Melody of the Heart Read online

  To the readers who loved the men of Runaway Train enough to keep the series going.

  And to Kim Bias & Paige Silva—my two wranglers who keep me sane, make me laugh, & keep me focused.

  BRAYDEN

  THE PRESENT

  The wind whipped through my hair and rippled through my clothes as I drove over the Bull River Bridge that connected Tybee Island to Savannah. I couldn’t help feeling seventeen again. With a Beatles CD blaring, I sang along at the top of my lungs like I didn’t have a care in the world. Of course, a day at the beach always made me young again. It reminded me of summer vacations with my parents and grandparents. A smile tugged at my lips when I pondered how in the world we were able to get my two younger sisters, my parents, my grandparents, me, and all of our shit into one van. Of course, I’d faced a similar predicament today with the convertible I’d rented for the day at the beach. It had taken two or three times of repacking before I’d managed to get my three children and all of our beach gear inside.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I dug it out. Glancing down at the screen, I motioned to my eleven-year-old son, Jude, who sat next to me. “Cut the volume. It’s your mother.”

  After he reached forward to turn down the music, I answered the call. “Hey, baby. What’s up?”

  “Where are you?” she demanded.

  I could tell by her tone I was already in deep shit. “Almost back to Savannah. Why?”

  “Because we’re supposed to be sitting down with Giovanni Coppola right now for an interview, remember?”

  “Shit!”

  “Daddy!” my daughter, Melody, admonished from the back seat.

  “Sorry, sweetie, but at the moment, that’s the only word that will suffice.”

  When I glanced in the rear view mirror, my less vocal daughter, Lucy, shook her head at me in disapproval. Although their father was a rock star surrounded by men, and sometimes women with mouths like sailors, their mother taught them that swearing was wrong. I don’t know what Lily was thinking when she started that up with them. It was like she was setting my bandmates and me up for failure. Besides, she’d been known to let a few juicy words slip before, especially in the heat of the moment when we were in bed.

  “Time just slipped away from me, baby. I’ll put the lead out and be there in ten.”

  “Don’t you be driving crazy with my babies in that car. You’re carrying precious cargo.”

  I smiled at her admonishment. “I won’t, I promise.”

  “Bye,” she said, tensely.

  “Bye, honey.” Grimacing, I hung up the phone.

  “Is Mommy mad at you?” Melody questioned.

  “Just a teeny bit.”

  “What did you forget this time?” Jude asked, with a grin.

  It was common knowledge among my children that I was a little scatterbrained. Without a wife like Lily, I’m not sure if I would be able to survive. It was a personality quirk that had been a part of my life since I was sixteen years old. “This interview thing with a very important rock magazine.”

  “Epic fail, Dad,” Jude said, shaking his head.

  With a chuckle, I replied, “Ya think?”

  Eyeing the speedometer, I then eased my foot down on the accelerator, slightly increasing the speed. I kept my promise to Lily to be safe, but I still wanted to get back as fast as I could. For over half of my life, Lily Marie Gregson had been keeping me on my toes. More than that, she’d been the love of my life through thick and thin, the good and the bad, for better or worse and all that jazz. She’d given me the family I’d always dreamed of with our three beautiful children. And after all these years, she could still get my blood up and running.

  The five of us had left our family farm in Roswell, Georgia and had descended on Savannah yesterday. Actually, the entire Runaway Train family, sans Rhys and Allison, had flown in on our band’s jet. We had come to the capitol of Southern grace and charm to see our last single bandmate tie the knot. That was also the reason I had Lily on my ass to get back for the interview. Rolling Stone had decided to do a feature on Rhys and Allison’s wedding. After all, it wasn’t everyday a rock star married his bandmate’s little sister, who was also a rising star in the fashion industry.

