Dancing on a Moonbeam (Bedford Falls Book 1) (2 page)

"What are you doing?" she asked, digging her heels in.

"Going to your room."

"Why?"

"Don't make me cart you over my shoulder," he warned.

He'd do it too, so she sighed and trudged behind him.
 

When they entered her room, he went to her closet and opened it. "Is this your wedding dress?"

"Yes," she said, flushing when she saw the bit of white in his hand. She wanted to stuff it back in, feeling like he'd uncovered a dirty secret. She should have given it away—she'd sold her wedding rings immediately. But her dress was so lovely.

"Where are your shoes?" he asked after a moment.
 

Grateful he didn't comment, she pointed to what had been Charles's closet.
 
"In the other one. The first thing I did when he moved out was convert the space for my shoes."

"Good girl." Letting go of her hand, he pushed open the doors.
 

She closed the other closet, touching a layer of tulle when Robbie wasn't looking. She loved this dress. Her wedding day had been magic, and everything in the world had been possible.

There was a thump from the other closet. "I always hated how he had all the closets," Robbie said.

She had too. Charles had never made room for her.
 

"Nice boots," Robbie said, holding up a red cowboy boot. "I've never seen you wear them."

"Because I haven't." She'd fallen in love with them and brought them home, but Charles had hated them. Garish, he called them. "Maybe I'll wear them when we egg Brunhilde's house."

"Good plan." Her best friend dropped to his knees and began rummaging through the shoes on the floor.

She watched, tipping the champagne bottle to her lips for another swig. "It won't do any good," she said after she swallowed. "I got rid of my dancing things."

"A-ha!" He held up a pink ballet slipper, his face lit with triumph. "Wait, the other one is here too."

She blinked, stunned, as he found the mate. They were worn and grayed, like pink ashes. "I thought they were gone," she murmured.

He got up and held them out to her solemnly. "These have been locked away for long enough."
 

She stared at them, afraid. They used to fit like a glove—what if they didn't fit anymore? It'd break her heart.

Robbie lifted her chin. "This is who you are, it's who you always have been. Don't let the fucker keep you from that anymore."

Swallowing the fear, she hesitantly took them from him.

"Maybe it's time to fall in love again."

"With dancing?"
 

He kissed her forehead. "With yourself."
 

Chapter 2

If Max had to choose a theme song for the man across from him, he'd pick "White & Nerdy" by “Weird Al" Yankovic.

In his years dealing with directors and production companies, he'd seen a lot of stereotypes, but this guy took the cake, down to the thick black-rimmed Woody Allen glasses. He knew the producer thought he was being cool and hip, but it wasn't working. If anything, the over-styled hair and sparkling new tennis shoes just made him look like he was trying too hard.

But Eli Cohen was the moneyman for this film, so whatever he wanted was okay.
 

Max stretched his legs and tried to ignore the way Cohen bopped his head to the music.
 

Frankly, it annoyed the hell out of him. The music he'd composed for the score was
not
head bopping music.
 

He wished he could figure out why he was here. On most gigs, he worked with the director, only interacting with the producer for the contract. He had a great relationship with Duggan Richter, the director of this film. Duggan and he had worked together on two films before this. They had more than a relationship: they had mutual respect and an understanding for music.

The only thing Eli Cohen understood was the bottom line.

Max crossed his legs, hearing his mom tell him to breathe.
 

Easy for her to say. She hadn't sat around for over an hour watching a man in heavy glasses listen to music she'd composed.
 

But he took a deep breath anyway. This was just a formality. He knew Duggan had signed with the production company to do three more films. Cohen putting him through the paces was fine, because he had no doubt he was going to be signed on as the composer. His last score had been a top contender for an Oscar award.

Not that he cared about that sort of recognition; that was icing on the cake. The only thing that mattered to him was the music. To compose great music, like Ennio Morricone—to affect people's hearts and evoke emotions—that was the ultimate award.

Cohen tugged the giant headphones off his head and leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and his hands steepled. "Amadeus."

Max winced at his name. Only his mom called him that.
 

He was from a musical family, meaning all the Massimo children had musical names. He thought his brother and sister got off lightly with Johann Sebastian and Carmen Violetta. But his parents had to have been high when they named him Amadeus Ravel. There was no other explanation.

Pushing his glasses up, Cohen made a face. "I like it, I think."

"You
think
?" Max sat up. "What's wrong with it?"
 

"Well, it's a bit like the score for 'The Mermaid's Journal', isn't it?"

