Lost Melody

by Roz Lee

  He led the way to the barn where she climbed on the stool he indicated in the control room and waited silently as he flipped switches. The studio came to life beyond the plate-glass window. Soft light highlighted the piano, front and center. She tore her eyes away from the instrument, instead focusing on the sparse accoutrements scattered around the studio.

  She braced against the memories flooding back. She could still see her father in his recording studio, much like this one. She had been eight, visiting her father at Ravenswood for the summer. RavensBlood had been recording their tenth or eleventh album—she couldn’t remember which one, but she did remember sitting in a big upholstered chair while her father played guitar along with Jonathan, Archer, and Nathan. It had been a special summer, and she’d spent countless hours in the studio with her daddy. Somewhere, she supposed at Ravenswood, there was a recording of her voice, singing along with him as they sat side by side—him playing a silly child’s song, her matching his cultured British voice with her girlish prattle.

  Hank pointed out a button on the console. “If you want to talk to me, press this button,” he said. “Otherwise, I can’t hear you.”

  “Okay,” she said, clenching her fists in her lap.

  He turned to leave but paused in the doorway. “Are you sure? I thought about this meeting all night, and I don’t think it’s fair to ask you to listen to my versions of ‘Melody’. The guys will get over it if we can’t include the song. I can explain it without compromising your privacy. They’ll understand.”

  She lifted her chin. “Just play the song. I’ll decide for myself.” One thing she was certain of, besides the fact she didn’t want to hear the song at all, was that she needed to hear it. She needed to face up to reality, make a decision, and move on.

  The first notes startled her even though she could see his fingers on the keyboard. Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away, determined to face the memories and get past her obsession with the song. Hank’s voice, smooth as molten chocolate, joined the melody. She noted the subtle changes, the inflections, the way he emphasized different words to change the song. It was no longer a lullaby. Hank had made it a love song. Those few, almost imperceptible changes altered the song to show a boy’s love of music, a love that empowered, stirred his soul.

  Tears spilled unchecked down her cheeks. This version was what fifteen-year-old Hank had heard in his heart when he listened to the song. It was the same, yet so different. Had her father intended this interpretation as well?

  The last string ceased to vibrate and silence descended on the control room. Hank dropped his hands from the keyboard, his head bent. Mel fumbled with the switch, and finding her voice, said through the microphone, “Play the other one.”

  Her heartbeat filled the silent control room and Hank raised his hands to the keys once again. His eyelids dropped, and he began to play. Once again, his voice filled the small room, the words stirring her in new ways. Passion poured from the instrument—a lover’s passion. The melody sent tingles down her spine and his voice stroked her soul. The words were the same, the melody the same, but his arrangement implied a physical and emotional intimacy between lovers completely absent in her father’s version.

  The small confines of the control room closed in on her, stealing the oxygen from her lungs. The panic attacks had become infrequent, but she recognized the signs immediately. She needed to get out.

  She pushed through the barn door, and warm, humid air rushed into her lungs. Pressed against the outside wall, she gulped in the air, rushing much needed oxygen through her system. When her legs stopped trembling enough for her to walk, she crossed to the oak and dropped into one of the lawn chairs scattered under its broad limbs. Betty Boop roused from her place next to the back porch and joined her, nudging her hand with a cold nose. She petted the dog’s smooth head, taking comfort in the unconditional love offered.

  She closed her eyes and let the tears fall. She’d known hearing the song would be hard, but she’d truly had no idea what she’d agreed to. It was so much more than she’d imagined it would be, and so beautifully done. Her father would love it. He’d understand Hank’s interpretation. But the question was, could she live with it if it was out there, on the radio every day?

  No way. Her father’s version was bad enough, but Hank’s? It was much too personal, too intimate. It wasn’t simply a love song, it was a lover’s song.

  * * *

  Hank opened his eyes, expecting to see his soul bleeding across the gleaming expanse of the grand piano. Only the glare of the overhead lights reflecting off the polished surface greeted him. His hands fell to the bench, and clutching the edge in a white-knuckled grip, he waited for her pronouncement. With bowed head and clenched jaw, he waited.

  Nothing.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, and without moving, found the courage to speak. “Mel?”

  Silence.

  He turned to the control room window. Empty. She was gone.

  “Melody.” Her name fell from his lips, a soft benediction.

  He took his time closing the studio. In his office, he opened the wall safe and removed both copies of “Melody”. She’d made her decision, and as agreed, he would turn the only existing recordings as well as the sheet music over to her. For a moment, he stood in his office, holding the two manila envelopes, waiting for the pain to come. His music was so much a part of him—it should hurt like hell to surrender the two works knowing no one would ever hear them, but that wasn’t what was killing him. It wasn’t losing the music. It was because he’d hurt her. Christ, what was I thinking?

  When he left the building, he was surprised to find her waiting for him. She was pale, and her eyes were red from recent tears. Guilt gnawed at his gut. He laid the envelopes in her lap and sat in a lawn chair facing her.

