Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel

by Barbara Valentin

"But I have a key," she repeated as she shook it at him.

  "Yeah, I heard you the first time. How's that working out for you?"

  Her face drowning in disbelief, she barged by him.

  "Is this some kind of a joke?" she shot out as she edged down the hallway that connected the tiny foyer to the spacious eat-in kitchen, glancing at his family photos with disgust as she passed by.

  When he didn't answer, she shot out, "Is that your blue Jeep in my spot?"

  "In my spot, yes."

  "Is Jer here?" she demanded.

  He followed as fast as he could, righting any frame she brushed against on her way through. "Who?"

  The Guinness Girl spun around to face him.

  "Jer Caravelli? My roommate?"

  Andrew's eyes widened. "Trust me. The only one living here is me."

  She stood frowning at him like he had just spoken Mandarin.

  "Now look," he started, using the same low, in-control voice that seemed to work so well when corralling members of the children's choir into submission. "I'm sure the landlord would be happy to straighten things out for you in the morning, but as it is, it's been a horrendously long day. I'm exhausted and want nothing more than to go to bed, so if you'll just be on your way…well, that would be great."

  Andrew motioned for her to return back though the hallway to the foyer where she had left her suitcase.

  Ignoring what he had just said, she turned and slowly looked around. "Where's my bookshelf? And my books?" Stepping into the kitchen, she asked with increasing alarm, "What happened to my coffeepot, and my microwave, and toaster?"

  Opening a cabinet, she cried, "And my dishes." She turned and demanded, "What happened to my dishes?" With a hint of a whine, she added, "Some of those were my grandma's."

  Before he could answer, she made her way to the bedroom and flipped on the light.

  "You know, officially, you're trespassing," he called after her. "The police would be on my side. In fact, my brother is a Chicago cop. I could have him here in no time flat."

  At that, the heels of her boots hammered against the hardwood as she stomped out of the bedroom and back into the hallway. "You'd call the police? On me. Seriously? You need backup to handle a woman who's upset because her boyfriend sublet their apartment and left the country while she was on the road covering a crappy band from Decatur on their debut tour of the Midwest?" Her voice grew louder with each word.

  Then she stared him down, waiting for an answer that he knew better than to give. Of all the hissy fits he saw his sisters pitch over the years, none had ever come close to this.

  "Go ahead." Her voice sounded tired and deflated. With a laugh, she quipped, "Maybe they'll put me up for the night."

  She was visibly shaken. Dark pools of tears were forming under her eyes and had started to work their way down her rounded cheeks. He watched as she retreated into the bedroom. His bedroom.

  Not sure what to do next, he stayed in the kitchen waiting for the hysterics to continue once she realized her clothes were gone, but none came.

  After a few minutes, he slowly made his way down the hall, passing the dark bathroom to his left, and found her standing in the bedroom with her back to the door. Her head was down, and it looked like she had her face covered with one hand while the other was gripping her waist.

  Poor kid.

  Ignoring the little voice in his head that had been trying to warn him that she could pull a knife on him, or rob him, or any number of things his suburban-Minneapolis-born-and-raised imagination could conjure since she burst into his apartment, he approached her, careful not to get too close.

  "I'm sorry. This must be quite a shock."

  Not sure what to expect, his guard couldn't have been any higher when she turned, gripped the front of his sweater with both hands, and pulled him close.

  Then she tucked her face into his neck, where he couldn't help but notice how nicely it fit, and started to sob.

  At first, he wasn't sure what to do except lightly clasp her shaking shoulders.

  "Uh, everything will be all right." he heard himself say without a shred of empathy.

  When that didn't seem to help, he tried holding her loosely in an awkward embrace. Feeling the sobs rack her frame, the musky smell of her leather jacket reached his nostrils. It smelled good. Somehow, it suited her.

  "Shhhh. Come on. It's gonna be OK."

  Much better.

  When he heard her sobs turn to hiccups, he pulled her up against him and wrapped her in a full-fledged hug.

  "Sometimes the best thing to say is nothing at all," his mom would often advise.

