Free Lost Melody by Roz Lee

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,