Lost Melody (9 page)

“Mmmm.” Greg closed his eyes as he chewed the gingerbread
with obvious delight. He stabbed his fork toward the cake. “This is delicious. You should try a piece, Jill.”

Rowena turned. “I’ll be happy to get you one.”

“Oh, don’t bother. I’ll just have a bite of Greg’s.”

Jill resorted to middle school tactics and placed a possessive hand on Greg’s arm. She leaned toward him, her mouth open. He sliced off a bite and fed it to her, unaware that the gesture was being closely watched by the café owner. Jill saw her eyelids narrow a fraction, and knew the message had been delivered.

Unfortunately, Greg was right. It was the best gingerbread Jill had ever tasted.

The afternoon hours after she walked Greg safely away from the café and back to his office crept by like the last day of the school term. Jill returned home to find a note from Nana saying she’d gone to the church and wouldn’t be home before tonight’s meeting. In vain Jill surfed through the television channels for something to hold her interest. Her limbs felt as though someone had attached anchors to them, and by four o’clock she’d rubbed her eyes so much she looked like she’d been on a week-long crying jag. The fluffy throw pillows on her sofa beckoned. If only she could rest her head on them for just a few minutes.

No. She intended to stay awake until after the meeting. By then her brain would be as exhausted as her body, and maybe she would sleep without dreaming. In the meantime, she had to do something to occupy herself for the next three hours.

Her gaze went to her silent piano, no longer shrouded but still ignored. Before the accident she’d lost herself in music more times than she could count. The minute her fingers touched the
keys, she’d be transported into another world, the intricate world a brilliant composer had labored for months or sometimes years to create. Emotions would rise, crest, and fall like a stormy sea, and hours would slip away unnoticed.

But that was before. Now, her left hand wouldn’t be able to handle the intricacies of any piece that mattered. She couldn’t bear to perform ineptly, to ruin a masterpiece that she’d previously played with the grace and ability the composer intended.

I have to play sometime before next Saturday. A piano teacher has to touch the whole keyboard, not just the upper registers. Kaylee and Mariah need someone to demonstrate the proper techniques, not just describe them.

She clenched the fingers on her left hand into a fist. Today was only Monday. She had five more days to worry about that.

In the meantime, she could dig out her old music books and glance through them. When she was a girl, she’d filled the pages with painstaking notes about her lessons, notes which would no doubt come in handy as a teacher.

Since Jill’s apartment occupied the top floor of the house, the entrance to the storage area of the attic was covered with an access panel in her kitchen wall. She slid open the panel and stooped nearly double to enter the cold, dark space. The musty odor of old insulation tickled her nose, and dust danced in the beam of her flashlight. A plywood floor had been laid across the wooden rafters, not quite all the way to the sloping walls. Dozens of boxes had been stacked three deep, each labeled with Nana’s careful script.

The plywood creaked as Jill crept among the boxes, looking for the one in which she’d packed away her old music books. She found it near the back, beneath an ancient box labeled LORNA’S THINGS. The masking tape along the seams of the upper box
was cracked and stiff with age. When she shoved the heavy box out of her way, it fell to the floor and the tape broke on impact.

“Great.”

She knelt, turned the box upright, and inspected the seam. Later she’d bring a roll of tape in here and do a repair job. For now, she’d just push it off to one side. She began to shove things back inside. An empty picture frame. A heavy glass paperweight. A couple of old cassette tapes. She glanced at the covers. Kansas and Journey. Mom had always liked classic rock. An old paperback novel,
The Thorn Birds.
Jill shined the flashlight on the back cover to read the description. The story sounded good, and it was thick enough to keep her entertained for hours.

She set the book aside and scooped up a pair of envelopes held together with an oversized paper clip. The top was a letter addressed to Mom. When she caught sight of the return address, Jill’s heart lurched.
Lieutenant Michael King,
HMCS Huron. Daddy had served in the Canadian Navy before he and Mom married. He’d been a cook on a ship, and Jill had a dim memory of him setting a plate of scrambled eggs covered in ketchup in front of her when she was tiny and saying, “That’s exactly the way the skipper liked them.” The memory brought a smile to her face. Mom must have kept a couple of his letters. Jill flipped to the second envelope, and recognized the same handwriting. Maybe Mom would enjoy hearing the letters again. Jill set them on top of the paperback and finished scooping the rest of the stuff back into the box.

She found her old music books exactly where she’d left them and flipped through the pages of the oldest ones. A glance at her own childish scrawl made her smile. Yes, these were going to be helpful. After sorting through the ones she wanted, she repacked the rest and left the attic.