  So he just stood there with his arms secured around the complete stranger. Without a clear view of the clock on his nightstand, he had no idea how long they were standing there like that. What he did know was that it felt a whole lot better than buying a six-pack and a pint of ice cream out from under her when she couldn't pay for them herself.

  After she had cried enough to fill the Hoover Dam, she rested her forehead against his shoulder, took a deep breath, and sighed. "I'm sorry," hiccup, "I was rude to you." Hiccup. "It's just," hiccup, "this is all a bit much."

  You're telling me.

  Fishing an unused tissue out of his front pocket, he handed it to her. "Here. I've got a whole 'nother box of these in the bathroom if you need 'em."

  "Thanks," she muffled through it while wiping her nose and smearing the spent mascara off of her cheeks with her fingertips. She pointed to his sweater. "Sorry about that too. I'll have it dry cleaned for you."

  Feeling a sudden chill as she stepped away from him, he waved her off. "Oh, no worries. It's machine washable."

  She gave a little nod and then motioned toward the front door.

  "Well, I'm gonna get going. Sorry for the intrusion."

  With that, she turned and started down the hallway that led to the foyer.

  "Uh, wait," he called after her. "Where are you gonna go? It's after midnight."

  The Guinness Girl stopped in her tracks and turned. "My car, I guess. I have a blanket in the trunk."

  No longer the mysterious, alluring creature armed with an arsenal of quick quips that he spotted in the grocery store, she looked like someone had just kicked her to the curb, hard.

  She grasped the handle of her suitcase, opened the front door, and started pulling it down the hallway behind her.

  "Don't let her get away again," the little voice inside of him suddenly shouted.

  Standing just outside of his doorway, he blurted, "Uh, wait. Don't go. I'm sure we can work something out."

  She stopped. A long moment passed before she turned around. Her eyes were dark, her expression unreadable. Leaving her suitcase in the middle of the hall, she walked right up to him. She studied his face before confronting him, her voice still raw from crying, "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Work what out? This is a one-bedroom apartment."

  At this, Andrew straightened up. "Oh. God. No. I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. Honest." He motioned toward the inside of the apartment. "There's a couch. I'm a music director at a church. You can't get any safer than that. Not at this hour anyway."

  He could see her mentally debating—couch, car, couch, car…

  "Come on," he urged with a tone that usually prompted whoever was on the receiving end to do his bidding, convent-bound girlfriends and adult choir members notwithstanding. "It's below freezing outside. You'll die of exposure."

  Her eyes dropped to the now-soggy patch of his sweater and lingered there for several seconds before she nodded. "All right. Just for tonight."

  The Guinness Girl retrieved her suitcase, and the two stepped back into his apartment. As they made their way down the tiny hallway, she turned. "Hold on. How do I know you're not a rapist or serial killer?"

  He stopped just short of colliding with her. "I was about to ask you the same thing."

  This caused her full lips to twitch into a smirk.

  I wasn't kidding.

  When they
reached the open space of the kitchen, she held out her hand. "I'm Sara. Sara Cleff. Music critic, Chicago Gazette."

  He took her hand in his, surprised by her strong grip. "And I'm—"

  "Andrew." Tugging him a little closer to her, she added with a weak smile, "I heard you the first time."

  Pointing to the bathroom, she asked, "Mind if I wash up?"

  "No, not at all. There are extra towels in the linen closet."

  "I know."

  He watched as she casually slipped off her jacket and draped it over the back of a barstool by the counter that served as a divider between the otherwise lofty kitchen and living room space.

  Like she must've done a thousand times before.

  As she made her way to the bathroom, he titled his head, silently trying to decipher the melody tattooed across her shoulders before she disappeared from view. When he heard the bathroom door click shut, his eyes swept the space around him and fell on the box he had filled with deserted treasures, sitting unclaimed in a corner of the living room.

  Owner located.

  He put the untouched chicken and dumplings in the fridge and waited for Sara Annise Cleff to emerge.

  * * *

  Only two things ever really bothered Sara. One was ticket scalpers. The other was being abandoned.

