SING ME HOME (Love Finds A Home - Book One)

by Jerri Corgiat

  Mari’s arms tightened. “I remember he called you Calamity Lil.”

  Lil’s laugh caught in her throat. “You remember that coverlet for our bed?”

  “The one made from Grandma O’Malley’s rosebud sheets?”

  “Yes. He said it wasn’t like me, to make a bed of roses when I was always on the lookout for thorns.” Under that coverlet, she’d curl into his body. His arm would draw her close until his breath teased her ear, and she’d let his warmth wash away her anxieties. “That last day—”

  “Lil, you don’t have to—”

  “I need to,” Lil said, realizing she did. She’d stored it up for too long. “I told him the car wasn’t safe, not until the brakes were fixed. But he… He just picked me up and swung me around and told me not to worry.” She’d pushed at the dark shock of hair that tumbled across his forehead and had let him silence her with a kiss. “Every day I’ve asked myself what if I’d insisted?” But she hadn’t. She’d rarely insisted on anything.

  “It wasn’t your fault.” Mari was vehement.

  “I know that, but it took a long time to feel it.” For weeks after the funeral, she’d barricaded herself in the their little house. She’d wrapped herself in his letterman sweater and curled on the sofa they’d bought at the Tidwells’ garage sale. It seemed so strange that his things had survived him.

  Mari moved restlessly. “Why didn’t you tell us you felt guilty? Maybe I—or Mom, or one of us—could have helped you work through it.”

  “I—It’s hard to explain. It’s like I wanted to examine every memory.” From sharing a sandbox to sharing a home. “I needed quiet. It’s like I couldn’t remember without quiet.”

  “And we put a stop to that, didn’t we?” Mari said dryly. “Nothing gets in the way of the O’Malley clan—especially Mom—when we put our minds to it.”

  Lil smiled. Her family was not known for restraint; Interference Forever should be their motto. She’d managed to hold them at bay for some weeks, preferring Seamus’s quiet support and the help he gave her only when she asked him. But eventually, they’d stormed her citadel. She had to get up. She had to go out. They had it all figured out. She’d work for her brother Henry. She’d return to teaching piano.

  “That’s all right. It was time to move on.” Even though she hadn’t wanted to. And even though she’d only moved a few paces. Her gaze wandered around Merry-Go-Read. Time to move on again. Sighing, she drew back and studied Mari’s tear-stained face. “Okay, I’ll go. If Patsy Lee can do it, so can I.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, Jon sat elbows-to-knees on the leather sofa in the cabana looking out through the wall of windows. With the drapes flung wide, a torrent of sunshine flooded the room. In a corner near the windows, Zeke noodled on a set of electronic keyboards, completely absorbed. Zeke was working on a bridge for China Blue Eyes. They’d hammered out the melody yesterday.

  Jon twisted to look over his shoulder. Behind him, curled onto a padded settee nestled next to the staircase, Melanie showed equal concentration, her eyes fixed on a book. He sighed. Melanie had rarely moved from that bench in the past four days. At least she now managed more than two-word sentences, and sometimes he even got the sense she’d like to confide in him, although nobody could call her a chatterbox.

  He took a sip of his coffee, and the brew dropped into a sour stomach. Until he’d arrived at the Royal Sun, he’d rarely seen ten in the morning. After just a few days of early risings, the novelty had worn thin. As far as he was concerned, mornings were for sleeping, and breakfast was a noon gig.

  At the mind-numbing hour of six, whoops and thumps had jarred him awake—again. Groaning, he’d staggered out to the landing. Through bleary eyes, he’d watched Michael karate-kick his way down the stairs, on each step booting a pajama-clad leg into the air, then landing hard on his heel with a yell that’d turn Jackie Chan green. Seeing Jon, he’d grinned hugely. “Sorry, Charlie.”

  Full of murmured excuses, Tina-the-Nanny had scurried past Jon and pulled a bellowing Michael off to the kitchen. He’d fumbled his way back to bed, but had abandoned sleep when the yowls from the kitchen told him Tina-the-Nanny hadn’t defeated Michael-the-Ninja.

  He dropped the cup on the coffee table, its surface marred with the rings of the five that had gone before it.