This time, he did take a breath, because it was either that or leap across the desk and grab the man by the neck. "When I discussed the score for this movie with Duggan, he said he wanted something like I'd composed for 'The Mermaid's Journal'."

"I know. The music for that film was great. I want the same, too. I want the same"—Cohen lifted his hand and flipped it over—"only different."

Of all the—

An ohm would help
, his mother's voice said in his head.
 

The only thing that would help was strangling the idiot with his headphone cord.

Violence is never the answer, and neither is hate
, his dad's voice chimed in.
Only music, because music is all things
.

That
he believed, so he took a deep breath—minus the ohm—and tried again. "I can change a couple of the compositions and add more depth, if that's what you think it needs."

Cohen stroked his hairless chin. "It needs more than that," he said finally. "I want something with more
oomph
."

"More oomph," he repeated, not really sure what that meant. He was tempted to offer to throw in a few cymbal crashes, but he doubted the offer would be appreciated.

"Yeah. More of something." Cohen adjusted his glasses. "Look, Amadeus, the production isn't going as smoothly as I'd like. Filming isn't on track, and that's going to increase the budget. For the movie to be a success, I need to tighten all aspects of it to ensure a flawless release. That includes the soundtrack. So I'm going to need the best you've got. This is good, but I know you can do better."

Max stared at the little man for a long time before he said, "So you're saying you want me to rewrite the whole score."

"Exactly. I knew you'd feel me." Cohen smiled happily. "And because there's so much riding on this, I'll give you another three weeks to get it done."

Three weeks! It'd taken him four months to do this score. "That's not much time."

"I have faith in you, which is why I'm going to sign you for Duggan's next three movies, if you can deliver what I want now."

Max stared at the man. "Otherwise…?"

Shrugging, Cohen stood. "I'm sure you'll find work with another director."

He didn't want to work with another director. He and Duggan had the sort of collaborative energy that only came around once in a lifetime. Like Lucas and Williams, or Burton and Elfman. Working together would only enhance each other's creativity and drive them to greater heights—Max was positive about that.

But Cohen stood in the way.

Max only saw one choice: to compose a new score for the film. He got up, feeling grim satisfaction at towering over the little man. "I understand," he said through gritted teeth.

"I'm sure you do," Cohen said pleasantly, holding his hand out.

He was tempted to tell Cohen what he could do with his shake, but Max calmly gripped the producer's hand and said, "I'll send you the files when I finish."

Chapter 3

Eleanor didn't have the guts to put the ballet slippers on.

But she also couldn't put them away, so they sat on her dresser, taunting her. They were the first thing she saw when she woke up and the last thing she saw before she turned the lights off. Even when she was downstairs in the kitchen like she was now, she could feel them upstairs, mocking.

It pissed the hell out of her.

She snipped at her wheatgrass plant in the window planter. The thought that they wouldn't fit anymore haunted her, though. Wasn't she better off not knowing?

Not knowing what Charles had been doing in Manhattan all these years, when he'd stayed there during the week, hadn't done any good. She'd wanted a divorce before she'd found out about his indiscretions, but it had still hurt.
 

She stuffed the wheatgrass into her juicer and took pleasure in the abrasive grind of the machine. She watched the bright green liquid drip out the end, like liquid chlorophyll.
 

Fortunately, her cell phone rang, which put off having to down the shot. She picked it up, perking up when she saw it was her sister Eliza. "How's my baby nephew and his momma?" she asked the moment she answered.

"Lovely." Her sister sighed happily. "Why didn't you tell me being a mom was so cool?"

She thought about her sixteen-year-old brat and made a face. "You weren't ever into motherhood."

"I had my priorities out of whack.
N'est-ce pas, mon petit
?" she cooed, obviously talking to her baby. "Martin says he's happy I came to my senses."

Eleanor smiled wistfully, happy for her sister even if she was sad for herself. "I'm sure your husband is too."

"My husband is a saint."

"Xavier just loves you."

"He really does," Eliza said softly, her voice full of wonder.

Longing tightened her chest. "He's one of the good ones," she replied blithely, although she wasn't sure more than a handful existed. At the moment, Xavier and Robbie were the only ones she could come up with.

"What about you, Ellie?"

Only Eliza called her that nickname, and it always caught her straight in her heart. Eleanor blinked. "What about me?"

"What do you have going on?"

She glanced up at the ceiling, feeling the ballet shoes pressing down on her. "Why do you ask?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Do you know what Martha said to me before she passed away?"

Eleanor stilled. She hadn't expected her sister to bring up their grandmother. "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not," Eliza said cheerily, "but I'm going to tell you anyway."

She rolled her eyes, but she smiled a little too.