  But it wasn’t just the soon-to-be newlyweds they wanted to focus on. They wanted to devote a large part of the spread to Lily and me. While the media often loved to focus on Jake and Abby being music's power couple, Lily and I had been singled out this time as music's lasting couple. To them, we were an enigma—high school sweethearts whose twelve-year marriage had stood the tests and trials of the rock star lifestyle. Our envied relationship was put on a pedestal for the rest of my bandmates and their significant others to aspire to. All the attention was a little overwhelming. It was one of the reasons I'd wanted to escape to the beach.

  The other reason being that today was Allison’s bridal luncheon. Since Lily was a bridesmaid, I had offered to take the kids to the beach to get them out of her hair. AJ and his girls had joined us as well. Poor Jake, as the brother of the bride, had been roped into staying for the luncheon and helping Abby out with their twins, who rounded out the wedding party as the ring bearer and flower girl.

  With all the fun in the sun, I had let time get away from me. I cherished every damn minute we had off the road. Although I now had my own bus that enabled Lily and the kids to travel with me, I thoroughly enjoyed the time away from all that craziness. In the last few years, we had drastically scaled back our touring. Once AJ and Jake became fathers, coupled with Abby wanting to be a hands-on mother, the call of the road was no longer as alluring as living at home with our families. In the end, fame, Grammys, and money are fleeting. Your family is really all you have, all you can count on, and everything that keeps you centered in this crazy world.

  I eased the convertible up to the valet stand. After Jude and I hopped out of the front, we worked to quickly extract the girls and our plethora of beach gear. I then handed off the car keys to the attendant and corralled the kids inside the hotel. After the elevator let us out at our floor, I drew in a deep breath as I neared our suite. I dug in my pockets for the key card but came up empty. “Dammit, what did I do with the key?”

  “Daddy!” Melody admonished again as Jude waved the key card in front of my face.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled before taking the key from Jude. “Thanks.” I didn’t even want to begin to wonder how he had the card.

  The girls pushed past me to run into the suite. As I drew in a breath, I couldn't help feeling like a pussy. I mean, I was a grown man for fuck's sake, but I was practically cowering from the impending wrath of my wife. Maybe it was because Lily was usually so easy going and laid back. She very rarely lost her temper, and she was the level-headed one who evened out my manic side.

  I hustled down the short hallway. Peeking around the corner, I watched as Lily embraced our girls, planting a kiss on the tops of their dark-haired heads. They had both inherited my dark hair and eyes, but they each had the same dimple in their left cheek that their mother did. While the reporter might've thought Lily’s affection was all for show, I knew better. The sight caused warmth to flood my chest.

  Glancing over Lucy's head, Lily met my gaze. The beaming smile she had for our girls tightened considerably. "So glad to see you finally made it home safely." While the reporter might not have caught her veiled hostility, I heard it loud and clear. I had to do something fast to get my ass out of the doghouse.

  Plastering on my most apologetic smile, I power-walked around the corner. I then threw my hand out to the reporter. "Brayden Vanderburg."

  As he pumped my hand, he replied, "Giovanni Coppola."

  "I'm so sorry I'm late. I'd love to blame the kids, but sadly it's all my fault."

&
nbsp; He laughed good-naturedly. "It's okay. You guys have a lot on your plate with the wedding. I just appreciate you making time for me."

  "We're just honored that an esteemed magazine like yours would want to interview us,” I drawled, laying it on extra thick.

  When Lily raised her brows at me, I winked. She ignored me and turned to the kids. “Okay guys, Mia is waiting on you next door. She’s had an early dinner delivered from her dad’s restaurant.”

  “Mama Sofia’s!” Melody squealed while Lucy gave an enthusiastic smile.

  “Good. I’m starving,” Jude replied before he headed to the door with Melody and Lucy trailing behind him.

  Before Lily could ask me if I had also managed to forget to feed our kids, I held up my hands. “He ate everything you packed as well as raiding the concession stand twice. I swear that kid will be eating us out of house and home when he turns thirteen.”

  Lily cocked her head at me. “I seem to remember you having the same appetite when you were a little older than him.”

