Lost Melody (13 page)

Betty Boop jumped up on the leather
sofa and curled up next to her. She stroked the dog’s ears, content
to watch Hank work. The man had no idea what he did to women.
Amazing. He honestly thought he was a simple man—which proved how
much he knew. There was nothing simple or ordinary about Hank
Travis.

The room was silent except for the
occasional muffled woof from Betty, deep in a doggy dream, or the
click of the computer keyboard. He’d been right about one thing.
His work was mostly boring—at least from her angle. She stood,
thinking it was time for a walk. She spied his MP3 player on the
corner of his desk. She had it in-hand when he bolted from his seat
and covered her hand with his, stopping her progress. He jerked off
his headset, and peeled her fingers away from the
player.

“Not that one.” He opened a drawer and
pulled out another MP3 player, identical in appearance to the one
she’d picked up. He held it out to her. “You can listen to this
one.” The off limits device disappeared into the desk
drawer.

Unsure what to make of the encounter,
she accepted the replacement and retreated to her side of the room.
“Sorry I disturbed you.”

“It’s okay. The music selection is
better on that one. I know hanging around while I work must be
excruciating for you, but I won’t be much longer.” He gestured
toward the device she held. “You can keep it if you want. It might
help you get through the boring parts of my day.”

“Thanks. It was just so quiet in here
I thought I might go stir crazy.”

“I’m working on something for our next
album, and I’m afraid it’s a long way from anything I would want
anyone to hear.”

“I understand,” she lied. She secured
the earbuds and returned to her list of questions, to which she
could add several more.

After lunch, Hank spent several hours
in a rehearsal room, his computer hooked up to a full-size
electronic keyboard. He donned headphones, and retreated into his
private world again. She watched, inexplicably feeling left out.
She knew nothing about composing music, but she wanted to be a part
of his world in some small way.

They spent the rest of the week
together, yet apart. Whenever she asked him about the music he was
working on, his reply was the same—it wasn’t ready to share. She
chalked it up to artistic temperament and amused herself while he
worked, listening to the plethora of taped conversations, making
notes, and jotting down more questions to ask.

Ever since the scene in the kitchen on
Monday, he had asked no more questions and hadn’t so much as
brushed his arm against hers when they walked side by side. Their
conversations focused exclusively on the business at-hand. He
allowed her to ask anything she wanted, and he answered candidly,
even when they crossed the invisible line between personal and
professional.

She was more than relieved when, over
breakfast Friday morning, he announced he was leaving for New York
in the afternoon and wouldn’t return until late Monday.

“What’s in New York?”

“My agent,” he said. “It’s a business
meeting.”

With the weekend free, she stocked up
at the local supermarket and headed home for a well-needed rest.
She knew sleep would be elusive, but she could relax in her cozy
little house, and put aside the Travis tapes until Sunday when
Cathy would be over to help her make sense of the childhood
stories.

* * *

Hank joined the other members of
BlackWing at their penthouse apartment in Manhattan. The apartment
took up the entire top floor of the high-rise building on the Upper
West Side. Against the image carefully created for the media, the
band members were surprisingly boring people, preferring their
wives and children to the groupies and fans who bought their
records. With that in mind, they’d purchased the large New York
apartment, so they could accommodate everyone at one time. A throng
of excited children and frazzled wives greeted him when he arrived.
He exclaimed over gap-tooth smiles, heard about new puppies, and
admired the newest arrival, three-month-old Katie Sanders, daughter
of bass guitarist Kevin Sanders.

Hank held the tiny bundle in his arms,
afraid of dropping her yet thrilled at the precious new life. His
chest tightened, envisioning holding a child of his own. An image
flashed in his mind of Melody, round with his baby. He fought back
the longing, the instant need to make the image a reality. Passing
the infant back to her mother, he mumbled something he hoped was
appropriate and went in search of the band.

They’d gathered in the conference
room. He chuckled. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was
meeting a bunch of insurance salesmen. They were an unlikely group
to be successful Rock and Roll musicians. If not for the unexpected
success of BlackWing, the lot of them would have spent their lives
pushing pencils for a living. He shook hands all around.

