by Roz Lee
“Uncle Jonathan! What is going on? Did you know he recorded this version of ‘Melody’?”
“Hank is desperate to get your attention, and yes, I knew about it.”
“Did you know about it at Christmas?” She sighed. “Of course you did. He recorded it in August. I can’t believe you went along with him. I thought I could trust both of you. I was wrong.”
“Have you really listened to it? Even if you don’t like being the recipient of the sentiment you have to admit, it’s a damned fine piece of work. I didn’t think anyone could sing that song better or with more feeling than Milton, but somehow Hank has done it. It’s the same song. He didn’t change a word, but he changed the meaning entirely. Its bloody genius, is what it is.”
“I know. He played it for me months ago, and he promised—no, he swore no one would ever hear it if I didn’t agree. And I didn’t agree, Uncle Jonathan. He lied to me. What we have—had between us is ours. It’s private. He stands to make a fortune from that song. I don’t think I can get past that.”
Jonathan explained about the scholarship fund, how the money would to go to help music students pursue their dreams, and that he agreed to match the money with a donation of his own.
“Listen to it again,” he said. “Really listen this time. I’ve never heard a more beautiful love song in all my years. He did it for you. You inspired that kind of love. Take it from someone who knows how hard it is to find. Don’t let a love like that get away.”
“I can’t listen to it again. If he really loved me, he wouldn’t have lied to me.”
Heartbreak manifested itself in the form of headaches severe enough to keep her in bed for days at a time with the drapes drawn against the gray winter light. She hardly ate. Sleep was once again an elusive dream she needed but couldn’t find.
Her research came to a standstill. On the days she managed to get out of bed, she played the piano. She had found stacks of handwritten sheet music in the attic, but she didn’t know how to read it, so she simply made up songs to suit her mood, which alternated between rage and melancholy. The piano keys became her therapist. She expressed her deepest emotions and thoughts through the music.
Slowly, she pulled herself together and resumed work. She moved a stack of papers one morning and found the note Hank had sent with the CD. She reread the few short words, crumpled it in her fist, and tossed it into the wastebasket.
Why had he done it when he had given his word? Why hadn’t he tried to explain?
There was one piercing pain no amount of music would alleviate. He hadn’t called.
Chapter Thirty-four
The Chelsea Art District was lively and colorful, and Hank loved it on sight. He’d been to New York countless times, but never to this part of town. Leave it to Melody to discover a gem in a barrel of rocks.
A bitter January wind blew through the tunnel of buildings, and he wished he had thought to grab a heavier coat before he’d ventured out. Huddled against the elements, he studied the gallery window.
The works on display varied from ultra-modern—which he couldn’t understand—to beautiful and simplistic realism. Beyond the window, a lovely blonde woman sat at a glass-topped desk near the back of the store. She appeared to be the sole occupant—not surprising considering the holidays were over and the weather inhospitable.
He entered the store, and she stood and stepped around the desk. Smiling, she extended her hand. “I’m Sunny Sheldon. Welcome to my gallery.”
He pulled off his glove and took her small, fine-boned hand in his. Her skin was soft, her manicure perfect. Her hair and makeup were flawless, and her suit fit her as if it had been made just for her—and probably had been, he noted. She was a high maintenance woman if he’d ever seen one, and despite her radiant beauty, she wasn’t his type at all.
“Hi. I’m Henry. Henry Travis,” he said.
Her eyebrows raised slightly, and her hand slipped from his. “Are you in the market for something in particular, Mr.Travis?”
He glanced around the room. “I have a painting by a new artist, and I was hoping you might have some more of her work. It was a gift from my fiancé, and I think she may have purchased it from your gallery.”
He named the artist and described the painting. He caught the flash of recognition in her eyes. For the painting, or does she know who I am?
“I’m afraid I don’t have any of her paintings at this time. She’s promised me more in the future.”
“Oh well, it was just a thought. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“Have a seat, Hank.”
He stared at her, allowing her to usher him to a chair facing her desk.
“No need to run off.” She returned to her seat. “I promise not to bite. How is Melody? Is the engagement official? I haven’t heard from her in days.”
What was going on here? “You know Melody?”
She folded her hands on top of her desk. “We met when she came into the gallery last month. The painting she bought for you was in the front window. It struck a chord with her, and she came in to see it. I recognized her name from her credit card, and we found we have a lot in common. Have you talked to her recently? What does she think of the song? It’s fabulous by the way. You have an incredible talent.”
“Thanks. Uh, no, I haven’t talked with her, and no, she hasn’t agreed to marry me yet. But she will. I sent her a copy of the song before it was released, but she hasn’t acknowledged it.” He frowned. “Do you mind telling me what you have in common with Melody? I mean, she’s a very private person, so I find it strange she would talk freely with you.” At her faintly amused expression, he hastily added, “No offense intended.”
She laughed. “None taken. I should have mentioned right away when you didn’t recognize my name. My father is Curtis Sheldon, the actor.”
It was his turn to smile. “Ah, yes,” he said, nodding. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little slow today. I’ve always enjoyed your father’s work, by the way.”
