She padded on bare feet to the
kitchen, coming to a stop in the doorway. He stood at the stove,
wearing only his jeans. She admired the broad expanse of his
shoulders as he hummed a tune while he cooked. Leaning against the
doorjamb, she watched and listened. The melody was familiar, yet
different. A horrible realization dawned, painting her vision red
and eclipsing everything else.
“Stop.”
Hank turned, spatula in
hand.
Whoa
.
Something was wrong here, and he didn’t have a clue what it was.
The volcano standing in the doorway was not the same happy and
satisfied woman he’d left sleeping in bed a short while ago. This
was an angry, distant version he thought he'd seen the last of
after what they’d shared last night and again this
morning.
“I thought you'd be hungry. I know I
am,” he said with a smile.
She straightened, her body impossibly
rigid. He could almost see the bricks rising up to form a wall
between them. “I meant, stop humming that song.”
His smile vanished as he
realized what he’d been humming.
Her
song—but the way he envisioned it
now. “I’m sorry. It just comes out sometimes,
unconsciously.”
“You’ve changed it. Why?”
She was quick, he’d give her that.
Most people, even trained musicians, probably wouldn’t have noticed
the subtle changes so quickly or could have identified the song as
easily, but of course, it was a part of her. “It’s something I’ve
been toying with. A cover, my interpretation of the
song.”
“Don’t.”
The single word was like a bullet to
his heart, delivered with cold and deadly accuracy. She turned and
hurried down the hall.
“Mel, wait!” He tossed the spatula in
the sink and followed after her, reaching the hallway in time to
see her slam her bedroom door shut. He stood there, unsure whether
he should plead with her to listen or barge in and demand she hear
him out.
“Shit,” he said, staring at the closed
door. He’d really screwed things up, and he didn’t have a clue how
to fix them. “Mel,” he called through the door. “Can’t we talk?
Please, let me explain.”
He held his breath, waiting for an
answer. When none came, he sighed and returned to the kitchen. He
cleaned the mess he’d made and left what was edible of the
breakfast on the counter for her. He approached the bedroom with
caution. His shirt and shoes sat on the floor beside the closed
door. He picked his shirt up and tapped lightly.
“I’m going, Mel. When you’re ready to
talk about it, I’ll be at the farm.”
She huddled against the
headboard, the covers pulled up to her chin, trying to staunch the
tremors racking her body. She wanted to open the door and fall into
his arms. She wanted to beg him to make it all go away, the way it
did when he made love to her. In his arms, nothing else mattered.
Fear held her back.
They'll break your
heart
. Her mother's words echoed in her
brain. Wisdom or prophecy? Either way, it was a true
statement.
The squeaky hinge on her front door,
followed by his truck engine coming to life confirmed his
departure. The tears came, soaking her pillow, and carrying her
grief and panic into the open.
He’d only changed a few notes, but in
doing so, he’d completely altered the essence of the song. Her
father had written her a lullaby. Hank had written her a love song.
There was no use denying it any longer. She was hopelessly,
irrevocably in love with Hank Travis, and in the space of a few
hummed bars, he had broken her heart.
* * *
Hank set out two cereal bowls and
juice glasses as he had every day since the night he spent with
Melody. An hour later, he placed the unused bowl back in the
cabinet. “She isn’t coming, Betty.”
The dog wagged her tail and grinned at
him, grateful for the scrap of attention from her master. Hank
tossed her a treat, insuring she would follow him to the barn. If
not for the dog’s needs he wouldn’t have come out of the barn at
all for the last few days. He spent hours at a time in the
rehearsal room, and later in the week, he’d moved to the recording
studio.
He couldn’t bring himself to sing the
song in front of anyone, so he managed the rough recording himself,
erasing track after track until he had it right. It was raw, just
his voice and the piano, but he knew it was good, as good as
anything he would ever do.
His hands shook as he spun the dial on
the wall safe in his office. Betty Boop stood silently by, offering
her support in exchange for treats and a few head rubs. He’d
managed to feed her, but he’d had little appetite himself. He’d
barely slept in the last five days for thinking of Mel and how he’d
hurt her with his carelessness. Her silence told him how much he’d
wounded her.
The new version of the song landed on
top of his previous version. He slammed the safe door, spun the
dial, and replaced the framed platinum record over the safe. It was
done. It might never see the light of day, but it was out of his
head. He’d done what he had to do, even if no one else ever heard
it.
“Let’s go, Betty,” he said, snapping
his fingers to get her attention. “I need some sleep.”
* * *
She spooned the last bit of brown
powder out of the can and threw the empty container in her
overflowing wastebasket. She’d indulged in the pity party to end
all pity parties, and since she’d run out of ice cream, cookies,
and hot chocolate, it was time to put her big girl panties on and
rejoin the living.
She owed the Gazette something for all
the time she’d spent with Hank, so she decided on a series of
articles chronicling his daily life. Thank heavens she had enough
material already, so there wasn’t any need to continue following
him.
Saturday morning she swung by the
Gazette, dropped off the first article, and headed to the farm to
give Hank an advance copy and say goodbye.
There was no sign of life
when she drove up. His truck was in the driveway, and the back door
stood open behind the screened door. She called out and knocked to
no avail.
He’s probably in the
barn.
Grateful she wouldn’t have to confront
him, she tried the screened door. Finding it unlocked, she stepped
into the kitchen and dropped the article on the table—a place he
was sure to see it, eventually. As she walked out the back door,
Betty Boop sauntered around the house and wagged her tail in
welcome.
