Lost Melody (35 page)

Happy Birthday,
Melody.

I love you.

No signature. No plea for her to
return. It was the first time she’d heard from him since Christmas
when he had sent the key with Uncle Jonathan. The CD was probably
an early cut of the new album—a polite gift because she had been
involved with the recording and nothing more. She turned it over,
looking for anything to make it more personal. Nothing. Just a
blank jewel case.

For the first time since her return to
Ravenswood, she sought out the small recording studio her father
had built in the basement. She located the CD player and put in the
disc. The first notes filled the air, and she sank like a stone
into the control room chair.

Hank’s voice filled the room. She
closed her eyes, remembering the spring day when he had played
“Melody” for her. She recalled every line of his face—the raw
emotion as he sang those words and put his innermost feelings on
display. His love wrapped her in a blanket of
contentment.

The song ended, and she pressed the
play button again. The second time, she forced herself to listen
with a degree of detachment. Why had he sent her another CD? She
had the only copy, didn’t she? Then she noticed the orchestration,
the background tracks. The soaring violins, the seductive clarinet,
other strings and voices rounded out the recording.

Her heart pounded against
her ribs. Her lungs fought for air, and tears formed twin rivers
down her cheeks.
How could he? He swore he
wouldn’t record it. How could he betray me?

She wrapped her arms around her
midsection and rocked back and forth until she had no more
tears.

In the cold clear light of morning,
she wondered if it was too late to stop him from releasing it. A
phone call from Sunny confirmed her worst fears. The song was on
every radio station across the country, and the reaction was
unanimous. It was a hit.

As the day wore on, she realized she
wouldn’t be able to fight him. Even her mother had heard it and
understood the implied message. It didn’t take a genius to figure
out to whom the song referred. After many tries, she got a call
through to Jonathan.

“Happy Birthday, luv,” he
said.

“Uncle Jonathan! What is going on? Did
you know he recorded this version of ‘Melody’?”

“Hank is desperate to get your
attention, and yes, I knew about it.”

“Did you know about it at Christmas?”
She sighed. “Of course you did. He recorded it in August. I can’t
believe you went along with him. I thought I could trust both of
you. I was wrong.”

“Have you really listened to it? Even
if you don’t like being the recipient of the sentiment you have to
admit, it’s a damned fine piece of work. I didn’t think anyone
could sing that song better or with more feeling than Milton, but
somehow Hank has done it. It’s the same song. He didn’t change a
word, but he changed the meaning entirely. Its bloody genius, is
what it is.”

“I know. He played it for
me months ago, and he promised—no, he
swore
no one would ever hear it if I
didn’t agree. And I didn’t agree, Uncle Jonathan. He lied to me.
What we have—
had
between us is ours. It’s private. He stands to make a fortune
from that song. I don’t think I can get past that.”

Jonathan explained about the
scholarship fund, how the money would to go to help music students
pursue their dreams, and that he agreed to match the money with a
donation of his own.

“Listen to it again,” he
said. “Really listen this time. I’ve never heard a more beautiful
love song in all my years. He did it for you.
You
inspired that kind of love. Take
it from someone who knows how hard it is to find. Don’t let a love
like that get away.”

“I can’t listen to it again. If he
really loved me, he wouldn’t have lied to me.”

Heartbreak manifested itself in the
form of headaches severe enough to keep her in bed for days at a
time with the drapes drawn against the gray winter light. She
hardly ate. Sleep was once again an elusive dream she needed but
couldn’t find.

Her research came to a standstill. On
the days she managed to get out of bed, she played the piano. She
had found stacks of handwritten sheet music in the attic, but she
didn’t know how to read it, so she simply made up songs to suit her
mood, which alternated between rage and melancholy. The piano keys
became her therapist. She expressed her deepest emotions and
thoughts through the music.

Slowly, she pulled herself together
and resumed work. She moved a stack of papers one morning and found
the note Hank had sent with the CD. She reread the few short words,
crumpled it in her fist, and tossed it into the
wastebasket.

Why had he done it when he
had given his word? Why hadn’t he
tried
to explain?

There was one piercing pain no amount
of music would alleviate. He hadn’t called.

Chapter
Thirty-four

The Chelsea Art District was lively
and colorful, and Hank loved it on sight. He’d been to New York
countless times, but never to this part of town. Leave it to Melody
to discover a gem in a barrel of rocks.

A bitter January wind blew through the
tunnel of buildings, and he wished he had thought to grab a heavier
coat before he’d ventured out. Huddled against the elements, he
studied the gallery window.

The works on display varied from
ultra-modern—which he couldn’t understand—to beautiful and
simplistic realism. Beyond the window, a lovely blonde woman sat at
a glass-topped desk near the back of the store. She appeared to be
the sole occupant—not surprising considering the holidays were over
and the weather inhospitable.

He entered the store, and she stood
and stepped around the desk. Smiling, she extended her hand. “I’m
Sunny Sheldon. Welcome to my gallery.”

He pulled off his glove and took her
small, fine-boned hand in his. Her skin was soft, her manicure
perfect. Her hair and makeup were flawless, and her suit fit her as
if it had been made just for her—and probably had been, he noted.
She was a high maintenance woman if he’d ever seen one, and despite
her radiant beauty, she wasn’t his type at all.

“Hi. I’m Henry. Henry Travis,” he
said.

Her eyebrows raised slightly, and her
hand slipped from his. “Are you in the market for something in
particular, Mr.Travis?”

He glanced around the room. “I have a
painting by a new artist, and I was hoping you might have some more
of her work. It was a gift from my fiancé, and I think she may have
purchased it from your gallery.”

