The Mistletoe Melody Page 2

Heather saved Melody’s textbook page with her finger as she closed the book to see the cover. “Essentials of Management...yuck.” She wrinkled her nose. “How’s that going?”

  “It was going terribly. But it’s much better now that I took your advice about writing my notes on index cards and leaving them all over the house. Now as I’m cooking or getting the boys ready for bed, I’m memorizing information.” She covered a cough as she opened the dishwasher and loaded in the empty beer mugs. She’d never been great at academics, barely getting by in school, but this management course was important to her. The past three months, she’d pushed herself harder than she ever had before. She’d passed the three previous exams with a B average.

  Heather collected more empty cups from around the bowling alley and set them on the bar before reaching for the television remote control. “Well, take a break. It’s eight o’clock. Our show is on.” She flipped through the stations on the flat-screen television above the bar. She passed the hockey game, ignoring the cries of protest from the men playing pool, and stopped on American Voices, the reality television competition they’d watched every Thursday night together since she’d started training at the bar.

  A young woman wearing a black leather jumpsuit, was crooning a Sheryl Crow song. Heather folded her arms and leaned against the bar as she watched. “I still think you should have tried out when they were holding auditions in New Jersey, Melody. You can sing circles around these contestants.” She winced as the redhead struggled to hit a high note.

  Melody took several shot glasses down from the shelf and refilled them with tequila as Mark Adams, a local firefighter and the biggest flirt in town, approached the bar. He asked for another round of shots. “Good luck, Heather. We’ve been trying to convince Mel to try out every season for three years.”

  “I’m too old, guys,” Melody said, sliding the shot glasses toward him. She tossed her long, wavy chestnut hair over one shoulder as she added, “Besides, I gave up on that dream a long time ago.”

  At twenty-one, all she’d wanted to do was leave Brookhollow and move to Nashville to pursue a career in country music. But then she and Patrick had gotten married and the boys had arrived...and the dream had turned into more of a quiet longing.

  She held up her textbook. “I have a new dream now.” One that made sense. One she could depend on. One that would provide a secure future for her children. Nothing kept her more firmly planted in reality than two boys who needed new clothes, school supplies, sporting equipment and medicine.

  Heather scoffed. “You’d be an instant star in Nashville and you know it. And you’re always writing your own songs.”

  Melody’s shoulders tensed. She wished Heather would drop the subject. She hadn’t written a new song in a long time. Sure, she often hummed original tunes that popped into her head, or made up random lyrics, none of which she could ever remember afterward, but she hadn’t actually put pen to paper in more than three years. Not since the last song she’d cowritten with Patrick.

  After Patrick’s death, a record label had approached her, offering to buy any original material Patrick may have had, but she’d been unable to sell the music they’d written together. She only had a few mementoes left of him—his lyrics and musical scores were vital to her.

  “Oh, I love this guy,” Heather said, her attention captured by the screen. “Victoria and I saw him in New York last summer when he opened for Toby Keith.”

  “Who?” Melody asked, turning to look at the television.

  She lost her grip on the wet beer mug in her hand and it crashed to the floor, shattering in a million pieces at her feet.

  Brad Monroe, her husband’s former bandmate and friend, sat in the guest judge’s seat on the critique panel, commenting on the girl’s performance.

  Her mouth went dry. She held on to the edge of the bar as the deep, husky voice she hadn’t heard in years filled the heavy air around her.

  “Mel, you okay?” Heather asked. She reached for the broom behind the kitchen door.

  “I got it,” Melody insisted, taking the broom from Heather with a shaky hand. “Um...do you mind if we turn that program off?” She knew her request would sound odd and would require an explanation, but she wasn’t sure she could handle seeing Brad’s carefree, handsome face at that moment—or ever. She’d been successful in avoiding that face for the three years since Patrick’s funeral. She was sure she’d done the right thing by keeping Brad completely out of her and her sons’ lives. The man had been responsible for her husband’s death, and she felt unnerved enough just by the sight of him on television.