“I’m glad you didn’t recognize me. Like you, I try to remain out of the public eye. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don’t. Melody and I spent some time discussing how to live under the radar. She’s a fantastic person, and I’m glad to call her my friend.”
He nodded. “I appreciate you helping her. She needs friends like you. I haven’t done a very good job convincing her she can have the life she wants.”
“Give her time, Hank. She’s come a long way from where she was.”
“You’re right, she has.” He paused.
“Why did you really come here? I don’t think you were interested in buying a painting, were you?”
“I don’t really know why I came. I just knew she’d been here. I love the painting, but I guess I just wanted to be somewhere I knew she’d been. I know it sounds stupid, but—” He threw up his hands in defeat. “—that’s all I’ve got.”
“I wish I could help you,” she said. “But I haven’t heard from Melody since the day the song was released. I called her as soon as I heard it. I thought she would be over the moon, but I didn’t get the impression she was happy about it. In fact, she sounded pissed. Pardon my French.”
“Yeah. She’s pissed all right. I took a stupid chance, and it backfired on me.”
* * *
Hank wanted Melody back. He could see her, feel her in his dreams. His body ached to hold her. He tried to concentrate on his job, but his heart wasn’t in it. What he lacked in spirit he compensated for by taking on additional responsibilities for the upcoming tour.
The days passed slowly. He hounded Sunny for information about Melody, and he questioned Jonathan until the older man lost his patience.
“Do I look like her bloody babysitter? She’s at Ravenswood. Do us all a favor and go talk to her yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Jonathan. I just wanted to know if she’s okay. She hasn’t even acknowledged the song. I thought at the very least she might file suit to stop it, but she hasn’t even done that.”
“She’s not going to sue. It surprised her, and she’s bloody mad enough to take your head off. All she can see is that you lied to her. You knew what you were doing when you recorded the song so you’ve only got yourself to blame.”
Hank stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “I know. I thought when she heard it, she would understand how much I love her and come back. Instead, I may have lost her for good. I wish I could go to Ravenswood, but I can’t. I promised I would give her time to get her head on straight, and it’s one promise I intend to keep—even if it kills me.”
“If it doesn’t kill you, my friend, someone else probably will, and soon, too. You’re taking your frustrations out on all of us, and I can tell you, even your friends are ready to push you under a bus.”
“You’re right. My troubles aren’t their fault, and they shouldn’t have to suffer along with me.” He met Jonathan’s gaze. “Thanks for listening and for the kick in the pants. I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me anything. Just find a way to straighten things out with Melody.”
He had made a major mistake with the recording and there was nothing he could do to fix it after the fact. He’d broken his word to her, and he might have to pay the ultimate price for it. There was a good chance she would never speak to him again.
He worked day and night. As the opening concert at Madison Square Garden approached, the infinite number of problems, big and small, was more than enough to keep him busy. No detail regarding the tour was too minute to escape his attention. Guy Nichols and his staff were more than capable of handling the details, as were the professional production crews. The stage managers, tour, and production crews were competent people BlackWing had worked with before, and he trusted them to hire the best technicians available.
As the official representative from the band, he met with every group involved in the massive production from the skilled audio and electrical technicians to the catering and wardrobe crews—not that they needed much more than jeans and T-shirts, but someone had to see to it they had clean clothes. When the truckloads of equipment arrived at the venue, he even found time to meet with the truck drivers, who would haul the equipment from city to city, as well as the bus drivers, who would transport the crewmembers and the band on the shorter trips.
They met the security team as a group. It was important for everyone to know the safety routines and cooperate fully with the experts hired to accompany them for the next six months. Occasionally, fans could become overly zealous, or in a few instances, just plain crazy. No one anticipated any sort of violence, but they were all reminded of John Lennon’s untimely demise at the hands of a crazed gunman. He hated the idea of a bodyguard but resigned himself to having one for the next few months. Taking chances was not an option.
Jonathan had sent Melody a ticket for one of the VIP Boxes at their opening concert. Hank hoped she would come, but realistically, he didn’t believe she would.
He sent front row tickets to Jimmy the doorman and Sunny Sheldon. His dad, as usual, would be in one of the VIP Boxes, along with the wives and families of the other band members.
It was a short walk from his hotel to the venue. The air was cold and crisp, and the sky shimmered ice blue above the jagged New York skyline. If Hank could have ordered perfect weather for Valentine’s Day, this was it.
When he arrived at the Garden, it was alive with activity. The stage manager issued orders worthy of a five-star general. Audio techs and lighties made fine adjustments to their already precisely installed equipment. No wire or bulb went without inspection. The backline roadies were busy cleaning and tuning instruments, and checking plugs, wires, and amps. He stopped to see how Rick was doing, and while he was there, took a moment to sit on the throne so he could adjust height and distance on the kit.
Hank glanced at the day sheet, noting the times he was needed for the sound checks and wardrobe fittings. BlackWing had never been much for costuming, preferring to focus more on their music than on theatrical gimmicks, so the wardrobe fittings for him consisted of making sure his shirt was clean and his fly was zipped. The wardrobe stylists were necessary, however, for the small group of backup singers, who traveled with the band.
