Lost Melody (17 page)

He got up and helped himself to orange
juice. She waved away his offer to pour her a glass. When he’d
replaced the carton in the refrigerator, he returned to his seat.
“Anyway, it never occurred to me ‘Melody’ was about something
entirely different, not until I talked to Sir Jonathan.”

“
Wait. You talked to Uncle
Jonathan?”

“You say that so easily, Uncle
Jonathan. I was so scared I could hardly speak when I first met
him, and you talk about him like he’s family.”

“He is family as far as I’m concerned.
When did you see him?”

“Last weekend. In New
York.”

Her stomach churned. “Why?”

“I went to sign a contract for our
next album. It’s a tribute to RavensBlood. All the songs will be
covers of their greatest hits. The only one I care about is
‘Melody’, and Sir Jonathan wanted to explain in person why he
couldn’t authorize us to record it.”

To keep the tremors at bay, she
clasped her hands tight and focused on his Adam’s apple.

“He told me about the song. I honestly
didn’t know.” His tone was apologetic, laced with pity. Her fingers
had gone numb from squeezing them so hard. “I felt like an
adolescent fool. Sir Jonathan said just enough to let me figure it
out on my own.”

She flexed her hands, wiping her damp
palms on her pant legs, and fisted them tight again. “What else did
he tell you?”

Hank reached for her hands. He forced
her fists open and wrapped her chilled fingers in his warmth.
“Everything. He told me everything.”

She jerked out of his reach. “That’s
why you came home early? The reason you...the reason we…? That’s
the reason?”

He tried to recapture her hands, but
she moved away from his touch. “That’s not what it was, and you
know it. I love you, Melody.”

She jumped to her feet, toppling her
chair in the process. “Don’t call me that.” She crossed her arms
over her stomach and backed away. “I don’t want your pity, and you
don’t love me.” Every nerve in her body vibrated, and she clenched
her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.

Hank stood, righted her chair, and
held it for her. “Please. Sit down.” He placed a strong hand on her
shoulder and guided her into the chair. Leaning close, he took her
hands in his.

“I feel a lot of things, but pity
isn’t one of them,” he said. “You have to believe me. I’ve never
loved anyone else, and I won’t stop loving you. I’m sorry it upsets
you so much, and I have to say, your reaction doesn’t do much for
my ego.”

“Please don’t love me,
Hank. I can’t be what you want me to be. I can’t be what you
need
me to
be.”

He leaned in closer. She
tried to pull her hands out of his grasp, but he only held them
more securely. “You’re an amazing woman. I fell in love with you
the moment I saw you standing in the doorway at my dad’s house. I
had no idea who you were, but I knew you were special. It doesn’t
matter what your name is. I love
you
, not your name.”

She lifted her eyes. His mouth was a
mere whisper from hers. His eyes sparkled with love, his lips
crooked to one side, giving him a rakish look. Her heart flipped,
skipping a beat in its acrobatic downfall.

“I can’t change the way I feel,” he
said, “and I don’t expect you to return the feeling. Not yet
anyway. But I think you feel something for me, or was I imagining
things the other night?”

She took a deep breath and extricated
her hands. She needed to put distance between them before she did
something stupid like tell him she loved him, too. She stood on
shaky legs and crossed to the sink. She filled the teakettle and
prepared a tray with her favorite wild rose pattern teapot and
cups. How had this conversation gotten so out of control? She had
to get it back on track, and get him out of her house.
Now.

“Go on. Tell me about the song.” She
opened cabinets and drawers, gathering the makings of proper tea
even though she didn’t think she could drink a drop.

He followed her movements, glad she’d
calmed. His bombshell had blown up in his face. The poet in him had
hoped for a more hospitable reaction to his declaration of love,
but as he watched her rigid back and stilted actions, he knew she
felt something for him. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be so upset by
his words.

“Okay, if you’re sure you still want
to hear it.”

Her laugh was hollow. “I’m sure I
don’t want to hear it, but you aren’t going to go away until I do,
are you?”

He hated to be the cause of her
distress, but he’d come here to lay his heart on the line and he
was going to do it. “No. I have to tell you everything.”

She leaned against the counter, her
back to him. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“I’ve been working on a cover of
‘Melody’ for over a year, based on my misguided understanding of
the song. After the night we spent together, which I’ll remember
fondly for the rest of my life, no matter what happens between us,”
he said, “I knew I had to rewrite it. I heard the new notes in my
head while I was holding you in my arms. I know how corny it
sounds, but it’s true.”

China rattled as she poured hot water
into the teapot.

“All I’m asking is for you to listen
to both versions. Just you and me, in the studio. No one else will
ever hear them if you don’t want them to.”

She turned to face him, and the river
of tears streaming down her face almost broke him. He went to her,
stopping short of taking her in his arms.

“How can you ask me to do listen to
you sing ‘Melody’? You said Uncle Jonathan told you everything.
Didn’t he tell you about the song?”

He gripped her upper arms, sliding his
hands down to capture hers. “He did. I wouldn’t ask you if it was
only about me. But it’s not. I owe it to the rest of the band.
They’ll all be here next week to begin work on the new album. We
don’t want to do the album without Hamilton Ravenswood’s
masterpiece. It wouldn’t be right.”

He considered it a good sign when she
didn’t try to pull away from him.

“Has Uncle Jonathan approved the
album?”

“Yes. He’s coming next week to hear
the songs in person and give us his opinion. We’re bound by
contract to make any changes he deems necessary.”

