Lost Melody

by Roz Lee

  “I messed that up for you, real good. I don’t know what to say, Mel. I love you, but I can’t change who I am or what I am.”

  “I don’t want you to change who you are. I would never ask you to. I know I can’t run from who I am any longer, but I don’t have any kind of plan for going forward either.”

  “Will you still document the recording session? I think it’s important for you to be the one to chronicle our project. It seems right”

  “I’ll try. I know you and the band want to honor Daddy’s music, so I’ll try. He’d want me to try.”

  Hank stood and pulled her to her feet and into his arms where she belonged. “He’d be proud of you, I know he would. I’ll be here for you and so will Jonathan. If it gets to be too much, let me know.”

  “No more singing.”

  He kissed her lightly on the lips. “No more singing,” he agreed. “Come on, let’s get some barbeque before it’s all gone.”

  Mel pushed her conversation with Hank to the back of her mind, choosing instead to focus on enjoying the evening. Everyone, it seemed, tried their luck at the karaoke machine, even the kids, who had the most fun of all. Jonathan and Henry excused themselves early to meet up with Henry’s friends at the bowling alley. Mel wished them luck at the lanes, shaking her head as they left.

  “Uncle Jonathan is having the time of his life,” she said to Hank.

  “I’m glad. Dad thinks he’s great. I can’t believe they’ve gotten on so well. You’d think they’d known each other for years.”

  People began to leave, and Hank walked Mel to her car. Alone for a brief moment, he trailed a finger along the curve of her jaw to her chin, lifting her face to his. He kissed her, his lips undemanding. “Do you want me to follow you home?”

  “No. I’ll be fine. I’ll bring Jonathan out in the morning. I suppose since you’ve included him in the recording, he’ll be here a lot longer than the week he originally planned.”

  He continued to stroke her jaw, his fingertip their only contact. He traced the shell of her ear, and down the long column of her neck. Her pulse quickened at his touch. His finger skimmed her collarbone and down across the swell of her breast just under the v-neck of her shirt. All it would take was a word from her and he would stop, but his touch was magic, wrapping her in a warm blanket of sensuality and need that stole her words.

  “He’ll be here most of the summer. Will it be a problem?” His voice flowed dark and sweet over her senses.

  “Um. No.” What were they talking about? She had to leave before she did something else she would regret tonight. She forced her feet to move, and his hand dropped away.

  “Goodnight, Melody.” He leaned in the open window and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was brief—a simple front-porch goodnight kiss—and he walked away.

  She closed her eyes and let her head fall against the headrest. She sat there until her breathing evened out and she remembered her destination.

  Warm Texas air blew through the open windows. The occasional passing car reminded her she wasn’t totally alone on her journey home. She took several deep breaths in an effort to clear her head. Snippets from the day flashed like a bad movie through her brain.

  The walls she had spent years building around her heart were crumbling at an alarming pace and it was all because of Hank Travis. He’d forced her to confront issues she’d long ago confined to cold storage. It wasn’t just the RavensBlood cover album. It was Hank himself. He said he loved her, and she believed him.

  No one she had ever known would have dared to laugh at her relationship with her father, but Hank had. His laughter made her realize she had elevated the relationship to more than a simple father-daughter connection. Somehow, over the years it had become more—a fantasy. For years, her father’s status overshadowed the simple relationship they’d shared, and she’d lost touch with the more intimate memories.

  With his laughter, Hank had reduced the unique circumstance of her birth to its most simplistic terms and given her permission to accept it herself. Yes, Hamilton Earl Ravenswood was her father, but who was she, besides the little girl who had caused his death? No one understood the burden she carried. People blamed her for what happened. How could they not? It was true. She loved her father, and he’d loved her, and because of that love he was dead.

  Hank hadn't mentioned it, but he would. Eventually. He just hadn't put it together yet.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mel slipped into her favorite nightshirt and, with a cup of chamomile tea, slid under the covers. The day’s events had her mind reeling with memories and unanswered questions. One question, always the one she’d wanted to ask but never had the nerve to, lodged in her brain and wouldn’t go away.

  She tried to find the answer in what she knew of her parents' marriage. To say they had a strained relationship was a gross understatement. Diane and Milton Ravenswood had disagreed on just about everything. The one place they found common ground was in their unconditional love for their daughter. They’d married in order to give their child a name, but to her knowledge, they never lived as husband and wife, unless it had been in those few months before she was born. The only thing they’d shared was her.

  Mel had spent summers in England with her father, and he made infrequent trips to California, usually around the holidays. Her mother had facilitated the nightly phone calls from her father. Those began when she’d been an infant and ended on the eve of her tenth birthday when her father called from Denver to tell her he would be at her party the next day.

  Hoping she would find the courage to ask the question she desperately wanted the answer to, she placed a call to her mother.

  She exchanged pleasantries, inquiring about Diane’s gardening hobby, the weather, and other mundane topics. Before her courage could desert her, Mel blurted out the question nagging at her.

  “Mom? Why didn’t you tell me about the plane crash when it happened? Why did you let the birthday party go on?”

  A cavern of silence gaped across the phone line and she thought she’d gone too far.