He grabbed Kevin in a macho guy hug,
clapping him on the back. “I saw Katie. Congratulations, she’s a
keeper.”

Kevin’s smile covered his entire face.
“Stay away from her, Hank. She can do better than you!” he
joked.

“Ain’t that the truth?” He asked no
one in particular, “When is Guy going to be here?”

Stephen Anderson, backup singer and
master of several wind and string instruments, shoved a sheaf of
papers across the desk to him. “He’ll be here soon. He sent the
contracts so we could go over them before he gets here.”

Hank snagged a copy. He knew all would
be in order. Their agent, Guy Nichols, was a stickler for detail
and never sent them anything that hadn’t been reviewed by at least
half a dozen lawyers. Nevertheless, he would read it before
signing. “Is Jonathan Youngblood coming with him?”

A chorus of ignorance sounded around
the table. He grunted his acknowledgement, and continued to read.
He came to the list of songs specifically enumerated in the
contract.

It wasn’t there. He read it a second
time, hoping he’d missed it somewhere. In his opinion, there wasn’t
any point in doing the cover album if “Melody” wasn’t part of the
deal. Belatedly, he noticed the silence surrounding him. He set the
contract aside and scanned the faces of his friends. Sympathetic
eyes met his.

“Why isn’t it here?” he asked, knowing
in advance, the brilliant Harvard graduates would plead
ignorance.

He threw the contract on the table and
growled, “Don’t anyone sign this contract until we find out what’s
going on.” He stormed out of the room, knowing he needed to curb
his anger before Guy arrived, especially if Sir Jonathan was with
him.

An hour later when Guy arrived, alone,
Hank had tempered his rage, but like a dormant volcano, it simmered
just below the surface. He wasted no time getting to the
point.

“Why isn’t ‘Melody’ on the
list?”

“You’ll have to ask Sir Jonathan,” the
agent said. “He’s agreed to meet with you in the morning to discuss
it in private. His driver will pick you up at seven and deliver you
to his hotel for breakfast.”

“What the hell is going on? You know
I’ve been working on the cover for over a year. I won’t do the
album if ‘Melody’ isn’t on it. What would be the point? ‘Melody’ is
the single, defining work of Hamilton Ravenswood. Any cover album
would be incomplete without it.”

An uneasy murmur went around the
table. He ignored it, convinced he was right. The rest of the band
had spent countless hours working on other songs, and the demo
tracks were almost ready for Sir Jonathan’s approval. As executor
of Hamilton Ravenswood’s estate, and co-owner of the songs, Sir
Jonathan would have to sign off on the songs before BlackWing could
record them. He knew he was being unreasonable and unfair to the
rest of the group by taking his all-or-nothing stance.

“Look, Hank, meet him for breakfast
tomorrow and find out what’s going on. He wouldn’t tell me,” Guy
said, trying to appease him. “He specifically asked which one of
you wanted to do the song and asked to meet with him, alone. That’s
all I know. As many times as you’ve spoken to him over the phone,
I’m surprised the subject hasn’t already come up.”

Hank drummed his fingers on the table
instead of letting loose the string of curses running through his
head.

“He hasn’t said no. Not yet anyway.”
The agent glanced around the table. “My advice is to wait until
tomorrow, until Hank meets with Youngblood and finds out what’s
going on. I’ll come for lunch tomorrow, I’ll even bring the food,
and we’ll hear what Hank has to say. Then you can decide if you
want to scrap the album or sign the contract.”

They sat in silence long after Guy
left. Hank didn’t know what to say to his friends. He knew he was
being an ass. He wasn’t considering them or their wishes regarding
the album.

“I’m with Hank,” Chad said, breaking
the silence. “If we can’t do ‘Melody’ I don’t know what the point
of the album would be.” He addressed Hank. “You’re right. It’s his
signature song, the legacy of Hamilton Ravenswood.”