  “Oh, sure.” Heather quickly changed to the channel showing the hockey game and held the dustpan for Melody as she swept the broken glass onto it.

  Heather’s lack of protest spoke volumes. “Who told you?” Melody asked.

  “Told me what?”

  “About my late husband and Brad Monroe...uh...Jackson.” The smug jerk had changed his last name to Jackson to sound more “country” when he’d left Brookhollow to pursue a record deal with Propel Records, a record deal that had launched his career. A career that should also have been Patrick’s.

  “I remember Victoria mentioning something about it after the concert when we bought his CD from the merchandise table. He’d mentioned your family in his acknowledgment section, and Vic recognized the connection.”

  Melody hadn’t known. She’d refused to even look at his CD cover in the music store at the mall or talk about him with family and friends over the three years. So he’d acknowledged them—big deal. It didn’t soften her feelings toward him, not one little bit. As she often told the boys, saying sorry might be the right thing to do, but it didn’t erase the deed.

  She emptied the broken glass into the trash can and leaned the broom against the bar. “What did Victoria tell you, exactly?”

  “Not much,” Heather replied. “Just that the three of you had a history.”

  History was an understatement. “We went to high school together, but Patrick was four years older than Brad, so they were never really friends. Brad and I were in the same classes, but I never knew much about him. I certainly wouldn’t have expected him to be interested in music—he was always hanging around with the jocks and cheerleaders. Anyway, after one of Patrick’s gigs about nine years ago in Beach Haven, where Brad happened to be vacationing with his girlfriend of the week, they caught up on old times and somehow the discussion turned to Brad’s interest in music. Next thing I knew, Brad was joining the band.” She couldn’t keep the disdain from her voice.

  She’d liked Brad just fine, but she’d always worried about his playboy influence on her husband when they were on the road—groupies were a simple reality. Her trust in Patrick had been unwavering, but his being with Brad had caused her concern. She wasn’t thrilled about her husband playing wingman for the free-spirited bachelor, no matter how innocent the situation.

  “Were you okay with that? Taking a step back?”

  Not exactly, but she wasn’t about to tell Heather about all of the arguments she and Pat had had over the decision. The decision that meant walking away from music. “I was pregnant with the boys at the time, so we’d decided it was best for me to step away from performing. Patrick was amazing on the guitar, but even he recognized they needed a new singer. Brad took over the microphone and we all became close friends as well as musical collaborators. Brad is even the boys’ godfather.” She paused. That had been Patrick’s choice, not hers.

  “Wow,” Heather said. “But then the accident happened?”

  Melody nodded. “The accident report revealed they’d both been drinking—they’d been celebrating the signing of their contract with Propel Records in New York.” She paused, the words still hard to say, “Brad survived. Patrick didn’t.”

  In truth, Brad had barely escaped the same fate. He’d suffered critical injuries a
nd a severe concussion that had left him in the hospital for weeks. At Patrick’s funeral, he’d been in a wheelchair.

  “Brad was driving?” Heather guessed.

  Melody nodded, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. How many times had she told Patrick that Brad couldn’t be trusted when he was drinking? His judgment when sober had been questionable enough.

  “And then he left town and that was it? You haven’t heard from him since?” Heather frowned, her expression a mix of anger and sympathy.

  “Yeah,” Melody answered, avoiding Heather’s gaze. It wasn’t exactly the truth. Brad had attempted to contact them over the past three years, offering to help in any way he could—emotionally, financially—but Melody had put an end to the contact by changing the family’s phone number and blocking any incoming emails from him.

  She didn’t want anything to do with Brad Monroe or Jackson or whatever he called himself.

  All she wanted were the things he’d taken away and couldn’t give back—her husband and their dreams for the future.

  * * *

  “HOW DID YOU get in here?”

  “Oh, honey, please. I’m a publicist. I can talk my way into anywhere.”