He welcomed the opening band, who was on stage preparing for their sound checks. Handpicked for the gig by Guy, they were an eager group and somewhat dazed by the size and scope of the production they were now a part of. Standing in the center of the stage looking out at the empty arena, he understood their nervousness.
BlackWing had started out small but rocketed to the big time under the expert guidance of Guy Nichols. He hoped the young opening act they’d booked for the “Melody” tour was equally as lucky. They were good and would do an excellent job of warming up the crowd.
Hank walked down the side stairs to the floor of the arena and sat a few rows back from the stage. He watched as they went through their sound checks. He always found the hours before a concert to be a special time, where layer by layer, the excitement built, and with it, his anticipation of taking the stage.
Hank sat in the empty arena and for the first time in his professional life felt—nothing. He grimaced, knowing plain and simple his heart wasn’t in it.
The giant screen behind the stage came alive with a view of him sitting all alone. He smiled and waved until they switched camera views. They tested the various cameras placed around the arena. With modern technology, everyone would have a close-up view of what happened on stage. From vocals to drums, they wouldn’t miss a thing.
He thought back to Blackwing’s early days, playing frat parties and country club dances—schlepping their gear from gig to gig in a rusted out Ford Econovan that probably shouldn’t have been on the road at all. They’d come a long way in a short period of time, and he didn’t regret a single moment of it. His success was a dream come true, an adolescent boy’s fantasy come to life. He still believed in the dream, even if it had lost some of the magic.
The opening band completed their sound check and filed off to await their stage call while the backline techs ran through the line checks on BlackWing’s instruments. Hank made his way backstage. The rest of the guys would arrive soon, and it would be their turn.
Chapter Thirty-five
Melody checked again to make sure she had the VIP pass and copies of the news articles she wanted to ask Jonathan about. She touched the gold key around her neck. She always thought living like the “normal” people was what she wanted, and she did. She wanted the quiet small town life Hank offered, but like him, there were times like today when she would have to bow to her status. She wanted to slip into New York, attend the concert without Hank knowing she was there, and quietly slip out of town again the following day. The terse note he’d sent with her birthday CD and his silence since told her all she needed to know. He didn’t want to see her, and the wound he had inflicted was still too raw to be poked at anyway.
She’d watch the concert because it was Jonathan’s return to the stage and he, not Hank, had asked her to be there. Afterwards, she would find a few minutes to ask her questions.
She boarded the private jet that would deliver her without fanfare to New York. As the plane left the winter-gray skies of London behind, she powered up her laptop and tried to put into words the tumultuous emotions churning inside her.
Sunny was waiting for her when she cleared customs. “How was the flight?”
“Long. Tiring.”
Sunny’s car and driver were waiting for them at the curb. Melody slid into the backseat and sighed. In what seemed like no time at all, she was curled up on Sunny’s sofa with a steaming mug of hot chocolate.
“Why don’t you take a nap?” Sunny asked. “There’s plenty of time before we have to leave for the concert.”
“I don’t think I could sleep a wink. I’m too nervous. What if Hank finds out I’m there? I’m not ready to face him yet.”
“He won’t. If we follow Sir Jonathan’s instructions and arrive after the opening band is
on stage, no one will take any notice. He said someone would be waiting for us, right?”
“Yes. He promised his security guard would meet us at the gate and escort us to our seats. He’s supposed to stay nearby, just in case someone recognizes me.”
“We should be fine. Go. Lie down for a few minutes and rest, at least.”
She rested, but couldn’t sleep, so she took a shower and dressed for the concert. She chose faded jeans and a black knit turtleneck. She tucked the gold key under the sweater, the cold metal startling against her warm skin. A pair of comfortable boots and a red scarf completed her simple outfit. Nothing about her attire would draw attention among the thousands of fans crowded inside the arena.
Sunny waited for her in the living room, similarly dressed. Melody argued against stopping in mid-town for dinner, but her friend insisted. Too nervous to eat, Melody only pushed the food around on her plate. Jonathan's security detail was right where he was supposed to be, and a few minutes after arriving at Madison Square Garden, they were at the VIP box where Henry and Miriam had already been seated. Melody introduced Sunny over the deafening sound of the enthusiastic warm-up band.
All eyes in the sell-out crowd were trained on the young band on stage. She wondered how their lives would change when the “Melody” tour was over. To open for BlackWing was a singular honor, and according to her research, several other opening bands had gone on to great success.
The set ended, and roadies scurried to strike the equipment. BlackWing took the stage. A familiar swagger caught her eye and her heart slammed against her ribs.
Hank.
His hair was longer. He’d dressed in his usual style—worn jeans, sneakers, and a button-down shirt in a shade of green to match his eyes. His shirtsleeves were rolled to expose his muscled forearms, and she didn’t need to be any closer to recall the texture of his skin, the softness of the hair dusting his strong arms and hands. Her skin tingled, remembering the feel of his hands playing across her body. Her mouth went dry. With practiced ease, he sat on the throne and picked up the sticks lying across the snare.
