by Roz Lee
She still had the key, and he clung to the hope she would know in her heart that he’d lied about that, too. If she came to him in ten years, key in hand, he would fall on his knees and beg her to stay.
Too many lies.
He’d been a fool, and he knew it.
Boston passed in a blur of pain and routine. If his friends found his on-stage performance deficient, they said nothing. He attributed it to the deep friendship they shared, not to his performances. He knew they lacked enthusiasm, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care.
He spent his free time with his music. Most of what he’d composed was crap, just a mindless distraction and nothing more. The band and crew didn’t know it, though, and they left him alone.
The trip to Philadelphia was excruciating. Melody didn’t call. She hadn’t been at any of the Boston concerts. He didn’t know whether she’d returned to London or Willowbrook or if she had blasted off to Mars. He tortured himself, devising ways to find out what she was doing and then tossing them aside.
The clock was ticking but there was still time.
When he stepped off the bus in Philly, he had a plan. If she didn’t show in the next four days he was going after her—the tour be damned. He would quit, no matter the consequences. He had lost interest in continuing without her anyway.
Groveling and begging were no longer out of the question. He would do anything, promise anything to have Melody in his life.
The day of BlackWing’s opening in Philadelphia dawned brilliant. Hank stood at the window of his suite, absently counting the cars driving on the street below. The previous night, unable to sleep, he’d sat in front of the window and waited for dawn.
When the band left for Atlanta, he wouldn’t be with them.
He watched the sun slant between buildings and slowly bathe the skyline in gold. It was time to face reality. She wasn’t coming back. After the things he said to her in New York, he only had one choice. He had to go after her and beg.
Melody didn’t want to live the kind of life he had offered her. She wanted to hide from the world in a small town, and that’s what he was going to give her. He didn’t have to work ever again if he didn’t want to. They could live anywhere she wanted—even Ravenswood. He would miss Willowbrook, but without Melody, it wouldn’t be home anyway.
Numb. It was the only word he could find to describe the way he felt. Turning his back on the sun’s warmth, he crossed the room and fell face first onto the bed. Exhaustion eventually won out over depression, and he slept.
* * *
He surveyed the sold out crowd. Tonight he would play the last set of his career and he felt nothing. No regret. No sadness. Nothing. He dug deep to find the strength to make it through each subsequent song.
She isn’t coming.
He cursed himself at every turn for giving her such a highhanded ultimatum. His only excuse was the desperation he’d felt when she’d cornered Jonathan and he knew she would be leaving.
He would find her, make her listen.
She loves me.
That one hopeful thought became a mantra he repeated over and over to the rhythm of each song. It was the only thought he held on to as he faded out of the jam session and stepped off the riser. If he allowed any other thoughts to intrude, he wouldn’t make it through “Melody” this final time.
Rick handed him a water bottle and towel just as he did every night. With his back to the stage, he drank down the water and wiped sweat from his brow and hands. He unconsciously registered the instruments bowing out one at a time. Soon, they would be silent, and it would be his turn.
He tried to summon the energy to cross the stage and sing her song one more time. He would do it because his love for Melody came from his soul and he couldn’t deny it. He would sing of it one more time, and then he was done.
He closed his eyes and waited for the loss of his music to register. He searched his heart and found only the pain of losing Melody. It swamped all other emotions, all other feelings. He was doing the right thing—the only thing he could do.
The last guitar grew silent, and his heart skipped into a wild rhythm. He lifted his head and took a deep breath.
He handed the towel to Rick, and a cultured British voice he knew well spoke into the silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our special guest…Ms. Melody Ravenswood.”
The roar of the crowd echoed the blood rushing through his head. Hank whirled to face the stage. The grand piano sat in the darkness of center stage and striding toward it from the opposite side of the stage, bathed in a circle of white light, was Melody.
It crossed his mind he might be hallucinating. The scene was a study in black-and-white. Her slim legs were encased in black, and she wore a white shirt that could have come from his closet, only it fit her too well. Her raven black hair hung to her shoulders in soft waves. And gleaming in the spotlight against the stark white of her shirt dangled the key—the only hint of color in his surreal dream.
She took a seat at the piano with all the grace of a concert pianist. Someone shoved him from behind. “Go on. You have a song to do, buddy,” Rick said.
