Heartsong

by Melinda Cross

  The afternoons were spent in the studio with Elias, working, always working, playing first drafts of his music, then the revisions, over and over again while he ran his hands through his hair, scowling, forever unsatisfied. It was obvious he was caught in a circle of frustrated creativity, and had yet to find the way out. He stomped and paced and swore and broke pencils and tore papers, and yesterday he had even pounded his fist against the wall; but, to be fair, he had never taken his frustration out on her. Their conversations were limited strictly to the music, but whenever he addressed her he was careful to keep his tone pleasant, his temper in check.

  It seemed like a million years since they had shared that first handshake and promised friendship, and in retrospect such a relationship seemed ludicrous. For all the hours they spent in each other's company, they never spoke of anything but music, and that remained the only connection between them. And now, even that was fading with the inexplicable damming of his creative flow. Lately Madeline had been troubled with the thought that perhaps her playing was to blame and soon he would have to replace her. The weaning process might have already begun.

  For the past three days and nights Elias had remained holed up in the studio, refusing to come up to the house even for meals, avoiding her company as much as possible. She was living twenty-four hours a day within calling distance of another human being, and yet she had never felt more alone.

  Becky still came daily to clean and prepare meals and, although her presence alleviated the silence of the house, Madeline was never comfortable with her. As if her striking looks and relationship with Elias hadn't been intimidating enough, lately Madeline sensed an undercurrent of hostility that hadn't been there before. Perhaps Elias had confided that his new pianist was stifling him somehow, and Becky's protective instincts were rising to the fore.

  As if the thought had produced her, Madeline heard the sound of Becky's car pulling into the drive, then the front door opening and closing as she entered.

  The corners of her mouth turned down involuntarily from just knowing she was in the house, and then she felt guilty for feeling such a thing. It wasn't Becky's fault that she'd been born beautiful; that Elias felt for her things he could never feel for her things he could never feel for Madeline. Madeline sighed, thinking of the covered lunch trays Becky carried out to the studio each day while she ate alone in the house. Becky rarely came back before a full hour had passed, and it didn't take a great mind to imagine how the two of them spent that time.

  By the time Madeline got downstairs, Becky was on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor, her dark hair pulled back under a blue bandanna, her face flushed and shiny with a sheen of perspiration. She wore the usual cut-off jeans that Madeline had begun to think of as her work uniform, today with a snug, sleeveless T-shirt that might once have been red, but had long since faded to a murky rose colour. As ever, she looked absolutely stunning. She sat back on her heels when Madeline came in and wiped her forearm across her brow.

  'Coffee's ready,' she said. 'I see you're planning another morning in the garden.'

  Madeline fingered the pony-tail on top of her head nervously as she glanced down at her own worn jeans and baggy plaid shirt. 'There's a lot to do out there.'

  Becky tipped her head, remembering. 'Elias's mother used to love that garden, just like you.' She hesitated, smiling a little. 'She's probably looking down at the old place now, grinning from ear to ear because someone's finally taking care of her roses.'

  It was the first piece of personal information Madeline had learned about the woman who had made this house a home with her love, and she chewed on her lower lip, wondering how far she dared take it. 'Did you know her very well?'

  Becky shook her head. 'Not as well as I would have liked. I only moved to Brighton Square a year before she died.'

  'But you liked her.'

  'I loved her,' Becky corrected her. 'She was an incredible woman.'

  'I thought she was,' Madeline mused, thinking of all the times she'd felt that woman's loving presence in this house, in the garden. 'That's why I've never understood why Elias hates this house.'

  Becky's eyes fixed on hers with a sudden intensity that was alarming. 'You don't know a thing about Elias, do you?'

  It sounded almost like an accusation, and Madeline shook her head, feeling suddenly guilty for her ignorance.

  'Well,' Becky said a little sharply, 'it's really up to him to tell you anything he wants you to know; not me.' She hesitated, then clicked her tongue a little, as if she regretted being so curt. 'I didn't mean to snap at you. Lord knows, you probably get more than enough of that working with Eli.'

