And unworthy.
No matter. With a quick shake of her head, Sara reminded herself that she was already in a relationship with an accomplished musician—albeit an uneducated, rugby-loving, undiagnosed manic-depressive accomplished musician—but still.
Glancing at the Ken doll's cart, she saw that it was full of sensible food like produce, chicken, eggs, pasta, and whole-grain bread along with a bottle of Malbec, a bag of laundry detergent pods, and a box of tissues.
She arched an eyebrow and asked, "Shopping for the missus?"
Barbie, isn't it?
This seemed to confuse him.
Not waiting for a reply, she edged around him, caught a whiff of his cologne, and fought back the urge to make a yummy sound.
"Oh, no," he finally replied with a hint of sadness in his voice. "I'm not married."
Two other words sprang to mind. He's. Gay. Well, two-and-a-half words.
She noticed him reach into the refrigerated cabinet and pull out a pint without even checking the label.
Make tracks.
When she was several feet away, she heard him venture, "I, uh, heard you singing."
At this she turned to look in his direction, but her eyes dropped to the scuffed black-and-white tile floor. "I wouldn't call that singing."
He approached her, dragging his cart behind him while shaking his head.
"No, I disagree. You have a good quality voice."
Sara scrunched her face like he had just scraped his fingernails on a chalkboard. "That's got to be the worst pickup line I've ever heard."
Again, his face twisted with confusion.
"Oh, I'm not—"
Sensing what he was about to say would do more harm to her ego than good, she held her index finger against her pursed lips.
"Shhhh. Stop talking. Let's not spoil the moment."
After all, gay or not, guys like him didn't fall for girls like her. And, as far as she was concerned, the feeling was mutual.
With that, she turned and continued her trek to the liquor aisle. But the Ken doll followed her, cart and all.
"Listen, can we start over? I'm Andrew Benet. And you are…?"
What part of "stop talking" don't you understand?
She turned on him, right there in front of a display of imported marinara sauce. "Listen. Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying, so just do me a favor, and leave me alone, OK?"
She left him standing in her flustered wake and yanked a six-pack of Guinness from the shelf before stomping over to the cashier clear on the other side of the store.
There was only one person in line ahead of her and no one behind her.
Come on, come on, come on.
She wanted to get out of there before Mr. "You have a good quality voice" had another chance to strike up a conversation.
"That'll be twelve dollars and thirty-six cents."
Sara swiped her card in the reader.
Declined.
Frowning, she checked that she was swiping the card on the proper side and did it again.
Declined.
Her frown deepened as she dug in her wallet.
OK, so maybe I forgot to pay my credit card bill again.
"Hang on," she said as she pulled another piece of plastic out of her wallet. "This one will work."
Declined.
She turned her attention to the cashier. "Are you sure this thing is working properly?"
"It worked just fine for the last customer," the multi-pierced woman replied before picking up a handset next to the register and droning, "Assistance needed at checkout."
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see there were at least three other customers in line behind her. She didn't dare make eye contact.
Sara burrowed into her purse and counted the few bills and coins she could find. Kicking herself for tipping the valet at the Aragon as much as she did, all she had left was four dollars and twenty-seven cents. She kept digging.
"I got it."
Oh no.
The yummy-smelling Ken doll with fits-like-a-glove Levis was in line behind her, offering to pay her bill.
Can this night get any worse?
After shoving her wallet back in her purse, she held up her hand in protest. "Absolutely not." With her voice trailing off into thin air, she lied. "I just forgot to activate my new credit card, that's all."
As she watched him take the now ownerless pint of ice cream and six-pack of Guinness from the cashier and place them with his things, he addressed Sara without so much as looking at her. "I wasn't talking to you."
She felt like he'd just punched her in the gut, not that she didn't have it coming.
"Oh. Right. Sorry."
Leaning around him to better see the people standing at the back of the line, she waved and said, "Sorry for the hold up, folks."
A little old lady at the end let out a gasp. "Did she say 'hold up?'"
Not bothering to offer a clarification, Sara slunk out of the store, empty-handed and frustrated beyond words.
She pulled into the Stop-N-Go down the street to fill up, thanked her lucky stars that her gas card was not going to give her any trouble, and headed home.
Well, not her home. Technically, the lease was in Jer's name.
That she hadn't heard a peep from him in over a week—not since receiving his cryptic message, Ta, darling was not entirely unusual. Knowing she was already on the road, it was his quick and easy way of letting her know he was off again to New York, London, or LA.
When Bono calls…
She never bothered replying to these announcements. What was the point of calling him up to simply say, "Oh, ok. Thanks for letting me know." Cripes, that sounded so dull, so pedestrian compared to his breezy British vernacular.
It didn't help that he refused to text or bank online.
So old-fashioned.