  “Those are the only copies in existence. Only the band has heard the first one. No one other than you and I has heard the other. They’re yours to do with as you please. The sheet music is there, too.”

  She picked up the envelopes, reading the handwritten labels on each one.

  “I’m so sorry. I should have known how hard it would be for you. I shouldn’t have put you through that.”

  With a steady hand, she extended one envelope to him. “Record this one.”

  He took it, his original version, and nodded his acceptance. “Are you sure? I don’t have to record it. I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

  She raised blood shot eyes to him. “It’s different enough. I think anyone with a love of music will understand it. You haven’t changed the lyrics, only a few notes. I can live with that.”

  He admired her courage, but still knew how much it must hurt for her to give her consent. “If you’re sure, I’ll go ahead with it. I promise, you can change your mind anytime before it goes into mass production. All you have to do is say so, and I’ll pull it.”

  “I won’t change my mind. I’ll call Uncle Jonathan and have him bring the contract with him next week. Record it, Hank. It’s your song.”

  She rose, stopping next to his chair. Focusing on the distant cotton fields, she said, “It never occurred to me until today someone else would have an entirely different interpretation of the song. Thank you for showing me.”

  He sat in the shade of the stately old oak, listening to the soft hum of her car engine fade in the distance. Somehow, she’d managed to assuage his guilt with a few words. His love for her carried him into the barn, where he lost himself in the music.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She drove out of sight of the farm and turned down a dusty road running along the creek edging Hank’s farm. Under the shade of a cottonwood, she let her head fall back on the headrest. His voice filled her mind. He’d forced her to see the song in a new light, and in that, there was a freedom she’d never felt before. He had given her a precious gift. By opening her eyes to other interpretations of the lyrics, he had released the song’s hold on her. Maybe in the future, she could listen to it and hear it
the way Hank and probably countless others heard it.

  His version would be a sensation in its own right—a masterful interpretation brought to life by a man whose skill rivaled her father’s.

  She traced a finger across the handwriting on the envelope lying on the passenger seat. She was in love with Hank, and he was in love with her. His second version convinced her, as nothing else could have.

  It was a beautiful song. It deserved to be recorded.

  It could—no would—establish him as a superstar in his profession, but she couldn’t bear for anyone to hear the deeply personal, even intimate way he sang those words. Once they’d lulled her to sleep, set to the sweet, poignant melody her father had created, but Hank’s second version was different. Hank sang his love as eloquently as he made love. He’d altered the melody to suggest a deep and alluring passion, and it was too personal to share, too close to her heart.

  Anyone who heard it would know he spoke of her, of them, and it would bring the paparazzi to her doorstep. They would hunt to the ends of the earth to find her. Her heart wasn’t strong enough to survive the public scrutiny again. She’d openly displayed her love for her father, sometimes amid the paparazzo’s flashing cameras, and despite the security measures Uncle Jonathan had insisted on, the vultures had even been at her father’s funeral, snapping photos of her and her mother. Those had been plastered on magazine covers everywhere and still popped up once a year on the anniversary of his death—her birthday. So, no. The song wouldn’t see the light of day, not if she had anything to say about it, and luckily, she was the only one who did have a say.

  She drove to the bank and placed the envelope in the safety deposit box. After placing the airtight container holding her father’s original recording in on top of Hank’s envelope, she returned the box to the attendant.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nearly a week had passed since she’d gone to the farm, and Hank hadn’t contacted her, nor had she tried to contact him. She longed to see him, to hear his voice, but it was better if she stayed away. They'll break your heart. Once, the warning had seemed dramatic, but it seemed her mother had known what she was talking about. Her heart was all ready broken over a man she loved and couldn’t have. History repeating itself.

  She turned her grocery cart into the next aisle, almost crashing into Hank as he studied the gazillion varieties of cereal available. Their gazes met and held. She didn’t know what to say, what to do. A million things went through her mind—things she should say to him, but couldn’t.

  “Hi, Mel,” he said, stepping behind his cart so she could pass.

  Her feet were glued to the floor. He looked good. Maybe a little tired around the eyes, but still sexy as hell. “Hank.”

  He nodded at her full cart. “Getting ready for company?”

  She glanced at her load of groceries. “Yes. Uncle Jonathan arrives tomorrow, but of course you know that.”

  “No. I thought he was coming in on Monday. The band will be here then.” He indicated his overflowing cart. “What I have here won’t even begin to feed the invading hoard, but it’s a start. The wives will take over as soon as they get here anyway. I’m just trying to get a head start.”

  She unglued her feet and tried to move past him in the aisle. His fingers wrapped around her upper arm, halting her progress. Heat seared her skin from the light touch. She shrugged, jerking her arm from his grip.

  “Have you given any more thought to what I said about meeting everyone? You know, chronicling the recording?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think I can.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider. Even if you don’t write about it, I’d like you to be there.” He glanced up and down the aisle, and even though there wasn’t anyone in sight, he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “It would mean a lot to me and the band to have you there. You, of all people, deserve to be a part of the recording process.”

  “Hank,” she pleaded, “it’s too much.”

