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Authors: Roz Lee

Tags: #romance, #texas, #love story, #rock and roll

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BOOK: Lost Melody
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Without missing a beat, he rose,
poured them both a tall glass of orange juice, and shoved the glass
and another doughnut in front of her.

She tried not to react when he talked
about how her father’s death had affected him, but his words
sounded sincere. He told her how he had grieved, how “Melody” spoke
to him. How the song had validated his soul-deep love of music. How
he’d decided to pursue a music career because of
“Melody.”

If it was all an act, it was a good
one.

“Do you have another tape? This one is
done.”

His swift change of subject startled
her. “Uh, no.”

“Okay. Why don’t we take a tour of the
farm? Afterward, I’ll take you into town for lunch. You can get
more tapes, or we can call it a day after lunch.”

He led her through the house. She made
appropriate comments as he pointed out various things, including
the small, upright piano his mother had taught him to play. He told
her how he moved it from his dad’s house with the help of a couple
of friends, and how they almost dropped it trying to get it out of
the pickup and into the house.

They moved through the
house and out to the barn. The barn was no longer a place to house
animals, hay, and farm implements. Presently, it contained a
state-of-the-art recording studio, several sound proof rehearsal
rooms, and Hank’s private office. The recording studio was
ultra-modern, but his office could have been beamed straight out of
a nineteenth-century gentleman’s club.
Or
Ravenswood.

A cozy sitting area boasted a brown
leather sofa, two matching chairs, and a coffee table large enough
to dance on and, by appearances, sturdy enough to take the
abuse.

The open laptop computer and an
electronic keyboard seemed out of place. Other than a neat stack of
file folders and the computer, the massive carved wood desk was
unadorned. Matching bookcases held Grammy and People’s Choice
awards, as well as framed photos and assorted mementos. Gold and
Platinum records covered warm green walls. A deep-pile rug softened
the hardwood floor.

Traditional lamps scattered around the
room provided low but adequate lighting. As with the rest of the
barn, there were no windows.

“Well, what do you think?” he
asked.

“It’s incredible. I’ve never seen
anything like it.” In fact, it all appeared very professional.
However, she couldn’t help but wonder what really went on here.
Wild parties? Drugs? Alcohol? Did the farm and the whole town fill
with groupies willing to do anything for the musicians they
idolized?

“I had it built after our first CD
went Platinum. We’ve recorded here ever since.”

“Why spend so much money on your own
studio? Wouldn’t it be cheaper to rent space somewhere?”

“Probably, but the guys are away from
their families for months at a time. I have the farmhouse. It
doubles as a resort of sorts. They all move in here for the
duration. It’s worked so far.”

“They bring their families?” She
couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice.

“Yeah. It’s great. You should see it.
The house is full of kids. It takes about a month to clean the
place up after they leave, but I love having them here.”

“Who else comes?”

“Technicians, back-up
musicians.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much, why?”

“No reason. I was just wondering.” He
sounded like he was telling the truth, but it didn’t jive with the
lifestyle her mother said rock musicians lived. And if anyone
should know, it would be her mother, Diane Harper
Ravenswood.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Six

Hank dropped her at her house,
promising to have her Jeep delivered later. She collapsed on the
sofa, grateful for the peace and quiet. Hank Travis could talk the
bark off a tree. Eventually, she got up and made herself a cup of
tea.

Thinking back over her day, she was
both appalled and intrigued. Appalled at his proposal—if that’s
what it was—and intrigued by the prospect of writing a book about
him.

There were several unauthorized
biographies of her father’s life, and the estate had been
approached countless times over the years with requests to pen an
authorized version—complete with interviews with her and her
mother. Her mother declined them all, choosing instead to remain
out of the public eye. And other than her father’s best friend and
the executor of his estate, Jonathan Youngblood, they’d had no
contact over the years with the people from her father’s
life.

Anytime the subject came up, Diane
would admonish her daughter, “Stay away from musicians. They’ll
break your heart.” She’d heard the mantra her entire life, and her
parent’s marriage was evidence of the wisdom of the
statement.

Late in the afternoon, a couple of
farmhands returned her Jeep, along with a note from
Hank.

Come for breakfast. Eight
a.m.? I’ll cook.

H.T. Jr.

Her mother’s words echoed in her ears
as she turned into his driveway promptly at eight o’clock the next
morning. Only twenty-nine days to go, and she would walk away, get
the heck out of Dodge. Maybe write a book. She could write
anywhere—use a pseudonym, remain completely off the grid. By the
time word got around town that Melody Ravenswood was in
Willowbrook, she would have the material she needed and be long
gone.

The smell of bacon cooking drew her
around to the back of the house where Betty Boop, ever the vigilant
watchdog, greeted her enthusiastically on the porch. She followed
her nose and found Hank in the kitchen looking nothing like the
serious rocker she imagined he was on stage.

He stood in front of the stove
juggling a variety of cast iron cookery. Instead of drumsticks, he
wielded a greasy spatula. Barefoot, he wore a bib apron adorned
with red apples and ruffles trimmed with red crochet work. The
apron protected a blue oxford-style shirt and tan
chinos.

A smile tugged at her lips.
“Hi.”

“Oh, hi.” He waved the spatula at her.
“I didn’t hear you drive up.”

“I’m not too early, am I?”

“Right on time.” He slid two pancakes
from the griddle to a plate and poured two more from the bowl of
batter on the counter. “Make yourself at home. Breakfast is almost
ready.”

