He broke the kiss. “I want to stay
here with you, but I have to go,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll be
recording drum tracks the rest of the day.”
She dropped her arms and stepped out
of his embrace.
He let his hands trail down to rest on
her hips, unwilling to let her go until he absolutely had to.
“Today’s song relies heavily on the drums with the solo at the end.
With a little luck, it won’t take all day. But knowing Randy, I
don’t hold out much hope.”
She smiled. “He’s a task master, for
sure. I even heard him telling Uncle Jonathan to get busy
rehearsing. He said he wasn’t going to cut him any slack because of
his past glories.”
Hank laughed. “I wouldn’t
have the nerve to say something like that to him. Randy has
engineered all our albums, and he’s the best, so we listen to him.
It’s paid off for us so far.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m
his today, so I better get going before he sends a search party for
me. The sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll be finished.”
And the sooner we can be together.
Mel spent the next few hours
interviewing the band members during their breaks and sitting in
the control room watching Hank patiently try to please Randy. She
slipped out before lunch and went home.
The schedule allotted one week for
each song, with a whole week off for the Fourth of July holiday. It
would take the entire summer to complete the album, recording the
songs in chronological order. Each week would become more difficult
for her as they led up to the final song on the list. “Melody”
would be the very last song they recorded. Rightfully so. It was
the last song her father sang—as it turned out, less than two hours
before his death.
The thought of listening to all those
songs sent a shiver of dread along her spine. Even if she found the
courage, she wasn’t sure she could survive watching them record
“Melody.” Two weeks had been allotted to track it, and nothing
short of perfection would do. Two weeks of painful memories she had
spent the last sixteen years trying to avoid.
Hank planned to bring in a host of
backup strings and woodwinds for his orchestration, and the final
mix would be a masterpiece in its own right. She couldn’t deny Hank
the chance to record it. She loved him too much. But watching the
process, hearing him sing the lyrics would be her undoing.
Scheduled to be the first single released from the album, it would
be on the radio soon enough.
She wouldn’t be able to escape
it.
Chapter
Twenty-one
The first week of tracking passed as
quickly as a summer storm, complete with flashes of lightning and
furious winds. Mel couldn’t believe the level of passion the Ivy
League over-achievers brought to the project. On stage, they played
as much for their own enjoyment, as for the audience; but in the
studio, they pushed themselves and each other for perfection.
Tempers flared white-hot but cooled quickly. Randy was skilled at
diffusing the tension and keeping them to the schedule. No less of
a perfectionist himself, his demands often extended the workday
well into the evening.
She saw little of Hank the first week,
and as the weeks passed, she saw even less of him. The days fell
into a routine. Weekends were supposed to be free time for the
production crew, allowing the ones who lived nearby a chance to go
home if they chose to, at least for a few hours. Eventually, even
the weekends fell under Randy’s quest for perfection. Jonathan,
working as hard as the rest of the group, had taken to spending his
evenings with the sound crew at Henry’s house, freeing Mel to come
and go as she pleased.
Some days she helped the wives with
the monumental task of feeding the crew and entertaining the kids.
Living in town, she was the natural choice to bring in supplies,
often picking up enormous loads of pastries, cakes, breads, rolls,
and whatever else Cathy could produce for them. The local grocer
was well versed in the extra demands and arranged a call-in order
and delivery system for them.
She occasionally stopped at a local
produce stand to pick up fresh fruit and vegetables. One morning
that promised a particularly hot day to come, she spied a trucker
unloading his burden of watermelons at the produce stand. She made
the first u-turn possible and went back to bargain with the owner
of the stand. It didn’t take much to persuade him to sell her a
pickup load of the fresh melons. She returned in Hank’s truck to
pick them up within the hour. More cash changed hands, and the
melons were covered in ice.
The build-your-own sandwich lunch was
topped off with cold, sweet watermelon. The kids held a
seed-spitting contest, and not to be outdone, the adults held one
of their own. It was messy, fun, and relaxing. Even Betty Boop
joined in, playing in the stream from the water hose as they washed
down the area afterward.
Sometimes Mel would walk the older
kids to the creek and watch them play, carefree and uninhibited in
the natural setting. One morning the two oldest, Mike’s daughter
Allison, and Stephen’s son Dane, were pestering their mothers to
take them to the studio. They wanted to watch the recording
session—a natural enough request at their age. Neither of the women
could spare the time to supervise the kids, and letting them go
alone was out of the question. Mel offered to escort them, and much
to the kids delight, permission was granted.
She ushered them into the control room
and found stools for them, so they could see over the control
board. They were full of questions she tried her best to
answer.
“How do you know so much about
recording stuff?” Allison asked.
“My daddy wrote the song your fathers
are playing in there. When I was about your age, he let me sit stay
the studio with him while he was recording. I remember sitting at
the piano with him, and once he let me sit in a big, overstuffed
chair while he played the guitar. He sang, too. I had to stay in
the control room when he was recording vocals.”
She’d never spoken about that special
summer to anyone, not even her mother. It felt good to share the
memory with the kids—kids she realized she shared a bond
with.
They peppered her with more questions
until Randy silenced them with a look. When the band took a break,
she ushered her charges into the studio where they begged and
cajoled their parents into letting them remain in the studio
through the next tracking.
Hank, having little need of his
office, turned it over to her. Several days a week, she retreated
to the quiet space to listen to the taped conversations and pen the
articles she had promised the Gazette. She realized early on she
had far more material than she needed for the articles and began to
think about a longer work. She laid out an outline for a book
chronicling the recording of the cover album, interspersed with
human-interest type sketches of the musicians and their families.