  From the hot tub in the men-only section of BodyWorks, a therapeutic spa and chiropractic clinic in downtown Nashville, Brad watched as Roxanne Klein kicked off her designer shoes. Grabbing a towel to sit on, she lowered herself to the edge of the tub, sinking her tiny feet into the water. He rolled his eyes and then lowered his head back against the towel he had positioned behind him.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Roxanne said. “I asked the last guy I saw coming out if there was anyone else in here before going in.”

  And that made it okay? The woman was terrible. She had no sense of boundaries, although in truth, it was no doubt the reason she was so fantastic at her job. As one of Nashville’s most sought-after publicists, she could turn acts no one had ever heard of into overnight successes. As much as he hated to admit it, she was worth the astronomical fee she charged—a fee he really couldn’t afford. That’s why he had put the fate of his career in her hands a year before.

  So far she’d changed his hair color from light brown to blond and had forced him to buy colored, non-prescription contacts to hide the fact that his eyes were different colors—one a deep blue, the other a sea-foam green. She’d also changed his stage name from Monroe to Jackson and had ordered the name switch on his first CD cover before it had hit store shelves. He’d found out a week later when he’d seen it advertised in a flyer.

  “Besides, I wouldn’t have to resort to these measures if you’d stop avoiding my calls,” she said, a chill in her Southern accent.

  He felt it, despite the heat of the water. “I got your voice mails and I left you one of my own.” He stood and pushed himself out of the hot tub. There was no relaxing around Roxanne.

  Already, he felt his muscles tightening again after the two-hour session with his physical therapist. In the three years since the car accident, he had been going to therapy twice a week to build up the strength in his legs and back. Besides the countless broken bones, he’d had torn muscles and five dislocated disks in his spine.

  Yet he’d been the lucky one.

  “But you didn’t give me the answer I wanted to hear.” Roxanne kept her eyes on him as he made his way to the towels and wrapped one around his waist. Luckily, he always wore his swim trunks.

  “Well, it’s the only answer you’re going to get.” Brad raked a hand through his highlighted hair and watched her as she swung her legs over the side of the tub and stood up. With her shoulder-length blond hair and big blue eyes, he might have found her attractive if she weren’t always trying to convince him to do things he didn’t want to do—such as her latest request.

  Even in bare feet, Roxanne was almost as tall as the five-foot-eleven Brad. “Think about this rationally—it’s television. So far, we’ve done the magazine articles, the talk radio, that one-time appearance on that music reality show, but we haven’t been able to secure a prime-time spot focused on you as an artist. This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.”

  “Heartland Country Television is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for?” He raised an eyebrow. Roxanne could talk, and he suspected 99 percent of the time people bought everything she said. But even she had to know that calling Nashville’s local country television station prime time was a stretch.

  “Okay, so it’s not Oprah—and don’t think I haven’t tried calling her—but it’s a start. And their ‘Home for the Holidays’ episode is one of the most watched Christmas Eve programs. Apparently, people love seeing how stars spend their holidays,” she insisted, following him to the men’s change-room door.

  “You can’t come in here,” Brad said, pausing with his hand on the door.

  “Try to stop me.”

  He let out an exasperated sigh. “Roxanne, I won’t do it. ‘Home for the Holidays’... Do you even know what that means for me?” He shuddered at the thought of returning to his family home in Brookhollow, a place he hadn’t dared visit in three years. He’d tried the year before when he’d been performing an hour from his hometown, but as the town-limits sign had come into view, he’d pulled a U-turn and hightailed it out of there. Facing his past, especially this time of year, would have destroyed him.

  “Let me guess—your family’s crazy? So? Whose isn’t? Country music is about crazy mothers, alcoholic fathers, hillbilly farm life and broken-down trucks. Be the stereotype. Embrace it. Trust me, it will surprise you how fans love humble beginnings. It makes you more relatable—”

  “Forget it, Roxanne. I don’t think my family would go for it.”

