Dancing on a Moonbeam (Bedford Falls Book 1) (15 page)

Eleanor raised her brows. That wasn't going to go over well with Lily, but Barbara was welcome to figure that out on her own. "I'll let her know you were by."

"This is an awful mess," the woman said almost happily. "It's too bad you were stopped on the project, but this wasn't the best idea, was it?"

"Why not?" Eleanor asked, hands on her hips.
 

"Operating a business from your home?" Barbara wrinkled her plastic-surgeried nose delicately. "That's not what Fehrs do."

"Then it's good I'm not a Fehr any longer," she said, unable to tone down the bite in her words. She'd taken back her name the moment she'd signed the divorce papers over a week ago. "And I don't see how it's any of your business."

"You're tied to my family, for better or worse," the woman said grimly, making her opinion known that it was the latter for her. "I won't have you reflect poorly on our name."

"I'm opening a dance studio, not a house of ill repute." She took a deep breath and then tried to smile. "It's going to be great once it opens. A place where kids learn grace and discipline through movement. You'll see."

The woman stared at her. "When it opens?"

She nodded. "Everything's being sorted out with the building department. My crew should be good to start work again this week."

Barbara's cheeks flushed beyond the rouge she'd carefully applied. Then she bared her teeth in a smile. "That's lovely. I hope it all works out."

Eleanor stilled, watching her former mother-in-law make her way back out. Then she shivered, hugging herself. Was it just her, or did that sound more like a threat than a blessing?

Chapter 2

When Max's phone rang, he jumped to answer it, thinking it was Eleanor. He wanted to tell her everything was straightened out with the building department and that she was good to go on her project. He wanted to tell her to come over, not because he needed her help with his musical score but because he wanted more kisses.

He wanted more, period.
 

Which wasn't usual for him, but neither was the block he'd had on rewriting the musical score for Duggan Richter's next film.

But it wasn't Eleanor calling. It was an unknown number from Los Angeles, and that made his stomach tighten up. He answered it unenthusiastically. "Max Massimo speaking."

"Amadeus," a voice oozed from the other end of the line. "This is Eli Cohen."

Max winced, less at the man using his real name and more because Cohen was the last person he wanted to talk to.

"I'm calling to check on the new score," Cohen said in his slick Hollywood tone. "How's it coming along?"

It wasn't, but he still had almost two weeks, and that was plenty of time to rework the score he'd written. "I'll have it done by my deadline, like I promised."

"I was thinking about that…"

Max sat up. "About what, precisely?"
 

"I was talking to Angus Landot. You know Angus, right?"

Yeah, he knew the bastard. Landot was a total hack who'd made his career by poaching other peoples' songs, Max's included. He would have liked to subscribe to the "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery" school of thought, but every time he thought about it, he just wanted to punch the guy. "Why do you ask?" he asked Cohen.

"I was talking to Angus about coming on board." Cohen paused. "You know, if you're having trouble with the music."

"You gave me a deadline, and I'm going to reach it," Max said through clenched teeth. He wouldn't have minded punching Cohen right in that moment either.

Breathe, my love
, his mother's voice said in his head.
 

Right. He exhaled, telling himself that everything was going to be fine.

"I'm just covering my bases," Cohen said, trying to sound amicable despite the not-so-veiled threat. "Angus agrees with me about the direction of the music, so I feel good about bringing him in, you know? Not that you aren't going to pull this off, right, big guy?"

"Right," he said through gritted teeth. "What does Duggan think about Landot?"

"Duggan thinks whatever I think."

Duggan Richter was the hottest director in Hollywood at the moment. This was Max's second musical score with Duggan. Their first project, "The Mermaid's Journal," had almost gotten an Oscar nomination. More than that, he and Duggan had a symbiotic relationship that was rare. When they'd discussed contracting together for Duggan's next three films, Max had been thrilled.

Then Cohen decided to get involved, and now everything was falling apart.

Unless he could make a score that'd please all of them, which at the moment, seemed impossible.

"I know you understand where I'm coming from, Amadeus," Cohen said in a fake conciliatory tone. "I've got to have the bigger picture in mind, and that's several films down the road. We can't take this sort of setback again. It's costing me money, giving you time to redo the music—"

Bullshit. The film was delayed all around.
 

"—And, frankly, I've worked with Angus enough to know he won't have the same problem." Cohen sighed, as if he were regretful. "It's business, Amadeus. Nothing personal."

"It's a moot point, because you'll have a score you love when you asked for it," Max replied.

"I hope so," the producer said before hanging up.
 

Max got up and began to pace. He didn't like this aspect of the business; it frustrated the hell out of him. He knew it didn't help to get riled up like this. He'd let it go in a moment.