  Madeline looked down and mumbled. 'He doesn't do that so much any more. At least he tries not to. We reached an agreement.'

  'So I heard,' she said flatly, looking down at the bucket of soapy water and sighing with exasperation. 'I couldn't believe it when Elias told me you'd agreed to be "friends".' She said the word derisively, as if being a friend to Madeline were beyond comprehension.

  'You don't like me very much, do you?' The words were out of Madeline's mouth before she knew she was going to say them, and Becky glanced up sharply, surprised.

  'I don't really know you,' she finally replied, and then her lovely dark brows came together in a frown as she studied Madeline. 'You remind me a little of his mother, you know. She was fair, as you are, and almost as cool.' Her eyes took in Madeline's outfit, and suddenly she chuckled. 'Of course she never would have been caught dead in that outfit. White hat, gloves and lawn dress—that was her style.'

  'I shouldn't really wear white,' Madeline mumbled. 'I disappear.'

  'That's not what Elias says.' She sighed again and bent back to her scrubbing just before Madeline's mouth dropped open. 'Of course women like you look good in just about anything. Always made me jealous as hell, to tell you the truth.'

  Flabbergasted, Madeline stared down at the rich, glossy hair bouncing in time to Becky's vigorous arm movements. 'But you're so beautiful,' she whispered. 'You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.'

  Becky sat back on her heels again and looked at her with a puzzled expression. 'Pretty, maybe; but not beautiful. Not like you.' She cocked her head and frowned at Madeline's expression. 'My God! You don't even know it, do you?'

  Madeline swallowed, blinking, and Becky laughed out loud. And then, as if she'd suddenly remembered that she didn't like Madeline at all, she bent back to her work and said gruffly. 'Now get your breakfast and get out of here. I'm leaving at noon today, and I've got a lot of work to finish before then.'

  Madeline hesitated for a moment, then whispered, 'I forgot something upstairs,' and turned to rush down the hall, up the steps, as fast as she could go, as if it would all disappear before she had a chance to see it. She raced into her room and skidded to a halt in front of the mirror, panting, her eyes wide and wondering, her lips parted.

  Beautiful? She frowned a little, examining her reflection. She did seem to have a little more colour in her face from being outside so much; but, other than that, she looked just as bland as she always had. Light grey eyes; still-light complexion, in spite of the sun; light, light hair, caught now in a crazily tilting pony-tail…everything about her was so damned light, like an over-exposed photograph. That wasn't beauty. Beauty commanded attention. Anyone knew that. It walked into a room in the form of people like Becky, exuding vitality and colour, and heads turned and everybody noticed.

  She sighed, feeling horribly betrayed, as if Becky had handed her a beautifully wrapped present that had turned out to be nothing more than an empty box.

  Elias found her in the rose garden an hour later, hunched over a cluster of dried, brittle stems, pulling gummy leaves and grasses away from the seemingly dead plant, carefully cultivating the exposed soil mound with her fingers.

  'You're wasting your time.' His voice came from behind without warning, and she jerked her head up and spun on her knees in surprise.

  When he saw her face, he smi
led quickly, involuntarily, then reached down and brushed a smudge of soil from the tip of her nose. 'Charming,' he said, and suddenly she was embarrassed by the way she looked. Her jeans were damp and black from the knees down, with long streaks of earth across her thighs where she'd wiped her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she could see wisps of hair that had escaped her pony-tail, free-floating in the gentle breeze. She reached up to tuck them behind her ears and stopped at the last moment because her hands were caked with soil. He finished the gesture for her, squatting to his heels close to her, watching his hands as they collected and tamed the vagrant strands.

  Madeline watched his face with parted lips threatening a smile, marvelling at how different he looked under the sun, away from the artificial lights of the windowless studio. The green of his eyes matched the burgeoning lilac bushes in the background behind him; his hair quivered in the fickle currents of air, strands of blue glimmering in the black; even his mouth seemed softer, less grim.