Mel wrapped her arms around the dog’s
neck, hugging her tight. “I love him, Betty, but I can’t do it. He
changed my song for one thing. And there’s his job. I’ve seen it
before. Lived it. If I went with him on tour, the paparazzi would
be all over us. They’d never leave us alone, so I’d be here all
alone while he went on tour for months at a time. All those
groupies and fans falling at his feet…and the traveling. Flying.”
She shook her head. “I’d be a basket case, waiting at home,
wondering who he was with, and always expecting the phone call.
Just like my mother.”
Betty wagged her tail and licked Mel’s
face.
“I can’t do it. I just can’t.” Mel
stood, and with one last head rub for the dog, she said, “Bye,
girl. Take care of him for me.”
* * *
Hank sat at the kitchen table reading
the article he’d found when he’d woken up. Too lazy to eat
properly, he tossed down handfuls of cereal straight from the
box.
Mel had done an excellent job. The
information was accurate, the quotations precise, and the story
compelling. If it hadn’t been about him, he'd be eager to read the
next installment. He tossed the papers across the table, wondering
what Pandora’s Box would be opened by printing it. One of the
Dallas papers would pick it up soon. From there, who knew? She
couldn’t remain anonymous for long.
He faxed the article to his publicist,
along with a short explanation and a strongly worded message
stating he wouldn’t do any follow-up interviews with anyone, for
any reason.
Melody was next on his list. He wanted
to see her. He needed to see her. He needed to tell her he
understood about the song, and maybe she would at least hear him
out. If she would just listen to the song, she’d know how much he
loved her. She might even give him a chance…or he might never see
her again.
Chapter
Eleven
Sunday morning, Mel answered the door
to find Hank on her porch with a bag of doughnuts and two paper hot
cups, balanced one on top of the other. She thought she was
prepared to see him, but the sight of him ignited a flame inside
her she was determined to extinguish. “What are you doing
here?”
“Can I come in?” He juggled his
offering, and she relieved him of the teetering cups as he swept
past her as though she’d invited him in.
She closed the door and followed him
to her kitchen where he made himself right at home. Clearly, he
didn’t plan to go anywhere anytime soon. He’d already dumped the
doughnuts onto a plate by the time she got there.
She placed the cups on the table and
faced him. “You misunderstood the reason I delivered the article,
Hank. It wasn’t a peace offering. It was a goodbye. Our agreement
is off. I’ve got enough to honor the obligation I made to the
Gazette, so I’m through. We’re through.”
“I know you’re mad at me.” He held a
chair for her. She sighed and sat, wishing she had pretended she
wasn’t home instead of answering the door. When she was seated, he
joined her at the table. “I’m sorry about the song. I should have
told you I was working on a cover.”
She locked her gaze with his over the
plate of pastries. “It’s more than the song, and you know it. I’ve
gone to a lot of trouble to invent a life for myself, and there’s
no room for famous musicians in it.”
He selected a doughnut and, pulling it
apart, popped a section in his mouth. She watched his lips as he
chewed, remembering how they felt moving over hers. He swallowed,
breaking her concentration.
“I understand, but I thought I’d
proven to you that you don’t have to hide to have the kind of life
you want. Didn’t you see the way I live? No one bothers me here.
You can do it, too. We can do it together.”
“No, we can’t.”
“Look, Mel, I thought we had something
good together. I know I blew it by not telling you about the song,
and I’m sorry. “
“
I shouldn’t have jumped
you about the song. It’s just …the song is very personal to me,
and…well, there probably isn’t a musician on the planet who hasn’t
wanted to sing it at one time or another. And what you did to it….
That threw me. I wasn’t expecting it.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I
never meant to hurt you.” He twirled his cup between his long
fingers. “It’s a compelling song and one very few people could
sing.”
“I agree. That’s one of the reasons
I’ve never authorized a cover of it.”
“I want you to hear something. Will
you come out to the farm with me?”
She gathered their trash and headed to
the wastebasket. “If you think I’m going to listen to you sing
‘Melody’ you’ve lost your mind.”
“Maybe I have, but won’t you hear me
out? Let me tell you why I want to record your song.
Please?”
She leaned against the counter and
clamped her hands on the edge to keep from running. She could still
hear him humming as he stood right here in her kitchen. He had no
idea what he’d done to her. She forced in a deep breath, let it out
slowly, willing a calm she didn’t think she could find.
“If I listen, will you go away and
leave me alone?”
“That depends. I’m hoping you won’t
want me to go once you hear what I have to say.”
“Go ahead. Talk,” she said. “But let
me be clear. I don’t want to hear the song.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Will
you at least sit down?”
She crossed to the chair she’d left
earlier and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m sitting. Tell me your
story and leave.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I was fifteen when
I first heard ‘Melody’ on the radio. Your father put into words
what I couldn’t. I listened to his lyrics and heard in them my love
of music. It never occurred to me he was singing about anything but
his love of music, how it consumed him, made him feel alive. It
changed my life. I know Cathy thinks the knobby knees jokes were
enough reason for me to give up sports and concentrate more on
music, but I couldn’t have cared less what the girls, or anyone
else, thought about my knees. I listened to ‘Melody’ and I knew
music was in my soul. I knew it was more important to me than
anything else in the world.”
“So why did you major in business at
Harvard? Why not music?”
He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“I wasn’t sure I could make a living with music. Very few people
do, and I’m practical if nothing else. I knew I was more likely to
be struck by lightning than to make it big in the music world. So I
hedged my bets and got a degree in something I could make a living
with. I did minor in music, though.” He shrugged again. “BlackWing
is nothing but a bunch of over-educated frat boys who got
lucky.”