“
I know if Youngblood heard
you sing it with the changes you’ve made, he’d agree to the cover,”
Kevin chimed in. “Your version is a tribute to the masterpiece. To
the master. No one but you could cover that song. We all know it,
and he must know it, too.”

Mike and Stephen added their support.
Hank’s anger cooled, his obsession somehow validated by his
friends’ unwavering loyalty. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate the
solidarity. I wish I knew what was going on, but I
don’t.”

“Go have breakfast with Sir Jonathan
and find out. We’ll decide what to do when you get back,” Mike
said.

“It seems I have a breakfast date
tomorrow.” He stood. “I should get some sleep so I don’t fall
asleep in the scrambled eggs.”

* * *

Hank tossed and turned. He put the
breakfast meeting aside, no need dwelling on something he had no
control over, but he couldn’t get Mel out of his head. He missed
her. He wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to touch
her.

Lying in bed listening to his friends
and their families outside his door laughing and planning to spend
time together opened a mental portal that allowed Hank to see the
empty cavern of his life. His music filled a need, it was an
expression of his soul, but it wasn’t enough. Not anymore. He
needed Mel.

He’d never needed anyone before. As an
only child, he’d never really been lonely. His house was always
full of neighborhood kids, welcomed by his mother with a batch of
cookies or brownies. She was always ready to feed the gang he
brought home with him. Living in town, he’d played on the street
until the streetlights came on, the universal clock by which all
mother’s called a halt to the evening’s fun.

In high school, he’d been busy with
the marching band, and dorky as it had been, he somehow avoided the
stigma associated with being a member. His friends had extended to
every aspect of the social spectrum at Willowbrook High School.
Chris and Randy had been stars on the football team, while he
cheered them on from the band section.

In college, he’d made another set of
friends. When a few frat brothers started a jam session to cope
with the intellectual demands at Harvard, he’d joined in, buying a
cheap drum kit from a Boston pawnshop. Of the ten original members,
five had stuck it out through the years, picking up small gigs on
and off campus. They’d been thrilled to pocket a few dollars for
doing something they loved.

Their big break had come their senior
year. They’d booked a gig at a Boston country club, a dance for the
upper-crust teenage crowd. Guy Nichols was chaperoning his
daughter’s dance that evening. As a result, none of them had ever
worked a day in their chosen professions.

In the penthouse he co-owned,
surrounded by people he considered family, he’d never felt so
alone. He wanted to call Mel to tell her what he was doing in New
York. He wasn’t sure she would understand why he hadn’t told her
about the cover album though. She carried a heavy burden where her
father was concerned, and there was a real possibility she would
shut him out completely when she found out what he was up
to.

Before the stinging letdown of the
contract, he’d planned to ask Sir Jonathan about Mel. He probably
knew her better than anyone else. He’d been the guardian of her
estate for the last fifteen years, and he lived in her home in
England, still managing her holdings for her. Everyone knew the
legendary band had dissolved in the aftermath of Ravenswood’s
death. Most of the members had continued their careers, eventually
starting their own bands or launching solo careers. Jonathan
Youngblood was the exception. He retired from the business and
honored his best friend’s wishes by taking care of the daughter
he’d left behind.

If anyone knew how to reach her, it
was Jonathan Youngblood.

Hank fitted the headphone buds into
his ears and turned on the MP3 player he was never without.
“Melody” spoke to his soul, quieting his unrest. He
slept.

* * *

The elevator opened directly into the
exclusive suite occupied by Sir Jonathan Youngblood. Hank greeted
the older man, grateful at last to meet him. He was, after all, the
living half of RavensBlood and a legend in his own right. It was
hard not to be intimidated in the presence of Rock and Roll
royalty, even when said prince was dressed in worn jeans and a
faded T-shirt from a long-ago concert. He’d lost none of his
charisma in the years since his retirement. His graying hair and
wizened features hinted at the hardships he’d endured in his
lifetime. However, there was nothing soft or feeble in his
handshake. The man was solid as a rock. Whatever else he did in his
free time, he stayed in shape.