  'It's dead, you know.' He inclined his head towards the rose plant.

  'No,' she murmured, reaching up without thinking, grasping his hand, pulling it down to guide his fingers to the bud graft at the base of the plant, just beneath the soil. 'Feel that? The hard ball on the stem? And then here, gently now…that little protrusion? That's the beginning. It's coming to life.' She smiled down at the stiff, dried sticks, enchanted by the imminent miracle of awakening spring. 'Isn't it the most marvellous thing? To feel that happening right beneath your hands?'

  When she looked up at his face again, she started at his expression. For a moment, just a moment, his eyes seemed to reflect the feelings of her own heart; a tenderness so deeply felt it was visible in the softness of his gaze…but then suddenly his features tightened and he pulled his hand abruptly from hers.

  He pushed against his knees and rose as if the moment had never happened, looking around at the dozens of rose mounds she'd cleared already, the short stubs pruned back to the living part of the stems. 'I hadn't noticed how much you'd done out here.'

  'I don't know how you could have. You haven't left the studio in days.'

  He glanced back at her, and something in his eyes made her look down at where her hands were splayed across her thighs.

  'As it happens,' he went on tonelessly, 'I'm leaving the studio today. You can practise in there if you like, or take the afternoon off. I won't be back until evening.'

  Inch by inch her shoulders sagged as she watched him walk away, towards the house, towards Becky. They were both gone by the time she came in for lunch.

  She stood just inside the kitchen doorway, a little shocked by the intensity of what she was feeling. It wasn't just loneliness, or envy, or jealousy, or even a combination of all of those things. It was deeper than that, and stronger than that—a growing seed of rebellion, not just because she was excluded, but because she wasn't even considered at all. He'd left with Becky without a single qualm about leaving her behind, as if she were some machine that could simply be turned off when it was no longer needed. As far as he was concerned, she wasn't a person at all; just a pair of hands with no function away from a keyboard. The only time he acknowledged her existence was when she performed like a trained animal in the studio, but, dammit, she was more than that. She was a human being, too; a woman, just like Becky…and maybe it was high time he noticed.

  She spent the better part of the afternoon bathing, washing her hair, performing all those rituals of physical enhancement she had never in her life employed before.

  It was near dusk by the time she had finished, and she was glad of that. She liked the way the rose-gold light enhanced the new colour in her face, and she hadn't liked anything about her appearance in so long that her own reflection surprised her.

  Her hair was piled softly on top of her head, with a few wisps trailing over her brow and curling at her ears. She'd been lavish with the smoky shadow, and her eyes seemed to smoulder beneath thick lashes darkened with mascara.

  The dress was a sleeveless ice-blue silk she'd bought for a student's recital, and worn only that once. At the time it had embarrassed her that the fabric clung to every curve, mocking the modesty of its high mandarin collar, but now she was glad of it.

  The skirt was loose enough to wrap provocatively around thigh and hip when she moved, and she tested the effect in front of the mirror, eyes wide and uncertain. She had never been able to define the line that separated sensuality from simple bad taste, but one thing was certain: he wouldn't be able to ignore her dressed like this, if only because she looked so unlike herself.

  And if he tries hiding in the studio again tonight, she thought, I'll just wobble out there in these stupid heels and insist that he take me to dinner. This is one night I'm not going to eat alone.

  She teetered a little on the unfamiliar spike heels when she heard the slam of the front door.

  He was standing at the bottom of the stairs when she descended, just as he had been that first night, almost as if he'd been waiting for her to make just this entrance. She met his eyes boldly as she came down, feeling the swish of silk against her legs, smiling when she heard the quiet hiss of a breath drawn quickly between his teeth.

  His eyes touched every part of her body long before she was within range of his hands, then suddenly they fixed on hers with a gaze so cold that it felt like a tangible force threatening to push her backward.

  'I'd almost forgotten what day it was,' he said disgustedly, then, without another word, he turned and walked out of sight down the hall, through the kitchen, and out of the back door, slamming it behind him.

