Dancing on a Moonbeam (Bedford Falls Book 1) (13 page)

But he closed his ears to her biting words, even though he knew he deserved them. It didn't matter that Liam had been the one to instigate the complaint; Max had been at the root of it, and he took responsibility for that.

Wincing, he finished the notation on the sheet music and set down his pencil. The irony that he still couldn't edit the movie score hadn't escaped him. It seemed like divine justice that the first song that came to him—the best song of his life—was about her.

He picked up his cell phone and called his dad, but he didn't pick up so he dialed his mom next.
 

"This is Stella," his mom said in her professional but melodic voice.

"It's your favorite child."

"Oh, Johann, I was just thinking about you," she said immediately.

Max grinned. "Nice one, Mom."

She chuckled. "I won't bother to call you Carmen next. How are you, Amadeus? Your father said you were in New York, working on your movie score."

"I'm working on something," he mumbled, thinking about Eleanor's lips.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. He imagined that his mom had the distant expression on her face that she got when she was trying to feel her way to a person's soul, to find words that'd help them.

Finally, she asked, "What are you listening to, my love?"

"Right now? Nothing."

"That's the problem. Listen to your heart."

He focused inward, trying to hear its beat.

As if sensing what he was doing, his mom said, "It shouldn't be difficult, Amadeus. You're not dead, after all, right?"

"I don't think so, no," he said with a wry grin.

"Exercise will make it easier to hear. Go for a walk."

He stood up and stretched. "You're a wise woman, Mom."

"I know," she said modestly. "And you show wisdom for noticing that."

Chuckling, he hung up, feeling better the way he always did when he spoke to his mom. He grabbed a jacket and headed out the door.

He decided to walk to town, to reward himself with a cappuccino. As he approached the square, he noticed the candy cane striped pole outside the barbershop and decided to stop in.

There were four chairs, and they were all occupied. One of the white-coated men looked up from the head he was clipping to point at the couch in front. "Have yourself a seat and I'll be right with you."

"Thank you," he mumbled, trying not to judge the man based on his apparent age, which could have been a hundred and fifty by the looks of him.
 

The entire place was from another time. Max glanced at the price list hanging next to the counter and grinned. Even the prices were old school, like the décor that was so different from the trendy salon he went to in Los Angeles.
 

He liked it though. He felt comfortable, despite the worry that his barber looked like he might keel over at any moment.

The old man finished with his customer, brushing off the man's neck with a flourish. They exchanged money and some exuberant pleasantries before the barber cleaned his station and waved Max over. "I'm ready for you, young fellow."

Max took the chair, leaning forward as the man snapped a cape around him. The barber's movement of his body was sure and economical, with an old school charm. His hands were reassuringly steady.

The song that came to mind for the barber was "Souvenirs" by Django Reinhardt. Surefooted and nimble, with a lively attitude.
 

"You really need a trim, don't you, young fellow?" the man said, examining Max's head from under the rim of his glasses. "Good thing you came to see me. I'll fix you right up."

He relaxed in the chair, not doubting that for a moment. "Thank you, sir."

"My name is Bernie," the barber said, getting a fresh comb from a jar. "You're new in town."

"I'm Max." And then because he knew it was coming, he added, "I'm having a work retreat for a few weeks."

"You a writer?"

"Composer."

Bernie nodded, lips pursed. "We've got lots of writers of all sorts here in Bedford Falls. The water inspires creativity, I'd say. You staying at the inn?"

"At a friend's house." To head off the next inevitable question, he mentioned the street name.
 

The old man paused, scissors and comb poised, face scrunched. "It must be the Reynolds' house, because it's the only one out that way where no one lives in it permanently. Have you met little Eleanor?"

The object of his fantasies and current muse? "I've run into her."

"Lovely girl. Her aunt owns the bookstore, and her father is a local celebrity. You know Jack Westwood? He's a writer. He won the Pulitzer for fiction a number of years back. Eleanor used to be a prima ballerina with the Joffrey Ballet," Bernie continued.

"Really?" Max blinked in shock. She said she'd danced, but he hadn't realized to what degree. To dance with the Joffrey she had to have serious talent. And yet she'd stepped away from it.

Bernie nodded, inspecting the side of Max's head. "Too bad she got mixed up with that Fehr boy. Some families breed true, and the Fehr family is one of them, and not in a good way. Entitled, the lot of them. Tilt your head forward."

Why was it too bad? He did as he was told but said, "She has a daughter, doesn't she?"

"Lily." Bernie lowered his glasses and gave Max a piercing look. "The next couple years will tell whether that girl becomes a true Westwood or a Fehr. Now that her father is out of the picture, there's hope for her."

"Where's her father?" Max silently thanked his parents for the millionth time in his life. There wasn't a day he wasn't grateful at how great they'd been, mistakes and all.
 

"In Manhattan, with his priorities out of whack." Bernie focused on Max's head, his knotted hands moving with amazing agility and speed.

Max was trying to decide what to ask next when suddenly the barber said, "There. You're as good as new."

