Dancing on a Moonbeam (Bedford Falls Book 1) (7 page)

"Yeah. It'll all work out." It'd be cheaper, and everyone in town knew her, so if there were a problem she'd just take care of it. "Thanks, Travis."

"Sure thing." He let himself out.
 

"Look at the bright side," Robbie said, putting his cup in the dishwasher. "You get to watch Travis wield his hammer longer now. A lot of women in town would love to be in your shoes."

She glanced out the window, in the direction of the house next door. She didn't want to watch Travis's hammer; she was interested in making music with a man named Amadeus. She craned her neck to see if she could catch a glimpse of him.

"What are you looking at?" Robbie asked, coming to stand next to her.

"Nothing." The last thing she needed was for Robbie to know that she had a strong urge to go next door wearing nothing but a coat, heels, and Chanel No.5.

"Hmm." He studied her. Then he tugged her hair. "Don't worry, Elle. The bad taste left from Charles will go away, and you'll find someone who floats your boat."

She sighed, knowing he'd take it to be weariness instead of longing for the man next door.

Chapter 10

Max sat on the bench behind Liam's house, a cup of hot water and lemon warming his hands. This morning was chillier than yesterday had been.

But it was amazingly silent, and for that he was grateful. True to his pretty neighbor's word, the noise had stopped shortly after he'd talked to her.

She wasn't his, he reminded himself. But she
was
pretty.

More than just pretty, unfortunately. Something about her disrupted his rhythm.
 

Only he couldn't afford that now, so he pushed her out of his head and listened to life. His dad always said it was the best symphony there'd ever be.

Life in the countryside was melodic and gentle. In Los Angeles, life's music was staccato at best, oftentimes discordant. Here, birds chattering and the wind blowing created a lovely accompaniment.

Max frowned. He couldn't remember hearing the wind this way before.

The strain that he'd been struggling to grasp began to play in his head, but softly, still out of his reach. He leaned forward, trying to grasp it—

The loud crack of wood breaking jarred him out of the moment.

Scowling, he looked over at the house next door, wincing when he heard men talking and a loud crash.

This was the last day, he reminded himself. Tomorrow he'd find tranquility—he just had to make it through today.
 

Going inside, he decided to try to pick out the melody on the piano, but even inside the noise permeated his brain.
 

He heard his mom say,
You of all people should be able to find music in everything
.
 

Not in this, he couldn't.
 

It wasn't long before he couldn't take anymore. Getting in the car, he drove to town. Hopefully, by the time he returned it'd be peaceful again.
 

He parked and then went into the café. There were a few people in line ahead of him. The older woman who'd helped him seemed to know everything about every person in line, and with all the chatting it took much longer than he'd have liked.

By the time she got to him, his surliness had sunk in bone deep.

She must have sensed that, because she gave him a kind smile and said, "I feel like you need a cappuccino, but I'm willing to give you a coffee if that'd make you happier."

"A cappuccino is fine." He looked at the pastries. "Do you have any of those muffins?"

Her smile brightened as she turned to the espresso machine. "I have raspberry today. Trust me, you'll love them."

He looked around this time as she put his order together. The café was charming, with a few seats and a warm feel. There were an assortment of items like honey and jams on shelves for sale, and a few cookbooks displayed as well. To one side, there was a doorway that led to a room full of bookshelves. On the other, the doorway had a sign saying "Crystal Clear" over it.

"That's the metaphysical store," she said, setting his cappuccino on the counter. "If you need your aura cleansed, Luna can help you there. The other side is my friend Debra's bookstore. I'm Clara, by the way. You want the muffin for here or to go?"

He wasn't here to socialize, but he didn't want to be rude. "To go."

"You got it." She put it in a bag and rang him up. "I was surprised to see you in again. Most people come up here only for a day or two. Are you visiting family?"

"No, I'm crashing at a friend's house for some quiet work time." At least, that had been the plan. He took out his wallet and handed her cash.

"Where's your friend's house?" she asked as she got change.

He told her the street.

Her brow furrowed and then it cleared, leaving behind a happy though speculative expression he couldn't decipher. "You're staying at the Reynolds' house."

He shook his head, taking the bag. "I'm staying at my friend Liam's house."

"Yes, the old Reynolds' house. Liam McCullough bought it." She grinned. "You should go see Debra next door at the bookshop. You'll love her."

"I'll think about it," he murmured, picking up his cup.
 

"Come on." She motioned him to follow her. "I'll introduce you."
 

He glanced at the few people in line behind him.

Clara waved her hand. "They'll wait. John, pour yourself a cup," she called as she headed through the doorway.

There was a woman about the same age as Clara, with dark hair lined with silver, stocking a shelf. When they entered, she looked up.

"Isn't She Lovely?" was the song that popped into his head. She looked really familiar, but he was positive he'd never met her before.
 

Clara took his arm and dragged him in front of the bookstore lady. "Debra, this is"—she frowned at him—"I don't know your name."

