The Mistletoe Melody. Jennifer Snow

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.

      * * *

      “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.