by Unknown
You're giving away your power, Jeff had warned her three years ago. You're letting Peter and Robin and all the others have the energy you need, suck your talent dry. You think you owe them something, that you have to give because they ask, but you don't. You owe yourself something. Turn us off. Say no. Find yourself again.
It had been difficult to say no to Peter. He was more than her agent. At first she had been flattered because he was good looking and important and he seemed to admire her. She had wanted to be swept off her feet, in love, and he said he loved her. She supposed she had wanted to belong to someone who was actually there when she opened her eyes, not flying from Paris to Toronto to the Caribbean. She wanted love, and she had said yes when he asked her to marry him.
He had molded her in the image he wanted, but she had almost lost herself in the process. She hated the publicity he said was essential to her career, but when she said so, his voice had turned from loving tolerance to a sharp weapon. So she had given in to him, but her songs dried up and she had cried often without knowing why. She had wondered who she was and why she was and what it meant when Peter said he loved her, whether she really loved him.
That was when she had gone to Jeff, the sound man on Robin's band and a good friend. She had been desperate for advice, had known Jeff would see things more clearly than she could.
That horrible scene when she walked out on Peter seemed unreal now, three years later. She thought it must be unreal to Peter as well. Peter was only her agent now, a good agent and a cool friend. Impossible to think that she had once believed she loved him.
Even Robin had been taking advantage of her in those days, holding her in the rat race of LA when she needed to be alone, insisting he needed her at his rehearsals. The day she told him she was leaving, leaving Peter and LA and going up to live in the house at Queen Charlotte, Robin had looked at her as if she had betrayed the bond they had shared from the moment of birth.
She had needed to put over a thousand miles between herself and the world of recording studios and high-pressure productivity, but she had her life the way she wanted it now. She had learned to say no. Most of the time, at least. But saying no to an infant baby? Robin's baby?
A part of her wanted to push the man back out the door, to deny that this had anything to do with her. Another part remembered childhood, and backstage rooms, and Robin being there when Amanda and Charlie and everyone else forgot. Robin's child downstairs. If that was true, this baby would be the closest thing to a child of her own that was ever likely to be.
Chapter Three
The baby was lying on its stomach on the sofa, a towel under it and a pillow placed to prevent its rolling off onto the floor. Melody stared down at the tiny form encased in a fuzzy garment.
The man was at the other end of the living room, moving slowly along the rack of tapes and compact discs, perhaps assessing her, or Robin, by the music he found there. He had taken his jacket off. Under it he wore a long sleeved, beige cotton shirt, the cuffs rolled back to his elbows. His arms matched his shoulders and chest, rock-hard and heavily muscled.
What did you say your name was? She moved towards him, wanting to pull him away from that part of the house, into the public part where he would be more easily controlled.
Alexander, he said, not looking up. Scott Alexander. You've got a lot of Robin Conners' music here, haven't you? I didn't know he'd done some of these albums. He looked up then, smiling, thinking music instead of babies, it seemed. You're a Conners fan. So was Donna.
His eyes rested on her change of appearance, the smoothly waving hair, the sweater that drowned out her figure. His expression became thoughtful, assessing, and she wondered what she had told him, without knowing. She felt an uncomfortable excitement that left her slightly breathless.
She moved to take the compact disc case out of his hand. Incredible, but it seemed that he did not know. She frowned, but it was not her place to tell him. Not yet, anyway.
The long-playing records are a few years old. I don't think they're available any more. Done before Ro-Conners became popular. I've got all his- She broke off and asked, Would you like a cup of coffee? Then, if you've got some kind of evidence that child is my brother's, perhaps it would be time to bring it out.
He nodded abruptly and went to the sofa where he had left his jacket beside the baby. She followed him and took the bundle of letters that he held out. She wanted to take it away, to the kitchen or upstairs, somewhere private so that he would not be watching while she read. She recognized Robin's handwriting. The first letter was dated June of last year, written from the house here.
Last June. Robin had turned up suddenly, storming into the house, taciturn and moody. It had been almost a year since he had spent any time in Queen Charlotte. According to Jeff, all winter Robin had disappeared after every performance, although no one knew where. Melody had been too tied up in her own priorities to wonder much about either the disappearances or the moody visit in June. Robin's business, she had told herself. If he wanted her to know, he would tell her.
The answer was here, in a letter written by her twin to his love.
You have asked the one thing I can't give you, my darling. I hated the harsh words and anger of our parting, but now, with the anger gone, nothing is changed. Even for you, my love, I can't give up my career. I would not be the man you say you love if I killed that part of myself. I believe that we could make a loving home, a close family, without that sacrifice. If you decide to try, you know always how to reach me. If not, there's no point in our seeing each other again, is there? With love, and hope. Robin.
The other letters were older. Written in Robin's hand. Love letters. She did not read them. How old is the baby? she asked, whispering.
Two months.
Conceived before they parted in anger, already alive in Donna's womb when Robin wrote that letter, although Robin must not have known. Last June. She closed her eyes and remembered Robin's visit. Two weeks of Robin at his worst, difficult and moody, prowling the living room each morning. Watching for the postman? She put the letters down, deliberately not handing them back to him.
