Melodis Tune

by Melodi's Tune (NCP) (lit)

  "It does feel like a part of me." Her hands caressed the keys as she repeated the first measure.

  "Stop." He grabbed her hands. A discordant crash echoed from the instrument.

  "Hands off, buster." Melodi glared. She focused on his face, mere inches from hers. She saw what Judy meant by good looking. This guy had the cleft chin and sculpted features of a movie star, music star, she amended.

  In the dim light of last evening she'd seen enough to convince her that he was who he claimed to be. From this perspective she could appreciate that he'd matured nicely.

  His eyes flared with the fire of a thousand sapphires. In their depths, Melodi caught a glimpse of fleeting pain.

  Darien held her wrist. She looked down at it pointedly. That's when she noticed he was shaking. And sweating. She pulled from his grasp. His pallor became marked, then he collapsed.

  "Darien?"

  He slid down her shoulder, unconscious and limp.

  "Hey, what's wrong?" She put an arm around him to prevent him from falling, then lowered him to the floor. She shook from the effort.

  She found a pillow for his head and a couple more to elevate his feet. This wasn't a normal faint. Heat pulsed from him. The fever unnerved her.

  Though strong from summers of archeological digs, Melodi wasn't strong enough to chance lifting him to the sofa. He'd be comfortable enough on the carpeted floor for now. A quilted throw served to cover him.

  Judy had asked that Melodi keep Darien's presence a secret. Judy didn't know how sick her brother was. Melodi recalled the elderly doctor Judy had introduced her to. Doc Reynolds would know what to do.

  Sparing one more glance at Darien, now shivering under the light cover, Melodi raced for the telephone.

  Chapter Two

  Darien opened his eyes and closed them again. Fog, gray and cold, surrounded him. The cold went to the bone. Someone played a flute nearby -- his song. No, not his.

  Damn. How had it become so well known when he'd just composed it? Melodi played it as if she'd always known it. So much for originality.

  Shivering, he struggled to sit. He opened his eyes again. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was staring into Melodi's warm, brown eyes. Eyes that held deep intelligence and concern.

  The fog surrounding him lightened. He realized that he sat on the shore of the lake. Steam rose from the surface of the water. His nostrils quivered at the scent of wood smoke. Faint sounds of laughter reached him.

  The music stopped.

  "Hey," he shouted. "Is someone there?"

  The fog rolled toward him again.

  Tired, so tired. And alone.

  He lay down.

  * * * *

  Voices seeped into his brain. Something flat and little softer than the rocky lakeshore supported him. He opened his eyes and focused on the two faces that studied him. He recognized Doc Reynolds. She must have called him. Darien struggled to full consciousness, determined to head off a public relations disaster before it could start.

  "He's coming around," Doc Reynolds said in his gruff, no-nonsense voice. "You scared this lady half to death, young man." He addressed Darien as he put away his stethoscope and blood pressure cuff.

  "How do you feel?" Sick people made Melodi uncomfortable. More than anything, she wanted to call Judy to come take care of her brother.

  Darien glared at her, but spoke to the doctor. "I'm fine, don't know why you're here, though."

  "You fainted on me." Melodi glared back. "Judy said you needed privacy. Doc Reynolds is the only person in town I've met." She paused. "Maybe you should be in a hospital." She could hope, couldn't she?

  "I've done the hospital bit," Darien said. "Nothing's wrong that a few weeks of peace and quiet won't cure."

  "Right. I'll bet malaria cases don't shake as much as you did," Melodi shot back.

  "Children, children," Doc Reynolds interrupted. "Darien, if you think you can make it to your room, bed is the best place for you. You'll have to tell me what this is all about."

  "I don't need to be in bed," Darien said, though Melodi noticed his white-knuckled grip on the piano bench as he pulled himself up.

  "Then I'll have to insist on an ambulance and a series of tests," Doc replied, his mantle of authority almost visible.