Melody sat carefully on the bench. Her heart threatened to leap out of her chest as the seconds ticked by in suspended time.
Come on Hank. Don’t leave me out here alone.
The audience was on their feet. She sensed movement across the stage. He approached slowly, as if he was afraid she would vanish if he moved too quickly. Her fist tightened, and the gift she had brought him dug into her palm.
She stood to face him. Her legs quaked.
He stopped close enough she could see the question in his green eyes. She held out her trembling hand. The gold skeleton key lay across her palm, the heavy gold chain spilled through her fingers. His gaze darted to her hand and back to her eyes.
“It’s the key to Ravenswood. It’s yours. I’m yours,” she corrected, “if you want me.”
“You came.”
“I came. I couldn’t stay away. I love you, Hank. I want to be your wife.” She thrust her hand a fraction closer. “It’s the key to everything I am. The key to my heart. I want you to have it.”
He closed his hand over hers and slid the key from her palm. Ducking his head, he slipped the chain over. The key fell against his sweat-soaked shirt.
She was vaguely aware of people, and cameras and lights, but all she could see was Hank. She sensed the unspoken words passing between them—as binding as any spoken vows could ever be.
She reached up and placed her palm over the key. His heart beat steady against her palm. “Sing with me?”
She took his hand and coaxed him down beside her on the piano bench. Her skin felt real against his.
Not a dream.
Nothing else existed outside the bright spot of light where he sat next to Melody. Her eyes sparked with mischief, and he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.
“Sing what?”
She smiled.
“‘Melody,’ of course. In the key of love.”
She played the intro and glanced his way. With one raised eyebrow, he questioned the arrangement. Her simple nod confirmed what he had heard. It wasn’t a mistake. She would play his original version—the one she had given him permission to record. It spoke of a boy’s love of music. It spoke of how the melody reflected his soul and inspired him. That she played it tonight—here—spoke of her acceptance of everything he was.
The gesture brought him low. He didn’t deserve her. Not after the way he had pushed her.
He adjusted the microphone. She repeated the intro, and his voice joined the notes flowing from the piano.
Needing to touch her, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer so they sat hip to hip. The physical contact grounded him in reality, and the essence of his soul gave voice to the melody.
“Sing with me,” he whispered in her ear.
On the next chorus, Melody added her voice to his. Together, she sensed, they held the
audience spellbound.
The last note faded away, and he raised his hands to cradle her face. With infinite tenderness, he brought his lips down to cover hers.
The audience, released from the spell, went wild. But Melody remained focused on Hank.
The band surrounded them, congratulating them both and reminding Hank they had one last song to do. He hoisted her up to sit on the piano, so she faced the drum kit with her back to the audience.
“Stay here where I can see you,” he ordered.
The band took the stage as though Melody sitting atop a grand piano center stage was a regular occurrence. He took his place on the drum riser, his eyes locked on hers.
“One. Two. Three. Four.” He counted out the beat, and Chad stepped to the mic.
The seductive lyrics of “One Night” filled the auditorium.
He remembered the day he played it for Melody. It was the day he knew music flowed through her veins as surely as it flowed through his. He would never forget the way her body had moved to the beat, recognized it for the erotic metaphor it was.
He never wanted a song to be over more in his life. She was here. She was his, and he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her.
He launched into the drum solo at the end of the song. Melody slid off the piano and headed toward him. He played the final note, jumped off the riser, and pulled her into his arms.
Rick led them through the backstage clutter. At the stage door, Hank shoved his sticks in Rick’s hand and yelled over the roar of the audience. “Fill in for me for the next few days?”
Rick smiled and nodded. “No problem. When are you coming back?”
“Tell the guys I’ll meet them in Atlanta.”
Epilogue
Fourteen months later.
Melody stood on the back porch, watching Hank with their daughter. He was so relaxed, she hated to disturb him. The day was mild, not a cloud marred the crystal blue Texas sky. Betty Boop lounged beside Hank’s chair, dreaming of chasing squirrels no doubt. Her paws twitched as she chased her imaginary quarry.
