Lost Melody

by Roz Lee

  Sir Jonathan entered the room and silence fell, anchoring everyone in a frozen tableau. They all awaited his verdict. Jonathan, even more so than she, held the power to end the recording session. They had authorized a few covers of RavensBlood songs over the years, but all the ones BlackWing had requested were firsts. Mel stood behind Jonathan just inside the door, as anxious as anyone present to hear what he had to say.

  “Well done, chaps! I couldn’t have done it better myself.” Jonathan’s British accent floated across the near perfect acoustics in the room.

  Chaos erupted. Mel added her praise, speaking individually with the band members. Randy the Recording Engineer let out an ear-piercing whistle, bringing the celebration to an abrupt halt. When he had everyone’s attention, he listed the technical flaws in the performance and doled out assignments for the day. Everyone dispersed like leaves on the wind. The band members holed up in the rehearsal rooms to try to find the tone, that elusive sound signature unique to each guitarist while the technicians went to work correcting the mechanical problems Randy had pointed out.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hank drew Mel into his office and into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his waist and her soft curves molded to his harder angles as though she’d been made just for him. He had wanted to hold her from the moment she’d walked into the studio and checked him out. Knowing she was so close, only a few feet across the room and he couldn’t go to her, hold her and kiss her the way he wanted—no, make that needed—had almost driven him crazy. Instead of listening to the discussion, he had concentrated on calculating the mass of the piano in the center of the room. He couldn’t remember the formula for the calculation, but the thought process kept blood circulating in his brain where it belonged.

  As they played the song, he’d locked eyes with her. He’d gone a little crazy, almost calling a halt to the whole thing rather than put her through another minute of the torture hearing the songs would be for her. Then something had changed and instead of pain, there was something else in her eyes, something he’d been sure she hadn’t wanted him to see—love. It was enough to banish some of his concerns and allowed him to finish the song.

  She was in his arms where she belonged, and he owed it to her to do whatever he could to help her through the recording.

  “Was it as difficult as you thought it would be?” he asked.

  “No. It was hard at first. I wasn’t sure I could do it, but I did. The song is good. I like the changes you made.”

  Gently, he turned her face up to his. She was so damned perfect. Beautiful and smart. And she thought she was weak. It boggled his mind. “I knew you could do it. You’re so much stronger than you think you are.”

  “I’m not,” she said.

  “You are, and I love that about you.” He dipped his head, and rising onto her toes, she met him halfway. He teased her lips apart and tasted her sweetness. She pressed herself more fully against him.

  He broke the kiss. “I want to stay here with you, but I have to go,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll be recording drum tracks the rest of the day.”

  She dropped her arms and stepped out of his embrace.

  He let his hands trail down to rest on her hips, unwilling to let her go until he absolutely had to. “Today’s song relies heavily on the drums with the solo at the end. With a little luck, it won’t take all day. But knowing Randy, I don’t hold out much hope.”

  She smiled. “He’s a task master, for sure. I even heard him telling Uncle Jonathan to get busy rehearsing. He said he wasn’t going to cut him any slack because of his past glories.”

  Hank laughed. “I wouldn’t have the nerve to say something like that to him. Randy has engineered all our albums, and he’s the best, so we listen to him. It’s paid off for us so far.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m his today, so I better get going before he sends a search party for me. The sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll be finished.” And the sooner we can be together.

  Mel spent the next few hours interviewing the band members during their breaks and sitting in the control room watching Hank patiently try to please Randy. She slipped out before lunch and went home.

  The schedule allotted one week for each song, with a whole week off for the Fourth of July holiday. It would take the entire summer to complete the album, recording the songs in chronological order. Each week would become more difficult for her as they led up to the final song on the list. “Melody” would be the very last song they recorded. Rightfully so. It was the last song her father sang—as it turned out, less than two hours before his death.

  The thought of listening to all those songs sent a shiver of dread along her spine. Even if she found the courage, she wasn’t sure she could survive watching them record “Melody.” Two weeks had been allotted to track it, and nothing short of perfection would do. Two weeks of painful memories she had spent the last sixteen years trying to avoid.

  Hank planned to bring in a host of backup strings and woodwinds for his orchestration, and the final mix would be a masterpiece in its own right. She couldn’t deny Hank the chance to record it. She loved him too much. But watching the process, hearing him sing the lyrics would be her undoing. Scheduled to be the first single released from the album, it would be on the radio soon enough.

  She wouldn’t be able to escape it.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The first week of tracking passed as quickly as a summer storm, complete with flashes of lightning and furious winds. Mel couldn’t believe the level of passion the Ivy League over-achievers brought to the project. On stage, they played as much for their own enjoyment, as for the audience; but in the studio, they pushed themselves and each other for perfection. Tempers flared white-hot but cooled quickly. Randy was skilled at diffusing the tension and keeping them to the schedule. No less of a perfectionist himself, his demands often extended the workday well into the evening.