Still, they always ended up touching base eventually. Especially if she still owed him her half of the rent.
At the next stoplight, she pulled out her nearly dead three-year-old (read: archaic) phone and turned it on. After it buzzed to life, she saw that a little number one appeared over the message icon.
Oh, here we go.
Then it turned into a two. And then a six.
Uh-oh.
She glanced up at the light to make sure it was still red and then punched in her voicemail password. Bracing herself, she put it on speaker and kept driving when the light turned green.
Jer's accent was unmistakable. The first message was brief. "Tell me you remembered to leave a rent check before you left. Give me a ring, love, and let me know where you hid it."
Crap.
She listened to the time stamp.
Nine days ago? How am I just getting this now?
The second message, left a day later, was nowhere near as cheerful.
"Oh, great. Another flippin' recording. Jesus. Look. You know I can barely cover my own bills, love. I'm not coverin' for you this time. I mean it. If you want out, just say the word, but I'm not playing this game with you. You don't want to get married. You don't want kids. I get it. Message received. Not another word. That's what you want, yeah? That's what this is all about, ain't it? Look. Just. Just call me back, aw right?"
Sara didn't notice that her hands had started shaking. What she did notice was that the world around her seemed to suddenly shift into slow motion.
The next three messages were hang-ups.
The anger in his voice was palpable in the last one. "God, what kind of journalist doesn't check her bloody messages? I've been trying to call you all week, for Christ's sake. I'm assuming you're not dead or murdered or… Listen, I'm done. Leaving the States for good this time." After a pause, he softened his tone and added, "Nothing personal, but this just ain't workin' out for us, is it?"
Static cackled over the line, and the rest of the message came in fragments. "Know…afford…my key…bloke…Tuesday." Click.
The message was going on six days old.
Holy hell.
As she turned onto her street, her eyes began to brim, blurring her vision.
Nothing personal? Ouch.
Gripping the steering wheel, she focused on trying to decipher his cryptic message.
Know afford my key bloke Tuesday.
She started talking to her dashboard. "Know afford. Know I can't afford? My key. Bloke. My key bloke."
A knot started forming in her stomach.
"My key bloke Tuesday. My key broke Tuesday?"
Maybe he should've learned how to text and bank online before assuming I walked out on him, huh?
Too tired to think, she steered her sturdy little Honda into the alley behind their, well, soon-to-be her Chestnut Street apartment.
Maybe it's for the best.
As upsetting as Jer's message was, the sight of a dark-blue Jeep sitting in her designated parking spot was ten times more so.
"Aw, not cool," she moaned to her windshield. "Not cool at all."
A wall of dread slammed into her as the ghosts of some of she and Jer's more heated arguments came back to haunt her.
Like when she told him who he could and could not invite over (smokers, no—non-smokers, only if they didn't spill on the hardwood).
Or when she banished him to the couch again after declaring that the thought of being a wife and mother to his children was just a little more than she could take, thank you very much.
That last one was just two weeks before.
As if someone were in the car right there with her, she whimpered, "I can't do a big break-up scene. Not now. Not like this."
Shifting into reverse, she backed out of the slushy alley. After circling the block three times, she finally managed to wedge her car between two minivans stuffed with kids' crap, both of which were taking up way more space than they should have.
She yanked her suitcase from the trunk and dragged it behind her as she marched under the canopy of old oak trees, the roots of which transformed the slippery sidewalk into a dangerous obstacle course lit only by the soft glow of old streetlights.
After she unlocked the heavy glass and brass-trim door to the elegant three-story brownstone, she caught her reflection in the doors as she passed through. Taking in the sight of her bobbed, dull black hair, heavy dark makeup, leather jacket, and aforementioned boots. The first word that came to mind was scary.
Great.
Finally in front of the door to her unit, Sara's mind was filled with the dismal prospect of having to secure a waitressing job to supplement her income just so she could keep the apartment.
She shoved her key into the lock.
But it wouldn't go in. Not even a quarter of an inch.
After checking to make sure she had the right key and was holding it right side up, she jammed it back into the keyhole, but it wouldn't go any farther than it did the last time.
Sara stepped back and looked at the door a full minute, her heart pounding.
What. The. Hell?
Why would Jer change the locks before he even moved out? She replayed the voicemail he had left her.
Key bloke Tuesday.
She knocked and waited for a response.
None came.
Leaving the States for good this time.
She didn't think he meant that same day. He was never that brash. Hell, the man could deliberate for five minutes over whether to have strawberry preserves or marmalade on his toast with morning tea.
She threw her hands in the air.
Who the hell am I supposed to call at this hour?
Not ever having been locked out before, she was at a loss. And, since she always made her rent checks out to Jer, she didn't even know the name of their landlord, let alone how to get ahold of him.
She checked her watch. 11:30.
I just want to go to bed.
