Lost Melody Page 6

  He stood and moved in her direction. As she gripped the doorframe, she raised her hand to fend him off. She sucked in the fresh air wafting through the screen door. Oxygen flooded her system.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Leave. Me. Alone.” Beyond the screened door, wide-open spaces promised relief. “I have to go.” She flattened her palm against the cool wire mesh.

  “Please,” he begged. “Don’t go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

  All she had to do was push and the screened door would open. Escape was that close. She gazed longingly at the quiet vista beyond. Her brain told her to run, to get as far away from Hank as she could, but her limbs betrayed her. Telling Cathy had been easy, maybe because it was her decision and she trusted her friend to keep her confidence. But being found out by a virtual stranger was different. It was what she lived in fear of every day—that someone, everyone, would discover her secret, and the peace she’d constructed with such care would shatter.

  He knew and soon everyone in Willowbrook would know, too. She would have to leave, find another place to live, reinvent herself all over again.

  “How did you find out?” she asked, envying the nondescript sparrow pecking at something in the grass outside, able to fly away at the slightest threat.

  “I ran an Internet search on your name. If I can do it, anyone can.”

  She slumped against the doorframe. He was right. Anyone could do it. The only person she’d been fooling was herself. A quiet life in a small town wouldn’t be possible because someone would always figure out her secret. She’d been impossibly stupid and naïve.

  “How did you find out about me?” he asked.

  “I researched you in the newspaper’s archives, and then I searched the Internet.”

  “I guess that makes us even.” He held her chair out. “Come sit down, and we’ll talk.”

  This time, her legs responded. She crossed the room and sank into the chair, her body numb with fear of the havoc his knowing would unleash on her life.

  He pushed her hot chocolate closer to her. “Here, have something to drink. You’ll feel better.” His voice, velvet smooth and laced with concern helped to calm her and the warm liquid easing the tightness in her throat. Her life was out of control, and she was drinking hot chocolate with the man who held the key to her future. Unbelievable.

  He resumed his seat and slid a chocolate frosted doughnut under her nose. “Eat.”

  She stared at the confection.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  She shook her head and reached for the doughnut. She ate mechanically, tasting nothing. She couldn’t look at him. With downcast eyes, she could see his hands, knew he drank his hot chocolate, and selected a sugared doughnut for himself.

  Hank tossed the last bite to Betty Boop. He dusted sugar from his hands and crumpled his napkin, throwing it across the room for a perfect two-pointer into the wastebasket. “I’m sorry I blew your cover, Melody.”

  The chocolate helped, or maybe the numbness and fear were wearing off. She raised her eyes, fixing him with a laser-sharp glare. “Don’t call me that. No one calls me that.”

  He held his hands up, palms out. “Okay, Mel it is.” He shifted in his seat. “Look, I’m sorry I sprung it on you like the way I did. I can’t tell you what a surprise it was…. Well, it blew my mind when I realized who you were.”

  “I just bet it did.”

  “Hey, I understand you want your privacy, and you’re entitled to it. If it’s any consolation, I didn’t find any recent photos of you.”

  “That’s just swell, Hank. I feel so much better. You understand why I want to be left alone, yet you went to the trouble of researching me on the Internet.” She shook her head. “I came to Willowbrook to live a quiet life, to be my own person…not the daughter of a ghost. You don’t have any idea how much I wanted this new life to work. And it would have, too, if you hadn’t been here.”

  “What have I got to do with it?”

  “Think about it. The paparazzi know you’re here. They’ll come hunting for you, and guess who else they’ll find?” She shook her head. “This is just what I was trying to avoid. Ever since I inherited, everyone thinks they have a right to know where I am and what I’m doing. I just want to be left alone. I have to leave, move somewhere else. Some place far away from you.” She was on the verge of a breakdown, she could feel it coming, building like a summer storm. She swiped away tears before they could spill over and run down her cheeks.

  “You can relax,” he said. “I’m not going to tell anyone who you are. You can go on being Mel Harper of the Willowbrook Gazette for the rest of your life if it’s what you want.”

  “Easy for you to say. You aren’t the one the paparazzi are hunting.”

  “What do you mean, hunting?”

  “Ever since I turned twenty-five, I’ve been a wanted woman, so to speak. They almost caught up with me in San Diego. So I left.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It was awful.” Thinking perhaps he could understand, she told him how she had practically been forced from her home the previous year.

  “I’m so sorry. Sometimes reporters don’t know when to quit.”

  “You can say that again.” Enough about her. It was time to find out what was really going on. “So, what’s the deal with the interview? You don’t like reporters any more than I do, so why am I really here?”

  He smirked. “You don’t see the irony in your situation? You’re a reporter who hates reporters.”

  “I don’t hate all reporters, just the ones who don’t respect people’s privacy. I’m a journalist with a conscience. I only write about people who want to be written about, and since you aren’t one of those people, we’re back to the original question. Why am I here?”