  She saw little of Hank the first week, and as the weeks passed, she saw even less of him. The days fell into a routine. Weekends were supposed to be free time for the production crew, allowing the ones who lived nearby a chance to go home if they chose to, at least for a few hours. Eventually, even the weekends fell under Randy’s quest for perfection. Jonathan, working as hard as the rest of the group, had taken to spending his evenings with the sound crew at Henry’s house, freeing Mel to come and go as she pleased.

  Some days she helped the wives with the monumental task of feeding the crew and entertaining the kids. Living in town, she was the natural choice to bring in supplies, often picking up enormous loads of pastries, cakes, breads, rolls, and whatever else Cathy could produce for them. The local grocer was well versed in the extra demands and arranged a call-in order and delivery system for them.

  She occasionally stopped at a local produce stand to pick up fresh fruit and vegetables. One morning that promised a particularly hot day to come, she spied a trucker unloading his burden of watermelons at the produce stand. She made the first u-turn possible and went back to bargain with the owner of the stand. It didn’t take much to persuade him to sell her a pickup load of the fresh melons. She returned in Hank’s truck to pick them up within the hour. More cash changed hands, and the melons were covered in ice.

  The build-your-own sandwich lunch was topped off with cold, sweet watermelon. The kids held a seed-spitting contest, and not to be outdone, the adults held one of their own. It was messy, fun, and relaxing. Even Betty Boop joined in, playing in the stream from the water hose as they washed down the area afterward.

  Sometimes Mel would walk the older kids to the creek and watch them play, carefree and uninhibited in the natural setting. One morning the two oldest, Mike’s daughter Allison, and Stephen’s son Dane, were pestering their mothers to take them to the studio. They wanted to watch the recording session—a natural enough request at their age. Neither of the women could spare the time to supervise the kids, and letting them go alone was out of the question. Mel offered to escort them, and
much to the kids delight, permission was granted.

  She ushered them into the control room and found stools for them, so they could see over the control board. They were full of questions she tried her best to answer.

  “How do you know so much about recording stuff?” Allison asked.

  “My daddy wrote the song your fathers are playing in there. When I was about your age, he let me sit stay the studio with him while he was recording. I remember sitting at the piano with him, and once he let me sit in a big, overstuffed chair while he played the guitar. He sang, too. I had to stay in the control room when he was recording vocals.”

  She’d never spoken about that special summer to anyone, not even her mother. It felt good to share the memory with the kids—kids she realized she shared a bond with.

  They peppered her with more questions until Randy silenced them with a look. When the band took a break, she ushered her charges into the studio where they begged and cajoled their parents into letting them remain in the studio through the next tracking.

  Hank, having little need of his office, turned it over to her. Several days a week, she retreated to the quiet space to listen to the taped conversations and pen the articles she had promised the Gazette. She realized early on she had far more material than she needed for the articles and began to think about a longer work. She laid out an outline for a book chronicling the recording of the cover album, interspersed with human-interest type sketches of the musicians and their families. The work kept her busy and focused on her writing rather than the recording and the emotional roller coaster she was riding. Every week brought the band a step closer to “Melody”, and she still didn’t know what she would do when the time came.

  In the midst of the controlled chaos, she was alone, and worse, she was lonely. Everyone there was part of some extended group—family, musicians, or crew. As close as she was to the project, she was an outsider. She loved the time she spent with the kids, loved holding little Katie, loved watching the toddlers awkwardly chasing after Betty Boop or their older siblings. She did have the company of the older kids more since they’d been given permission to visit the studio. They often sought her out when they came to the barn. Watching them with their fathers brought back cherished memories of time spent with her own.

  What little time she and Hank had together, she didn’t have his full attention. He was either too keyed up to sit still, or he was so exhausted he fell asleep the moment he stopped moving. When he could get away in the evening, he came to her. She let him into her bed, content to have him nearby. He was usually too tired in the evening to make love to her, but if he woke early, he reached for her. More often than not, she would shake him awake and hand him his first cup of coffee before his feet hit the floor.

  The closer they got to “Melody”, the higher and stronger she built the wall around her heart, but she was honest enough with herself to admit it was a futile effort. Hank had found a way in, and bit-by-bit, had taken over. She tried not to think about the time when she would have to leave. Being with him was emotional suicide, but she wanted him, needed more time with him to store up sweet memories to take with her.

  The Fourth of July arrived and recording came to a standstill for an entire week. The crewmembers fled to their homes and families, and the band members let themselves relax for the first time in over a month. Chad, Mike, and Stephen took their families to Six Flags in nearby Arlington. Kevin and Erica took little Katie with them to a luxury hotel in Dallas for a week of quiet and pampering at the spa. Jonathan swept Miriam Wallingford off to Las Vegas before Mel had a chance to ask how he’d found time to get to know the woman, much less plan a trip with her. He was happier than she had ever seen him, so she waved them off with a smile and headed out to see Hank.

  She pulled into the deserted driveway and cut the engine. Over the last month, she had come to associate the farm with children’s laughter and preoccupied adults. The insects in the trees made their own music. She rounded the corner and stopped in her tracks, taking in the peaceful tableau. Hank slept in the dappled shade, relaxed as she hadn’t seen him in weeks. The deep lines around his mouth and the creases on his forehead were gone. She approached with soft steps and removed the warm soda can from his lax fingers. Betty Boop opened her eyes and closed them again.