Flames crept along a thick rope, blackening it to char. Voices reached her, oddly distant and yet distinguishable. The high-pitched question of a child. A woman’s patient explanation. Conversational tones, without a trace of the urgency that held Jill’s breath in her chest like a fist shoved down her throat.

Why were they just standing there talking? They had to leave! She had to warn them.

The pounding of her heart echoed throughout her skull and drowned out their voices.

The dream again.

I’m not here. I’m on the sofa in my living room. I can even feel the cushion beneath my cheek. God, please. Help me wake up.

The burning rope disappeared, followed by a series of images parading before her eyes almost too quickly to see. A child flying through the air. A line of people, covered with blood. The face of a wristwatch. A jagged boulder. Newspaper headlines, all the letters blurred except the date — December 6.

Jill’s eyes flew open. The fabric of the sofa beneath her face was wet with tears. She struggled to raise herself upright, her vision blurry, her brain groggy with a dream hangover. Music books lay scattered across the coffee table, and one sprawled open on the floor beside the sofa. She’d been reading that one when she fell asleep.

Her moan echoed in the room. She’d tried so hard not to sleep. Which was stupid, because nobody could go without sleep forever. No matter how hard she tried, sleep would eventually catch up with her, and the dream would come. It seemed nothing could stop it, except …

The silence around her grew heavy with certainty. She knew
how to stop the dream. She had to warn the people of Seaside Cove to leave town in the early morning hours of December 6. When she’d done that, the dream wouldn’t return.

This is ridiculous. How do I know that?

No answer came, just an escalating conviction that she had to act, and act quickly. Only then would the dream set her free. If she didn’t act, it would drive her truly crazy.

She forced herself off the couch and stumbled into the bathroom to splash her face with cold water. Doreen said to do whatever it took to get rid of her stress. Okay, if she had to make herself look like a lunatic to rid herself of the dream, she was ready to do that. But how could she get a message to everyone in the Cove? Rent a billboard? Take out an ad in the paper? Cold water filled her cupped hands, and she bent over the basin. Maybe she could print a notice and pass it out all over town, like a politician during an election.

In the act of lowering her face into the pooled water, she froze. Greg’s meeting. Half the town would be there. Everyone was interested in his plans, because the future of Seaside Cove concerned them all. But if her dream came true, Seaside Cove might not have a future.

I’ve got to talk to Greg.

She dashed out of the bathroom toward the kitchen, and rummaged in her purse for her cell phone. The display was dark. Oh, yes. She’d turned it off this morning when she went into Doreen’s office, like she always did before a counseling appointment. She punched the button to turn the phone on, and while it powered up, glanced at the clock on the microwave. Her stomach plummeted as the numbers registered on her sleep-fogged brain. Seven twenty-one.

She’d missed the first half of Greg’s meeting. If she didn’t hurry, she would miss the whole thing.

G
REG PRESSED THE BUTTON TO
advance to the next slide. The screen on the stage lit up with the colorful chart he’d worked so hard on.

He spoke into the microphone. “Several of the Nova Scotia communities who have developed targeted tourism programs were happy to share their numbers from last year with me. As you can see, the green bars here represent each town’s total budget, and the red sections indicate the percentage of that budget allocated to their tourism programs.” He pressed the button again and more bars appeared on the chart. “Now, take a look at their tourism revenue. The correlation is obvious. The higher the budget allocation, the higher the return.”

He scanned the faces in the crowded school gymnasium and saw the understanding he’d hoped for. A few wore skeptical expressions, but many heads nodded. The hum of whispers bounced off the elementary school’s polished wooden floor as people whispered a comment to their neighbors. In the center of the front row, Rowena sat with her video camera trained on him.

Hers wasn’t the only one, either. He saw several cameras in the crowd, and he’d lost count of the number of flashes as people snapped pictures. Best of all was the presence of a reporter from
the local newspaper standing against the rolled-up bleachers to the right, who stopped scribbling on his notebook only long enough to take pictures with an elaborate-looking camera. He’d hoped
The Cove Journal
would cover the event.

He still couldn’t believe the turnout for tonight’s meeting. He’d expected several dozen, maybe, though the handful of folks who’d showed up to help him get the gym ready had insisted on unfolding a hundred chairs in rows facing the stage. Turns out they’d underestimated the crowd by at least half. They’d ended up grabbing more child-sized chairs from the classrooms, and still, standing spectators lined the rear walls of the gym. From his seat in the middle of the fifth row, Samuels’s heavy glower stood out among the smiles like a mustard stain on a white shirt.

