”
After Hank left, she took her time, soaking in the tub before dressing and going downtown to the Gazette offices. An hour later, she had officially taken leave of her good sense and a leave of absence from her job. The latter came with a promise to turn in one article each week chronicling the work going on at Hank’s farm.
Agreeing to chronicle the recording was stupid and impulsive. But her stupid, impulsive heart wanted to be there. She wanted to see Hank work, even if it meant hearing her father's songs. She ignored the tiny voice of reason in the back of her mind chanting a warning about broken hearts and shattered dreams.
She loaded up on pastries at the Donut Hole and left a standing order for more of the same, twice a week. With a little luck, the bribery would loosen tongues and open doors with the band and crew.
A large truck from a local equipment rental company had pulled into Hank’s backyard, and an army of men in coveralls struggled to unload poles, ropes, and canvas. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the circus had come to town. Children cavorted around the workers, excited and eager to see what was going on. Betty Boop sat on the back porch, wisely overseeing the confusion. She spied Hank and his father across the yard, talking to yet another coverall-clad worker.
“Things are a little crazy around here,” she said.
Hank turned and graced her with a smile. “Boy, am I glad to see you.” He grabbed her in a bear hug. “Let’s run off together and leave all these people here to fend for themselves,” he whispered in her ear.
“It’s too late, I’m afraid.” She pushed out of his arms, aware of the speculative looks from the workers. “Hello, Henry,” she addressed Hank’s father. “I hope Uncle Jonathan wasn’t any trouble last night.”
“No. Not at all. We had a good time.”
“Enough chit-chat,” Hank interrupted. “We need to get the tent up before lunch.”
He turned back to the worker. “Just put it over there, same as last time.”
“What’s the tent for?” she asked.
“Everyone takes breaks at the same time, so we came up with the idea of a big tent to accommodate the whole bunch at once. So, rain or shine, we can feed everybody and get back to work.”
“You’ve thought of everything, it seems.”
“There will be problems. There always are,” he said.
“I brought doughnuts.”
Hank smiled. “A woman after my heart.”
He dispatched some workers to get the pastry boxes from her car and ushered her into his office. He closed and locked the door before drawing her into his arms. In the space of a heartbeat, his lips were on hers, seeking, taking.
Lord, it was heaven to be in his arms again, and it would be hell when she eventually had to leave. But she would savor the moment and leave the recriminations for later. She kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his.
He broke the kiss and eased her away. “We can’t do this right now. As much as I want to, I have to work.” He cradled her head against his chest. “I love you, and I’m so damned glad you’re here.”
Beneath her cheek, his heart beat out a rapid rhythm matching her own. As good as it felt to be close to him, they needed to be more discreet.
“Work aside, we can’t keep meeting behind closed doors. People will talk.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise. I know you don’t want anyone to know about us, so I’ll keep my hands to myself.” He stepped back. “So, are you here to stay? Did you quit the Gazette?”
“Yes and no. I’m on a working leave of absence.” She told him about the deal she’d made with her boss. “I brought the doughnuts as a bribe for the band and crew.”
“They’ll appreciate it.” Hank, all business now, sat behind his desk, and Mel took a chair in front. She had asked to appear all business around the others, so why did it feel so wrong?
“Tell me what you have in mind for your articles and I’ll talk to the guys, see what they’re willing to do,” he said.
“I’m not sure. Maybe a series of articles featuring each of the band members from a personal standpoint?”
“I’ll ask, but I don’t think it’ll be a problem as long as you don’t get too personal.” He winked, and she blushed, remembering an earlier conversation on the subject of where they purchased their underwear.
She relaxed. “I promise I won’t print anything they aren’t willing to share.”
“I guess we’re all set,” he said and started to rise.
“Wait, Hank.” Mel halted him with her upraised palm, and he dropped back into his chair. She wrung her hands in her lap. “I’m going to try, but I don’t know if I can handle being here. I think I’ll be okay with the technical end of the recording, but I don’t know if I can stand to hear the music every day. Maybe if it was anything but RavensBlood, it would be different.”
“You can do it. You’re stronger than you think you are, but if it gets to be too much, you’re free to walk away.”
She took a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. “Thanks for understanding. I promise I’ll try.” Her time with Hank was limited to the next few months, and she would do anything to spend as much time with him as possible. When he went on tour again, she would leave Willowbrook. She couldn’t stay here alone, wondering, worrying, and waiting.