She spun away from him, wiping her
tears away with the back of her hand. “And I thought he was coming
to see me. I’m such an idiot.”

He caressed her shoulders, his thumbs
kneading the hard knots along her nape. “You’re not an idiot. Make
no mistake about it. The man considers you his daughter, and he’ll
do anything to protect you. I think he’s coming here for you. He
doesn’t have to actually be here to approve the songs.”

She closed her eyes, letting his magic
fingers soothe away her common sense. His hips rested against her
bottom, close but not intimately so. His voice, slow and melodic,
seduced her with its soft Texas drawl, more pronounced when he
wanted it to be. The fragrant bergamot of her Earl Grey drifted
from the teapot to mingle with the fresh scent of Hank’s
aftershave. She inhaled deeply, remembering how his skin tasted,
salty, utterly delicious.

She forced some semblance of sense
into her brain. “Okay. Take your hands off me, and I’ll come out
tomorrow morning. But don’t expect me to approve it.”

His hands remained on her shoulders,
working their magic as if she hadn’t given in to his demands. He
shifted, pressing his hips against her bottom, applying enough
pressure for her to feel his erection before he slid his hands down
her arms and leaned in to kiss her neck, just below her jaw line.
Desire tingled down her spine, and he let her go, stepping
back.

“Whether you approve it or not, I’d
like for you to consider something else.”

“What?”

“When the band gets here, I’d like it
if you came out to meet them. They’re a great bunch of people, and
I know you’d love them, and they’ll love you. I’ll even clear it
with them so you can watch us record the album. Maybe you could
chronicle it for us. We’ve never had anyone do that before. It
could be fun.”

“And what makes you
think
I
would want
to?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe
you could do one of those coffee table books, or maybe the Gazette
would like some more articles. I know I can get the guys to go
along with it.”

“How long will it take to record the
album?”

“That depends. We’ve been working on
the songs for over a year, so it’s just a matter of getting them
recorded. We’ll probably work twenty-four-seven for most of the
summer. It’s not an easy process.”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“All the guys are married, except me.
They bring their wives and kids, and the house is
crazy.”

She held the teapot with both hands as
she poured herself a cup. The last thing she wanted to do, besides
hear him sing “Melody” was hang around while they recorded an album
full of songs her father had written. Talk about living a
nightmare.

“Think about it. You don’t have to
make a decision today.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, “but
don’t hold your breath.”

He paused in the doorway. “All I’m
asking is for you to think about it. I want you to see the
performance side of my life, too. I think once you do, you’ll see
it’s not as bad as you imagine.”

“You’re pushing your luck. I said I’d
listen to the song, and that’s all I’m agreeing to.”

He crossed the room to place a kiss on
her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When he was gone, Mel found the old
reel-to-reel tape player where she’d hidden it in the back of the
closet. The tape was where it had always been—sealed in an airtight
container in a fireproof box hidden underneath her bed. She
threaded the fragile tape through the maze of wheels and pulleys,
and dusted off the professional headset. The headset took a little
adjusting to fit her properly, and then she flipped the switch.
RavensBlood’s final concert came to life once again.

Miraculously, the tape Milton
Ravenswood had carried with him, the present for his daughter,
survived the crash. She had played it once before when she was in
college and trying to understand why her mother had forbidden her
to listen to her father’s music.

She sat on the floor and leaned
against her bed, letting the music carry her to a different place
and time. She knew the voices—Uncle Jonathan, Archer and Nathan,
and her father. There were backup singers, too. Women chosen for
their excellent singing voices to fill in the back tracks. Her
mother had been one of the chosen few until she became pregnant
with Milton Ravenswood’s child.

She pushed away the unnecessary issue
and concentrated on the concert. The crowd was enthusiastic, and it
was easy to tell the band members fed off their energy. A long
pause filled with Uncle Jonathan’s voice signaled a change on
stage. She closed her eyes and imagined the scene.

Stagehands would be moving the grand
piano, adjusting microphones and running wires. She had seen photos
from the concert, knew her father had worn black jeans, a dark
RavensBlood T-shirt, and a black suit jacket. It was the same
outfit he’d worn in every concert photo she’d ever seen.

The stage would be empty except for
the piano in the center. Her father emerged from the darkness amid
respectful applause, taking his place in the vortex of the triple
spotlights. He shifted on the bench, adjusted the microphone, and
stilled. Quiet descended.

He began to play.

She could envision his fingers moving
across the keyboard, coaxing the wires and hammers inside the
instrument to do his bidding. His voice joined the melody, a silken
thread strung across the expanse of the concert hall, clear and
seductive. The crowd was silent. She imagined the audience,
mesmerized by the beautiful music, by the man exposing his soul on
stage.

The last note vibrated through the
instrument, and she heard the faint scrape of the piano bench
against the stage. Her father’s retreating footsteps had been
edited out of the recording issued publicly after his death, but
they remained on her uncut version. Heartbeats passed before a
single person in the audience began to clap, the sound releasing
the others from their trance. She could hear the swell as they rose
to their feet, shouting and demanding more, more, as if the man had
any more to give.

It was the last song Hamilton Earl
Ravenswood would ever sing, but the audience didn’t know it at the
time. The unedited tape continued for a few minutes more as
Jonathan returned to the stage and tried to quiet the crowd, waving
the band back on stage to play an encore, one of their hits,
without Ravenswood on lead guitar.

She dropped the headset to
the floor and switched off the tape player. She closed her
eyes.
Oh God! Why did I tell Hank I would
listen to his version? What have I gotten myself into?