Lost Melody (4 page)

“Good night, dear. I think I’ll just jot down a few notes before I go to sleep.” Nana stood and draped the afghan across the back of the sofa. “There’s so much to do, we’re bound to forget something if we don’t take notes.”

Jill laughed. “Get some sleep, Nana. We have a whole month.”

When she left the room, Nana was rummaging in a drawer of her desk, mumbling about never being able to find a pen when she needed one. Jill climbed the wooden stairs that led to her apartment. Discomfort twinged in her injured hip with every upward step.

In the darkness of her kitchen, she paused for a moment. Should she make a cup of herbal tea to take to bed with her? No, the clock on the microwave read past eleven. Too late for tea. She crossed the living room, made a wide pass around the dark
shape that used to occupy eight or ten hours of every day, and flipped the light on in her small bedroom. The bed dominated the available space, leaving barely enough room for a nightstand and chest of drawers along the far wall, opposite the closet.

Where would she and Greg live? Surely he wouldn’t want her to move into his apartment, which wasn’t much bigger than this one, only without the beautiful ocean view. But would he move in here and live upstairs from Nana? At the idea of moving out of her grandmother’s house, a surprising wave of homesickness washed over Jill. She’d lived with Nana since she was fourteen years old, when the stroke had robbed her of her mother. Eleven years. At first she’d lived in the spare bedroom downstairs, but then she’d taken over the upstairs apartment when she came home from college. She guessed that if Greg preferred to live somewhere else, Nana could rent this place again.

A small sigh escaped Jill’s lips. So many changes. At times the weight of them threatened to crush her like …

A weight across her body crushed her, pinned her down. She tried to push it off …

With a start, Jill shoved the memory away and jerked open the second drawer of her chest, which held her pajamas. Some changes were good. She and Greg would have a happy life together. The decision to offer piano lessons was also a good change. Giving lessons would help her move forward, help her do something with her time other than sit in front of the television set all day. Like Nana said, she’d be able to bless others with her gift. At least all those years of study wouldn’t go completely to waste.

She ignored the tightness in her chest as she readied herself for bed and slid beneath the heavy quilt. When she turned off the light, strains of music flowed through her head, as they had done since she was a girl. Waltzes, concertos, sonatas. But tonight
she refused to let the music she’d worked so hard to learn lull her to sleep. That kind of music was forever denied to her. With his final breaths, Robert had whispered that God would not take her music away from her, but that was only the wish of a dying man. One God hadn’t seen fit to grant.

Why, God? Why did you let this happen to me?

A heavy silence met her unspoken question.

Fumbling blindly in the dark, Jill opened the drawer on her nightstand and felt inside for the bottle of sleeping pills. She hadn’t taken one in months, but the doctor had prescribed them for nights like this, when her thoughts refused to be tamed.

A weight pressed on her chest …

Jill sat straight up in bed, heart thundering in her throat. She struggled to draw breath into uncooperative lungs. The sound of her gasping attempts filled the dark bedroom, like someone choking on a sip of water that had gone down the wrong way.

I’m having a panic attack. Can’t breathe. I’ve got to relax.

She forced herself to focus on tactile details of her immediate surroundings — the soft mattress beneath her, the chill of the air in the room, the warmth of the quilt, the comforting scent of the salty Atlantic that permeated every room in the house. Before long her lungs relaxed and she was able to inhale deep, wonderful breaths of oxygen.

When her breathing returned to something that resembled normal, she slipped out of bed and stumbled through the dark apartment to the kitchen. A drink of water, that’s what she needed. Something to soothe her raw, burning throat.

Green numbers glowed from the clock on the microwave.
Four twenty-three. She filled a glass with tap water and gulped it down, not even caring that it was lukewarm.

Was it normal to have a panic attack while sleeping? It had never happened before. What set it off?

She set her glass in the dish drainer and leaned against the counter. A dream. Yes, she remembered now. She’d had a dream, something about …

A disaster. Large-scale and devastating. A disaster in Seaside Cove. Her pulse picked up speed again.

