They exchanged pleasantries, and the
older man instantly put him at ease with his casual manner and
praise for Hank’s work. Uniformed waiters served breakfast then
left them alone.
“Being here is surreal,” Hank
said.
“Why?”
“Me…here…with you. I’ve been a fan all
my life.”
“Well, that makes me feel
old.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“No,” his host waved away Hank’s
apology. “I am old. Let me guess, your parent’s listened to my
music.”
Hank felt his face flush with
embarrassment. “Yes, Sir. They did. And my dad is still a big fan.
Truthfully, I wouldn’t be where I am today if not for the music you
created with Hamilton Ravenswood.”
Waiters came to clear the table and
they moved to the living room.
Sir Jonathan twisted his teacup
between his hands. “I brought you here for a reason,” he
said.
Hank waited while Jonathan gathered
his thoughts. Judging by the grim expression on his face, whatever
he had to say to Hank didn’t come easy for him. Hank’s stomach
churned and he wished he hadn’t eaten anything. It couldn’t be good
news.
“Milton Ravenswood was the best friend
I had in this world, and I’ve done my best the last fifteen or so
years to do what I thought he would want me to do for him and for
the family he left behind.”
“I understand. He was lucky to have a
friend like you.”
“No, he wasn’t. I was lucky to have a
friend like him.” He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“What I’m about to say is between you and me, Hank. It isn’t to
leave this room. Agreed?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“I’d love for you to record ‘Melody’,
and I think Milton would agree, but I can’t give you permission to
record it.”
White-hot rage burned through the
lining of Hank’s stomach and threatened to explode his skull. He
gritted his teeth to keep it all in.
“Before you rip me a new one, let me
tell you why.”
Hank forced himself to remain seated.
Raging against Sir Jonathan would get him nowhere. “I’m
listening.”
“
I don’t control the rights
to the song. I never have. It’s never been part of Ravenswood’s
library.”
Hank played the words over in his
mind, trying to make sense of them. “What do you mean? Ravenswood
wrote it. If his estate doesn’t own the rights, who
does?”
“She does.”
He knew he must look like a
complete idiot, staring as if the man spoke an alien language, but
he had no idea what Sir Jonathan was talking about. “Who,
specifically, is
she
?”
The legend smiled a
cat-who-got-the-canary smile. “Melody Ravenswood. She owns the
rights to her song. She always has, since she was an
infant.”
Hank’s world spun out of control. His
universe collapsed in on him as the words took on meaning for him.
He shook his head, marveling at his lifelong
misunderstanding.
“It’s about her, isn’t it?” He rose
and paced the room, letting the new information sink in. “I feel
like a fool. All my life I’ve loved the song because it described
the essence of my love for music, the way it feeds my soul. ‘Gently
it comes, born of my soul, making me whole,’” he quoted.
“It’s a misconception Milton would
have understood,” Sir Jonathan said. “The song works on several
levels. You’ve discovered two of them. It was so much a part of
him. He wrote it the day she was born, you know. He never really
talked about it much, even to me, and we were as close as
brothers.”
Hank collapsed into the nearest chair.
“Why was it only recorded once?”
Sir Jonathan hesitated. “Our last
concert was a live recording in Denver. Milton added the song at
the end as a birthday present for Melody. It was the first and only
time he sang it to anyone other than his daughter. He brought the
house down.” He looked away, focusing on a scene only he could see.
“I’ll never forget the way the audience reacted to the song. There
was complete silence when he finished. No one made a sound in the
entire place until he walked away from the piano. I’d never seen
anything like it in my life. Still haven’t.”
He sipped his tea, studying the dregs
as if they had answers. “He left the stage and never came back out
for the standing ovation. It went on and on. I didn’t think the
audience was ever going to leave, so we played three encores,
trying to get them to calm down.”
He paused. Hank saw the strain it took
to remember, the tight set in his jaw, the moisture glistening in
his eyes.
“I never saw him again. He’d already
left for the airport when the rest of us got off stage. He had a
copy of the recording with him on the plane.”
Sir Jonathan raised his head, locking
his gaze with Hank’s. “Milton left to go to Melody’s tenth birthday
party the next day. He never made it. Diane knew, but she let the
party go on anyway. She didn’t tell Melody her father was dead
until after the party was over.”
Dear God.
Hank nearly doubled over, feeling as if he’d been
mule-kicked in the gut. He knew the pain of losing a parent, but
the circumstances of her father’s death sent him reeling. What must
she have gone through? He remembered the photo he’d seen of the
stoic little girl standing at her father’s graveside, and he
remembered the brave woman who’d told him he was nuts.
Sir Jonathan left the room. He
returned some time later with the glass of orange juice he shoved
under Hank’s nose. “Drink this. It’ll do you good.”
He did as ordered, the alcohol-laced
drink scalding away his fugue. “Damn. You could have warned
me.”
The older man laughed. He took a seat
across from Hank. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
Was he? Hell, yes, he realized. He’d
been in love with her from the moment he first saw her, long before
he knew who she was. Finding out she was Ravenswood’s daughter had
only confirmed what he had already known deep inside, they were
meant to be together. Being in love with her explained a lot, like
the ache in his stomach when he was away from her, his new dragon
slaying instincts where she was concerned. How could he not have
recognized the signs? And he wrote about love for a living. Lord,
he was an idiot.
He wondered how many more surprises
Sir Jonathan had for him. “So you know?”