The work kept her busy and focused on her writing rather than the
recording and the emotional roller coaster she was riding. Every
week brought the band a step closer to “Melody”, and she still
didn’t know what she would do when the time came.
In the midst of the controlled chaos,
she was alone, and worse, she was lonely. Everyone there was part
of some extended group—family, musicians, or crew. As close as she
was to the project, she was an outsider. She loved the time she
spent with the kids, loved holding little Katie, loved watching the
toddlers awkwardly chasing after Betty Boop or their older
siblings. She did have the company of the older kids more since
they’d been given permission to visit the studio. They often sought
her out when they came to the barn. Watching them with their
fathers brought back cherished memories of time spent with her
own.
What little time she and Hank had
together, she didn’t have his full attention. He was either too
keyed up to sit still, or he was so exhausted he fell asleep the
moment he stopped moving. When he could get away in the evening, he
came to her. She let him into her bed, content to have him nearby.
He was usually too tired in the evening to make love to her, but if
he woke early, he reached for her. More often than not, she would
shake him awake and hand him his first cup of coffee before his
feet hit the floor.
The closer they got to “Melody”, the
higher and stronger she built the wall around her heart, but she
was honest enough with herself to admit it was a futile effort.
Hank had found a way in, and bit-by-bit, had taken over. She tried
not to think about the time when she would have to leave. Being
with him was emotional suicide, but she wanted him, needed more
time with him to store up sweet memories to take with
her.
The Fourth of July arrived and
recording came to a standstill for an entire week. The crewmembers
fled to their homes and families, and the band members let
themselves relax for the first time in over a month. Chad, Mike,
and Stephen took their families to Six Flags in nearby Arlington.
Kevin and Erica took little Katie with them to a luxury hotel in
Dallas for a week of quiet and pampering at the spa. Jonathan swept
Miriam Wallingford off to Las Vegas before Mel had a chance to ask
how he’d found time to get to know the woman, much less plan a trip
with her. He was happier than she had ever seen him, so she waved
them off with a smile and headed out to see Hank.
She pulled into the deserted driveway
and cut the engine. Over the last month, she had come to associate
the farm with children’s laughter and preoccupied adults. The
insects in the trees made their own music. She rounded the corner
and stopped in her tracks, taking in the peaceful tableau. Hank
slept in the dappled shade, relaxed as she hadn’t seen him in
weeks. The deep lines around his mouth and the creases on his
forehead were gone. She approached with soft steps and removed the
warm soda can from his lax fingers. Betty Boop opened her eyes and
closed them again.
She knelt and stretched a finger up to
trace the lines of Hank’s parted lips. She stopped short when his
breath brushed softly over her fingertip. She drew her hand away,
reluctant to disturb his rest.
She let herself into the house and
went upstairs to Hank’s bedroom. She sighed at the mess. The man
really did need a keeper. She made separate piles for the cleaners
and the laundry room and filled a trash bag full of discarded candy
wrappers and chip bags. Every scrap of paper, no matter how
insignificant it appeared, went into a stack on top of his
dresser.
She hauled the laundry downstairs and,
after checking to see Hank and Betty Boop were still sleeping,
continued cleaning. She put in a load of laundry and located a can
of furniture polish. Starting upstairs, she cleaned the antique
furniture in Hank’s bedroom and the hallway, leaving the guest
rooms to their inhabitants. Descending the stairs, she shined the
oak banister, admiring its craftsmanship as she went. Pausing at
the foot of the stairs, she noticed the old upright piano Hank had
learned to play on, standing sentinel against the living room
wall.
Making her way carefully around the
room, she polished the dainty piecrust tables which were obviously
sturdier than they appeared, having survived generations of
children and continued to hold up under the onslaught of
BlackWing’s next generation. She lovingly dusted the piano,
carefully moving the framed family photos scattered across the top.
Setting her dusting tools beside her on the bench, she reverently
lifted the keyboard cover.
The ivory-topped keys had yellowed
with age. Chips on the corners and along the front edge of some of
the keys attested to the many years of frequent use. She imagined a
younger Hank and his mother sitting together on the bench as she
patiently prodded him through his lessons. He would have protested
every step of the way, as a young boy would, but in the end he had
turned to music to make his living.
She pressed a well-worn key, and
another. Bringing her hands up, she placed her untutored fingers on
the keys. Tentatively she experimented with the sound. At first, it
was harsh and foreign to her ear, but as her fingers moved across
the keyboard, she learned the sounds, and soon the disjointed notes
came together into a somewhat pleasing melody.
Hank joined her on the bench and she
jumped in surprise. Jerking her fingers from the keys, she started
to pull the cover back in place, but his strong hand clamped around
her wrist, staying the movement.
“Don’t,” he spoke softly, releasing
her.
Mel dropped her gaze to her hands,
lying limp in her lap. “I’m sorry. I should have asked before I
abused your piano.”
She sensed his gaze on her, studying
her. With a gentle hand on her chin, he lifted her face. Hot tears
of embarrassment stung her eyes.
“No need to apologize. You can play it
anytime you want.”
A tear escaped down her cheek, swept
away with the soft brush of his callused thumb. Desire flared to
life, hot and wild, doused equally as quickly by his next
words.
“I’m confused. You told me you don’t
play any instruments. Why did you lie to me?”
Her gaze darted to the piano keys and
back to his face where his green eyes questioned her. He was
kidding, right? He had to be. It was the only explanation because
she had only been fooling around with the keys.