It was just a dream. Forget it. No need to panic.

But she couldn’t forget it. What kind of disaster? An earthquake, maybe? Or a fire? She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to recall the details. Tried, and failed. All that remained was a sense of urgency that suddenly gripped her like a fist, and a crazy idea that became more insistent with every passing moment. This was more than just a dream. She knew it.

She dreaded the thought, but she had to warn the people of Seaside Cove.

Friday, November 25

“I don’t know, Greg.” Bob Carmichael stirred slow circles in his coffee, his free arm draped across the empty straight-backed chair beside him. “I hate to say it, but Samuels has a point. The Cove can’t afford all these expensive renovations you’re talking about.”

Greg sopped up the last bite of egg with a corner of wheat toast and bit into it to give himself time to formulate his response. He and Bob had attended the same church since Greg first moved to town, and Greg had handled some minor legal affairs for him over the years. The news that Bob was leaning toward supporting Samuels’s reelection bid had come as a surprise. He’d been counting on Bob’s support.

The small dining room of The Wharf Café was almost deserted this morning. The owner and cook, Rowena Mitchell, worked the grill behind the counter by herself. The sizzle of bacon frying vied with a fifties’ tune coming from a boom box tucked up on a high shelf beside an old-fashioned metal canister set. Rowena’s off-key hum added a homey charm to the atmosphere
inside the café. As Greg swallowed a gulp of coffee, she burst into a full, throaty chorus, waving the spatula above her head and winking broadly at a pair of weathered fishermen seated at the counter. They applauded, laughing, obviously infatuated with the flirty café owner, who was at least forty years their junior.

Greg pushed his empty plate aside and rested his forearms on the table. “I’ve gotta admit I’m surprised you’d take that attitude, Bob. Your business can only get better with an increase in the tourist trade. People love to fish, and your
Lucy
is the best-looking charter boat on the dock.”

“You’re right about that, but I’m not talking about my own business. We can’t all just look out for ourselves, you know. We have to think about the town. The Cove doesn’t have much money to spend on things like upgrading the docks and advertising for tourists.” He pursed his lips, clearly uncomfortable to be in disagreement with Greg. “What if we spend a ton of money and no tourists come?”

“I hear what you’re saying, and I appreciate the fact that you’re civic-minded.” Greg tossed the last uneaten crust of bread on his plate. “But the town is falling into disrepair. People are moving away, leaving the area, because there’s not enough business to keep them here. If we keep going at the rate we’ve been going for the past ten years or so, we’ll be in serious trouble.” He leaned forward and held the man’s eyes. “Besides, I just
know
we’ll see an immediate response if we spread the word about what a great place we’ve got here. We’re the best-kept secret in Nova Scotia. We’ve got to let the secret out or this town won’t survive another couple of decades.”

Bob didn’t meet his eye, but his disagreement was plain on his face.

“Look, do me a favor.” Greg pointed toward one of the page-size
posters Rowena had tacked around the room advertising his upcoming event. “Come to the meeting Monday night. I’m going to lay my plan out in plain sight for everyone. Listen to what I have to say before you make a decision.”

“I suppose I could do that.”

The answer, grudgingly given, was at least better than a flat refusal.

“I appreciate that,” Greg said. “I’ll do my best to lay your fears to rest.”

Rowena bustled over with a carafe to refill their cups. “I don’t know what you’re talking about over here, but you’ve got two of the sourest pusses I’ve seen in a long time. Anybody didn’t know you, they’d think you’re about ready to hop over the table and start pounding on each other.”

Bob’s scowl became a sheepish smile.

Greg wiped the serious look off his face and chuckled. “We’re talking politics. Did you ever know anybody to smile over politics?” He put a hand over his coffee cup when she tried to pour more into it. He’d had enough coffee this morning to last him all day and halfway through the night.

“Ah, that explains it.” She stacked Greg’s empty plate on top of Bob’s, but instead of picking them up, cocked her hip sideways and rested a hand on it to spear Greg with a speculative stare. “I heard a rumor about you this morning, darlin’. You want to refute it?”