By right those are Robin's.
Yes.
She said intensely, He didn't know. She must not have told him about the baby. Robin wouldn't have taken off if she had.
No, she didn't tell him. She didn't tell me, either, who the father was. She said she loved him, but she couldn't stand to be always like her foster-her mother had been, always waiting for her husband to come home. Then, finally, he answered the question she had not asked. She was my sister. She died ten days ago.
Oh, God, she whispered. Poor Robin.
The baby shifted, grumbling, and Melody touched the little shoulder, wondering how she was going to tell Robin.
Now that you know why, he said, will you tell me how to get in touch with him? His hands pushed deeply into his pockets, his shoulders threatening to burst the seams of his shirt.
She swallowed. You can't. Not now. He's in the middle of the Pacific.
He's a seaman? On a ship? He became briskly businesslike. Radiotelephone? Satellite phone? All those big ships have communications these days.
She prowled restlessly to the map of the world that was tacked up over the radio. Not a big ship. He's on a sailboat, halfway to Hawaii on a sailboat. She swung back to the man and the baby. I can talk to him on amateur radio, but that's as public as shouting in the town square. I can't talk to him about something like this. I can't tell him when he's alone out there.
He looked at his watch, frowning, then turned and stared at the sleeping baby. I could leave him with you. You're his aunt, after all. You can deliver him to the father.
She could feel it closing in on her, could feel herself losing control again. How could she ever finish the songs in time if she had a baby to look after? What did she know about babies? She said desperately, And you're his uncle, and one hell of a lot more capable of looking after a baby than I am. At least you know how to c
hange diapers, what to do about bottles and formulas. I don't know beans about any of that, and I can't-
What I know about it you could write on a postage stamp. He prowled across the carpet, his voice angry but muted as if to avoid waking the baby. A half hour with a public health nurse. What she told me, I'll tell you.
I- Poor baby. Robin's baby. Of course, she would have to take care of it. Heaven knew how she would manage to finish the last five songs. I suppose you have to be back at work somewhere. What is your name again?
Alexander. He looked down at the baby and something happened to the harshness in his face. He said, I'm due on board ship in three weeks. I had been planning a trip to Mexico with a friend in the meantime, but ...
***
She woke early, before the alarm rang, and lay still for a moment, listening to the whisper of wind in the trees outside. The house was silent except for the faint creaking that an old wooden building gave in the night. Even the wind outside was faint, rustlings through the spruce needles interspersed with magic silences.
She heard the baby then, a faint grumble, closer than the wind. If he had woken earlier she had not heard him. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet on the cool floor, and walked to Robin's room.
The door to Scott's room was open slightly, as if to allow him to hear if Robbie cried. Melody slipped past the open door silently and went into the baby's room. She lifted the small, grumbling form up and cuddled him while she got a diaper out of the package. As she changed him, he waved his chubby legs and arms aimlessly and made gurgling noises at her. She felt ridiculously pleased that she managed the small task without mishap.
She carried Robbie down to the kitchen, feeling more relaxed down there, where she was less likely to wake Scott. She saw an empty, dirty baby bottle in the sink, evidence that Scott had been up in the night with Robbie.
She thought about his open door. She had left her own door open, too. Had Scott looked in on her in the middle of the night, staring at her sleeping form tangled in the covers? Was that why she had slept so restlessly?
Why was she so aware of him? It was never like this with the strangers Charlie sent to visit. Even Jeff's visits hardly disturbed her work. She left him to his own devices when she wanted to work, sought him out when she felt like having a friend around.
She mixed the formula and heated a new bottle, then she settled into her favorite chair by the stereo while Robbie curled against her and sucked noisily at his breakfast.
He fell asleep right after, so she put him on the sofa as Scott had, with a pillow to stop him rolling off. She got herself breakfast then, a spoonful of honey over fresh yogurt. Then she went back upstairs and dressed hurriedly, suddenly nervously certain Scott would wake any moment, and aware of how little the T-shirt did to cover her.
Scott was still sleeping at eight; at least he had not come out of his room. Their deal said that it was his turn to look after the baby now while Melody worked. She grimaced at his door, but actually she preferred it this way, with him sleeping, out of her way.
She moved the playpen into the sound room, careful not to bang it or make any noise. Then she brought Robbie up and closed the door, locking it because if the baby would be quiet she wanted to record this morning. She didn't want anyone walking in and throwing opening-door sounds over the six-string guitar.
Of course, he might knock loudly on the locked door, and that would ruin the recording, too. If he did interrupt, she would go up in flames and that would be the last time he would interfere with Melody Connacher when she was working!
She grinned at a vision of herself screaming at that muscular hulk of a he-man. Best done in fantasy, she decided.
Time you got used to music, she told the baby as she lowered him on his back into the crib. He grinned and gurgled as she played back last night's work, and she warned him, Talk all you want now, but once the listening's done and I start laying the percussion track on, you behave and keep quiet.
He squirmed and his mouth twisted, and Melody decided that it was a smile on his lips.