But where was Jill? Greg’s gaze switched to the two empty chairs on the front row, beside the ladies from church who’d showed up to support him, as Ruth promised. Worry gnawed in his stomach. Jill knew how important tonight was to him. She wouldn’t miss unless something was wrong. Had something happened to her mother? Or, God forbid, to Jill herself? He’d tried repeatedly to call her before the meeting began, but her phone went straight to voicemail. The rational side of his mind told him that she had probably taken his suggestion of an afternoon nap and overslept. She’d looked so tired at lunch he could easily believe that.

Ruth, also worried, had left to go check on her a few minutes after seven. Greg delayed the meeting as long as he could, but people began to grow restless. When he could stall no longer, he’d reluctantly begun without her.

I hope everything’s okay.

Greg returned to the podium and set down the computer’s remote control. The chart was his last slide.

He addressed his audience with his closing statements. “I think Seaside Cove has every bit as much to offer as any of these other communities. When we start spreading the word about our town, I am confident that we will realize the same financial results.”

A movement at the back of the gymnasium drew his gaze. Relief swept through him at the sight of Jill and Ruth stepping through the door. Jill’s head swiveled as she looked around the room, her expression a bit dazed. Ruth touched her arm, then pointed toward the front row and their empty chairs. They began making their way around the left side of the room.

Relieved, Greg flashed her a smile, then turned it on the crowd. “But we have some prep work to do before we can handle an influx of tourists.” He held Samuels’s gaze for an instant. “And yes, we’re going to have to spend some money. Not only that, but we’re going to have to roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty, and I’m not talking about just the business owners. Seaside Cove is a community, and we’ll all enjoy the benefits of a healthy tourist trade. If we work together, we can make this happen.”

Rowena set her camera in her lap and clapped her hands, her grin wide. The church ladies joined in energetically, and then applause thundered throughout the gymnasium. A bit overwhelmed, Greg made eye contact with as many of his audience as he could, smiling his thanks. This reaction was better than he’d dared hope. After a few seconds, he held up his hand and the sound quieted.

“That’s all I have to say tonight, folks. Now I want to hear from you. What do you think? What questions do you have?”

More hands than he expected shot into the air. He’d planned to pass the microphone down the rows, but that would take forever. Better take a town-hall-meeting approach.

“Tell you what. If you have a question, would you mind coming up here so you can speak into the microphone? That way we can all hear.”

He drew a line with his hand around one side of the chairs, and a line began to form there. The first person to take the microphone was a woman he didn’t recognize.

She held it tentatively, obviously uncomfortable speaking in front of a crowd. “I was just wondering what places you think should be fixed up first.” She thrust the microphone back at him like a kid playing a game of Hot Potato.

Greg bit back a grin as she scurried back to her seat. That was exactly the kind of question he hoped he’d get. It meant they were already thinking in terms of putting the plan in place.

“That’s a great question,” he said, smiling in her direction. “If the residents of the Cove decide my idea has merit, I think we all need to have some input into decisions like that. Maybe we’ll put together a planning committee. But personally, I think repairing the docks should be at the top of the list, with repainting the lighthouse a close second. Those are going to be among the biggest draws for tourism.”

A smattering of applause answered his suggestions, but he didn’t give it time to catch. The line of people with questions snaked around the spectators and almost to the back of the gymnasium. At this rate they’d be here all night, but it was important to make sure everyone had time to voice their opinions.

During the next hour, Greg did his best to answer every question, to give every opinion his full consideration. He was dimly aware of the reporter circling to the other side of the room in front of the long line and snapping a picture of him. People started to filter out of the gymnasium around eight thirty. He didn’t see when Samuels left. One minute he was there, his glare heavy
as a cement truck, and the next time Greg looked, he was gone.

Finally, the line dwindled to a handful of people. With a start, Greg realized the last person in line was Jill. What was she doing? Was she planning to make a public statement of support for his plan? He gave her a questioning smile, which she did not return. Instead, her lips formed a tight white line, and she stared at him through solemn, red-rimmed eyes. She looked tired. Unwell, even. Was she ill?

Her nerves stretched tighter than an overtuned piano string, Jill didn’t hear a single question asked by the people in front of her. Every step took her closer to the microphone, closer to the moment of her announcement. She scanned the audience. At least half of the people had already left.

Good. Fewer to see me make a fool of myself.

Not that the number of spectators would make much of a difference. Word would spread through the Cove quickly. How could it not? Her gaze strayed to the newspaper reporter leaning against the bleachers. He’d put away his notepad, but the camera still hung from a wide strap around his neck.

She glanced down the front row. Most of Nana’s knitting circle was still here, their hands busy knitting socks for orphans. They’d taken their job of supporting Greg seriously, and though they couldn’t applaud without interrupting their sock production, they tapped the gymnasium floor loudly with their shoes at every opportunity. On the end of the row, Nana’s gaze locked with hers. Jill looked away. She’d just stumbled through the front door, still buttoning her coat, when Nana’s car pulled up in front of the house. From her worried expression now, she must know
Jill was about to do something alarming. Nana would likely have her committed after tonight.

