Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel

by Barbara Valentin

  OK, so this probably wasn't one of my better ideas.

  Coming straight up to him, she said a little too loudly, "New alto, reporting for duty."

  Not wanting to throw fuel on the rumor mill inferno, he avoided making eye contact with her, instead pointing to Marge who was coming out of the choir room. "OK, great. Marge there can set you up."

  With binder in hand, Sara returned Marge's stare up until the moment the librarian nearly tripped on the step leading up to her chair.

  Sara, in the meantime, turned toward the other altos and said, "Hello."

  The collective question on their faces asked, "Where in the world did you come from?"

  Andrew rushed over and said loud enough for all sections to hear, "Everyone. This is Sara. She'll be sitting in with the altos this morning." Gesturing to the rest of the choir, he clipped, "Sara, everybody." Then, turning to her, he instructed, "Go ahead and sit on the end here, next to Glynnis."

  Once everyone was in place, he started running them through a warm-up exercise. He could hear Sara loud and clear. A quick glance at the group, he saw that they heard her too and seemed to approve.

  "OK, let's run through 'The Lord is My Shepherd.' Everybody up." The choir knew this one well and seemed to like it. Sara had already sung it twice the day before and nailed it. Fingers crossed, all would go smoothly.

  He sat behind the piano and started playing. At the start of the measure in which sopranos and altos were supposed to start, together, he gave a hard nod and held his breath.

  Perfect.

  While he could tell Sara was holding back, he heard her gain confidence as the hymn progressed. With the last chord reverberating through the church, he gave one last nod, signaling them to stop. And they did. All together.

  Perfect.

  When he looked up, he didn't bother masking his surprise. "That was fantastic. The congregation will be throwing their credit cards at the collection basket if you sing it like that during Mass."

  In reply, he actually heard chuckling and saw several happy faces looking back at him.

  Well, that's a first.

  Then his eyes fell on Sara. She was staring at him, looking a little glassy-eyed.

  As he slid off of the piano bench, he saw Glynnis hand her a tissue from her purse when they both sat back down. "It's a very pretty piece, isn't it? I cried the first time I heard it too."

  Andrew leaned down and whispered, "You all right?"

  She gave him a quick nod, but he had a feeling that was far from the truth, especially when he caught her eyes sliding to her left.

  * * *

  When she had pulled into the St. Matthias Church parking lot that morning, Sara backed into a spot as far away from the doors as she could find, hoping to not get caught in the congestion of cars leaving after Mass. Before getting out, she sat and stared at the tidy red brick building, watching the shiny, happy parishioners come and go, all the while asking her dashboard a series of questions.

  Why am I here?

  What if I mess up?

  What if I don't remember the prayers?

  What if they expect me to go to communion, or worse, confession?

  As she sat hunkered down in the front seat, her hands gripping the top of her steering wheel and a hornet's nest of emotions churning in her empty belly, she was still staring at the doors leading to the church when a familiar face caught her eye.

  Claire?

  What the hell is she doing here?

  Sure enough, she was followed by four boys, one of whom darted ahead of her and pulled open the door. Her husband, an accountant with Griffin Media, came up behind her and grasped her hand as they went in.

  A not very Christian-like pang of envy tore through her.

  I'll never have that.

  Tempted to drive her car—already packed with her clothes, the box of her personal effects Andrew had retained, and the things he had bought back for her from Goodwill—over to Nancy's and see if she'd be willing to put her up for the night, her eyes fell on the stained glass window near what she presumed to be the front of the church. On the other side of which, she presumed, Andrew was waiting for her.

  Picturing the intoxicatingly lovely floral motif stained glass over the bay window in her, ugh, make that his apartment, she grimaced, took a deep breath, and got out of the car. Not seriously expecting lightning to come out of the beautiful blue morning sky and strike her down on her way into the church, she made a beeline to the door just in case.

  In the lobby, or narthex, several people were milling about, mostly older and clearly all acquainted. After she hung up her leather jacket in the coatroom, she could feel their eyes on her as she passed by and was grateful she hadn't worn anything too eye-catching. All was going well until she passed through the doors to the church itself.