"Max." Transferring his stuff to one hand, he held out his other, because his mother would have smacked him for being rude, no matter how put out he felt.

Debra took his hand and held it. "'And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all'," she said, her gaze on him the entire time.

He wasn't lonely. He had his music. "Excuse me?"

"It's from Sendak's
Where the Wild Things Are
." She frowned. "Surely you've read it?"

"When I was a kid, I think." That would have been thirty-five years ago or more.
 

"When you're ready to read it again, let me know," she said, squeezing his hand before letting it go.

Right.

"Max lives in the old Reynolds' house," Clara said.

He watched them give each other a look. It obviously meant something—he just had no idea what. "Is the house haunted or something?"

"I don't think so," Debra said, facing him. "Tell me about you, Max. How old are you?"

"Thirty-nine," he said with some hesitation.

"Where are you from and what are you doing here?"

He shook his head. "I'm not wanted for anything, if that's what you're trying to figure out. I'm just here to get some work done. I came for the peace and quiet, except there's some construction going on next door."

Her mouth quirked. "Eleanor's dance studio. Have you met her? She's your neighbor."

So that was her name. Eleanor. It seemed too formal for her—not warm enough. And it still bugged him that he couldn't think of a song for her. He frowned. "We met earlier."
 

Debra raised her brows. "You don't seem happy about it."

"Happy" wasn't nearly a strong enough word to describe how Eleanor had affected him. But the last people he wanted to discuss it with were these two strangers. "I should get going," he said, edging away.

"Come back when you're ready for the book," Debra said. "Or just to talk."

Right. He waved and got the hell out of there before the kooky ladies frisked him.
 

*
 
*
 
*
 

It wasn't peaceful when he returned.

The noise went on until past five o'clock. Max knew he should have just pulled it together and worked once the construction stopped, but he stayed pissy all night, which made him even more annoyed. At his pretty neighbor. At Eli Cohen. And, mostly, at himself.

The new score wasn't coming together.

The more he tried to fix the composition, the more muddled the music became. He was at the point where he was even considering calling his mom for a session.

That was desperation.

Tomorrow was a new, noise-pollution-less day. Max went to sleep early, intending to wake up refreshed and ready to rock.
 

At six thirty, a loud banging startled him out of his sleep.

He sat straight up in bed, not sure where he was for a second. Then it all came back to him: the botched score, Liam's house, his beautiful neighbor, and her construction crew.

The noise was supposed to be done.
 

He was going to put a stop to it
right now
.
 

Swinging his legs, he began to get out of bed. Only his legs got tangled in the sheets and instead of standing, he fell over onto his face.

Cursing, he pulled at the sheets to set himself free and grabbed a pair of jeans. He took the shirt he'd dropped on the floor the night before and stomped down the stairs and out the door.

He was halfway to her house—he wasn't letting her beauty distract him this time—when he realized he didn't have shoes on.

Whatever. He marched to her front door and banged on it.

No one answered, so he banged again.

Suddenly it flung open. She—
Eleanor
, his mom's voice corrected—stood before him, eyes wide, hair mussed, legs bared by the silky emerald robe she was trying to keep tied in place.

He blinked.
 

Then his eyes narrowed. "Are you doing this on purpose?"

"What? The noise?" She pushed her hair out of her face, shaking her head. "I'm so sorry. I thought—"

"Not the noise.
That
." He pointed at her robe, which had slithered open so he could see the soft swells of her breasts.
 

Glancing down, she gasped and quickly held the edges of the satin together. "Of course I didn't mean to do
that
."

He stepped closer, inadvertently inhaling her scent. Damn it—as if she wasn't getting to him enough. "And I suppose you don't mean to smell delicious?"

"Of course I don't," she exclaimed. She frowned. "I smell delicious?"

"Don't change the subject." He put his hand on the doorframe and leaned in. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Really early?" she said without backing down.

"
Really
early. And do you hear what I hear?"
 

She tipped her head, her brow furrowing as she pretended to strain to listen.

A man shouted, and a high-pitched electric whir cut through the air.

"Nope," she said, shaking her head. "Don't hear a thing."

He pressed closer. "You promised yesterday was the last day of noise."

She seemed to wilt before his eyes. "I'm really sorry, Amadeus—"

"Max," he couldn't help correcting. He frowned. "How do you know my name?"

"It was on 'The Mermaid's Journal' soundtrack."

"You checked it out?" he asked, stunned.
 

She flushed. "I might have listened to some of it. Anyway, the demolition part was supposed to be done, only there was a setback and they had to tear off the roof—"

"Oh jeez." He pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes, trying not to see the full scope of the picture she was painting. "You said two days."

"I can't help that the roof was rotted," she protested. "Trust me, if I could have had it differently, I would have."

"So this"—he sputtered as the shrill electric sound pierced his ears again—"
sound
is going to continue for how long?"