Lost Melody

by Roz Lee

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday morning, Mel answered the door to find Hank on her porch with a bag of doughnuts and two paper hot cups, balanced one on top of the other. She thought she was prepared to see him, but the sight of him ignited a flame inside her she was determined to extinguish. “What are you doing here?”

  “Can I come in?” He juggled his offering, and she relieved him of the teetering cups as he swept past her as though she’d invited him in.

  She closed the door and followed him to her kitchen where he made himself right at home. Clearly, he didn’t plan to go anywhere anytime soon. He’d already dumped the doughnuts onto a plate by the time she got there.

  She placed the cups on the table and faced him. “You misunderstood the reason I delivered the article, Hank. It wasn’t a peace offering. It was a goodbye. Our agreement is off. I’ve got enough to honor the obligation I made to the Gazette, so I’m through. We’re through.”

  “I know you’re mad at me.” He held a chair for her. She sighed and sat, wishing she had pretended she wasn’t home instead of answering the door. When she was seated, he joined her at the table. “I’m sorry about the song. I should have told you I was working on a cover.”

  She locked her gaze with his over the plate of pastries. “It’s more than the song, and you know it. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to invent a life for myself, and there’s no room for famous musicians in it.”

  He selected a doughnut and, pulling it apart, popped a section in his mouth. She watched his lips as he chewed, remembering how they felt moving over hers. He swallowed, breaking her concentration.

  “I understand, but I thought I’d proven to you that you don’t have to hide to have the kind of life you want. Didn’t you see the way I live? No one bothers me here. You can do it, too. We can do it together.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Look, Mel, I thought we had something good together. I know I blew it by not telling you about the song, and I’m sorry. “

  “I shouldn’t have jumped you about the song. It’s just …the song is very personal to me, and…well, there probably isn’t a musician on the planet who hasn’t wanted to sing it at one time or another. And what you did to it…. That threw me. I wasn’t expecting it.”

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I never meant to hurt you.” He twirled his cup between his long fingers. “It’s a compelling song and one very few people could sing.”

  “I agree. That’s one of the reasons I’ve never authorized a cover of it.”

  “I want you to hear something. Will you come out to the farm with me?”

  She gathered their trash and headed to the wastebasket. “If you think I’m going to listen to you sing ‘Melody’ you’ve lost your mind.”

  “Maybe I have, but won’t you hear me out? Let me tell you why I want to record your song. Please?”

  She leaned against the counter and clamped her hands on the edge to keep from running. She could still hear him humming as he stood right here in her kitchen. He had no idea what he’d done to her. She forced in a deep breath, let it out slowly, willing a calm she didn’t think she could find.

  “If I listen, will you go away and leave me alone?”

  “That depends. I’m hoping you won’t want me to go once you hear what I have to say.”

  “Go ahead. Talk,” she said. “But let me be clear. I don’t want to hear the song.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “Will you at least sit down?”

  She crossed to the chair she’d left earlier and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m sitting. Tell me your story and leave.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I was fifteen when I first heard ‘Melody’ on the radio. Your father put into words what I couldn’t. I listened to his lyrics and heard in them my love of music. It never occurred to me he was singing about anything but his love of music, how it consumed him, made him feel alive. It changed my life. I know Cathy thinks the knobby knees jokes were enough reason for me to give up sports and concentrate more on music, but I couldn’t have cared less what the girls, or anyone else, thought about my knees. I listened to ‘Melody’ and I knew music was in my soul. I knew it was more important to me than anything else in the world.”

  “So why did you major in business at Harvard? Why not music?”

  He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “I wasn’t sure I could make a living with music. Very few people do, and I’m practical if nothing else. I knew I was more likely to be struck by lightning than to make it big in the music world. So I hedged my bets and got a degree in something I could make a living with. I did minor in music, though.” He shrugged again. “BlackWing is nothing but a bunch of over-educated frat boys who got lucky.”

  He got up and helped himself to orange juice. She waved away his offer to pour her a glass. When he’d replaced the carton in the refrigerator, he returned to his seat. “Anyway, it never occurred to me ‘Melody’ was about something entirely different, not until I talked to Sir Jonathan.”

  “Wait. You talked to Uncle Jonathan?”

  “You say that so easily, Uncle Jonathan. I was so scared I could hardly speak when I first met him, and you talk about him like he’s family.”

  “He is family as far as I’m concerned. When did you see him?”

  “Last weekend. In New York.”

  Her stomach churned. “Why?”

  “I went to sign a contract for our next album. It’s a tribute to RavensBlood. All the songs will be covers of their greatest hits. The only one I care about is ‘Melody’, and Sir Jonathan wanted to explain in person why he couldn’t authorize us to record it.”

  To keep the tremors at bay, she clasped her hands tight and focused on his Adam’s apple.

  “He told me about the song. I honestly didn’t know.” His tone was apologetic, laced with pity. Her fingers had gone numb from squeezing them so hard. “I felt like an adolescent fool. Sir Jonathan said just enough to let me figure it out on my own.”