She had recorded the bass guitar last night, then layered the drums on top of the bass, using her multi-track recorder. Now she listened, and it was good. The rhythm was filling, the music gaining depth. She changed the disc in the synthesizer and played with the controls until she had the percussion sounds she wanted. She made notes on her paper while Robin groaned and grunted and whimpered.
She picked him up and raised him to her shoulder as she had seen Scott do the night before, remembering just in time to put a towel over her shoulder. Robin groaned, then burped sour milk onto her towel. She patted his back and congratulated him. Then his wide, dark eyes dropped and she put him down on his stomach. He twitched once, then promptly fell asleep.
The percussion layer went on like smooth butter on a sandwich. She worked, unaware of time passing, until it was finished. Then she played the recording back and knew that the words were not quite right. The second stanza would have to be changed to follow the rhythm and the mood. She played it again, humming the words. Then again, and suddenly the right phrase came to her.
It was almost eleven when Robin squirmed and grunted. Melody picked him up and rocked him with one arm while she finished her notes. Working with a baby in the house was going to be a breeze. She should have known, because Amanda and Charlie had sung their way around the world, dragging twin babies with them, and it had not visibly cramped their style. And as for the babies, she and Robin were healthy enough, normal enough. If Amanda could do it, Melody surely could.
Robin started to cry and Melody murmured, Okay, I know. You want a new diaper. We'll go get one.
Scott was standing in the hall when she came out of the sound room with the baby in her arms. I'll take him, he said coolly, and his eyes were granite again this morning.
She shook her head and dodged his hands. It's okay. I'll look after him.
She walked past Scott, into Robin's room, the room that belonged now to both the small Robbie and her twin. She changed the diaper while Scott stood in the doorway, watching but not smiling, just staring.
Finally he spoke, his voice cool and formal. I slept in.
Robbie waved his legs and got the diaper snarled up before she could fasten the tapes. Without looking at Scott, she said neutrally, You said you were short of sleep yesterday. She felt a tight band across her chest and wished he would smile at her again. She felt as if she had lost something precious, and that was crazy.
It's time for you to be working. I'll look after Robin now.
No need. She managed the diaper the second time, then snapped up the legs of Robbie's sleeper. She picked the baby up and held him in her arms like a shield as she faced Scott. He's not difficult.
He can be, said Scott wryly.
The man was too big. He filled the doorway and made no move to let her past. She stopped, holding the baby tightly as she looked at him, wondering if she had imagined the warmth in those eyes yesterday.
I've been thinking about it, she said. You're right. There's no reason you can't leave Robbie with me. I can look after him. She looked down at the tiny head. Consider him handed over. There's no need for you to stay.
He didn't like it. She didn't know why. Yesterday he had wanted to push Robbie into her arms and walk away. Now he said, You go out every afternoon. You can't park Robbie in a playpen at the radio station.
Amanda and Charlie had parked their babies in all sorts of places, many of them more chaotic than a modern radio station. She hugged Robbie closer and said, There's Mrs. Winston. She can come in and look after Robbie while I'm out.
And the mornings? When you're in your music studio upstairs?
She had not told him what was up there, in that room. Damn it, she had not told him much at all, but he seemed to know.
She snapped, Robbie's fine with me. Would you let me past? Please! I want to take him downstairs.
At first she thought he would stop her, but he stepped back and she stumbled pas
t, catching herself before she tripped. She got to the stairs before she realized that the playpen was in the music room, that she had been working and only stopped to change the baby. She turned and went back, and thankfully Scott was gone. The door to his room was closed.
She shut herself into the sound room with the baby. Was he packing? She hoped so. He would go, and she would be alone with Robbie, and her life could return to normal. A new normal with her brother's child to care for.
She supposed she should go back and ask Scott for his address, because she should send him word of his nephew from time to time. He would probably want to know how the child grew, although he had been quick enough to try to hand the baby over yesterday.
She had the sense not to try to lay the next track onto the new song. Not with her fingers trembling as if she and Scott had been screaming at each other out there. He had not even raised his voice, so why did she feel so shattered?
She played the recording back, then played it again. She made notes, but she would not touch the synthesizer until he was gone. You understand, don't you, Robbie? she asked the baby as she took the soundproofing off the window. I'm not a stage type, like your dad or your grandparents. They can turn it on under pressure, but I need peace and quiet.
Robbie gurgled and squirmed in agreement.
She picked him up and carried him downstairs in the end, because she really should be down there when Scott left, to get his address and say thanks and good-bye.
The door to Scott's room was still closed, or closed again. He was probably finished with it, had cleared it out, although she knew he had not started the truck outside. He must be downstairs. She could feel him in her house, knew he was not gone. He was like that, impossible to ignore, intruding without actually doing anything she could put her finger on.
He was in the living room, prowling along the bookshelves. He had out a book and was standing, turning the pages. That was what bothered her, because he had not asked if he could read the books, had not asked before he played her music. She knew that Charlie's stray friends never asked, but somehow it was different with Scott. She put the baby down on the sofa again.