“Depends on what you heard.”

“I heard you proposed to Jill King, and she said yes.”

Gossip traveled fast in the Cove, especially when it was news that Jill’s grandmother wanted to spread around. How many people had Ruth called already this morning, at — he glanced at his watch — not even nine o’clock?

He didn’t bother to stop the grin that took possession of his lips. “Well, that’s one rumor I can confirm.”

Across the table, Bob brightened. “You and Jill are getting married? Hey, that’s great news.”

“There goes the town’s most eligible bachelor, hooked right out from under my nose.” Rowena cut her eyes sideways at Greg and pulled a pretty pout. “I guess I’ve just been fishing with the wrong bait, huh?”

Bob laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with your bait, Rowe. The right fish just hasn’t swum close enough to get snagged yet.” He nodded across the table at Greg. “Congratulations to you and Jill. I used to love hearing her play at church, and my wife listens to her CD at home all the time. She was quite a piano player before that subway crash. Closest thing the Cove has to a celebrity.”

“And she’s going to marry another celebrity.” Rowena rubbed a hand across Greg’s shoulder before picking up the dirty dishes. “Our next councilman is sitting right here.”

Greg’s lips twitched. “I don’t know if councilman for Seaside Cove counts as being a celebrity.”

“Besides, the election is still a ways off.” Bob pulled out enough money to cover his breakfast and tossed it on the table.

Greg did the same, and rose when Bob did. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me this morning.”

The two shook hands. “Glad I did. All I can say is, I won’t make up my mind until I’ve heard you out.”

“Fair enough. I’ll see you Monday night, then.”

Bob raised a hand in farewell and headed out the door. Greg stared after him, his spirits flagging. He’d known when he started this campaign that he had an uphill battle ahead of him. Samuels, the incumbent, was a well-known local man, while Greg was a
transplant to the Cove and not nearly as visible. He knew he would have to overcome the townspeople’s natural distrust of outsiders, and especially of a newcomer to politics. But it had never occurred to him that he wouldn’t have the support of those who knew him personally, who worshipped with him and Jill every Sunday morning.

“Don’t you worry about Bob. He’ll come around.” Rowena set down the carafe to balance the coffee cups on top of the plates. “Besides, you’d better wipe that long, sad look off your face or people will think you’re not happy about getting married. It’s a happy day, right?”

The words lifted his spirits like a birthday balloon soaring into the sky. Rowena was right. The most beautiful woman in the world had said yes. They were getting married.

“You’re right.” He turned a grin on Rowena. “This is a happy day.”

“This is a terrible day!”

Jill sprawled in the padded vinyl chair in her counselor’s office, threw her head against the high back, and dropped her hands over the sides. As usual, Doreen Davenport’s expression remained passive, her pink lipsticked mouth arranged into a pleasant, not-quite smile. She took her time crossing from the closed door to the neat desk, selecting a ballpoint pen from the crowded holder on the corner, and lowering herself into the chair beside Jill’s.

“Now.” She clicked the pen and leveled a calm gaze on Jill’s face. “Why is this a terrible day?”

“Because I’m not fixed yet and I’m getting married.” The last
word came out in an unintended wail.

“First of all, the term
not fixed
presupposes that you’re
broken,
and you’re not. And second —” Nonchalance gave way to a wide grin. “You’re getting married? That’s wonderful news, Jill. Congratulations.”

Jill lifted her head off the high chair back. “No, it’s not. Last night it was wonderful news. Today it’s a fiasco in the making. And you can say I’m not broken all you want, but I’m obviously not recovered yet. I’m not normal.”

Doreen’s smile twitched downward the merest fraction. “Why do you think you’re not normal?”

The ludicrousness of the question silenced Jill for a moment. How could she even begin to answer? In fact, why did she have to, when the answer was so obvious? But this was the way sessions with Doreen went. She forced Jill to describe every emotion, every memory, in excruciating detail. Then she rarely voiced an opinion, merely nodded and murmured, “Hmmm,” or prodded with frustratingly ambiguous questions like, “And how did that make you feel?”