  That was a lie. His mother and five older sisters would have eaten it up. Brookhollow did Christmas in a big way, with the colorfully decorated storefronts on Main Street, the twenty-foot evergreen erected in the town center, the parade and the horse-drawn sleigh rides through the park. He didn’t even want to think about his own family’s extreme holiday traditions. At Christmas, not an inch of wall space inside the home was visible beneath the garlands and wall hangings. Outside, the twelve thousand multicolored lights stapled to the roof lit up the entire neighborhood, and the large evergreen trees around the family farm were decorated with hundreds of baubles and bows. Overdone was an understatement. Tacky was more the word.

  “Let me talk to them.” She offered him a confident smile.

  “No. And besides, you’ve changed my last name, remember?” How did she expect to pull that off?

  “So, we’ll change the name on your family’s mailbox. I’m not seeing an issue here, Brad.”

  She was unbelievable. He didn’t doubt for a second she would force his entire family to assume the surname Jackson for this publicity stunt. “Can we talk about this later? I’d like to get dressed now.” He had no intention of resuming this conversation, but goose bumps were covering his bare skin now that he was out of the hot tub. Or maybe it was the icy chill he always felt around his publicist.

  “Go ahead,” she said with a shrug, daring him to force her to follow him into the change room.

  “You’re unreal, you know that?”

  “It’s called being persistent. It’s why you hired me. I’m going to take your wavering resolve and lack of a snappy retort as agreement.” She opened her shoulder bag and pulled out the contract for the television spot.

  He accepted it with reluctance and scanned the pages. “You forged my signature?” Why her behavior still shocked him, he didn’t know. By now, he knew there was no point in putting up a fight. Roxanne Klein didn’t know the meaning of failure.

  “Don’t get caught up on morality,” she said. “We needed to secure the last-minute spot before they gave it to some adorable seventeen-year-old kid who writes all his own songs and plays like eighteen instruments. I did what I
had to do. I’ve also confirmed your travel arrangements to Brookville...”

  “Brookhollow.”

  “Whatever. Middle of nowhere, New Jersey...” She positioned her aqua-blue heels on the concrete floor and held his shoulder for balance as she slid her feet into them.

  “Are you going with me?”

  “It’s the holidays. Are you kidding? No.” Her eyes fell to his torso and she frowned. “Have we talked about getting a plastic surgeon to look at those?” she asked, pointing to the scar tissue on his chest and upper abdomen.

  “No, and we won’t.” He hoped his voice held enough conviction to make her drop the point.

  “Fine. I’ll take my victories where I can get them—we’ll discuss it another time. You fly out on Monday morning. Bye, Brad.”

  Brad watched her saunter away. He ran a hand over his damaged skin.

  He didn’t doubt she would bring it up again, but removing the scars was something he would never consider. They were a permanent souvenir from a bad decision that had cost him so much, as well as a constant reminder that life was short.

  Besides, unless the surgeon could remove the scars he carried on the inside, what would be the point?

  CHAPTER TWO

  “DAVID, COME ON. You’re going to be late for school,” Melody called down the hallway of her two-bedroom bungalow to the room the boys shared. Opening their matching superhero backpacks, she tucked their lunch tins inside before adding juice boxes and sandwich meat to the grocery list on the fridge. She hated running out of things on a Monday, which called for a between-jobs run to the grocery store. But with the three of them recovering from illness all weekend and her shifts at the bowling alley, there really hadn’t been time.

  “Worry about Josh!” David called back. “He’s out in the shed again.”

  Melody moved to the kitchen window and looked across her backyard. The light in the shed was on, and through the open door she could see Josh sitting on the tiny sofa in what had once been the family’s makeshift recording studio, his father’s electric guitar on his lap. She sighed. He spent so much time out there trying to learn to play. She wished she knew how, but she’d never bothered to learn. Patrick had been playing since he was four years old, and he could play anything simply by hearing it. He’d taught Josh a few simple chords.