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 and 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.
*