“There isn’t much I don’t know about
Melody. She’s as much my daughter as she was Milton’s. But don’t
think I’ve been spying on her. No, she’s on her own in Willowbrook,
just as she asked to be.”
“Then how do you know about
us?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Your
reaction to the story I told you. If you didn’t feel so strongly
about her, you would have said something like, wow, tough luck, or
poor kid. Instead, you felt her pain. She could do worse than
you.”
He wasn’t so sure. He could see where
his career would be a major roadblock in winning Melody’s love.
“What am I going to do?”
“I don’t know. Seeing how you feel
about her, I need to tell you something else, something no one
knows except Melody and her mother.”
He braced for another blow. He’d come
to breakfast expecting to argue his case for recording a song, and
instead his life had been put on a centrifuge, spinning completely
out of control.
“Milton called Melody every night of
her life, including the night he died, just before he got on the
plane, and sang her song to her over the phone.”
He thought he was prepared to hear
anything. He was wrong. “Oh Jesus!”
Leaning over, he rested his elbows on
his knees and buried his head in his hand. Her sleepless nights
were rooted in a very real nightmare.
“Christ, Jonathan. What am I supposed
to do? How can I compete with the ghost of her father?”
“You can’t compete with a ghost.
You’ll have to find a way to put the ghost to rest, once and for
all.”
Hank sat motionless, his world
slipping away, his dreams crashing and burning as if they’d been on
the plane with Hamilton, Earl Ravenswood.
“Record the song.”
Had he missed something? “You told me
you don’t have the right to authorize it. How can I record
it?”
“I’m confident you can carry the song.
Not many people could. I’m also confident you'll do an excellent
cover of it. You’ve probably been working on it for years. Of
course, you may want to rethink it, given your new understanding.
Record it. Play it for Melody. Better yet, do it in person, just
the two of you. She’ll authorize it. Trust me.”
Chapter Nine
He had no idea what he was going to
tell the others. He arrived at the penthouse and went directly to
his room. Moments later, he stood in the shower, hoping the cold
water would provide the answers he needed.
Guy arrived with enough take-out to
feed half the building. Hank declined. They gathered in the
conference room after lunch, eager to hear what he had to say. He
took his seat, snagged one of the pens in the center of the table,
and asked Guy, “Do you have the contract?”
The agent produced the original
contract from his briefcase, and slid it across the table. Hank
remembered Sir Jonathan’s words, “Record it,” and praying the man
knew what he was talking about, he asked, “Where do I
sign?”
He scrawled his name in the designated
places, offering no explanation to the group for his change of
heart. He returned to his room, needing the solitude to sort
through his emotions. Hunger forced him to face his friends late
that evening.
He helped himself to a plate of
leftovers and joined them in the living room. The conversation
centered on their families and lives at home, catching up with each
other as old friends do. He answered questions about his dad and
Willowbrook. They had all spent many months there over the last few
years, ever since he turned his barn into a recording
studio.
“Let’s go ahead with the project. I
have a few things to work out before we can include ‘Melody,’ but
I’m pretty sure it will make the album. In the meantime, let’s
concentrate on the other tracks. We’ll save ‘Melody’ for last.” He
hoped he wasn’t lying to his friends. In truth, he didn’t have much
faith he could convince Mel to let him record the song, and with
his new understanding of it, he was already working on a new
revision in his head.
Satisfied the project would go forth,
the discussion turned to the logistics. They agreed to meet at the
farm in two weeks to begin the summer-long recording
process.
* * *
Mel caught up with her household
chores, cleaning, doing laundry—all the things she’d neglected
while shadowing Hank. She was overjoyed when her Uncle Jonathan
called to say he would be coming for a visit in a few weeks. He’d
stepped in when her father died, offering his broad shoulders to
carry her burden. He was as much a father to her as Hamilton
Ravenswood had been. She still had another two weeks to spend with
Hank, and then Jonathan would arrive. His timing couldn’t be
better.
Cathy came to Mel’s on Sunday morning
after the early church service, bearing doughnuts and hot
chocolate. Mel laughed at the obvious jab at her interviewing
style. She and her friend spent the day listening to tapes from the
picnic, seeking the truth in the stories. Cathy proved to be
knowledgeable as well as grounded, and the work went more quickly
than she thought possible. Finishing early, the two women ordered
pizza and found a chick-flick on cable. Cathy left shortly after,
having to be up long before dawn to open the Donut Hole.
Mel was organizing her notes when the
phone rang.
“It’s me,” Hank said. “I came home
early.”
His voice warmed her all the way to
her toes, but there was something in the way he spoke that worried
her—as if he were reaching out for a lifeline. “Did everything go
all right?”
“Yes and no. I don’t want to talk
about it. When can I see you?”
She’d done a credible job of denying
how much she missed him, but when she heard the desperation in his
voice, she gave in and admitted it to herself. It was beyond
foolish, but she really wanted to see him. “Why don’t you come
over? I’m still up.”
She replaced the receiver,
wondering what insanity had possessed her to invite him to her
home.
I can’t get involved with him. He’s
a musician
. She fisted her hand against her
rapidly beating heart. She had the sinking feeling it was too late
to worry about getting involved. She had passed
involved
and was well on the way
to
hopelessly involved
. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up just like her
mother—alone, and pining for a man she couldn’t have.
The instant she opened her front door
and saw his face—the pain etched in the set of his jaw, the depth
of his gaze—she knew she was a goner. She’d do whatever it took to
erase that look.