Only one person stood between her and Greg now. Nausea roiled in her stomach. Would he be upset with her? She knew he would. But that no longer mattered. Nothing mattered, except plowing through the ordeal of making a public spectacle of herself. Afterward, when she’d had about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep and the pressing urgency of her warning was gone, she could deal with the aftermath. Greg loved her. He would understand. She’d
make
him understand.

But what if the dream didn’t leave? What if she acted like a lunatic in front of the whole town and it did no good?

It has to. If not, I’ll check into a mental ward myself.

The person in front of her complimented Greg on his plan and made a public statement of support, then turned and handed the microphone to her. Her stomach lurched when her fingers closed around the warm casing, and her throat spasmed shut. The handle shook with such violence she had trouble holding it still in front of her mouth. Directly behind Greg, Rowena Mitchell’s camera lens pointed in her direction.

Greg stepped in front of her, concerned creases etched in his forehead. He spoke in a low voice that only she could hear. “Jill, is everything okay?”

“Yes. I mean no.” She stepped sideways to look out over the heads of the seventy or so people left in the gymnasium. That was a trick she’d learned from one of her professors in college. To ease the pressure of stage fright, you were supposed to look at the tops of people’s heads instead of their faces. Jill had never needed to worry about stage fright since she’d been supremely confident in front of a crowd for as long as she could remember. Until now.

She cleared her throat. “I support everything Greg said, and I
think his plan is vital for the future of Seaside Cove. I hope you’ll vote for him to represent you on the council.” She swallowed, and held Greg’s eyes in a mute apology before continuing. “But that’s not what I want to say. I want — no, I
have
to tell you something that’s going to sound really crazy. I’ve been having these dreams. Well, only one dream, but I’ve had it several times in the last few days.”

With a dry tongue, she tried unsuccessfully to wet her lips. Instead, she filled her lungs and spoke in a rush.

“Seaside Cove is in danger, and unless we evacuate the town next Tuesday morning before ten o’clock, something terrible will happen.”

There. She’d done it. She thrust the microphone back into Greg’s hands and headed for her chair on the end of the first row without waiting to see his reaction. Though her gaze was fixed on the floor as she hurried past, she couldn’t help but notice that the nimble fingers of every member of Nana’s knitting circle had gone still, and their mouths gaped open like a neat row of ice fishing holes on a frozen lake. Nana’s jaw yawned wide enough to pull a whale through.

“Uh.” Greg’s voice filled the silence as Jill collapsed onto her folding chair. She risked a glance at him and cringed at the uncertainty of his expression. “Well, I guess if there are no more questions —”

“No, wait.” Someone from the back of the gym interrupted. “She can’t say that and walk away.”

“Yeah,” shouted someone else. “What do you mean by ‘something terrible’?”

Several voices mumbled in agreement. Jill didn’t turn her head to face them, but she did speak loudly enough to be heard by everyone except perhaps those in the back of the room. “I
don’t know what’s going to happen. Only that it’s going to be devastating.”

“Devastating? You mean like a hurricane or an earthquake?” The catastrophe in her dream didn’t feel like a natural disaster. “No, nothing like that.”

“What then?”

She opened her mouth to say she didn’t know, but Nana placed a hand on her arm and shook her head almost imperceptibly.

Greg’s voice boomed over the speakers. “Folks, Jill hasn’t been feeling well lately. She’s tired, like we all are. It’s been a long meeting, and I appre —”

A chorus of shouts interrupted him.

“Wait a minute.”

“Tired? Crazy’s more like it.”

“Hold on. Let her tell us about that dream.”

Chairs scraped across the floor as people got to their feet. Out of the corner of her eye, a movement drew Jill’s attention. The reporter from
The Cove Journal
had stepped to the front of the gymnasium and was pointing his camera at her. Jill slumped down in the metal chair.

“Oh, come on,” someone called from right behind her head. “Do you think we’re fools? This is a publicity stunt, right?”

Jill shook her head at the same time Greg answered, “No, this is not a publicity stunt.” A touch of anger gave his denial extra volume. Anger at her? She squeezed her eyes shut. Probably.

“There’s only a couple of fools in this room tonight,” someone else shouted, “and it ain’t us.”

The comment was met with laughter that made Jill cringe. In the next instant, she found her chair surrounded and questions thrown at her faster than she could keep up. Someone tugged at
her arm, and then several hands were touching her. Not roughly, but she sank lower in the chair and covered her eyes to block out the sight of their scornful faces.