“So, what happens today?” she asked.
He walked her through the schedule for the week and gave her a quick tour of the activity in the barn. Cords and wires lay everywhere in what appeared to be organized chaos. Workmen crowded every room, and the studio itself was in an uproar as the techs installed microphones and wired them to the control room.
Hank introduced her to Rick, the technician who would be in charge of his drum kit for the duration of the recording. He was young, but watching him tape down the lugs on the kit, he appeared to know what he was doing.
“Why do you do that?” she asked.
“Anything with the potential to rattle is taped down to minimize extraneous noise on the track,” Rick said.
“I won’t wear my watch, and I’ll empty my pockets before we record,” Hank added. “The microphones are sensitive enough to pick up the slightest sound. It doesn’t matter so much on stage because the audience can’t hear over the music. But in the studio, everything matters. It’s Rick’s job to make sure the drum heads are replaced, the lugs are tight, and the drums are tuned, and he gets to shake me down before I sit on the throne.”
Rick laughed. “Just make sure I get billing on the final album. Babysitting you can be a real pain in the ass. And remember, I get to keep anything that comes out of your pockets.”
Mel stepped over coils of wires and peered into the control room where two electricians were hard at work.
“We’re upgrading some of the equipment to digital, so we called in the experts to install it,” Hank explained. “The installation was supposed to be completed last week, but they ran into a few problems.”
Jonathan was in one of the isolation rooms, playing his guitar. Hank opened the door and stuck his head in. “I brought someone to see you.”
Mel pushed around Hank and gave Jonathan a hug. “I see you found the only quiet place in the whole building. What are you playing?”
“I’m brushing up on a few oldies. The guys asked me to sit in on few of the tracks. I thought I might need a little practice. It’s been a long time since I played for anyone other than myself.”
Mel kissed his cheek. “That’s wonderful, Uncle Jonathan!” She turned to Hank.
He smiled. “No need to thank me. Our motives were purely self-serving. We got together the other day and were talking about how great it was to have Sir Jonathan here, and how incredible it would be to play with him. The next thing we know, we got the bright idea to ask him to join us. We didn’t really think he would, but he said yes. We’re all as excited as a bunch of kids with a new puppy.” He winked at her.
They left Jonathan to his practice and went to see how the tent was progressing. The canvas covered roof sat in the center of the support poles, ready to be hoisted into place. Workers made final checks before dividing into groups and lifting the heavy roof. The children sat on the back porch under their mothers’ watchful eyes, fascinated by the process of erecting the giant tent.
Observing from a shady spot, Hank took Mel’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together. “We’re having a Karaoke party in the tent tonight for everyone. Crew, electricians, even the kids. We even invited the guys setting up the tent. You should come back for it.”
“I don’t know….”
“It will be totally G rated. With the kids invited, the music will be everything from The Wiggles to BlackWing. No alcohol, wives’ orders.”
She should say no. Keeping her association strictly business would be wise, and a lawn party wasn’t business.
“Maybe we can sneak out after dark and be alone.” He squeezed her hand and she caved to temptation.
“Okay. I’ll come, but I won’t sing.”
A crooked smile lit up his face. “It starts at five. You don’t have to bring anything. We hired a caterer.”
Chapter Eighteen
The sweet smell of barbeque drifted on the late afternoon air. Her mouth watered at the wonderful aroma, and she suddenly couldn’t wait to sink her teeth into the promised feast. She located the source of the aroma, a large portable barbeque pit, tended by two men in red aprons and black cowboy hats. Tables covered with red-checkered cloths had been set up along one side. The round banquet tables had been covered in the same cloth, and boasted centerpieces created from old vinyl LP’s molded into bowls. Summer flowers added to the cheerful atmosphere.
Hank and his friends, Chris and Randy, worked at a table at the back of the tent trying to figure out which wire went where on the Karaoke machine. She moved closer, watching the men argue over whose idea was the most likely to be correct. Satisfied at last with the placement of the wires, Hank looked up and saw her.
“Ah, our first victim. Come here and try this thing out for us.”
She took a step back, shaking her head. “Uh uh. Nope. Not me. You’re the singer, you try it.”
Hank scanned the play-list and selected a song. He stepped around the table and grabbed her hand, dragging her to a spot where she could see the screen. “It’s a duet. Sing with me.”