  She flexed her hands, wiping her damp palms on her pant legs, and fisted them tight again. “What else did he tell you?”

  Hank reached for her hands. He forced her fists open and wrapped her chilled fingers in his warmth. “Everything. He told me everything.”

  She jerked out of his reach. “That’s why you came home early? The reason you...the reason we…? That’s the reason?”

  He tried to recapture her hands, but she moved away from his touch. “That’s not what it was, and you know it. I love you, Melody.”

  She jumped to her feet, toppling her chair in the process. “Don’t call me that.” She crossed her arms over her stomach and backed away. “I don’t want your pity, and you don’t love me.” Every nerve in her body vibrated, and she clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.

  Hank stood, righted her chair, and held it for her. “Please. Sit down.” He placed a strong hand on her shoulder and guided her into the chair. Leaning close, he took her hands in his.

  “I feel a lot of things, but pity isn’t one of them,” he said. “You have to believe me. I’ve never loved anyone else, and I won’t stop loving you. I’m sorry it upsets you so much, and I have to say, your reaction doesn’t do much for my ego.”

  “Please don’t love me, Hank. I can’t be what you want me to be. I can’t be what you need me to be.”

  He leaned in closer. She tried to pull her hands out of his grasp, but he only held them more securely. “You’re an amazing woman. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you standing in the doorway at my dad’s house. I had no idea who you were, but I knew you were special. It doesn’t matter what your name is. I love you, not your name.”

  She lifted her eyes. His mouth was a mere whisper from hers. His eyes sparkled with love, his lips crooked to one side, giving him a rakish look. Her heart flipped, skipping a beat in its acrobatic downfall.

  “I can’t change the way I feel,” he said, “and I don’t expect you to return the feeling. Not yet anyway. But I thi
nk you feel something for me, or was I imagining things the other night?”

  She took a deep breath and extricated her hands. She needed to put distance between them before she did something stupid like tell him she loved him, too. She stood on shaky legs and crossed to the sink. She filled the teakettle and prepared a tray with her favorite wild rose pattern teapot and cups. How had this conversation gotten so out of control? She had to get it back on track, and get him out of her house. Now.

  “Go on. Tell me about the song.” She opened cabinets and drawers, gathering the makings of proper tea even though she didn’t think she could drink a drop.

  He followed her movements, glad she’d calmed. His bombshell had blown up in his face. The poet in him had hoped for a more hospitable reaction to his declaration of love, but as he watched her rigid back and stilted actions, he knew she felt something for him. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be so upset by his words.

  “Okay, if you’re sure you still want to hear it.”

  Her laugh was hollow. “I’m sure I don’t want to hear it, but you aren’t going to go away until I do, are you?”

  He hated to be the cause of her distress, but he’d come here to lay his heart on the line and he was going to do it. “No. I have to tell you everything.”

  She leaned against the counter, her back to him. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  “I’ve been working on a cover of ‘Melody’ for over a year, based on my misguided understanding of the song. After the night we spent together, which I’ll remember fondly for the rest of my life, no matter what happens between us,” he said, “I knew I had to rewrite it. I heard the new notes in my head while I was holding you in my arms. I know how corny it sounds, but it’s true.”

  China rattled as she poured hot water into the teapot.

  “All I’m asking is for you to listen to both versions. Just you and me, in the studio. No one else will ever hear them if you don’t want them to.”

  She turned to face him, and the river of tears streaming down her face almost broke him. He went to her, stopping short of taking her in his arms.

  “How can you ask me to do listen to you sing ‘Melody’? You said Uncle Jonathan told you everything. Didn’t he tell you about the song?”

  He gripped her upper arms, sliding his hands down to capture hers. “He did. I wouldn’t ask you if it was only about me. But it’s not. I owe it to the rest of the band. They’ll all be here next week to begin work on the new album. We don’t want to do the album without Hamilton Ravenswood’s masterpiece. It wouldn’t be right.”

  He considered it a good sign when she didn’t try to pull away from him.

  “Has Uncle Jonathan approved the album?”

  “Yes. He’s coming next week to hear the songs in person and give us his opinion. We’re bound by contract to make any changes he deems necessary.”

  She spun away from him, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. “And I thought he was coming to see me. I’m such an idiot.”

  He caressed her shoulders, his thumbs kneading the hard knots along her nape. “You’re not an idiot. Make no mistake about it. The man considers you his daughter, and he’ll do anything to protect you. I think he’s coming here for you. He doesn’t have to actually be here to approve the songs.”

  She closed her eyes, letting his magic fingers soothe away her common sense. His hips rested against her bottom, close but not intimately so. His voice, slow and melodic, seduced her with its soft Texas drawl, more pronounced when he wanted it to be. The fragrant bergamot of her Earl Grey drifted from the teapot to mingle with the fresh scent of Hank’s aftershave. She inhaled deeply, remembering how his skin tasted, salty, utterly delicious.