He named the artist and
described the painting. He caught the flash of recognition in her
eyes.
For the painting, or does she know
who I am?

“I’m afraid I don’t have any of her
paintings at this time. She’s promised me more in the
future.”

“
Oh well, it was just a
thought. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“Have a seat, Hank.”

He stared at her, allowing her to
usher him to a chair facing her desk.

“No need to run off.” She returned to
her seat. “I promise not to bite. How is Melody? Is the engagement
official? I haven’t heard from her in days.”

What was going on here? “You know
Melody?”

She folded her hands on top of her
desk. “We met when she came into the gallery last month. The
painting she bought for you was in the front window. It struck a
chord with her, and she came in to see it. I recognized her name
from her credit card, and we found we have a lot in common. Have
you talked to her recently? What does she think of the song? It’s
fabulous by the way. You have an incredible talent.”

“Thanks. Uh, no, I haven’t talked with
her, and no, she hasn’t agreed to marry me yet. But she will. I
sent her a copy of the song before it was released, but she hasn’t
acknowledged it.” He frowned. “Do you mind telling me what you have
in common with Melody? I mean, she’s a very private person, so I
find it strange she would talk freely with you.” At her faintly
amused expression, he hastily added, “No offense
intended.”

She laughed. “None taken. I should
have mentioned right away when you didn’t recognize my name. My
father is Curtis Sheldon, the actor.”

It was his turn to smile. “Ah, yes,”
he said, nodding. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little slow today. I’ve
always enjoyed your father’s work, by the way.”

“I’m glad you didn’t recognize me.
Like you, I try to remain out of the public eye. Sometimes I
succeed, sometimes I don’t. Melody and I spent some time discussing
how to live under the radar. She’s a fantastic person, and I’m glad
to call her my friend.”

He nodded. “I appreciate you helping
her. She needs friends like you. I haven’t done a very good job
convincing her she can have the life she wants.”

“Give her time, Hank. She’s come a
long way from where she was.”

“You’re right, she has.” He
paused.

“Why did you really come here? I don’t
think you were interested in buying a painting, were
you?”

“I don’t really know why I came. I
just knew she’d been here. I love the painting, but I guess I just
wanted to be somewhere I knew she’d been. I know it sounds stupid,
but—” He threw up his hands in defeat. “—that’s all I’ve
got.”

“I wish I could help you,” she said.
“But I haven’t heard from Melody since the day the song was
released. I called her as soon as I heard it. I thought she would
be over the moon, but I didn’t get the impression she was happy
about it. In fact, she sounded pissed. Pardon my
French.”

“Yeah. She’s pissed all right. I took
a stupid chance, and it backfired on me.”

* * *

Hank wanted Melody back. He could see
her, feel her in his dreams. His body ached to hold her. He tried
to concentrate on his job, but his heart wasn’t in it. What he
lacked in spirit he compensated for by taking on additional
responsibilities for the upcoming tour.

The days passed slowly. He hounded
Sunny for information about Melody, and he questioned Jonathan
until the older man lost his patience.

“Do I look like her bloody babysitter?
She’s at Ravenswood. Do us all a favor and go talk to her
yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Jonathan. I just wanted to
know if she’s okay. She hasn’t even acknowledged the song. I
thought at the very least she might file suit to stop it, but she
hasn’t even done that.”

“She’s not going to sue. It surprised
her, and she’s bloody mad enough to take your head off. All she can
see is that you lied to her. You knew what you were doing when you
recorded the song so you’ve only got yourself to blame.”

Hank stood and rubbed the
back of his neck. “I know. I thought when she heard it, she would
understand how much I love her and come back. Instead, I may have
lost her for good. I wish I could go to Ravenswood, but I can’t. I
promised I would give her time to get her head on straight, and
it’s
one
promise I
intend to keep—even if it kills me.”

“If it doesn’t kill you, my friend,
someone else probably will, and soon, too. You’re taking your
frustrations out on all of us, and I can tell you, even your
friends are ready to push you under a bus.”

“You’re right. My troubles aren’t
their fault, and they shouldn’t have to suffer along with me.” He
met Jonathan’s gaze. “Thanks for listening and for the kick in the
pants. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Just find
a way to straighten things out with Melody.”

He had made a major mistake with the
recording and there was nothing he could do to fix it after the
fact. He’d broken his word to her, and he might have to pay the
ultimate price for it. There was a good chance she would never
speak to him again.

He worked day and night. As the
opening concert at Madison Square Garden approached, the infinite
number of problems, big and small, was more than enough to keep him
busy. No detail regarding the tour was too minute to escape his
attention. Guy Nichols and his staff were more than capable of
handling the details, as were the professional production crews.
The stage managers, tour, and production crews were competent
people BlackWing had worked with before, and he trusted them to
hire the best technicians available.

As the official representative from
the band, he met with every group involved in the massive
production from the skilled audio and electrical technicians to the
catering and wardrobe crews—not that they needed much more than
jeans and T-shirts, but someone had to see to it they had clean
clothes. When the truckloads of equipment arrived at the venue, he
even found time to meet with the truck drivers, who would haul the
equipment from city to city, as well as the bus drivers, who would
transport the crewmembers and the band on the shorter
trips.

They met the security team as a group.
It was important for everyone to know the safety routines and
cooperate fully with the experts hired to accompany them for the
next six months. Occasionally, fans could become overly zealous, or
in a few instances, just plain crazy. No one anticipated any sort
of violence, but they were all reminded of John Lennon’s untimely
demise at the hands of a crazed gunman. He hated the idea of a
bodyguard but resigned himself to having one for the next few
months. Taking chances was not an option.