Lost Melody (18 page)

Chapter
Twelve

She had talked herself out of coming
more than once since Hank had left her house with her promise to
hear the song, but each time she remembered the sincerity in his
voice when he talked about what the song meant to him, and she
caved. So, on top of her misgivings about what she was doing, she
was angry with herself for not sticking to her guns.

He waited on his back porch for her.
She frowned up at him. “Let’s get this over with.”

He led the way to the barn where she
climbed on the stool he indicated in the control room and waited
silently as he flipped switches. The studio came to life beyond the
plate-glass window. Soft light highlighted the piano, front and
center. She tore her eyes away from the instrument, instead
focusing on the sparse accoutrements scattered around the
studio.

She braced against the memories
flooding back. She could still see her father in his recording
studio, much like this one. She had been eight, visiting her father
at Ravenswood for the summer. RavensBlood had been recording their
tenth or eleventh album—she couldn’t remember which one, but she
did remember sitting in a big upholstered chair while her father
played guitar along with Jonathan, Archer, and Nathan. It had been
a special summer, and she’d spent countless hours in the studio
with her daddy. Somewhere, she supposed at Ravenswood, there was a
recording of her voice, singing along with him as they sat side by
side—him playing a silly child’s song, her matching his cultured
British voice with her girlish prattle.

Hank pointed out a button on the
console. “If you want to talk to me, press this button,” he said.
“Otherwise, I can’t hear you.”

“Okay,” she said, clenching her fists
in her lap.

He turned to leave but paused in the
doorway. “Are you sure? I thought about this meeting all night, and
I don’t think it’s fair to ask you to listen to my versions of
‘Melody’. The guys will get over it if we can’t include the song. I
can explain it without compromising your privacy. They’ll
understand.”

She lifted her chin. “Just
play the song. I’ll decide for myself.” One thing she was certain
of, besides the fact she didn’t want to hear the song at all, was
that she
needed
to
hear it. She needed to face up to reality, make a decision, and
move on.

The first notes startled her even
though she could see his fingers on the keyboard. Tears stung her
eyes. She blinked them away, determined to face the memories and
get past her obsession with the song. Hank’s voice, smooth as
molten chocolate, joined the melody. She noted the subtle changes,
the inflections, the way he emphasized different words to change
the song. It was no longer a lullaby. Hank had made it a love song.
Those few, almost imperceptible changes altered the song to show a
boy’s love of music, a love that empowered, stirred his
soul.

Tears spilled unchecked down her
cheeks. This version was what fifteen-year-old Hank had heard in
his heart when he listened to the song. It was the same, yet so
different. Had her father intended this interpretation as
well?

The last string ceased to vibrate and
silence descended on the control room. Hank dropped his hands from
the keyboard, his head bent. Mel fumbled with the switch, and
finding her voice, said through the microphone, “Play the other
one.”

Her heartbeat filled the silent
control room and Hank raised his hands to the keys once again. His
eyelids dropped, and he began to play. Once again, his voice filled
the small room, the words stirring her in new ways. Passion poured
from the instrument—a lover’s passion. The melody sent tingles down
her spine and his voice stroked her soul. The words were the same,
the melody the same, but his arrangement implied a physical and
emotional intimacy between lovers completely absent in her father’s
version.

The small confines of the control room
closed in on her, stealing the oxygen from her lungs. The panic
attacks had become infrequent, but she recognized the signs
immediately. She needed to get out.

She pushed through the barn door, and
warm, humid air rushed into her lungs. Pressed against the outside
wall, she gulped in the air, rushing much needed oxygen through her
system. When her legs stopped trembling enough for her to walk, she
crossed to the oak and dropped into one of the lawn chairs
scattered under its broad limbs. Betty Boop roused from her place
next to the back porch and joined her, nudging her hand with a cold
nose. She petted the dog’s smooth head, taking comfort in the
unconditional love offered.

She closed her eyes and let the tears
fall. She’d known hearing the song would be hard, but she’d truly
had no idea what she’d agreed to. It was so much more than she’d
imagined it would be, and so beautifully done. Her father would
love it. He’d understand Hank’s interpretation. But the question
was, could she live with it if it was out there, on the radio every
day?

No way. Her father’s version was bad
enough, but Hank’s? It was much too personal, too intimate. It
wasn’t simply a love song, it was a lover’s song.

* * *

Hank opened his eyes, expecting to see
his soul bleeding across the gleaming expanse of the grand piano.
Only the glare of the overhead lights reflecting off the polished
surface greeted him. His hands fell to the bench, and clutching the
edge in a white-knuckled grip, he waited for her pronouncement.
With bowed head and clenched jaw, he waited.

Nothing.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and without
moving, found the courage to speak. “Mel?”

Silence.

He turned to the control room window.
Empty. She was gone.

“Melody.” Her name fell from his lips,
a soft benediction.

He took his time closing
the studio. In his office, he opened the wall safe and removed both
copies of “Melody”. She’d made her decision, and as agreed, he
would turn the only existing recordings as well as the sheet music
over to her. For a moment, he stood in his office, holding the two
manila envelopes, waiting for the pain to come. His music was so
much a part of him—it should hurt like hell to surrender the two
works knowing no one would ever hear them, but that wasn’t what was
killing him. It wasn’t losing the music. It was because he’d hurt
her.
Christ, what was I
thinking?

When he left the building, he was
surprised to find her waiting for him. She was pale, and her eyes
were red from recent tears. Guilt gnawed at his gut. He laid the
envelopes in her lap and sat in a lawn chair facing her.