  Sensing an opportune moment for interrogation, Giovanni asked, “Just how hold were you when you met?”

  “Sixteen,” Lily and I replied in unison.

  Our shared reply brought a beaming smile to Giovanni’s face. “Do you finish each other’s sentences, too?”

  “Sometimes,” Lily replied.

  “I’m usually forgetting what I want to say so I need her to finish,” I joked.

  Giovanni scribbled something down in his notebook. When he glanced up, he motioned to the patterned sofa. “Why don’t you two sit there, and I’ll have a seat here?” His hand fell on the back of one of the antique chairs.

  I nodded. Easing down on the sofa beside Lily, I leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. “You smell good,” I complimented.

  The tight expression that had been on her face since I came in receded, and a genuine smile appeared. “You smell even better because you smell like the ocean.”

  I then turned my attention to Giovanni. “Once again, my deepest apologies for being late.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Cocking my head at him, I asked, “Did my lovely wife give you the sad sap story as to why I’m not always with it?”

  Giovanni grinned. “Yes, she did. And I have to say it was quite fascinating hearing about your head injury and how without it, you might not be where you are today.”

  With a chuckle, I replied, “I would have to say that’s the truth because if it weren’t for the short-term memory issue shit, I would have been here a lot earlier.”

  Waving his hand dismissively at my joke, Giovanni said, “I don’t think most of our readers or your fans know you didn’t grow up playing guitar or having the desire to be a rock star. That without the football related injury, you would have never taken up the guitar or written your first song.”

  I shifted in my seat. Talking about my injury always made the hairs stand up on the back of my arms and neck. It was one of those life-altering moments that set me on an entirely different path I could never have imagined. At sixteen, my entire universe revolved around the emerald green grass of the field and the smell of pigskin in my hands. I had my eye on a college scholarship and maybe some time in the NFL. I was that good.

  But life changes in an instant—a play you had executed flawlessly a hundred times before can go so very wrong. Instead of being carted off victoriously on the shoulders of your teammates, you leave in a neck brace laid out on a stretcher. A brain injury coupled with a cracked vertebrae that narrowly missed severing your spine brings the curtains down on your dream. But then you realize the life you thought was ending was truly just beginning.

  The squeeze of Lily’s hand brought me out of the past and back to the present. I cleared my throat. “Yes, it is true that my life would be so very different and not for the better. But I don’t mean in the sense of not having the fortune or the fame.” I turned to gaze at Lily and smiled. “I might not have Lily by my side.”

  She brought my hand to her lips and kissed it. “When I was seventeen, I told you I’d follow you anywhere and everywhere. If your life had taken you somewhere else, I would have been there.”

  “Thank God,” I murmured.

  “So was it love at first sight for you?” Giovanni asked, leaning in expectantly.

  Lily tilted her head at me before giggling. “Not exactly.”

  Giovanni’s dark brows knit together. “Oh?”

  I couldn’t help the smile that stretched across my face as the familiar memory played in my mind. “I owe my marriage to my lovely wife’s penchant for apple thievery.”

  Lily sputtered with outrage. “I was not stealing apples. We had just moved in, and I wasn’t sure where our property ended and your grandparents’ began.”

  After winking at her, I focused my gaze on Giovanni’s amused one. “The first time I ever laid eyes on Lily she was wearing a blue sundress with a satin ribbon in her hair. She could have had the face of an angel, but I wouldn’t have noticed because she had the hem of her dress flipped up to cradle the apples she was picking from my grandparents’ tree. All I could focus on were her long, tanned legs and the brief glimpse I got at what was between them.”

  “Brayden Michael Vanderburg!” Lily exclaimed. Just hearing her call my full name caused warmth to enter my chest. I loved her voice, I loved her outrage, and I loved that a woman as amazing as she was actually loved me.

  “I’m just answering the man’s question, sweetheart,” I replied. Leaning forward in my chair, I then began the story of the day that changed my life….