  She forced some semblance of sense into her brain. “Okay. Take your hands off me, and I’ll come out tomorrow morning. But don’t expect me to approve it.”

  His hands remained on her shoulders, working their magic as if she hadn’t given in to his demands. He shifted, pressing his hips against her bottom, applying enough pressure for her to feel his erection before he slid his hands down her arms and leaned in to kiss her neck, just below her jaw line. Desire tingled down her spine, and he let her go, stepping back.

  “Whether you approve it or not, I’d like for you to consider something else.”

  “What?”

  “When the band gets here, I’d like it if you came out to meet them. They’re a great bunch of people, and I know you’d love them, and they’ll love you. I’ll even clear it with them so you can watch us record the album. Maybe you could chronicle it for us. We’ve never had anyone do that before. It could be fun.”

  “And what makes you think I would want to?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe you could do one of those coffee table books, or maybe the Gazette would like some more articles. I know I can get the guys to go along with it.”

  “How long will it take to record the album?”

  “That depends. We’ve been working on the songs for over a year, so it’s just a matter of getting them recorded. We’ll probably work twenty-four-seven for most of the summer. It’s not an easy process.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “All the guys are married, except me. They bring their wives and kids, and the house is crazy.”

  She held the teapot with both hands as she poured herself a cup. The last thing she wanted to do, besides hear him sing “Melody” was hang around while they recorded an album full of songs her father had written. Talk about living a nightmare.

  “Think about it. You don’t have to make a decision today.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, “but don’t hold your breath.”

  He paused in the doorway. “All I’m asking is for you to think about it. I want you to see the performance side of my life, too. I think once you do, you’ll see it’s not as bad as you imagine.”

  “You’re pushing your luck. I said I’d listen to the song, and that’s all I’m agreeing to.”

  He crossed the room to place a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  When he was gone, Mel found the old reel-to-reel tape player where she’d hidden it in the back of the closet. The tape was where it had always been—sealed in an airtight container in a fireproof box hidden underneath her bed. She threaded the fragile tape through the maze of wheels and pulleys, and dusted off the professional headset. The headset took a little adjusting to fit her properly, and then she flipped the switch. RavensBlood’s final concert came to life once again.

  Miraculously, the tape Milton Ravenswood had carried with him, the present for his daughter, survived the crash. She had played it once before when she was in college and trying to understand why her mother had forbidden her to listen to her father’s music.

  She sat on the floor and leaned against her bed, letting the music carry her to a different place and time. She knew the voices—Uncle Jonathan, Archer and Nathan, and her father. There were backup singers, too. Women chosen for their excellent singing voices to fill in the back tracks. Her mother had been one of the chosen few until she became pregnant with Milton Ravenswood’s child.

  She pushed away the unnecessary issue and concentrated on the concert. The crowd was enthusiastic, and it was easy to tell the band members fed off their energy. A long pause filled with Uncle Jonathan’s voice signaled a change on stage. She closed her eyes and imagined the scene.

  Stagehands would be moving the grand piano, adjusting microphones and running wires. She had seen photos from the concert, knew her father had worn black jeans, a dark RavensBlood T-shirt, and a black suit jacket. It was the same outfit he’d worn in every concert photo she’d ever seen.

  The stage would be empty except for the piano in the center. Her father emerged from the darkness amid respectful applause, taking his place in the vortex of the triple spotlights. He shifted on the bench, adjusted the microphone, and stilled. Quiet descended.

  He began to play.

  She
could envision his fingers moving across the keyboard, coaxing the wires and hammers inside the instrument to do his bidding. His voice joined the melody, a silken thread strung across the expanse of the concert hall, clear and seductive. The crowd was silent. She imagined the audience, mesmerized by the beautiful music, by the man exposing his soul on stage.

  The last note vibrated through the instrument, and she heard the faint scrape of the piano bench against the stage. Her father’s retreating footsteps had been edited out of the recording issued publicly after his death, but they remained on her uncut version. Heartbeats passed before a single person in the audience began to clap, the sound releasing the others from their trance. She could hear the swell as they rose to their feet, shouting and demanding more, more, as if the man had any more to give.

  It was the last song Hamilton Earl Ravenswood would ever sing, but the audience didn’t know it at the time. The unedited tape continued for a few minutes more as Jonathan returned to the stage and tried to quiet the crowd, waving the band back on stage to play an encore, one of their hits, without Ravenswood on lead guitar.

  She dropped the headset to the floor and switched off the tape player. She closed her eyes. Oh God! Why did I tell Hank I would listen to his version? What have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter Twelve

  She had talked herself out of coming more than once since Hank had left her house with her promise to hear the song, but each time she remembered the sincerity in his voice when he talked about what the song meant to him, and she caved. So, on top of her misgivings about what she was doing, she was angry with herself for not sticking to her guns.

  He waited on his back porch for her. She frowned up at him. “Let’s get this over with.”