  Darien stood -- barely. Melodi moved closer to support him when he swayed, but backed off at the black look he turned on her. He was cornered and he knew it. He wouldn't attack Doc Reynolds so Melodi decided she'd retreat before he targeted her.

  "I'll make coffee, Doc, while you get him settled."

  "Fine, fine. Come along, young man. I'm retired. It's not good for my heart to have to run around making house calls at my age."

  Darien ignored Melodi as he followed Doc out of the room.

  Doc joined Melodi in the kitchen some time later.

  "Do you think he'd like something to eat, or would he throw it in my face?" Melodi asked.

  "The boy's been through a bad time," Doc murmured as he accepted a steaming mug. "Just doesn't know how to slow down."

  "Meaning what? I'm sorry to put you in this position, Doc, but I don't think his family realizes how sick he is. Won't you tell me? He is sick, isn't he, or is it something else?"

  Doc shook his head. "Darien confided in me, Missy. I may be retired but I still take the doctor-patient privilege seriously." He sipped the coffee. "I can tell you that he's on the mend. He fainted because he pushed himself too hard yesterday. I gave him orders to stay in bed the rest of today. That doesn’t mean you need to play nurse."

  Warmth crept up Melodi's cheeks as images formed of her giving that handsome, hard-bodied man a sponge bath.

  Doc waggled his eyebrows at her. "Why don't you take him some coffee and muffins. He's probably hungry by now. Then you go on home and put him out of your mind."

  "Just like that? Shouldn't I call his sister or someone?"

  "No. I'll look in on him sometime tomorrow. Now, off with you. I'll let myself out. Great muffins."

  Melodi struggled with her conscience as she made up a tray. It was all fine and dandy for Doc Reynolds to send her away after a simple act of kindness. But what if Darien suffered a relapse? How would she explain that to Judy? How would she live with herself?"

  In her vivid imagination Melodi pictured walking into the house and finding Darien's cold, lifeless body sprawled across the floor. His hands frozen in the act of reaching for the phone.

  Not on her shift. Whether he liked it or not, she would stay the night. Darien would have all day to get used to the idea while Melodi used the time to work on her notes and come up with an argument should he insist she leave. Or she could just threaten to pick up the phone.

  So much for the day's work. She sighed and cast one more look at the brilliant day before trudging up the stairs.

  Darien had bit into his third muffin by the time Melodi worked up the gumption to tell him.

  "I'm staying the night." She didn't meet his eyes.

  "Like hell you are. If I need a nurse, I'll hire one."

  "You're too stubborn to admit you might need one." She laughed at the way his lower lip stuck out. A pout, sexy even on a sick person.

  After years of dealing with a recalcitrant brother and less than enthusiastic students, she knew how to handle this man. Or as least she thought she did.

  "I don't know how you can protest when you're confined to bed rest until tomorrow."

  He glared at her.

  She played her trump card. "If you refuse, I'll call not only Judy but every newspaper and television station I can reach."

  She allowed a small smile of triumph and was almost to the door before he had her.

  "Oh," she gasped.

  This was not the hold of a sick, weak man. Both his hands clutched her shoulders. He forced her to turn and face him. Waves of heat pulsed from him. His eyes shone with fever and emotion. His lips curled. She could tell what he thought of her idea before he spoke.

  "I've met pushy women before. Usu
ally they push their way into my dressing room with an offer of companionship for the night. I suppose that's what you've got in mind."

  She saw red. "Get your hands off me, you egotistical brute. And get back into bed before I call Doc Reynolds. For what it's worth, I'll be sleeping two doors down. Keep your low-life notions to yourself. I'm doing this for my peace of mind, got it? If you want seclusion, then you'd better get used to me being neighborly."

  She glanced at his hands digging into her shoulders. "Neighborly does not extend to midnight alcohol rubs, helping you change your jammies, or sponging off your fever-racked body. After Doc Reynolds gives you a clean bill of health tomorrow, you're on your own."

  Melodi shrugged his hands away and marched out of the room. As she ran out of the house, she noted the vigor with which Darien slammed his bedroom door. Her legs were shaking by the time she reached the boulder-strewn shore of the lake. Her knees quivered in time to the quickened beat of her heart.