  “I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted Milton to come walking through the door, present in hand, and tell me it had all been a mistake.”

  Her mother sniffed. Could she be crying?

  “I didn’t really believe he was gone until the party was over. When he didn’t call or come to the party, I knew it was true. He wouldn’t have disappointed you for any other reason.”

  For once, she glimpsed the agony her mother had gone through, hoping and praying for her husband to walk through the door. Maybe she didn’t really understand her parents’ marriage after all. Had they been in love? The pain in her mother’s voice indicated a depth of feeling she had never considered. Had her father felt the same about her mother? And if so, why had they lived apart?

  * * *

  Mel stumbled into the kitchen in dire need of a caffeine fix. The first rays of sunlight, golden and cheerful, streamed through the window. Jonathan sat at her small breakfast table with a teacup in one hand and a copy of the Gazette in the other. He glanced up when she came in.

  “Have a cup of tea, luv. You look like you could use it.”

  He poured her a cup and slid it across the table where she sat with her forehead propped in her hands.

  She sipped the tea and groaned. “Thanks.” She savored the bittersweet drink, strong, the way he preferred it. “Why is your tea always better than mine? I swear I make it the same way you do.”

  “You rush yours. You have to be patient with tea. Impatience is an American trait, I believe.”

  Mel rolled her eyes at him. It was an old argument between them—one she knew she would lose. Needing more than tea to get going she fixed a bowl of cereal and returned to the table. She took a few bites before the question running like a train through her head spilled out.

  “Did Daddy love my mother?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  She toyed wit
h her cereal, her eyes downcast. “I was talking to Mom last night and she said something that made me think she was in love with him. I was just wondering if he felt the same way.”

  “Yes. He loved her until the day he died.”

  Mel dropped her spoon. “Really?”

  “Really. From the minute Milton laid eyes on her, she was all there was for him. He would have married her, with or without you coming along. You just rushed it a little.”

  Jonathan moved closer, covering her hand with his. “Letting her go, letting her take you away, was the hardest thing he ever did. I thought he was going to come apart at the seams for a while. Eventually, Diane convinced him you would be better off living a normal life, away from the music business. He knew she was right, but it nearly killed him to see you go. We were on the road too much back then. It’s different these days. There are more ways to promote music, MTV, the Internet, iTunes. It’s not necessary to be on the road three hundred sixty days of every year to sell your music.”

  “Why didn’t Mom take me to Ravenswood?”

  “Do you really think you could have lived a normal life there? Milton did a good job of keeping the fans and paparazzi away, but they still got through sometimes. Diane wanted you to be a carefree little girl, no celebrity demands on you. Milton wanted that, too.”

  “So, they lived apart because of me. They sacrificed their marriage so I could have a ‘normal’ life?”

  “They didn’t live under the same roof, but their marriage was as good as it could be under the circumstances. Diane wouldn’t live the kind of life Milton needed, and he wouldn’t live the kind of life she wanted. But they still found time to be together. Besides you, it’s what kept Milton going all those years. Didn’t you wonder why they never divorced?”

  No.

  Shame filled her. Should she have? She had been a child. She hadn’t really understood they were still married until her father died and all the funeral decisions had fallen to her mother—his wife. Up until then, all she’d known was her parents lived apart, and in her child’s mind that equaled divorced. As an adult, she knew better, but she’d never asked her mother why.

  She had little time to dwell on the question though. Jonathan was eager to get to work, so they left as soon as they finished their breakfast. Jonathan chatted like a kid on his first day of school all the way to the farm. She’d never seen him as excited about anything as he was about recording with BlackWing. If she weren't already in love with Hank, she would love him for his kindness to Jonathan alone.

  Henry turned into the driveway right behind her, and sound technicians poured out like circus clowns stuffed in a toy car. She opened the back hatch on her Jeep and passed out boxes of Donut Hole pastries to the men as they walked past. Today, the real work would begin.

  “You’ve made yourself a carload of friends.” Henry greeted her and Jonathan, wrapping an arm around Mel’s shoulders and steering her in the direction of the barn. “The only problem is they’ll expect you to feed them every day from now on.”

  “No problem. I have a standing order. You two better get in there and grab a doughnut before they’re all gone.”

  Henry and Jonathan took off for the barn at an exaggerated pace, leaving her laughing at their antics. They disappeared through the door, and she headed toward the house. The backdoor was open, and calling out, she let herself in. The wives sat at the kitchen table, coffee in hand.

  “Hi, Mel!” Stacy greeted her. “Grab a cup and join us. We’re enjoying the quiet before the storm.”

  She helped herself to a mug and filled it from the carafe. “Thanks. Let me guess, the kids are still asleep and the husbands have gone to work.”

  A chorus of, “Thank God, yes, and hallelujah,” rose from the group.

  She joined them at the table, pulling her chair out carefully so as not to disturb the black dog sprawled underneath the table. “Betty must be resting up for another day of chasing kids.”

  “Yeah. She loves them, but they tire her out,” Marci agreed.

  “Did Hank talk to you about the interview?” Mel asked.

  Marci answered, “Yes. We trust you to write a responsible article, so we’ll talk.”