  Madeline stood paralysed on the stairs, baffled by his reaction, her thoughts repeating over and over that maybe being invisible wasn't so bad. Being seen, and then rejected, was worse. Much worse.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Madeline didn't know how long she'd been standing on the stairs, heart and mind deadened by Elias's cool exit; but she started when there was a sudden light rap on the front door below, and felt a prickling where her hand was gripping the banister, as if that was all that had been holding her up.

  She found the presence of mind to call out, 'Come in,' and the silk of her dress rustled against her legs as she shifted her weight.

  David walked through the door, looked up at her, then stopped dead. 'Good lord,' he whispered, his eyes racing from the light, fairy-like crown of her hair down to the daring simplicity of her dress. He swallowed once, like a nervous schoolboy, and gazed up at her with a look so unabashedly admiring that Madeline felt the spirits that Elias had crushed lift slightly.

  'Thank you, David,' she whispered gratefully, coming down the rest of the stairs. She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, marvelling that she could actually perform such a gesture. It was easy with David. Something about him encouraged the simple, harmless demonstration of affection. 'You will never know how much I needed that.'

  His hands fumbled at her waist as she leaned her upper body backwards, bemused by his look of wonder. The expression was as alien to his normally self-assured countenance as his silence was to his nature, and Madeline felt the glow of a compliment that didn't require words.

  She smiled up at his brown eyes, the boyish tangle of dark curls clustered on his head. 'You're looking especially handsome tonight yourself,' she told him, patting the cream-coloured lapels of his linen suit. Oddly enough, the ice-blue shirt beneath matched the colour of her dress almost perfectly.

  His chest rose with a breath he blew out through his cheeks, and that seemed to restore his power of speech. 'I'm not even going to try to tell you how you look. They haven't invented the right word yet.'

  Madeline blushed and dismissed the excessive praise with an embarrassed shrug.

  'Shall we go?'

  Madeline hesitated, frowning. 'Go where?'

  'To dinner, of course. We have reservations at the Hilltop Inn…' He stopped and cocked his head at her expression. 'Dinner,' he said carefully. 'You. Me. Friday
night. Didn't Elias tell you I was coming?'

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth and frowned. 'Actually, what he said was that he told you not to come…'

  'And because Elias said I shouldn't, you assumed I wouldn't?'

  Madeline tried to smile, flustered. 'Actually, David, I meant to call you and tell you to come anyway, but we've just been so busy…' She shrugged helplessly, wondering how such a thing had slipped her mind. 'I guess I forgot.'

  He hesitated, then spoke very slowly, his eyes roaming with frank puzzlement over her hair, her dress. 'You mean you weren't expecting me?'

  She held her breath for a moment, her mind scrambling for an excuse for her appearance, then released it in a feeble laugh. 'Actually, I was just about to take myself out to dinner. I was sick to death of jeans and sweatshirts and being cooped up here…' She paused and sighed, looking at him, and added with a sincerity that couldn't be doubted, 'But you have no idea how glad I am to have company. Especially yours.'

  He lifted her chin with two fingers, and questioned her gently with his eyes. She dropped hers, rather than answer him, and after a moment his hands fell to his side. 'Where's Elias?' he asked pointedly. 'I should at least say hello before we leave—'

  'Can it wait, David?' she blurted out. 'To tell you the truth, I'm starved.' She rushed to the cupboard, snatched a light shawl and her handbag, then turned towards him expectantly. He was just standing there, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, eyeing her curiously.

  'Of course it can,' he said quietly. 'As a matter of fact, I don't really have to see Elias at all.' He held out one hand and smiled at her with an expression that made her think David Whitney was a good deal more perceptive than most people thought. 'Come on, angel. Let me take you away from all this.'

  Hilltop Inn was predictably perched on a hill overlooking the small town, just a few miles from Rosewood. It was a casually elegant place of snowy linen and sparkling crystal, saved from pretentiousness by distressed wooden floors and walls of natural brick. The tables were small, intimate worlds of candle-lit isolation, well-separated from one another.