  She knelt and stretched a finger up to trace the lines of Hank’s parted lips. She stopped short when his breath brushed softly over her fingertip. She drew her hand away, reluctant to disturb his rest.

  She let herself into the house and went upstairs to Hank’s bedroom. She sighed at the mess. The man really did need a keeper. She made separate piles for the cleaners and the laundry room and filled a trash bag full of discarded candy wrappers and chip bags. Every scrap of paper, no matter how insignificant it appeared, went into a stack on top of his dresser.

  She hauled the laundry downstairs and, after checking to see Hank and Betty Boop were still sleeping, continued cleaning. She put in a load of laundry and located a can of furniture polish. Starting upstairs, she cleaned the antique furniture in Hank’s bedroom and the hallway, leaving the guest rooms to their inhabitants. Descending the stairs, she shined the oak banister, admiring its craftsmanship as she went. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, she noticed the old upright piano Hank had learned to play on, standing sentinel against the living room wall.

  Making her way carefully around the room, she polished the dainty piecrust tables which were obviously sturdier than they appeared, having survived generations of children and continued to hold up under the onslaught of BlackWing’s next generation. She lovingly dusted the piano, carefully moving the framed family photos scattered across the top. Setting her dusting tools beside her on the bench, she reverently lifted the keyboard cover.

  The ivory-topped keys had yellowed with age. Chips on the corners and along the front edge of some of the keys attested to the many years of frequent use. She imagined a younger Hank and his mother sitting together on the bench as she patiently prodded him through his lessons. He would have protested every step of the way, as a young boy would, but in the end he had turned to music to make his living.

  She pressed a well-worn key, and another. Bringing her hands up, she placed her untutored fingers on the keys. Tentatively she experimented with the sound. At first, it was harsh and foreign to her ear, but as her fingers moved across the keyboard, she learned the sounds, and soon the disjointed notes came together into a somewhat pleasing melody.

  Hank joined her on the bench and she jumped in surprise. Jerking her fingers from the keys, she started to pull the cover back in place, but his strong hand clamped around her wrist, staying the movement.

  “Don’t,” he spoke softly, releasing her.

  Mel dropped her gaze to her hands, lying limp in her lap. “I’m sorry. I should have asked before I abused your piano.”

  She sensed his gaze on her, studying her. With a gentle hand on her chin, he lifted her face. Hot tears of embarrassment stung her eyes.

  “No need to apologize. You can play it anytime you want.”

  A tear escaped down her cheek, swept away with the soft brush of his callused thumb. Desire flared to life, hot and wild, doused equally as quickly by his next words.

  “I’m confused. You told me you don’t play any instruments. Why did you lie to me?”

  Her gaze darted to the piano keys and back to his face where his green eyes questioned her. He was kidding, right? He had to be. It was the only explanation because she had only been fooling around with the keys.

  She burst out laughing. “Oh Hank! That’s good. You had me there for a minute. Thanks, I needed a good laugh.”

  He wasn’t sharing her amusement. His eyes flashed shards of glass. “There’s nothing funny about this situation,” he said, his words slicing sharp. “You’re lying, and I want to know why.”

  Her heart sank to her toes. He was serious. She rose from the bench, putting the length of it between them. Stung and confused by his accusation, sh
e matched his tone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hank. I’m not lying. I’ve never had a lesson of any kind in my whole life. I was just goofing around with the piano. Other than playing chopsticks with Daddy when I was a child, I’ve never touched a piano until today. We didn’t have one at home. I don’t know what you think you saw or heard, but you’re wrong.”

  Her whole body vibrated with anger. How dare he accuse her of lying? She had been more honest with him than with anybody she had ever known. Hank covered his face with his hands and scrubbed them up and down. The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic tick from the old mantle clock and the faint rasp of skin across Hank’s unshaven jaw. She waited for him to say something, anything to explain his absurd accusation.

  A hoarse laugh bubbled up from deep in his chest. “I’m sorry. I should have known better. You wouldn’t lie to me.” He stood to face her, his hands resting on hips cocked slightly to the side, one leg bent in a casual stance. “I heard the piano from the backyard, and in my sleep, I guess I thought it must be a ghost or something in here playing my mom’s old upright. I saw your Jeep in the driveway and knew it had to be you, so I came in. I stood in the doorway and listened to you play for quite a while. I was furious. Convinced you’d lied to me. Every minute you played, I got madder and madder.” His eyes pleaded with her in the gloaming light of the living room. “I’m sorry. I really am. You continue to surprise me, that’s all.”

  His words spun through her head like a tornado, whirling, making no sense. She forced her mouth closed. “You’re mad all right. Completely insane. What are you saying?”

  “How many times have you listened to the CD I gave you?”

  The change of subject took her by surprise. “What CD?” An image of the manila envelope containing “Melody” flashed in her mind. “You mean the other version of ‘Melody?’”