  Murmurs of agreement went around the table.

  “Thanks. I’d like to ask you all a few questions. Maybe I’ll come out a little earlier on Thursday, and we can have coffee and talk before things get going.”

  They finalized the arrangements, and Mel left them to enjoy what was left of their peaceful morning. She paused outside the barn, steeling herself for the emotional battering awaiting her inside. She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Sucking up her courage, she opened the door and stepped inside.

  The chaos of the previous day was gone. Today was all about business. She found BlackWing and the entire production crew in the studio. Jonathan sat at the piano. The others had scattered around the room on folding chairs or sat cross-legged on the floor. Most still worked on their morning caffeine addiction. Empty Donut Hole boxes sat atop the closed piano. Hank leaned casually against the doorframe of the adjacent drum booth.

  She found an out-of-the-way place to observe. Hank glanced over the top of his reading glasses, and their gazes met. His lips lifted slightly on one side, and his eyes flashed with male approval before he returned his attention to the paper in his hand. His gaze, brief as it had been, sent a tingle of awareness along her spine.

  Comments flew from all corners as the group discussed the day’s chart. She pushed her sudden desire for Hank out of her mind and concentrated on the fascinating process going on in front of her. Suggestions were made, discussed, and acted on, as swiftly as in any stuffed-shirt board meeting—without all the corporate trappings.

  Instead of a polished conference table and suited executives, these professionals sat amongst dozens of instruments, amplifiers, microphones, and enough wires to rig out a three-mast schooner. They had dressed casually in worn denim and logo T-shirts advertising everything from a favorite beer to an Ivy League college—Harvard, of course. Jonathan’s RavensBlood T-shirt had faded almost beyond recognition.

  Her gaze wandered across the room to where Hank lounged carelessly, his hips cocked to one side like a Brooks Brother’s advertisement. He had chosen his usual attire, washed out jeans and a crisply starched blue oxford button-down, the sleeves rolled to mid-forearm. His farmer-boy haircut, closely shaved jaw, and reading glasses, should have translated into nerd, but on Hank, were inexplicably sexy. He’d left his shirt open at the throat, the small patch of golden skin reminding her of what lay beneath the starched cotton. His only ornamentation was a tasteful watch on a leather wristband.

  He held the day’s chart in his right hand. His left hand was tucked into the pocket of jeans that hugged his lean body and emphasized long, well-defined muscles, and slim hips. Mel filled in the missing details from memory. Embarrassed by the direction her thoughts had taken, she jerked her gaze away, hoping no one had noticed the way she’d been ogling the man.

  By the time the meeting ended, she had regained some semblance of composure. The Recording Engineer, now in charge of the studio, issued orders. Final equipment checks were first on the agenda, followed by a preliminary run through of the first song from start to finish. From there, they would break it down into its essential parts, recording various combinations of instruments and solos as necessary to mix and master the track.

  Hank directed her to a high stool in the control room where she would be able to see over the control board. From her perch, she could watch the techs, musicians, and engineers work. Last minute adjustments were made to microphones and acoustical gobos, or go-betweens to absorb sound waves from the individual instruments and make for a cleaner recording. Every connection was checked and rechecked.

  As the band fine-tuned their instruments and adjusted volumes, Mel’s nerves skittered. At last, they donned headsets through which they would hear the click track—a steady tempo similar to a metronome. Jonathan entered the c
ontrol room and stood behind her, his strong hands resting on her shoulders. She drew strength and courage from his touch.

  Everyone turned to watch Hank through the glass partition separating the drum booth from the studio. He nodded his head in time with the click and launched into the intro. As he bridged to the steady rhythmic beat, the others picked up the melody. The backbeat was seductive, and she closed her eyes, focusing on the melody and blocking out the rush of panic threatening to engulf her.

  The song was one of RavensBlood’s early hits, penned by her father and Jonathan years before she was born. Her rational mind told her it shouldn’t affect her so much, but there wasn’t anything rational about her reaction. If not for Jonathan’s calming touch, she would have bolted from the room. She’d heard the song countless times. She couldn’t turn on the radio without hearing it, and nearly thirty years had passed since the song was recorded. Hearing it live, her heart raced and her lungs struggled with every breath.

  “Relax. It’s going to be all right,” Jonathan whispered in her ear.

  His was the voice of sanity she needed, bringing her back to reality. She opened her eyes. Chad sang the familiar lyrics, not her father. The men in the studio were not RavensBlood. Opening herself to the music, she noted the subtle differences.

  Hank’s fill bridged the distance from the melody to the chorus. His eyes locked across the room with hers, and she knew she would be all right as long as Hank was there for her. His gaze—filled with love and understanding—warmed her and banished any lingering doubts about her feelings. She was in love with him. Her foolish, foolish heart was totally lost…to a musician.

  The song finished on a particularly intricate drum solo to which Hank added his own personal touch. With a final flourish and a dramatic tone from a crash cymbal, the speakers went silent. Time stood still. Mel held her breath, her hands clenched into fists in her lap. At last, a whoop rose up from the crew followed by a joyous celebration consisting of macho handshakes and perfunctory backslapping.