  “It was the only way I knew I could get you to come out here to see me. I’m serious about the interview though. Spend thirty days with me, record whatever you want, with the exception of my music. When the time is up, you’re free to do whatever you want with the material. You can write a book, a magazine article, a piece for the Gazette, or nothing at all. I don’t care.”

  This, from a man who avoided reporters like they were plague-carrying vermin? There had to be more he wasn’t saying. “If you really want publicity, why not call someone from one of the fan magazines? If I write an article about you, it will bring all kinds of attention to me. Attention I don’t want.”

  “You’re good at what you do.”

  He hasn’t heard a work I’ve said. “Let me be clear. All I want is to live in a quiet little town and write about the everyday lives of the real people who live there. I don’t want notoriety. If I wanted recognition, don’t you think I could have bought myself a position at a big publication? I could buy my own magazine or newspaper if I wanted.” She sneered at him. “I could buy you.”

  “I read some of your work. You don’t need to buy yourself anything. Your writing is clear, concise, and compassionate. People like you. You tell their stories in a way that makes them seem special. Everyone deserves to feel special at some point in their lives, even if they live in the middle of Nowhere, USA.”

  Smart. Hitting her where it would do the most good—right in her pride. “Thank you,” she said, sure he was softening her up for something big.

  “You’re welcome. Now, for the reason you’re here.”

  Here it comes. She stiffened her spine.

  He placed his hand on her arm, anchoring her to her seat.

  Oh, this can’t be good if he thinks I’m going to run.

  “I don’t need any publicity. I don’t want any publicity. I want to get to know you.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “I think we should get married.”

  What? Oh no. No. Not going to happen.

  She yanked on her arm, but he tightened his grip—not enough to hurt, but firm enough she wasn’t going anywhere until he let her. “You’re nuts. No one
told me you were nuts.”

  “Not nuts. Practical.”

  “Practical?” Practically insane. She tugged on her arm again. “Let me go.”

  “Calm down and just listen to me for a minute.” He stroked her arm with his index finger, sending little jolts of current skittering up to her shoulder and down her spine. “I think we could be good for each other. Besides the physical attraction, and don’t try to tell me there isn’t one, I think I have something you need. And you have something I need.”

  “I need to get out of here.”

  “Just hear me out. Please? I think we can make a relationship work. You said you wanted a quiet life. I lead a quite life…most of the time. When I’m on tour, you can stay here, or you can come along. Whatever you want to do.”

  She stared at him. “You’ve actually given your scheme some thought? Like, you think it’s logical. Sane.”

  “I know it sounds bizarre, but I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I think it could work for both of us.”

  “Bizarre?”

  “Okay, insane.” He leaned toward her. “All I’m asking is one month of your time. After thirty days, if you can’t stand the sight of me, we go our separate ways, no harm, no foul. You’ll see. I’m right, and in a few weeks, you’ll know it, too.” His smile was disarming. He sat back, crossing his arms over his chest.

  She snatched her arm away the second he released her. She clamped a hand over the spot where his hand had been. Her skin was still warm, the heat radiating through her body. Her mouth hung open. Her mind raced to digest his words.

  “Come on, Mel. What do you have to lose? Give me, give us, a chance. I want a wife and kids. If you don’t want kids, that might be a deal-breaker.”

  “I want kids,” she heard her other self say—the one that lived in an alternate universe where this conversation was normal.

  “See, we have something in common already.”

  Insanity. That’s what we have in common. She mentally tried to pry herself out of the chair, but her alternate-universe self remained fascinated by what he was saying and refused to budge.

  “You want to live in obscurity in Willowbrook, and it just so happens, so do I. It’s a match made in Heaven.” He smiled again. “Turn on your recorder, and I’ll tell you my life story. I want you to know exactly what you’re getting.” He reached across the table and pressed a button on her recorder. “Interview with Henry Barret Travis, Jr.”

  He’s insane. Or maybe she was because she still sat there while he rambled on about piano lessons, his mother, and the unspeakable pain of losing her to cancer when he was in college. He talked about his father’s endless support, whether he was on a basketball court or a stage. He talked about the years he spent at Harvard, and how his band, BlackWing, came into being, how they played frat parties and local clubs to help pay their way through school.

  Without missing a beat, he rose, poured them both a tall glass of orange juice, and shoved the glass and another doughnut in front of her.

  She tried not to react when he talked about how her father’s death had affected him, but his words sounded sincere. He told her how he had grieved, how “Melody” spoke to him. How the song had validated his soul-deep love of music. How he’d decided to pursue a music career because of “Melody.”

  If it was all an act, it was a good one.

  “Do you have another tape? This one is done.”

  His swift change of subject startled her. “Uh, no.”

  “Okay. Why don’t we take a tour of the farm? Afterward, I’ll take you into town for lunch. You can get more tapes, or we can call it a day after lunch.”

  He led her through the house. She made appropriate comments as he pointed out various things, including the small, upright piano his mother had taught him to play. He told her how he moved it from his dad’s house with the help of a couple of friends, and how they almost dropped it trying to get it out of the pickup and into the house.