  No man had ever made her so angry before. Nor had one set such a wealth of desire, yearning, and warmth surging through her. When he'd touched her, she'd had to fight every instinct to fold him in her arms and comfort him. Instead, what had she done? Yelled like a fishwife.

  Distance, she needed distance and something to get her mind off that vulnerable yet irritating man.

  The lake called to her. It sparkled in the bright light. The gentle, cool breeze stirred the water to the brilliance of a many-faceted jewel. She had a key to the boathouse and permission to use any of the canoes and boats that were stored there. On the other side of the lake was an archeological site under the supervision of her mentor from graduate school. A short ride across the water, followed by a scholarly discussion of the importance of early fish weir design on early Archaic Indians in the region would take her mind off Darien Stewart.

  She groaned. She knew she needn't, but responsibility lay on her anyway. After another wistful look, Melodi turned her back on the beckoning water. She stole into the big house and took note of food supplies. It looked like Darien had bought some basics before arriving, but a trip into town for more groceries would get her out of the house, away from him. She'd shop for both of them.

  He wouldn't like it, but as long as he was disturbing her peace he'd just have to live with it.

  * * * *

  Now that she knew that Darien was somebody, Melodi saw his face everywhere. It stared out at her from a poster in the window of the variety store, beckoned from a magazine rack at the entrance to the grocery store, and the last straw, glared under headlines of the tabloids at the checkout counter.

  She managed a tight-lipped smile at the clerk who frowned as Melodi threw her purchases onto the moving belt.

  The headline, "Country Music Phenom Cancels Concert," screamed at her. At first she fought the impulse, then gave in. She grabbed the offending paper as well as two others that had Darien's name plastered across the front.

  Might as well find out something about him, she rationalized as she paid the bill. Not that tabloids broadcast truth. Their business was to grab a reader's attention with any tidbit, no matter how absurd. Melodi hoped to get a flavor for this "Country Music Phenom" who had fainted on her shoulder.

  At the variety store Melody picked up some toiletries for herself and, with another mental shrug, added a CD of Darien's newest album to her purchases. Her taste in music ran from classical to New Age these days. Country music was an alien sound. She wondered how Darien's gruff voice translated when accompanied by the twang of a steel guitar.

  With years of higher education under her belt, Melodi could scan a page and glean both subtle facts and glaring inconsistencies with ease. This ability stood her in good stead. She parked her car in the sun-dappled light of the town common and opened the first magazine.

  The publication for fans burst with pictures of Darien accompanied by assorted females of various ages. They all shared a bosomy, bimbo-esque quality. The magazine described Darien as a "heart throb," a singer whose voice and gyrations on the stage stirred crowds into frenzies. On the flip side, he was described as a private man who kept his personal life to himself.

  The next magazine repeated a lot of information. This one mentioned that Darien had cancelled his live concerts with no explanation. His agent wasn't returning calls. Angry promoters and ticket holders had no one on whom to vent their frustrations.

  Melodi tossed aside the third magazine without reading it. Judging from the cover picture and headline, it contained more of the same. She turned to sorting fact from fiction in what she had read.

  Judy had been right about one thing. The term "handsome" was an understatement when applied to Darien Stewart. The blue eyes that stared at her from the cover of the paper in her lap promised her anything she wanted. The naughtier the better. Melodi knew that every woman who saw this picture got the same message. She had an advantage over those women. He was here with her.

  Not that it mattered.

  It would be best if he just got better so she could concentrate on her work.

  She turned the ignition key to the accessories mark and popped Darien's CD into the player. Electronic energy filled the confines of her car as waves of honky-tonk piano dueled with guitar in the rousing first track. By the time the song ended, Melodi's feet were tapping and her fingers drummed the time on the steering wheel.

  The second song, with only a piano accompaniment, touched her. Darien imbued the simple love story with such a depth of longing that unbidden tears welled up behind her eyelids.