  “It’s the first Ravensblood cover album to have ‘Melody’ on it. Don’t you think someone should take notes for the occasion? I still think a coffee table book would be great, and you could write it, easy. Use a pen name so no one knows who you really are.”

  She once thought Hank was insane, but maybe she was the insane one, because she was seriously considering doing it. It would mean being around him daily for the rest of the summer—something she really shouldn’t do, but she had already made up her mind to leave Willowbrook at the end of summer. She’d be taking a big chance on the paparazzi staying away while BlackWing was in town recording, but it would be worth taking the chance to spend more time with Hank. She was going to leave broken hearted anyway. How much more broken could it get?

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” she said before sanity returned.

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll clear it with the guys. They’re going to be freaked, really.”

  “In a good way, I hope.”

  “Yeah, in a good way.”

  “Well, I’ve got to go. When do you want me to come out?”

  “How about Wednesday? Everyone will be here, and I’ll have had a chance to tell them about you. Wait. Why don’t you bring Sir Jonathan out to the farm on Sunday for lunch? I’ll cook, and we can talk about your involvement some more.”

  Sanity reared its ugly head, telling her to say no, telling her to run, but instead she just said, “Okay.”

  He smiled. “Around noon? It’ll be very casual. Do you think Sir Jonathan would mind if Dad came, too?”

  “I think he would love to meet your dad,” she answered honestly.

  “Great. I’ll see you both on Sunday.”

  * * *

  Mel tried unsuccessfully to get Jonathan to rest, but he insisted on talking first. He wanted to know everything about Willowbrook, and how Mel was getting on in her new home, and he especially wanted to know about Hank Travis.

  Sitting in her cozy living room sharing a pot of tea, she told him how she met Hank, how they each found out whom the other was, and how he coerced her into doing the month-long interview.

  “Does he love you?”

  She closed her eyes, remembering the one magical night of lovemaking, his assurances of his love, the song. “Yes.” Of this one thing, she had no doubt.

  “Do you love him?”

  She crossed to the window, staring into the gathering darkness. “I knew you were going to ask.” As the streetlights winked on, one by one, she turned to him, answering as truthfully as she could. “I’m afraid to. I think I could, maybe I do, but it scares the hell out of me.”

  Jonathan took her hands in his and their gazes locked. “He’s a good man, Mel. I know he loves you. He told me so himself. If you love him, don’t let him go. You of all people know how short our time can be. Don’t let this chance for happiness pass you by.”

  She threw her arms around him. He wrapped her in his embrace, holding her close. “What if something happens to him? I don’t think I could stand to go through that again.”

  “There aren’t any guarantees, luv. Screw up your courage and give the man a chance.” He brushed tears from her cheeks. “I think it may be too late to worry about the what ifs. You’re already too close to him, aren’t you?”

  She buried her face against his chest. “Yes,” she sobbed.

  * * *

  Mel set aside her fears and drove Sir Jonathan drove out to the farm on Sunday. His excitement was almost enough to make her forget the reason he had come to Whispering Springs in the first place.

  The Travis men met them on the back porch and introductions were made. Sir Jonathan shook hands with Henry. “Please, call me Jonathan. The title isn’t really me.”

  “Jonathan it is. I’m Henry.”

  The two older men talked as if they’d known each other for years instead of minutes. Mel and Hank sat across from them at the picnic table, listening to them discuss everything from gray hair to the world economic situation. After lunch, they toured the house and barn, Han
k proudly showing off his recording studio.

  Jonathan sat at the piano and easily launched into one of RavensBlood’s iconic hits. Henry sang along, never missing a beat, even if he was a little out of tune. Mel followed Hank into the separate drum room. She watched as he changed the drumheads in anticipation of recording later in the week.

  “How often do you change the heads?”

  “I’ll change them daily, sometimes more often, during the recording session. On tour, we change them before each show. I use natural skins for a warmer sound, but they have their drawbacks. On the road, I’m constantly tuning them, finding their sweet spot. Temperature and humidity take their toll. The stage crews can be less than gentle when they handle them sometimes, too.”

  He quickly and expertly replaced the heads, cleaned, polished, and reassembled the drums. He wiped fingerprints from the cymbals, careful to handle them by their edges only. He greased the foot pedals, wiping away excess.

  “I didn’t know how much work it was to keep up the equipment. It must be a nightmare on the road.”

  “It can be, but it’s how I make my living, so like any other worker, I have to take care of the tools of my trade. On tour, the stagehands and my drum technician take care of the initial set up. I come in several hours before rehearsal to adjust height and distance. The audience might not notice if something wasn’t just right, but I would. I figure they’ve paid a hefty sum to hear us play, they deserve the best quality sound I can give them.”

  “Uncle Jonathan says I should give you a chance,” she blurted.

  Hank stilled, polishing cloth in hand, frozen in midair. “He did?”

  “Yes. He thinks you’re in love with me.”

  He turned to her. “I am.”

  “I know.” She fought to control her voice. It was important to make him understand. “I’m not in love, Hank,” she lied. “I don’t know if I can be.”