“Those are the only copies in
existence. Only the band has heard the first one. No one other than
you and I has heard the other. They’re yours to do with as you
please. The sheet music is there, too.”

She picked up the envelopes, reading
the handwritten labels on each one.

“I’m so sorry. I should have known how
hard it would be for you. I shouldn’t have put you through
that.”

With a steady hand, she extended one
envelope to him. “Record this one.”

He took it, his original version, and
nodded his acceptance. “Are you sure? I don’t have to record it. I
won’t if you don’t want me to.”

She raised blood shot eyes to him.
“It’s different enough. I think anyone with a love of music will
understand it. You haven’t changed the lyrics, only a few notes. I
can live with that.”

He admired her courage, but still knew
how much it must hurt for her to give her consent. “If you’re sure,
I’ll go ahead with it. I promise, you can change your mind anytime
before it goes into mass production. All you have to do is say so,
and I’ll pull it.”

“I won’t change my mind. I’ll call
Uncle Jonathan and have him bring the contract with him next week.
Record it, Hank. It’s your song.”

She rose, stopping next to his chair.
Focusing on the distant cotton fields, she said, “It never occurred
to me until today someone else would have an entirely different
interpretation of the song. Thank you for showing me.”

He sat in the shade of the stately old
oak, listening to the soft hum of her car engine fade in the
distance. Somehow, she’d managed to assuage his guilt with a few
words. His love for her carried him into the barn, where he lost
himself in the music.

Chapter
Thirteen

She drove out of sight of the farm and
turned down a dusty road running along the creek edging Hank’s
farm. Under the shade of a cottonwood, she let her head fall back
on the headrest. His voice filled her mind. He’d forced her to see
the song in a new light, and in that, there was a freedom she’d
never felt before. He had given her a precious gift. By opening her
eyes to other interpretations of the lyrics, he had released the
song’s hold on her. Maybe in the future, she could listen to it and
hear it the way Hank and probably countless others heard
it.

His version would be a sensation in
its own right—a masterful interpretation brought to life by a man
whose skill rivaled her father’s.

She traced a finger across the
handwriting on the envelope lying on the passenger seat. She was in
love with Hank, and he was in love with her. His second version
convinced her, as nothing else could have.

It was a beautiful song. It deserved
to be recorded.

It could—no
would
—establish him as a
superstar in his profession, but she couldn’t bear for anyone to
hear the deeply personal, even intimate way he sang those words.
Once they’d lulled her to sleep, set to the sweet, poignant melody
her father had created, but Hank’s second version was different.
Hank sang his love as eloquently as he made love. He’d altered the
melody to suggest a deep and alluring passion, and it was too
personal to share, too close to her heart.

Anyone who heard it would know he
spoke of her, of them, and it would bring the paparazzi to her
doorstep. They would hunt to the ends of the earth to find her. Her
heart wasn’t strong enough to survive the public scrutiny again.
She’d openly displayed her love for her father, sometimes amid the
paparazzo’s flashing cameras, and despite the security measures
Uncle Jonathan had insisted on, the vultures had even been at her
father’s funeral, snapping photos of her and her mother. Those had
been plastered on magazine covers everywhere and still popped up
once a year on the anniversary of his death—her birthday. So, no.
The song wouldn’t see the light of day, not if she had anything to
say about it, and luckily, she was the only one who did have a
say.

She drove to the bank and placed the
envelope in the safety deposit box. After placing the airtight
container holding her father’s original recording in on top of
Hank’s envelope, she returned the box to the attendant.

Chapter
Fourteen

Nearly a week had passed
since she’d gone to the farm, and Hank hadn’t contacted her, nor
had she tried to contact him. She longed to see him, to hear his
voice, but it was better if she stayed away.
They'll break your heart.
Once, the
warning had seemed dramatic, but it seemed her mother had known
what she was talking about. Her heart was all ready broken over a
man she loved and couldn’t have. History repeating
itself.

She turned her grocery cart into the
next aisle, almost crashing into Hank as he studied the gazillion
varieties of cereal available. Their gazes met and held. She didn’t
know what to say, what to do. A million things went through her
mind—things she should say to him, but couldn’t.

“Hi, Mel,” he said, stepping behind
his cart so she could pass.

Her feet were glued to the floor. He
looked good. Maybe a little tired around the eyes, but still sexy
as hell. “Hank.”

He nodded at her full cart. “Getting
ready for company?”

She glanced at her load of groceries.
“Yes. Uncle Jonathan arrives tomorrow, but of course you know
that.”

“No. I thought he was coming in on
Monday. The band will be here then.” He indicated his overflowing
cart. “What I have here won’t even begin to feed the invading
hoard, but it’s a start. The wives will take over as soon as they
get here anyway. I’m just trying to get a head start.”

She unglued her feet and tried to move
past him in the aisle. His fingers wrapped around her upper arm,
halting her progress. Heat seared her skin from the light touch.
She shrugged, jerking her arm from his grip.

“Have you given any more thought to
what I said about meeting everyone? You know, chronicling the
recording?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I
can.”

“I wish you’d reconsider. Even if you
don’t write about it, I’d like you to be there.” He glanced up and
down the aisle, and even though there wasn’t anyone in sight, he
leaned closer and lowered his voice. “It would mean a lot to me and
the band to have you there. You, of all people, deserve to be a
part of the recording process.”