  Michael had ricocheted around the cabana like a pinball until Tina had blessedly taken him off to the pool. He hoped Michael didn’t drown her. He loved that kid but using handful to describe him was the understatement of the year.

  He ignored his stomach’s grinching, once more focusing his attention on the scored papers littering the table. China Blue Eyes. Such a surprise. I looked up and you were by my…side? Gag. What else rhymed with eyes that hadn’t been overused and overdone? Wise… Lies…

  Agonize…

  Leaning back, he choked back a yawn and once more stared out the windows. They opened onto a shady deck offering views from the wooded hilltop to the lake shimmering beyond. A cherry-and-yellow striped parasail soared by, tugged by a speedboat slicing the surface below. The sky was a beckoning blue.

  Most of his people, from crew to musicians, were catching needed rest and a cocktail by the private pool that lay a short trek down the hill. Some had opted to play golf while others had rented water sports equipment.

  The lodging, the food, the drink, the amenities would all fall on his tab, but he didn’t mind. Everyone needed the break before they launched back into rehearsals for the Missouri State Fair. They worked hard. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be part of the Van Castle conglomerate.

  Peter Price had checked in this morning, wren-brown hair parted and slicked-back along a razor-sharp line, his usual suit replaced with an Izod shirt and sharply-creased dockers. Peter was a Hah-vahd graduate and the most uptight twenty-five-year-old Jon had ever met. But a helluva manager.

  Jon had an agent in Nashville, producers there and on both coasts, a road manager, a stage manager and a staff that ranged from his fan club coordinator to a stable he employed in his own music publishing company. Peter Price ran the show with Jon’s secretary, Lydia—under Jon’s strict direction. Mismanagement had screwed too many musicians and he’d be damned if that would happen to him.

  His ubiquitous cell phone clipped to his belt, Peter had waved away an offer of coffee, stood in the doorway and assured Jon the overseas fall concert series continued to gel, reported the CD they’d recorded in May needed overdubbing but the label told him it would be ready for Jon’s approval in August and, oh, the studio’s graphic artist had just sent samples of the cover art, so could Jon take a look?

  All information Jon already knew, but Peter wasn’t happy unless he’d triple-checked every detail. After Jon chose the artwork and Peter realized there was no further business in the offing, he’d looked so hang dog that Jon had suggested he check into renting a few houseboats for the next day. Pale eyes brightening at the prospect of haggling over fees, Peter had scurried away on his mission after reminding him People magazine would be there at eleven tomorrow for a photo shoot of him and the kids.

  People magazine… Guilt pricked him. He hadn’t planned to use the kids to polish his image, but Peter’d yapped on and on about the great publicity, and Jon had surrendered to shut him up. Now, if only he could gag Peter on the subject of marriage.

  His business manager was certain a wedding with one of those ambitious, model-perfect dates would cement his popularity. He’d joked with Zeke about it. Privately, though, Jon didn’t think giving the kids a new mom was a bad idea, although the who was a definite question mark.

  Good thing he’d convinced himself that after she’d gotten some rest, Dodo would once more return. Some men weren’t meant to be married.

  He yawned again, reached for a fistful of candy, then changed his mind and shoved the bowl out of reach. Sidney would yammer if he had to let out those sequined tights that passed for pants before the next concert. As it was, he got a daily lecture to lose the
pounds he’d put on since he’d given up his smokes. Good God, he’d only gone up one size; it wasn’t like his butt had spread like butter on a griddle.

  “I think the harmony needs a minor key.” Zeke spoke up, frowning at the keyboard. “It’d add more pathos. Driving guitar, then bleed into… I dunno. Fiddles?” Zeke flipped some switches and strings whined. He stroked his beard. “What do you think, my man?”

  Jon rubbed his eyes and wished for eight hours of dead-to-the-world. He tossed his scribbling aside and stood. “I can’t think any longer. And if I can’t come up with anything better than this, we won’t need to worry at all. Let’s shelve it. I’m ready to catch a few z’s by the pool.”

  He rounded the couch to Melanie, hesitated when she didn’t seem to notice him, then finally reached out to stroke her hair. It slid like silk through his fingers. “Whaddaya say, Mel? The pool sound cool?”