Regretfully, he got up after Bernie brushed him off. He paid the man and put his jacket back on.

"I'll see you next week," Bernie said as he walked Max to the door. "You'll still be around, won't you?"

He usually got a trim every four weeks, but he found himself saying, "Yes, sir, I'll still be in town."

"Good." Bernie clapped him on the back. "Maybe we'll give you a shave next time. Ladies prefer Cary Grant, not Paul Bunyan."

"I'll trust you on that, sir," he said as he left the shop. He walked down to the café, disappointed when Clara wasn't there.
 
He got a cappuccino still and went to sit on the bench in the square.

He sat there, listening to his surroundings because he couldn't hear his heart. He picked up on the beat intrinsic to Bedford Falls, tapping his fingers on his leg as he called up a melody from his score. He was straining to feel it when he looked up and noticed Eleanor's daughter coming his way.

This time she headed straight for him. "Mom's acting weird," she said as she took a seat at the opposite end of the bench.
 

"All parents act weird from their children's point of view," he replied philosophically.

"Yeah, but she's acting weirder than usual." Lily studied him. "I think it's your fault."

Guilty as charged. He sipped his cappuccino, not feeling the need to reply.

"You've got Mom all worked up, with the remodeling and stuff."
 

It was fair play, because Eleanor had him all worked up too, just in a different way.

Lily pursed her purple-lipsticked lips. "She's never been like this, not even when she and Charles got divorced."

"You call your dad by his first name?"

She shrugged. "What do you call yours?"

"Dad."

"Kind of obvious, isn't it?" She looked around and then refocused on him. "So what's your story?"

"I'm here, working on composing some music."

"Are you famous?" she asked.

"Not really, but my younger sister is the lead singer for Wild Abandon."

"Seriously?" Lily sat up and looked at him like he'd finally proven he was worthy of her attention. "I wrote a story based on their song 'Time Stops'."

"Because you love words." He nodded. That was Carmen's best-selling hit so far and a pretty good song. "So you write, like your grandfather?"
 

Her face went blank. "I can't write like that."

This again. He wondered if Eleanor knew that her daughter had a block where writing was concerned. "Of course not. You have to write like yourself. I love Beethoven, but no matter how hard I try I'm not going to be able to make music like him."

"Hmm." She glanced over her shoulder at the street.

"Are you waiting for someone?" Max asked.

"My ride. There he is." She stood up, hiking her bag on her shoulder. She stared at him.
 

He looked for Eleanor in the teenager's face, but Lily didn't have the soft music of her mother. Somehow, he doubted she had much of her father in her either. He felt an odd strain of sympathy. Being a changeling was hard.

"I think having a dance school in the backyard is nuts," she said suddenly.
 

"Maybe your mom needs to go a little nuts," he countered.

"
You
think it's crazy too, obviously, since you stopped it."

He shook his head. "I didn't complain. My friend Liam did. I'm not going to lie and say I wasn't put out by the noise, but when a person wants something as bad as your mom wants that studio, it's never a bad idea."

Lily gave a doubted
humph
and then walked to the waiting car.

He watched her get in. The boy in the driver's seat smiled at her and waited until she put her seat belt on to drive off. They went in the opposite direction from home.
 

He wondered where they were going and if Eleanor knew about the boy.
 

Not that it was his problem. Not his circus, not his monkey, as his brother Johann always said.

His
circus was currently a silent one that needed some music to bring it to life. Max got up from the bench to head home, feeling time pinch narrower as his deadline loomed.

Chapter 17

"We have a problem," Travis said the second Eleanor answered the phone.

"Not another one." She rubbed her forehead. "Will I need to sit down?"

"Maybe." He continued without preamble. "In order to get the complaint taken care of and a work order in place, I need to get a sign-off from the building inspector."

Maybe she should sit down. She pulled out a chair from the table. "And he won't give you a sign-off?"
 

"He's not here to give me a sign-off." Travis exhaled in obvious frustration. "He's in the Dominican Republic for the next couple weeks."

"So someone else must be able to okay things in his place," she said.

"You'd think there'd be someone else, but there isn't. That's small town life for you. Things are just at a standstill at the building department. So you're looking at another few weeks before we can continue, and that's only if he actually signs off on the project."

She closed her eyes. Why was she even bothering to do this?
 

Because it was what she wanted, and she wasn't going to let anyone tell her she couldn't have what she wanted. She'd spent too many years accepting the
No
's people gave her.
 

As if sensing her resolve, Travis said, "There's a way to get past this sooner though."

She opened her eyes. "Tell me."

"If the complaint is dropped, I can go ahead and get permits without involving the code enforcer."

"I'll get the complaint dropped," she said with grim determination.

"I wouldn't bet against you," he said with a chuckle. "I'm here when it's done."

"Thanks, Travis." She hung up.

"What are you doing?" Lily asked, walking into the kitchen.

"Plotting revenge on Max, next door, for filing a complaint against me." She looked at her daughter, who was dressed like she was going clubbing. "Are you going to a party tonight?"