  BRAYDEN

  THE PAST

  With my guitar resting on my lap, I closed my eyes and began strumming the familiar chords. The peace I often searched for through the music hummed throughout my fingers and then spread throughout my body. I focused only on the music while the rest of the world faded into the background—the heave and sigh of the porch swing, the shrieks of happy children, and the soft snores of my grandfather who slept in a rocking chair across from me. In moments like these, I was one with my instrument. It became an extension of myself—the best and purest parts.

  “Speaking words of wisdom, let it be,” I sang softly. Although I had been a Beatles fan all my life, the song had come to mean more to me in the last six months. Learning to let things be was the very reason I’d taken up the guitar in the first place. And like Paul, I’d had my own hour of darkness to which music pulled me out of and sent me to the light.

  My foot tapped out the rhythm on the worn floorboards of my grandparents’ front porch. Even from my place outside, I could hear the faint laughter and chatter of my father and his siblings. The noise barely lessened even when I worked the strings of my guitar harder. My cousins, ranging in age from three to eighteen, roamed about the large two-story, plantation-style house as well as the massive front yard.

  Sunday dinners held a place of reverence in my family. I suppose they did in every old-school Southern family. I couldn’t remember a time in my life when we hadn’t spent every Sunday around the antique table that overflowed with home-cooked food.

  My fingers hit a wrong note, and I grimaced as I remembered the one time I was absent. It had been six months ago. While a colorful array of red, orange, and yellow leaves coated the ground, I remained a prisoner in a white-walled room. Even if I had been able to leave, I doubt I would have noticed the colors. My world had faded to black the moment a doctor in a white coat had held up an X-ray and started rattling off my prognosis.

  “Intense trauma to the cerebellum.”

  “Irreparable damage to the C1 and C2 vertebrae due to the cervical fracture.”

  “Inconceivable to play contact sports of any kind. Ever. Again.”

  And while the physical pain was bad, the emotional agony that clawed its way through me had me ringing the nurse for more medicine. I’d toddled out onto the Pee Wee football field at barely three. As a freshman, I was starting on the varsity team. The next two years, I racked up more titl
es and broke even more records. On that crisp, October evening, I had scouts from both Georgia Tech and Auburn watching me play. Unfortunately, they had a front row seat to the demise of my football career.

  I’d spent a week in the hospital, and then three months doing physical therapy to repair some of the nerve damage I’d experienced. It was in the middle of therapy that a guitar was put in front of me. Before that day, I’d never even considered playing an instrument. But the therapist thought it might be good for me. While she’d explained that it would help rewire the parts of my brain that had become scrambled, I think she really suggested it because she thought I needed an outlet. The anger, the frustration, and the grief about what had happened to me were at a boiling point. I’d started lashing out at those around me—those who just loved me and wanted to see me get better.

  But what neither one of us could have imagined was how easily learning the guitar would be for me. It was like a switch had been flipped in my brain. What had once looked like a bunch of jibberish on a sheet of music suddenly made total sense to me. The neurologist gave some name for it—acquired savant syndrome. While savants were usually geniuses, I was nowhere near being a Paul McCartney or Jimmy Hendrix. And even though reading and playing music came a lot easier to me, it didn’t hurt that all the time I’d once spent practicing football or watching it on television was now focused elsewhere. Any spare time I had, I was sure to have my guitar on my lap, just like today.

  “Hey dickweed! Get your pansy ass out here and play,” my cousin, Mitch, called from the front yard. I didn’t even have to glance up to know that he was tossing a football up and down in his hands. Growing up, we both lived and died for football. But Mitch was the only Vanderburg still playing.

  “Go fuck yourself,” I shouted.

  “Language, Brayden,” my grandfather chided. I guess Nick and my yelling had woken him up.

  “Sorry, Papa.”

  Mitch came to the edge of the porch. Gazing up at me, said, “Come on, man. You can at least throw it back to me.”