  As she looked in the same bathroom mirror she had seen herself in so many times before, she barely recognized the reflection. No longer defiant or too cool for her own good, as Kerry used to say, she looked very much like that little girl who was just told that her mommy was never ever coming home again.

  As the tears started to well up, she carefully peeled off her fake eyelashes and dropped each one in a little plastic wastebasket. Sliding her bangles over her wrist, she set them on the edge of the sink. Next, she lathered up a bar of soap that was sitting on a dish next to a toothbrush holder (holding one lonely toothbrush) and scrubbed the makeup off of her face.

  The cool water rinse revived her.

  And the plush red hand towel she sank her face into smelled just like Andrew, the nice guy who didn't hesitate to hold a complete stranger together while she managed to fall apart over a not-so-nice guy who apparently had no qualms about ending their relationship via voicemail, turning her out of her home, and disposing of her belongings.

  And he never ever held me like that either.

  She raised her eyes to her reflection and whispered, "Don't go there." The warning hung in the air as she continued to stare at herself.

  No Ken dolls.

  Taking another deep breath, she combed her fingers through her hair, pulled a fringe of bangs over her forehead, pinched her cheeks to get some color back in them, and made her way to the living room, tissues in hand, uncertain of what awaited her.

  The first thing she noticed was a big pillow squeezed into a beige-ish gold pillowcase resting against the far end of the couch. Its owner emerged from the kitchen and pointed to it. "The sheets are clean."

  She looked down at the pillow and then back at him. "Sheets?"

  "On the mattress."

  Again, she looked at him like he was speaking Mandarin.

  Gesturing toward the bedroom, she asked, "On my bed?"

  "It's my bed now."

  She pressed her fingertips to her closed eyes. "Don't remind me."

  He pulled his face into a frown. "I meant on the sleeper sofa."

  Dropping her hands, she announced with no small degree of certainty, "This couch is not a sleeper sofa."

  He looked defiant. "Yes it is."

  Incredulous, Sara scoffed, "It's been here longer than I have. Trust me. It's not a sleeper sofa."

  After narrowing his eyes at her, he reached over, lifted the middle cushion up, and pointed to what looked like a handle.

  "Sleeper sofa."

  Her eyebrows shot up. "Well, I'll be damned. I had no idea."

  She wondered for a brief moment if Jer knew and then realized it would be better all around if she did her best to stop giving a rat's ass about Jer. As she did when her mother left, she slammed that door in her heart shut and threw away the key.

  Andrew returned the cushion to its proper place, explaining, "Yeah, I discovered it when I cleaned the floor." He turned to look at her. "Which was disgusting, by the way."

  She cocked an eyebrow in reply.

  "It felt heavier than a regular couch," he continued. "So I pulled the cushions off and voila. Sleeper sofa."

  She gave him her trademark bored-beyond-belief look.

  "So…my stuff? Do you know what Jer did with it all?" It was hard for her to imagine him being so vindictive. Yet his stereo, TV, and cherished collection of CDs and albums were all still there, untouched.

  Andrew motioned toward her accommodation for the evening. "Have a seat."

  Grabbing an open bottle of Guinness off the kitchen counter, he asked, "Want one?"

  Tilting her head as the sting of their checkout line exchange returned, Sara muttered, "I can't believe you bought my goddamn Guinness."

  He pulled one out, popped the cap, and held it out to her, then hesitated. With one eyebrow cocked, he asked, "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

  She grabbed the bottle from him with a little more force than intended. "No, I do not."

  The Ken doll twitched. "Sorry."

  Sara took a swig, gave her head a quick shake, and held up her hand. Making no attempt to keep the emotion from her voice, she replied, "Forget it. Just another sad story and I've had quite enough sad for one evening."

  With a nod, he replied, "Got it."

  She settled into her favorite spot on the couch, where she'd usually sit when she would tune out the world with a little help from Eric Clapton, Bonnie Raitt, and so many others.

  Andrew sat on the couch facing her. "So…your stuff."

  "Yeah…?"