Hank made ridiculous noises and faces, laughing at the smiles and adoring looks he earned from Gloria. Melody wasn’t too sure how much three-month-old Gloria was actually seeing of her father’s face, but she wasn’t going to tell Hank. He was having too much fun to disappoint him with details regarding an infant’s developmental stages.
She called out to him. “You’d better bring her in. She’s going to need her nap before everyone gets here.” She didn’t need an alarm clock to tell her Gloria would be hungry soon either. Her full breasts sent the message, loud and clear.
“Coming,” he said, adjusting the baby in his arms. He’d always wanted a family of his own, but he hadn’t expected the overwhelming love he felt for his tiny daughter. He wanted to hold her every minute of the day and never tired of just looking at her. She was so perfect. Named after his mother, she would be the spitting image of Melody. He was more than okay with that. His wife was the most beautiful woman on the planet, inside and out.
He crossed the lawn, carrying his precious cargo into the kitchen where her mother leaned one hip against the counter, a glass of chocolate milk in her hand. He faced her, his stance mirroring hers.
“I think I’m going to have to get a heavier chain. She’s strong,” he said, pride lacing his voice.
Gloria’s tiny fist curled around the gold skeleton key he never removed. Her hand waved back and forth, yanking hard against the chain.
“I’ll check into it the next time I’m in town.” Melody sipped her chocolate milk. “Your dad called. Jonathan and Miriam are here. They’re coming out for dinner. Stacy called. She, Stephen, and the kids will be here this evening. Chad and his gang are coming in tonight, too. Everyone else will arrive tomorrow.”
“It’s going to be a full house. Are you sure you want to have them all here?”
“I can’t wait. This house was meant to be full of people.”
“We could find somewhere else to put them all up. They don’t have to stay here,” he offered.
“Yes, they do. With the kids doing some of the backup vocals on the new CD, having everyone in the same place will be easier on all of us.
BlackWing’s new project was an album of children’s songs. The idea had been born when Melody suggested Jonathan, with his British accent, record “Melody” as the a cappella lullaby it originally was. From there came the idea to do an entire album of original children’s songs, using their own children for the backup vocals. Soon everyone in the band admitted to having silly songs they’d created for their own kids. From there, the idea took on a life of its own. Melody, with Jonathan’s help, had unearthed a few of the songs her father had written and sang for her at Ravenswood. He had committed them to paper, after all.
He was excited that the project would involve their families, and children everywhere would enjoy the songs. All the proceeds from the sale of the CD would go to the Hamilton Earl Ravenswood Foundation, which had given out its first musical scholarships a few weeks earlier to five deserving students. The new CD would allow the foundation to grow and double the number of recipients next year.
“If they get to be too much, just say so. I’ll kick them to the curb,” Hank said.
Melody finished her milk and set the glass in the sink. She held out her hands. “Hand her over. It’s feeding time.”
Hank passed Gloria to Melody’s outstretched arms and followed mother and daughter out of the kitchen. He paused in the nursery doorway. “Can I watch?”
Melody settled into the rocking chair and unbuttoned her blouse. “You can watch.” She freed her breast and guided Gloria to the distended nipple. “Just don’t get any ideas. We have company coming, remember?”
Hank lounged against the doorjamb, his fingers jammed in his pockets and his legs crossed at the ankle. “Too late,” He glanced down at the evidence of his desire. “I get ideas every time I see you like this. It’s the only time I’m jealous of Gloria.”
Melody blushed and turned her attention to their daughter. God, they were beautiful together. Perfect. He had everything he wanted in life in this one room.
Melody placed the baby in the cradle and crossed the room to Hank. She tugged one of his hands from his pocket and laced her fingers with his. He smiled and followed her into their bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him.
About the Author
Dolores has been married to the same wonderful guy for thirty-three years. They have two lovely daughters and a black lab. She makes her home in the wilds of New Jersey (yes, there are wilds in NJ). A Texan with familial roots that go all the way back to the Republic of Texas, Dolores says you can take the girl out of Texas, but...well, you know the rest.
She's been a stay-at-home mom for most of her married life - a job she says is under-rated on the difficulty scale. Now that her girls are grown, she's still available to them anytime, day or night, but she fills her days with writing romance novels and reading.
Dolores is a best-selling, multi-published author of erotic romance under the pseudonym, Roz Lee.