  Next, his voice reached her as the counter-point in a melodic duet with a female vocalist. She tingled with the emotion they fed into the words and music.

  And on it went. Each track, whether raucous or touching, showcased a unique facet of Darien Stewart's amazing talent.

  By the time the last strains of the last song faded away Melodi was ready to tear back to the house and demand to know why he was hiding out. After that she might start buying country music.

  Doc Reynolds words rang in her ears. "He's had a tough time of it," he'd said. What could "it" be? She wouldn't find the answer in fan-zines and gossip pages. Melodi set her mind to solving the mystery of Darien's presence in Newport, Maine.

  The public library was a short distance away. What it lacked in space, it made up for in electronic databases. It was a starting place.

  * * * *

  "Look, Dr. Carpenter, I want another opinion. Your diagnosis is unacceptable." Darien heard a sigh on the other end of the telephone line.

  "I understand your misgivings and uncertainty, Mr. Stewart. This is a life changing disease for a man in your position. In fact I had not one but two specialists examine the results of the tests. They concurred with my findings."

  "There must be some treatment." Darien's fingers tightened on the telephone handset. "You must have treated patients with this virus before."

  "Yes. Though it is rare, I have seen it several times. But, those people didn't rely on their voices for their livelihood. Their needs were simpler, to be able to communicate. That was do-able. What you want is beyond our understanding of the disease and how it affects your vocal chords. We do know that the damage is lessened if you ease up on speaking. Talking yourself hoarse can only make the end result worse."

  Darien hated the soothing, professionalism he heard in Dr. Carpenter's voice. In his mind's eye he saw the doctor sitting behind his very expensive desk in the middle of his very elegant suite of offices. The walls covered with diplomas; the view of Central Park; the furniture symbolizing prestige and success.

  Darien had sat in one of those overstuffed chairs during the first of many hours of examinations. The results had sent him into a panic.

  Without telling his agent or public relations firm his intentions, he'd cleared his calendar for the next six weeks while Dr. Carpenter checked him into a hospital. It had been a short stay. His unique honor was an infection by one of the rarest viruses known to harm the human vocal cords.

&nb
sp; Before it ran its course it would cause fever, hallucinations, and muscle aches. The final outcome -- permanent hoarseness.

  It wasn't deadly unless you lived by your voice. Damn.

  Darien caught himself. This self-pity solved nothing. He sat up straighter and thanked Dr. Carpenter for his time. The doctor's final words gave him food for thought.

  "In a way you are very lucky, Mr. Stewart. You've had fame. Though your singing career has been cut short you've made a mark on the world. Not many people can say that, even after long years of giving to a profession. You have a chance to go in a different direction. Think of it. There's more to life than a song. Find out what else you are good at and focus on the positive."

  "Thank you, Dr. Pollyanna," Darien muttered after saying goodbye. But Dr. Carpenter's words, for all their psycho-babble glibness, followed the same path Darien's thoughts had been taking since he woke up that morning. In defiance of Doc Reynolds orders, he sat on a chair in the living room.

  He contemplated the silent piano. It mocked him with his failure that morning to compose even a simple tune. The tune that Melodi had played without even looking at the keys.

  Now what? He could either lay in bed and stew about it, or attack the piano again and find another song. His own song. The idea of creating music for others to sing went against the grain.

  The thought of not making music at all, that was unbearable.

  Besides, hadn't he considered the idea of composing anyway? His hectic schedule had precluded any serious work. Now he had the time. All the time of a back country Maine winter, all the time in the world. Something inside Darien relaxed. Something akin to acceptance began to move through him.

  "I'd better call Jimmy before I change my mind." He dialed his agent's phone number. "Hey, Jimmy, how're you doing?"

  "Darien? Darien, where the hell are you? Do you have any idea what your disappearing act is doing to me? Tell me right now where you are and I'll come get you. You're all right, aren't' you?"

  Darien held the earpiece away from his head. Jimmy always had a big voice; in his excitement it boomed across the miles.