With her head throbbing and her heart banging in her chest, she pounded on the door.
I am so not sleeping in my car tonight.
A loud thump sounded on the other side of the heavy wooden door.
"Jer?" she ventured, hope coursing through her veins. "Something's wrong with my key. Open up, huh?"
When nothing happened, she pressed her entire body against the door and listened for any sign of life on the other side.
A moment later, she was sorry that she did.
As it swooshed forward, she lost her balance and stumbled into the arms of the man who pulled it open. Not a problem, except that it wasn't Jer.
It was one Andrew Benet.
CHAPTER THREE
"I am a marvelous housekeeper. Every time I leave a man,
I keep his house."
—Zsa Zsa Gabor
Tucking his recently acquired staples into their allotted space in his well-organized kitchen, Andrew closed the pantry door and turned to make sure he had emptied all of the bags marked "Bell's Market."
Satisfied, he folded them neatly and pressed them into the confines of a spot he had reserved just for paper grocery bags by the recycling bin.
There. All set.
He cast his gaze around his apartment. For as much as he longed to have his own place away from his horde of siblings, the quiet seemed to press in all around him.
All set for what?
The microwave dinged, signaling that the chicken and dumplings Maureen had given him were ready. He grabbed a fork from the drawer and was just about to dig in to what smelled like really good food when his eyes fell on the six-pack of stout beer sitting on the counter. He wasn't sure what possessed him to buy it. He hadn't had one in years and wasn't especially fond of it then. But when he saw them sitting unclaimed on the grocery-store conveyor belt, the smug satisfaction he anticipated by buying them out from under the snippy woman he'd made a pathetic attempt to recruit in the frozen-food section overcame him.
Uncapping one, he took a swig and closed his eyes. The roasted malt taste filled his mouth, and the face of said snippy woman filled his mind's eye.
The Guinness Girl.
In all of his travels around the globe with youth choirs and choral programs, he had never encountered anyone like her. So abrasive, but somehow, still so fragile and lovely at the same time.
And the way she was picking apart that harmony. Her voice was just above a whisper, but still—it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
He thought of the occasional prayers he had offered up of late to help him put the past behind him and maybe, just maybe, find someone to share his life with, eventually.
His mind turned to Leanne—the only girl he'd dated since he was 17. Last he heard, she had become a candidate with the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet.
Well good for her. Sucks for me, but, really, good for her.
Then he thought of the Guinness Girl. Hardly an answer to his prayers. More like a punch line to a really bad joke.
Good one, God.
He took another swig and toasted the Almighty's wicked sense of humor.
Still, as the dark ale slid down his throat, he kicked himself for letting her get away.
But after the day I had…
He set the bottle down and ventured into the living room where he found the box of the previous occupant's things waiting for him.
…she's lucky I didn't let the air out of her tires before she left the store.
Setting the box on top of the pseudo coffee table, he started shuffling through its contents, hoping to find clues as to the person's identity. Maybe Sam could help track down whomever this stuff belonged to so he could ship it to her new address.
The landlord said the previous tenant wasn't coming back and that Andrew should pitch everything. But who would leave behind photo albums and hand-written letters?
And a journal?
He looked around the room before slowly lifting the bound notebook with a bright orange cover that was dotted with tiny daisy stickers. The owner's name was written at the bottom in large flowery print. "Sara Annise Cleff." This was followed by one word in
large block letters: "Private."
Andrew ran his fingers over the hard-pressed print and was about to turn the page when he heard a knock at the door.
Who could that be at this hour?
Returning the items to the box, he dropped it on the floor with a thud.
A knock sounded again, this time, much louder, and he heard a woman's muffled voice.
As he approached the door in his stocking feet, he realized it didn't have a peephole.
What would Sam do?
He thought for a minute.
Open the door with his gun cocked, that's what he'd do.
He thought about asking who it was.
But what if they didn't answer?
His logic returning, he remembered that residents needed a key to enter the building.
Deciding to go with the element of surprise, he gripped the knob, turned it, and yanked the door open.
The next thing he knew, his arms were full of a woman in a leather coat who backed away from him as soon as he set her upright.
I'll be damned.
The Guinness Girl was standing right there in his doorway.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, incredulous. When she didn't answer right away, he pressed, "Wait—did you follow me?"
She looked just as annoyed and confused as he felt. "Who—? What? What do you mean what am I doing here. I live here. What the hell are you doing here?"
She scowled at him with those big gray eyes.
"I live here."
"No you don't. That's impossible."
"Yet here I am." He stood with his back to the interior of his apartment while keeping his hand on the edge of the open door, ready to shove her back through it and slam the door behind her.
"Yeah, well, I have a key." She held up what was apparently the sole piece of evidence she had to prove her occupancy.
Andrew smirked. "And I have a signed lease."
Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel Page 4