Lost Melody (23 page)

Jonathan moved closer, covering her
hand with his. “Letting her go, letting her take you away, was the
hardest thing he ever did. I thought he was going to come apart at
the seams for a while. Eventually, Diane convinced him you would be
better off living a normal life, away from the music business. He
knew she was right, but it nearly killed him to see you go. We were
on the road too much back then. It’s different these days. There
are more ways to promote music, MTV, the Internet, iTunes. It’s not
necessary to be on the road three hundred sixty days of every year
to sell your music.”

“Why didn’t Mom take me to
Ravenswood?”

“Do you really think you could have
lived a normal life there? Milton did a good job of keeping the
fans and paparazzi away, but they still got through sometimes.
Diane wanted you to be a carefree little girl, no celebrity demands
on you. Milton wanted that, too.”

“So, they lived apart because of me.
They sacrificed their marriage so I could have a ‘normal’
life?”

“They didn’t live under the same roof,
but their marriage was as good as it could be under the
circumstances. Diane wouldn’t live the kind of life Milton needed,
and he wouldn’t live the kind of life she wanted. But they still
found time to be together. Besides you, it’s what kept Milton going
all those years. Didn’t you wonder why they never
divorced?”

No
.

Shame filled her. Should she have? She
had been a child. She hadn’t really understood they were still
married until her father died and all the funeral decisions had
fallen to her mother—his wife. Up until then, all she’d known was
her parents lived apart, and in her child’s mind that equaled
divorced. As an adult, she knew better, but she’d never asked her
mother why.

She had little time to dwell on the
question though. Jonathan was eager to get to work, so they left as
soon as they finished their breakfast. Jonathan chatted like a kid
on his first day of school all the way to the farm. She’d never
seen him as excited about anything as he was about recording with
BlackWing. If she weren't already in love with Hank, she would love
him for his kindness to Jonathan alone.

Henry turned into the driveway right
behind her, and sound technicians poured out like circus clowns
stuffed in a toy car. She opened the back hatch on her Jeep and
passed out boxes of Donut Hole pastries to the men as they walked
past. Today, the real work would begin.

“You’ve made yourself a carload of
friends.” Henry greeted her and Jonathan, wrapping an arm around
Mel’s shoulders and steering her in the direction of the barn. “The
only problem is they’ll expect you to feed them every day from now
on.”

“No problem. I have a standing order.
You two better get in there and grab a doughnut before they’re all
gone.”

Henry and Jonathan took off for the
barn at an exaggerated pace, leaving her laughing at their antics.
They disappeared through the door, and she headed toward the house.
The backdoor was open, and calling out, she let herself in. The
wives sat at the kitchen table, coffee in hand.

“
Hi, Mel!” Stacy greeted
her. “Grab a cup and join us. We’re enjoying the quiet before the
storm.”

She helped herself to a mug and filled
it from the carafe. “Thanks. Let me guess, the kids are still
asleep and the husbands have gone to work.”

A chorus of, “Thank God, yes, and
hallelujah,” rose from the group.

She joined them at the table, pulling
her chair out carefully so as not to disturb the black dog sprawled
underneath the table. “Betty must be resting up for another day of
chasing kids.”

“Yeah. She loves them, but they tire
her out,” Marci agreed.

“Did Hank talk to you about the
interview?” Mel asked.

Marci answered, “Yes. We trust you to
write a responsible article, so we’ll talk.”

Murmurs of agreement went around the
table.

“Thanks. I’d like to ask you all a few
questions. Maybe I’ll come out a little earlier on Thursday, and we
can have coffee and talk before things get going.”

They finalized the arrangements, and
Mel left them to enjoy what was left of their peaceful morning. She
paused outside the barn, steeling herself for the emotional
battering awaiting her inside. She took a deep breath, and let it
out slowly. Sucking up her courage, she opened the door and stepped
inside.

The chaos of the previous day was
gone. Today was all about business. She found BlackWing and the
entire production crew in the studio. Jonathan sat at the piano.
The others had scattered around the room on folding chairs or sat
cross-legged on the floor. Most still worked on their morning
caffeine addiction. Empty Donut Hole boxes sat atop the closed
piano. Hank leaned casually against the doorframe of the adjacent
drum booth.

She found an out-of-the-way place to
observe. Hank glanced over the top of his reading glasses, and
their gazes met. His lips lifted slightly on one side, and his eyes
flashed with male approval before he returned his attention to the
paper in his hand. His gaze, brief as it had been, sent a tingle of
awareness along her spine.

Comments flew from all corners as the
group discussed the day’s chart. She pushed her sudden desire for
Hank out of her mind and concentrated on the fascinating process
going on in front of her. Suggestions were made, discussed, and
acted on, as swiftly as in any stuffed-shirt board meeting—without
all the corporate trappings.

Instead of a polished conference table
and suited executives, these professionals sat amongst dozens of
instruments, amplifiers, microphones, and enough wires to rig out a
three-mast schooner. They had dressed casually in worn denim and
logo T-shirts advertising everything from a favorite beer to an Ivy
League college—Harvard, of course. Jonathan’s RavensBlood T-shirt
had faded almost beyond recognition.

Her gaze wandered across the room to
where Hank lounged carelessly, his hips cocked to one side like a
Brooks Brother’s advertisement. He had chosen his usual attire,
washed out jeans and a crisply starched blue oxford button-down,
the sleeves rolled to mid-forearm. His farmer-boy haircut, closely
shaved jaw, and reading glasses, should have translated into nerd,
but on Hank, were inexplicably sexy. He’d left his shirt open at
the throat, the small patch of golden skin reminding her of what
lay beneath the starched cotton. His only ornamentation was a
tasteful watch on a leather wristband.