  They moved through the house and out to the barn. The barn was no longer a place to house animals, hay, and farm implements. Presently, it contained a state-of-the-art recording studio, several sound proof rehearsal rooms, and Hank’s private office. The recording studio was ultra-modern, but his office could have been beamed straight out of a nineteenth-century gentleman’s club. Or Ravenswood.

  A cozy sitting area boasted a brown leather sofa, two matching chairs, and a coffee table large enough to dance on and, by appearances, sturdy enough to take the abuse.

  The open laptop computer and an electronic keyboard seemed out of place. Other than a neat stack of file folders and the computer, the massive carved wood desk was unadorned. Matching bookcases held Grammy and People’s Choice awards, as well as framed photos and assorted mementos. Gold and Platinum records covered warm green walls. A deep-pile rug softened the hardwood floor.

  Traditional lamps scattered around the room provided low but adequate lighting. As with the rest of the barn, there were no windows.

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.” In fact, it all appeared very professional. However, she couldn’t help but wonder what really went on here. Wild parties? Drugs? Alcohol? Did the farm and the whole town fill with groupies willing to do anything for the musicians they idolized?

  “I had it built after our first CD went Platinum. We’ve recorded here ever since.”

  “Why spend so much money on your own studio? Wouldn’t it be cheaper to rent space somewhere?”

  “Probably, but the guys are away from their families for months at a time. I have the farmhouse. It doubles as a resort of sorts. They all move in here for the duration. It’s worked so far.”

  “They bring their families?” She couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice.

  “Yeah. It’s great. You should see it. The house is full of kids. It takes about a month to clean the place up after they leave, but I love having them here.”

  “Who else comes?”

  “Technicians, back-up musicians.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much, why?”

  “No reason. I was just wondering.” He sounded like he was telling the truth, but it didn’t jive with the lifestyle her mother said rock musicians lived. And if anyone should know, it would be her mother, Diane Harper Ravenswood.

  Chapter Six

  Hank dropped her at her house, promising to have her Jeep delivered later. She collapsed on the sofa, grateful for the peace and quiet. Hank Travis could talk the bark off a tree. Eventually, she got up and made herself a cup of tea.

  Thinking back over her day, she was both appalled and intrigued. Appalled at his proposal—if that’s what it was—and intrigued by the prospect of writing a book about him.

  There were several unauthorized biographies of her father’s life, and the estate had been approached countless times over the years with requests to pen an authorized version—complete with interviews with her and her mother. Her mother declined them all, choosing instead to remain out of the public eye. And other than her father’s best friend and the executor of his estate, Jonathan Youngblood, they’d had no contact over the years with the people from her father’s life.

  Anytime the subject came up, Diane would admonish her daughter, “Stay away from musicians. They’ll break your heart.” She’d heard the mantra her entire life, and her parent’s marriage was evidence of the wisdom of the statement.

  Late in the afternoon, a couple of farmhands returned her Jeep, along with a note from Hank.

  Come for breakfast. Eight a.m.? I’ll cook.

  H.T. Jr.

  Her mother’s words echoed in her ears as she turned into his driveway promptly at eight o’clock the next morning. Only twenty-nine days to go, and she would walk away, get the heck out of Dodge. Maybe write a book. She could write anywhere—use a pseudonym, remain completely off the grid. By the time word got around town that Melody Ravenswood was in Willowbrook, she wou
ld have the material she needed and be long gone.

  The smell of bacon cooking drew her around to the back of the house where Betty Boop, ever the vigilant watchdog, greeted her enthusiastically on the porch. She followed her nose and found Hank in the kitchen looking nothing like the serious rocker she imagined he was on stage.

  He stood in front of the stove juggling a variety of cast iron cookery. Instead of drumsticks, he wielded a greasy spatula. Barefoot, he wore a bib apron adorned with red apples and ruffles trimmed with red crochet work. The apron protected a blue oxford-style shirt and tan chinos.

  A smile tugged at her lips. “Hi.”

  “Oh, hi.” He waved the spatula at her. “I didn’t hear you drive up.”

  “I’m not too early, am I?”

  “Right on time.” He slid two pancakes from the griddle to a plate and poured two more from the bowl of batter on the counter. “Make yourself at home. Breakfast is almost ready.”

  “Do you cook often?” she asked, admiring the way he made it appear easy. If she’d been cooking that many things at once, guaranteed something, or everything, would be burned.

  “When I’m home. It’s a drive into town, and I’m sure you’ve noticed Willowbrook is a little short on eating establishments. I cook enough to get by. Breakfast is my specialty.”

  He’d already set the table with plates, napkins, utensils, and glasses of orange juice. She sat at one place setting, quietly moving the adjacent setting to the other side of the table.

  “I also grill a pretty good steak, and I can stir up a killer pot of chili,” he said.

  “Good to know, if I ever need to kill anyone with chili.”

  He laughed. “I’m glad to see you brought your sense of humor today.”

  He set a platter loaded with pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon on the table and sat in the new location without comment. “Dig in.”