  He’d treaded softly with the kids. Michael had warmed after a few rides on his shoulders, but Mel was something else. Without looking up, she mumbled something.

  “What’re you reading today, baby?” He knelt beside her. Tipping up the thick tome, he frowned. “One of my Tom Clancy books? I don’t think those are PG-rated.”

  “I already finished the books you bought for me.” Her voice was higher than usual.

  His frown deepened, not at her resistence, but at her reaction. She’d hunched her shoulders defensively, but at the same time, the look she cast him was reluctantly determined. “Every one of them?”

  “I still have the Laura Ingalls books to read, but, you see, I want to read them in order and I don’t have the first one.” To his surprise, fear darkened her eyes, but she resolutely continued. “Reading the others first might spoil it, so I—”

  At that moment, Michael ran in, Tina behind him and scrambling to keep up. Wet from the pool, Michael slid across the tile and almost took a header into an end table.

  “Watch it, Michael!” Still puzzling over Melanie’s reaction, his voice was sharper than he’d intended.

  Michael’s round eyes filled with tears.

  Immediately contrite, Jon rose. “Hey, bud, I’m—”

  Before he could get the apology out, a small hand grabbed his arm with surprising strength. “Leave him alone!” Mel’s voice was fierce.

  Zeke’s eyebrows went up.

  Confused, Jon looked back at her. “I just want to apologize, Mel.”

  Her face went red. “Oh.” She released her grip.

  She sat there unmoving while Jon wiped Michael’s eyes, then handed him off to Tina. Tina led Michael to the kitchen. When he returned to the settee, Mel wouldn’t look at him.

  “I wouldn’t hurt him, you know that, don’t you?” he asked.

  “I guess so,” she mumbled.

  Jon was at a loss over what to say next. He fingered the edge of the Tom Clancy book. “If you don’t want to read those other books now, we can get you something else.”

  Some of the tension left her body. “It’s not that I don’t like what you bought. I know you spent a lot and I’m not trying to be an in-grade—”

  “You mean, ingrate?”

  Melanie’s chin sunk into her chest. “Sometimes… Sometimes Mommy says that when I ask for something new.”

  Jon’s gaze fell on her thin pink T-shirt with its frayed hem. From what he’d seen, Mel had very little that was new. He frowned. He’d tell Tina to take her shopping.

  Mel reacted to the frown and her words rushed out. “But I’m not an in-ingrate. It’s just that the books go in order. Not that I don’t like them or anything”

  “Hush, baby.” He brushed her bangs back. “Are you scared I’m mad?”

  She studied him and her eyes grew less wary. “I guess not.” Then she added, “But you don’t have to buy me anything else. I know there’s not always the money to get everything I want. I understand, I really do, even though Mommy says I’m selfish.”

  His hand paused. “And what else does your mom say?”

  “That-that I’m stupid.” She hesitated before continuing. “I get bad grades and then she has to go talk to the teacher.”

  Zeke was now openly watching them.

  “You get bad grades?” Jon’s confusion increased. He’d tried his best to wipe his memory clean of the last years of his marriage, but he knew during her first few years in school, Mel had surpassed her classmates and the school had placed her in—what were they called?—enhanced classes? Honor classes? Shame struck him; he hadn’t asked to see even one of her report cards in the last two years.

  “Not all the time.” She turned earnest eyes on him. “I’m really good at spelling and math and reading. But sometimes I need supplies for projects and sometimes we can’t afford it and it’s embarrassing to ask the teacher to get them for me, and… well, sometimes I don’t turn them in. Please don’t be mad at me.”

  He’d thought the changes he saw in his kids were part of a normal adjustment. After all, they hardly knew him. But he’d fooled himself. Memories of his own old man nudged him, and the hair rose on the nape of his neck.

  “Melanie, is your mom, uh, mean to you?”

  “Sometimes. She yells a lot.” Her voice was so small he strained to hear. “But mostly she’s not there, she has lots of dates and stuff. But I don’t mind being alone. I’m a big girl. I can take care of Michael.”