  "Well, let me back up. Up until a week ago, I was staying at my brother's over in Uptown. Someone from my church, Chris Danvers—do you know him?"

  Sara shook her head.

  "Oh, I'm surprised. He owns this building."

  With a shrug, Sara sighed, "Never heard of him." She took a long pull of her beer, propped her elbow up on the back of the couch, and rested the side of her face in her hand.

  "Well, long story short, he called to tell me there was a sudden vacancy in one of his buildings, a furnished sublet, and if I was interested, I'd better grab it fast. So, I cleared my schedule and came to see it."

  "Don't tell me," she yawned. Feeling fatigue zap her already-low reserves of patience and civility, she squinted at him. "You fell in love with it."

  The Ken doll's freakishly blue eyes opened wide. "Well, yeah—who wouldn't?"

  Sara lifted both eyebrows with enormous difficulty given the heaviness bearing down on her eyelids. "My stuff?"

  "Yeah, that. Well, according to Chris, the tenant—and he used the singular—had to leave the country suddenly and wasn't coming back."

  At that, Sara's body did a weird involuntary twitch, rather like when you're just about to fall asleep and something startles you.

  She reached for a tissue.

  "That was Jer, was it?"

  "Yeah," she whispered.

  While she pressed the tissue to her eyes, she heard him continue. "Well, anyway, he told me if I wanted to move in right away, which I did, I'd have to get rid of everything myself. Otherwise he'd need a couple of days to bring it all to the curb."

  This is a nightmare.

  Now it was Sara's turn to open her eyes wide. "You didn't, did you? Bring everything to the curb?"

  The Ken doll shook his head. Not a hair fell out of place. "Oh no. Just some stuff."

  In response, she blew her nose and took another swig of her beer. "You know what? I don't think I'm in the right frame of mind for this conversation. Mind if we continue it in the morning? My bad news quota for the day has been exceeded a couple of times over."

  The Ken doll looked relieved. "Yeah, sure. But listen. It's not as bad as you thin
k."

  At this, she perked up. "What do you mean?"

  Pointing to a box in the corner, he added, "Like I said, I didn't get rid of everything."

  Sara set her bottle on the trunk and lunged for the box. Kneeling beside it, she pulled the flaps open. As she shuffled the contents around a bit, a feeling of relief washed over her, making her that much more sleepy.

  Clothes and dishes she could replace. Pictures and letters she couldn't. She folded the flaps back down again and returned to the couch. When Andrew held her bottle out to her, she glanced in his direction. "Thanks." Feeling a tear drip down her cheek, she pressed the back of her hand against it. "You have no idea."

  He handed her another tissue.

  "Well, that hardly makes up for the rest of—"

  "No, it doesn't," she interrupted. "But it's pretty damn close." Looking down at the box and her suitcase, she exclaimed, "This is all I have left in the whole wide world—a box of memories and a suitcase full of dirty clothes. How sad is that?"

  The words had no sooner left her mouth than her host for the evening hopped up and disappeared for a few minutes before returning with a pair of men's blue plaid flannel pajamas. They appeared to be pressed.

  Definitely gay.

  "These will probably be big on you, but they're clean. You're welcome to 'em. In the meantime, why don't you get a load started before you go to bed? You probably know where everything is. Help yourself to the detergent and stuff. We can figure out the rest in the morning."

  Sara looked down at the clothes he had just placed in her lap and smoothed her hand over the soft fabric. "Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked, unable to keep her voice from wobbling.

  He shrugged. "Like I said, I work in a church. Occupational hazard." Pointing to the front door, he added, "OK, well, I'm just gonna lock up and head to bed. Do you need help moving the trunk?"

  She nudged it with her boot. It moved easily, maybe because he had the four corners of it on casters. "Nah, I got it."

  After he passed by her again on his way to her—well, his room now—and she heard him call out, "Sleep tight," she hugged the flannel pajamas tightly against her chest.

  * * *

  Up as usual at the crack of dawn, Andrew trudged to the bathroom, almost forgetting to close the door behind him before he spotted Sara's bangles on the counter next to the sink. Reaching over, he shut the door and locked it.