“Do you cook often?” she asked,
admiring the way he made it appear easy. If she’d been cooking that
many things at once, guaranteed something, or everything, would be
burned.

“When I’m home. It’s a drive into
town, and I’m sure you’ve noticed Willowbrook is a little short on
eating establishments. I cook enough to get by. Breakfast is my
specialty.”

He’d already set the table with
plates, napkins, utensils, and glasses of orange juice. She sat at
one place setting, quietly moving the adjacent setting to the other
side of the table.

“I also grill a pretty good steak, and
I can stir up a killer pot of chili,” he said.

“Good to know, if I ever need to kill
anyone with chili.”

He laughed. “I’m glad to see you
brought your sense of humor today.”

He set a platter loaded with pancakes,
scrambled eggs, and bacon on the table and sat in the new location
without comment. “Dig in.”

“I thought I could show you how I work
today.”

She added pancakes and bacon to her
plate, absolutely certain the last thing she wanted to do today was
watch him work. But if she went through with his interview plan,
she would have to get over her prejudices and fears, sooner rather
than later.

Memories floated to the surface. One
in particular stood out. She’d been around eight years old. It had
been a magical time, spent with her father on one of her summer
visits to his estate in England. She could still see her father
playing her song on the grand piano in the music room of the
ancient manor house. He usually sang her song a cappella, and she
loved the times when he would play the accompaniment
too.

Another memory slammed into her—one
much more recent. “I have to ask you something,” she said, cutting
into the stack of pancakes she no longer thought she could eat—not
with the way her stomach was churning. “The other day when I met
you at your dad’s house, you were listening to something on your
MP3 player. What was it?”

“I don’t remember. I have about two
thousand songs, and they play in random order. Why?”

“No reason. I was just
curious.” She forced herself to chew and swallow the pancakes. Did
he really not remember, or was he lying because he’d been listening
to her father’s song—
her
song?

 

* * *

 

“Let’s go,” he said after the kitchen
was once again spotless. “I’ll walk you through my day. It’s pretty
mundane actually, so try not to go to sleep on me.”

“I think I can handle it,” she
said.

He produced a stack of mail from a
drawer and paid his household bills. If she wanted to see what his
life was really like, well, it didn’t get more real than sorting
mail and paying bills. She’d soon realize his life was mostly
boredom, punctuated by brief periods of creativity.

“Don’t you have an
accountant?”

“No. I have one for everything related
to my business, but I like to take care of my personal expenses. It
makes me feel normal. How about you?”

“Same,” she answered. “I pay my own
personal bills. I don’t like the idea of an office full of
strangers knowing which stores I shop in, or criticizing how much I
spend.”

“You can tell me where you buy your
panties. I won’t tell anyone.”

Her cheeks flamed instantly, and she
turned her back to him as if studying the awards lining the wall.
He returned to his bills, satisfied with the reaction he’d received
from the off color remark. He laughed to himself. It was easy to
throw her off kilter, and he enjoyed watching her get all hot and
bothered.

As fun as it was to tease her, he
admired her. It must have been difficult growing up, hiding her
identity from her friends. He could understand why her mother made
the choice to live quietly, away from public life, but it must have
taken a toll on her and her daughter. Coming into his celebrity
status as an adult, he’d had more choices in the way he handled
it.

He’d almost forgotten their last
exchange when she spoke, “I shop at Victoria’s Secret. How about
you?”

She spoke so softly, still facing the
wall, that he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. He replayed it in
his head before responding. Visions of angels in underwear with
less substance than clouds invaded his brain. Good Lord, was she
flirting with him?

“JC Penney. Want to see
them?”

“Tighty-whities?”

Damn. She
was
flirting. Who knew
she had it in her? His heart rate skyrocketed. He watched her
carefully, hoping she would remain across the room. Most of his
blood had rushed to his groin, making him lightheaded, among other
things. His mouth was as dry as the Sahara. “I’ll show you mine if
you show me yours.”

She spun around. Her stricken
expression made it clear the flirting episode had come to an end.
She drew in a deep breath, restoring her outward shell. Bright
splotches of color on her cheeks were the only remaining sign of
their verbal sparring.

“I’m sorry. That was unprofessional
and out of line. It won’t happen again.”

Disappointment stabbed him in the
chest. For a few seconds, he thought perhaps he’d caught a glimpse
of Melody Ravenswood, but Mel Harper, reporter had returned. He’d
enjoyed the exchange. There was a real woman inside the walls she
had built around herself. He decided to do whatever it took to
bring her out again. He didn’t think he had much of a future with
Mel, but Melody was another story altogether.

“I don’t mind. Just please don’t print
that. I think my underwear choices could be considered too much
information.”

“I wouldn’t print anything so
personal.”

“Good. I’m glad we understand each
other. I won’t tell a soul about Victoria’s Secret, or should I
say, Mel’s secret?”

 

They lunched on sandwiches in the
farmhouse kitchen, and then he led the way to one of the soundproof
rehearsal rooms, leaving Betty Boop to sleep off her meal under a
shade tree in the backyard.

Mel sat in a plush easy chair in one
corner and he took his place behind the elaborate drum kit. He
flipped switches on the panel mounted on the wall behind him and
picked up a set of headphones.

“Listening to me practice is probably
going to be boring for you. All you’ll be able to hear will be the
drums. I hear the track through the cans.” He held up the
headphones in explanation. “If it gets too much for you, there are
some sound muffling headphones in the drawer next to your chair, or
you can slip out. I won’t mind. It’s boring stuff for most
people.”

“Do you practice every
day?”

BOOK: Lost Melody
5.16Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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