But Jill had to admit the weekly sessions did help. Within the walls of this office she could vent her frustration, or mourn her loss, or literally scream at the unfairness of life, without fear of damaging someone’s opinion of her or, worse, evoking their pity.

She folded her hands in her lap and inhaled a long, slow breath tinged with the faint aroma of lemon-scented furniture polish. “Normal twenty-five-year-olds have jobs. They go to work every day. They don’t hover in their houses to avoid meeting people on the street who might ask, ‘How are you doing, Jill?’ or say, ‘Such a terrible thing, that accident.’” The doctor’s face blurred behind Jill’s tears. “Greg’s going to be a politician. He deserves a wife who can help him win elections, not one
who runs from the public. Not one who can’t even look at a piano without wanting to cry, or has dreams that give her panic attacks.”

“Panic attacks?” The doctor crossed one leg over the other and bounced a high-heeled shoe in the air. “That’s new, isn’t it? You haven’t mentioned a panic attack since a few months after the accident.”

Jill rubbed her eyes with fingers that came away wet. “Last night was the first in a long time. I’m not even sure that’s what it was. I had a really terrible dream, and when I woke up I couldn’t shake this feeling of …” She attempted a dismissive smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “Disaster. Like something terrible was going to happen.”

Doreen clicked her pen open and closed. “It’s
normal,”
she smiled as she said the word, “to dream of a devastating event like the one you went through. You know that. You’ve dreamed before.”

“Yes, but this was different.” She paused, searching for a way to describe the intensity of the experience. “This one was far more vivid.”

“Do you need something to help you sleep? I can have my secretary make an appointment for you with Dr. Bookman.”

Dr. Bookman was the prescription-happy medical doctor Jill had seen off and on since the accident for medical checkups. Quick with the prescription pad, and the bedside manner of a hyperactive terrier.

“No, I still have the prescription I got after the accident. I took one last night, in fact.” She scowled. “It didn’t stop that dream from coming.”

“Well, that might be a contributing factor. A common side effect of some sleeping pills is the occurrence of abnormal, vivid
dreams, and you are approaching the anniversary of the event. That’s always a traumatic time.” She settled back in her chair. “What about the flashbacks you mentioned last week? Still having those?”

“I don’t know if I’d call them flashbacks,” Jill said quickly. “It’s not like I’m reliving the accident or anything. They’re just haunting memories, details of … that day. And of the people.”

“Of Robert.”

Jill looked at her hands. “It was just so strange, that instant affinity between us. Not romantic.” She glanced up to assure herself that Doreen didn’t misunderstand. The woman nodded, and she looked back down. “I’ve never met someone who could read me so thoroughly in such a short time.”

“He died holding your hand.” The doctor’s voice was soft. “It’s natural that you would feel close to someone with whom you’ve shared such an intimate moment.”

“No, it was more than that. We had a kinship from the moment we met, even before the crash.” Her throat tightened. “It was as if I’d known him forever. I think we might have been good friends if he had lived.”

“And yet, you haven’t made any attempt to find out more about him. Who he was. Where he lived. What he did for a living.”

Jill didn’t answer, just shook her head.

“Why do you suppose that is, Jill?”

A jolt of irritation jerked her upright in the seat. “I don’t know.” She ground out the words through clenched teeth.

“All right.” Doreen’s tone remained coolly dispassionate as she changed the subject. “You mentioned the fact that you don’t have a job. Have you given any more thought to going back to school for an advanced degree, like we’ve discussed?”

Jill forced herself to relax again. There were still a couple of
subjects she wasn’t ready to face, and Robert was one of them. Thinking of him was too painful, too vivid a reminder of everything she’d lost. Admitting that made her feel like a failure. But at least she had some progress to report on the job front.

“Yes, I have, and I’ve decided not to for now. Until I know what I want to study, I need to start making some money.” A humorless laugh heaved in her chest. The money she earned on the concert circuit before the accident hadn’t run out yet, but it wouldn’t last forever. “I’m going to give piano lessons. I decided last night.”