She tried to protest, but the music began, and she recognized the song. It was a fun one, a karaoke favorite. Hank launched into the Kenny Roger’s solo, giving it all he had. His voice was smooth and rich, drawing her in until there was only Hank and her. She would never get tired of hearing him sing.
When the chorus came up, he took her hand and their eyes met. Without conscious thought, her voice joined his, and then she was watching the words scroll across the screen and singing Dolly Parton’s solo all by herself. When the final chorus came up, Hank wrapped his arm around her waist and their eyes met and held. Their voices blended in the familiar words and, as the last note faded away, his head dipped.
There was nothing in the world but the two of them blending seamlessly, body and soul. The thrill of it ran like hot lava through her veins, and she shifted in order to press herself closer to the man who made her feel more than she ever thought possible.
Applause rained down around them like shattered glass. Startled, Mel jerked away from Hank. A shrill whistle from the porch had her spinning around. The entire band and their wives stood on the porch, applauding. Uncle Jonathan and Hank’s father were with them. She buried her face against Hank’s shoulder and silently wished the earth would open up and swallow her. So much for professionalism.
“Thank you very much. Now go away,” Hank admonished the group.
The screened door slammed a few times, and people resumed what they’d been doing before she’d made a spectacle of herself.
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand in his and towing her in the direction of the barn.
He deposited her on the sofa in his office and crossed to the mini fridge. Grabbing a soda from the fridge, he popped the top and shoved it into her trembling hands. As if on autopilot, she sipped the drink and curled her feet under her. She seemed to be staring at a spot across the room, and she hadn’t said a word since they’d finished the song. He didn’t have a clue what was going through her mind, but his raced with a million questions.
Several minutes passed, and her hands remained unsteady as she sipped at the soda.
“You have a beautiful voice,” he said. “Have you taken singing lessons?”
She turned to him, her eyes wide. “Good Heavens, no. Mom wouldn’t have ever allowed something like that.”
Hank chuckled. “Well, you are your father’s daughter. That’s for sure. You surprised the hell out of me. And everyone else, too.”
Her face flamed, and she turned away.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
She sat silent as stone, staring at something across the room. How could she not know?
“You have a stunningly beautiful voice, Mel. But rest assured, no one here will push you to use it. You just took us by surprise. Do you play any instruments?”
When she spoke, her voice was flat. “No. Mom didn’t want me to have anything to do with the business.”
He nodded. “I forgot about your mother. I suppose the voice could come through her just as well as from your father.”
“Yes. Mom has a beautiful voice.” She glanced at Hank. “I used to sing with Daddy when I was little girl.”
He doubled over with laughter.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Oh, honey, I’m not laughing at you. Well, I guess I am
. You call Earl Ravenswood, Daddy? It’s cute.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “To me, it’s the same as calling Queen Elizabeth, Mumsie. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to your casual acceptance of something so extraordinary.”
She laughed along with him for a moment then quieted. “Hank, that’s what he was to me, just Daddy. It’s taken me most of my life to understand and accept I have to share his memory with the world. Most children who lose a parent grieve, and then they move on. They never hear his voice again, and the only images they see are the ones they have. The photo on the mantel, the family album. But everywhere I go, I’m reminded of my father. People sing his songs, and they feel they have a connection to him even though they never met him.”
Hank winced, her remark hitting home. He was one of those people who claimed a part of her father’s memory for himself.
“Driving down the road, I hear Daddy’s voice on the radio. I can’t even have a burger at Smitty’s without hearing his voice. Really hearing it, not some ghost of a memory. His image shows up in the most unlikely places, with or without my release to use it. Every newspaper and magazine, every television station has a file of photos and film of my father, and they drag them out at least once a year. That’s what I deal with every day.”
He understood. He still missed his mother every day. How much more difficult would it be if he had to live with the daily reminders Mel did? And she’d been a child when her father died. He admired her ability to function under the circumstances because he wasn’t sure he could do half so well if their situations were reversed.
“People like me sing his songs. I’m sorry. I never thought of your loss from your point of view. How do you deal with it?”
She uncurled, planting her feet on the floor, with her elbows planted on her thighs, she rolled the soda can between her hands. “I tried running away from it. I went to a small, little-known college, after that, when things didn’t work out in San Diego, I moved to Willowbrook. I thought I could live far enough under the radar the reminders wouldn’t be a daily issue. I was wrong.”