Put your anger into your music
, he heard his dad say.

If he did that, the score would turn out to be a lot of pounding. But because talking to his dad always made him feel better, he decided to call.
 

If he were going to give his dad a theme song, he'd pick Beethoven's 5th: strong and true, to the point, and unwavering. Complete, balls-out passion for the music. That was Leo Massimo. Music was everything to him.

His dad answered on the first ring. "That music you sent me, son," he said as a greeting.

Max held his breath. His dad's opinion was the only one Max ever listened to with unquestioning faith. It was the only opinion that mattered, after his own.
 

When he'd sent his dad the song he'd composed a few days ago, he'd been nervous, because he thought it was the best song he'd ever written, but he wasn't sure if it was just because he'd written it for Eleanor.

Not that she knew.

Not that he was about to tell her.

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, Dad?"

"That song"—his dad sighed—"that song is the most beautiful, haunting, emotional piece I've ever heard come from you. You took your heart and placed it on sheet music."

Max exhaled. "So I wasn't wrong."

"Wrong? Son, this is a masterpiece. What comes next?"

Looking out the window toward his neighbor's house, he shook his head. He had to work on the film score he was contractually bound to produce, for his future. Working on a random symphony inspired by a woman he'd met days ago didn't factor into his schedule. "Next I have to finish rewriting the score."

"How's that coming along?"

It wasn't. He'd come to Bedford Falls because his buddy, Liam McCullough, convinced him this would be the most quiet, peaceful place to work on the score.

Since, he'd had endless hammering and commotion from next door, not to mention Eleanor herself, whose very presence disrupted him in the most exciting ways possible.

Ways he didn't need right now. And then he made a deal to let her help him with his score. How did any of that make sense?
 

"Max?" his dad said, concern in his voice.

He blinked away the longing and focused on the conversation. "Sorry, Dad. I haven't made headway on it. I've been distracted by other things."

His dad, of course, figured Max meant the new music. "This is the start of a great symphony, son. If that's what you decide to do," Leo added quickly. "You know how your mother and I don't like pushing you kids in any direction you don't like to go."

"I know, Dad." He smiled. It was mostly his mom, a music therapist, who insisted that he and his brother and sister choose their own way. His dad had been satisfied though, because they'd all chosen musical paths.
 

"You'll get this done," his dad said with unwavering faith. "You've done this many times before. You just need to decide to finish it."
 

Yes, he needed to finish it. He suspected that having Eleanor come over to "help" wasn't the most practical way of getting it done.

But she'd made the deal to help, which was amazing in and of itself. Eleanor partly hated him because she believed he'd put a stop to her construction project. He hadn't, but Liam had, and that pretty much meant it was Max's fault. Add to that her recent divorce and her teenage child, and Eleanor was pretty much off limits.

Not that it'd stopped him from kissing her.

And not that he was going to cancel their agreement. He was desperate, but he wasn't a fool.

"I've got a student coming in to discuss music program options," his dad said.
 

"Okay, Dad."
 

"You'll get this done," his dad assured him. "You always do once you set your mind to it."

He nodded. "Thanks for the pep talk, Dad."

"Anytime. And call your mother. She worries about you." His dad paused and then added, "I love you, son."

"I love you too, Dad." He set his phone down and looked at the pages of sheet music scattered over the top of Liam's grand piano.
 

It was the song he'd composed for Eleanor, the one his dad agreed would make an excellent symphony.

Max gathered it all up, taking care as he neatly arranged the paper and notes. He set it aside and pulled out the folder that held the score for the film.
 

He could do this, he told himself, sitting down with grim determination and attacking the first movement.

Chapter 3

What did a muse wear?
 

"A long white Grecian gown, of course," Eleanor mumbled to herself, looking into her closet.

The only long white gown she had was her wedding dress. She pushed the hangers aside to look at the dress hanging at the very back. It was a fairy tale dress, the kind that could transform anyone into a beautiful princess.
 

It was just too bad it didn't have the power to make the fairy tale last forever. She touched the gauzy fabric, remembering the hope she'd felt that day.
 

False hope, she reminded herself, thinking of how her marriage had turned out. She pushed it back into the recesses of the closet and rearranged the other things hanging in front to hide it.
 

Right now, she needed something to wear to Max's when he texted her to come over. Something nice without seeming like she was trying. She glanced at a sundress. Maybe?

Maybe not. Instead she tugged a cotton shirt to layer over her tank top and leggings.

The doorbell rang.
 

Frowning, she went downstairs. It better not be Barbara or Charles. She looked through the glass, relieved when she saw it was her contractor, Travis Scott.