He held the day’s chart in his right
hand. His left hand was tucked into the pocket of jeans that hugged
his lean body and emphasized long, well-defined muscles, and slim
hips. Mel filled in the missing details from memory. Embarrassed by
the direction her thoughts had taken, she jerked her gaze away,
hoping no one had noticed the way she’d been ogling the
man.

By the time the meeting ended, she had
regained some semblance of composure. The Recording Engineer, now
in charge of the studio, issued orders. Final equipment checks were
first on the agenda, followed by a preliminary run through of the
first song from start to finish. From there, they would break it
down into its essential parts, recording various combinations of
instruments and solos as necessary to mix and master the
track.

Hank directed her to a high stool in
the control room where she would be able to see over the control
board. From her perch, she could watch the techs, musicians, and
engineers work. Last minute adjustments were made to microphones
and acoustical gobos, or go-betweens to absorb sound waves from the
individual instruments and make for a cleaner recording. Every
connection was checked and rechecked.

As the band fine-tuned their
instruments and adjusted volumes, Mel’s nerves skittered. At last,
they donned headsets through which they would hear the click
track—a steady tempo similar to a metronome. Jonathan entered the
control room and stood behind her, his strong hands resting on her
shoulders. She drew strength and courage from his touch.

Everyone turned to watch Hank through
the glass partition separating the drum booth from the studio. He
nodded his head in time with the click and launched into the intro.
As he bridged to the steady rhythmic beat, the others picked up the
melody. The backbeat was seductive, and she closed her eyes,
focusing on the melody and blocking out the rush of panic
threatening to engulf her.

The song was one of RavensBlood’s
early hits, penned by her father and Jonathan years before she was
born. Her rational mind told her it shouldn’t affect her so much,
but there wasn’t anything rational about her reaction. If not for
Jonathan’s calming touch, she would have bolted from the room.
She’d heard the song countless times. She couldn’t turn on the
radio without hearing it, and nearly thirty years had passed since
the song was recorded. Hearing it live, her heart raced and her
lungs struggled with every breath.

“Relax. It’s going to be all right,”
Jonathan whispered in her ear.

His was the voice of sanity she
needed, bringing her back to reality. She opened her eyes. Chad
sang the familiar lyrics, not her father. The men in the studio
were not RavensBlood. Opening herself to the music, she noted the
subtle differences.

Hank’s fill bridged the distance from
the melody to the chorus. His eyes locked across the room with
hers, and she knew she would be all right as long as Hank was there
for her. His gaze—filled with love and understanding—warmed her and
banished any lingering doubts about her feelings. She was in love
with him. Her foolish, foolish heart was totally lost…to a
musician.

The song finished on a particularly
intricate drum solo to which Hank added his own personal touch.
With a final flourish and a dramatic tone from a crash cymbal, the
speakers went silent. Time stood still. Mel held her breath, her
hands clenched into fists in her lap. At last, a whoop rose up from
the crew followed by a joyous celebration consisting of macho
handshakes and perfunctory backslapping.

Sir Jonathan entered the room and
silence fell, anchoring everyone in a frozen tableau. They all
awaited his verdict. Jonathan, even more so than she, held the
power to end the recording session. They had authorized a few
covers of RavensBlood songs over the years, but all the ones
BlackWing had requested were firsts. Mel stood behind Jonathan just
inside the door, as anxious as anyone present to hear what he had
to say.

“Well done, chaps! I couldn’t have
done it better myself.” Jonathan’s British accent floated across
the near perfect acoustics in the room.

Chaos erupted. Mel added
her praise, speaking individually with the band members. Randy the
Recording Engineer let out an ear-piercing whistle, bringing the
celebration to an abrupt halt. When he had everyone’s attention, he
listed the technical flaws in the performance and doled out
assignments for the day. Everyone dispersed like leaves on the
wind. The band members holed up in the rehearsal rooms to try to
find
the tone
,
that elusive sound signature unique to each guitarist while the
technicians went to work correcting the mechanical problems Randy
had pointed out.

Chapter
Twenty

Hank drew Mel into his
office and into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his waist and
her soft curves molded to his harder angles as though she’d been
made just for him. He had wanted to hold her from the moment she’d
walked into the studio and checked him out. Knowing she was so
close, only a few feet across the room and he couldn’t go to her,
hold her and kiss her the way he wanted—no, make that
needed
—had almost driven
him crazy. Instead of listening to the discussion, he had
concentrated on calculating the mass of the piano in the center of
the room. He couldn’t remember the formula for the calculation, but
the thought process kept blood circulating in his brain where it
belonged.

As they played the song, he’d locked
eyes with her. He’d gone a little crazy, almost calling a halt to
the whole thing rather than put her through another minute of the
torture hearing the songs would be for her. Then something had
changed and instead of pain, there was something else in her eyes,
something he’d been sure she hadn’t wanted him to see—love. It was
enough to banish some of his concerns and allowed him to finish the
song.

She was in his arms where she
belonged, and he owed it to her to do whatever he could to help her
through the recording.

“Was it as difficult as you thought it
would be?” he asked.

“No. It was hard at first. I wasn’t
sure I could do it, but I did. The song is good. I like the changes
you made.”

Gently, he turned her face up to his.
She was so damned perfect. Beautiful and smart. And she thought she
was weak. It boggled his mind. “I knew you could do it. You’re so
much stronger than you think you are.”

“I’m not,” she said.

“You are, and I love that about you.”
He dipped his head, and rising onto her toes, she met him halfway.
He teased her lips apart and tasted her sweetness. She pressed
herself more fully against him.