  Jon’s jaw clenched. Mel was ten. Too young to be left alone with her brother on that isolated patch in the Ozark hills. “But where’s Gramma when your Mom’s not home?”

  Her gaze flew up, then back at her lap. “Don’t be mad at Gramma. She’s usually there, but sometimes she says ‘everything is just too much.’” Melanie had a talent for mimicry, and she’d nailed Dodo’s tired voice. “Then she walks up the road to the neighbor’s and asks him to drive her into church. Sometimes she goes to Bingo Nights.”

  “Tell me more about life at Gramma’s.”

  The encouragement was like unleashing a flood. Her recitation made gooseflesh bump on his arms and turned his thoughts black. From what Melanie said, Belinda usually stopped short of physical abuse—mostly because Dodo was there or the kids were adept at hiding from her. But at any petty infraction—spilled milk, for God’s sake?—it seemed his ex-wife doled out punishments that ranged from withholding dinner to taking away their nightlights, and scaring them with tales of monsters. According to Mel, Belinda was out all hours, Dodo went to bed early, and the kids were largely left with the TV for company—when Belinda hadn’t taken away those privileges, too. When Dodo wasn’t around, they didn’t escape the occasional vicious backhand. One had apparently sent Michael crashing into a wall. His mind fogged with rage. He glanced at Zeke’s grim face.

  “One time…” Mel stopped.

  Jon’s teeth had locked so tight he could hardly speak. He took a calming breath. “One time what, baby?”

  “One night when Gramma went to Bingo, Mommy locked us outside.”

  Zeke muffled a curse, and Jon shot him a look, afraid he’d spook Mel even more.

  She looked up at him, her dark bangs tangling in wet lashes. “I’m not a baby. I know there aren’t monsters, not real ones, but Michael doesn’t.” She hesitated. “There aren’t monsters, are there, Daddy? I didn’t see any, but maybe that’s because Gramma came home and we weren’t out there all night. It was cold, though.”

  Bright red anger blurred his vision. He pulled Mel close and she started to cry in earnest, her body curled against him. “No, there aren’t monsters, but…” Sweet Jesus, he didn’t know how to deal with this. “Some people can act like monsters, even mommies and daddies.”

  Like it had happened yesterday, he felt the crack of a belt across his back. His mother clung to his old man’s arm, mewing, until he cuffed her across the mouth and she slammed to the floor. Only five years old, he’d had no power against his old man’s towering rages.

  This was surreal. It couldn’t be happening, not to his kids. He clasped Mel tighter. “Sometimes, people
get mad and do things they know are wrong. But, baby, I won’t let you be scared again. Ever.”

  To hell with his agreement, to hell with joint custody, to flaming hell with Belinda! He might have driven the sweetness right out of her, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t, take responsibility for this. She could beat on him all she wanted and he’d take it, but he’d be damned if he’d stand around drowning in self-recrimination while she dished it out to his kids. And damn Dodo! Why hadn’t she told him? His tumbling thoughts stopped short. Because either she didn’t know or Belinda had threatened her. Or, more likely, she thought he’d chalk it all up to the whining of an old lady, throw more money at them and let things take care of themselves. It wasn’t Dodo’s fault. She’d done the best she could, and she had called him this last time. And, by God, it would be the last time.

  He didn’t care what it took, how many lawyers, how much dough, how much time—there was no way in this bloody lifetime his ex-wife would ever get her hands on the kids again. He’d call his attorneys, Judge Dougherty and whoever the hell else could help him—and screw the tabloids.

  No. His thoughts grew coldly clear. Not screw them, use them. He’d show Belinda, he’d take a page from her book and fight dirty this time. He’d drag her through the muck, just like she had him, until she was bankrupted by legal fees, her character shredded, her life destroyed…

  Mel made a little mew of protest. “Daddy…”

  He relaxed his grip. “Sorry, baby.”

  She shifted, then burrowed back against him, sighing as he stroked her hair. His dark thoughts skittered back under their rocks. He couldn’t shove all the blame on Belinda. It wasn’t her fault he’d ignored her when they were married and it wasn’t her fault he’d ignored the kids since they’d split. Destroying her wouldn’t serve any purpose. The fallout would only hurt the kids… and the band. There had to be a better way.