  Her senses were accosted by the quiet stillness. Picking up the slightest scent of incense, she was flooded with memories of attending Mass as a kid, every Sunday and holy day up until she graduated from high school, and then it just didn't seem to matter any more. Dad had stopped going after Mom left, and Kerry only went on occasion.

  She dipped her fingertips in the cold holy water of the baptismal font and made the sign of the cross, feeling like the biggest hypocrite on the planet. The nearly empty pews were dotted with people already there. Some were on their knees. Some were clutching rosaries. To her right, a short line of people waited for their turn in the confessional. Her eyes zeroing in on that door, she felt the blood start to drain from her head.

  Turning, the first thing she saw was Andrew, right where he said he'd be, and she felt a giant whoosh of a welcoming sensation wash over her.

  It took her by surprise.

  And it felt good. Weird but good.

  So, despite the drunken line she had crossed with him during the night, she ventured forward, oblivious to the stares of others.

  Once she was in place, he ran them through the same hymn he practiced with her the day before. The sound of the beautiful harmonies the choir produced gave her goose bumps and made her eyes water.

  Fumbling through the rest of the Mass, by the time choir had finished the recessional hymn at the end, the words Andrew had used at breakfast the day before came back to haunt her.

  There's no turning back.

  And it scared the shit out of her.

  "It was so nice to meet you, dear," she heard the older woman next to her—Glynnis, was it?—say before stepping away to gather her things. But Sara was already scanning the crowd leaving the church, hoping to catch Claire before she left. While the other choir members were busy putting their music-filled binders away and getting their coats, and Andrew was still playing some lovely instrumental piece, she left without so much as saying good-bye to anyone.

  "Claire, wait up."

  Her friend had just made it into the narthex when she heard Sara's voice. With eyes wide, Claire exclaimed, "Hey. What are you doing here?"

  In a hushed voice, Sara started, "Oh my God, Claire—you have no idea. Can we talk?"

  Claire looked up at her husband, who had his eyes on Sara.

  "Honey." He didn't seem to hear her.

  "Honey," Claire tried again while giving his arm a hard squeeze.

  That did the trick.

  "What?"

  Nodding at her friend, she asked, "You remember Sara? From the Gazette?"

  With a smile, he nodded. "Yeah, sure. How are ya?"

  Sara breathed out. "Hey, Paul. I've been better." She then looked imploringly at her friend.

  Claire turned to Paul. "Why don't you take the guys down for donuts without me? I'll meet you there in a bit."

  With a quick nod, he herded their sons and directed them to the stairwell leading to the lower level where the Holy Name Society was serving coffee and donuts after each of the services that day.

  Leading her to a quiet corner, Sara sputtered, "Claire. You would not believe the weekend I have had." She tried to keep the emotion out of her voice but clea
rly did a poor job of it.

  "Are you OK? What happened?"

  Sara spent the next several minutes recapping the highlights starting with her encounter with Andrew at Bell's Market and ending with the reason she was at St. Matthias, of all places, on a Sunday morning.

  When she had finished, with eyes wide, Claire gasped, "You're living with Andrew Benet?"

  With a quick look over her shoulder, Sara shushed her. "No! I don't—no. Oh, I don't know. My whole world has been completely turned upside down, and I can't think straight. All I know is you called this, Claire. Now that it's happened, you've got to tell me what to do."

  "OK, calm down. Let's see. So, to recap, if you want to stay in your beloved apartment, you just have to join choir—"

  "Just until Easter."

  Claire nodded. "Right. Just until Easter. Which is over a month away."

  "Six weeks. It's six weeks away," Sara countered, breathless.

  "Okay. Six weeks. What happens after that?"

  Sara stopped fretting long enough to realize that she should've asked Andrew that very same question. "I suppose we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. What I need to know is what to do now."

  "Well, listen, that's entirely up to you, hon, but I will tell you this. What I know of Andrew, and mind you, it's not a lot—"

  "Yeah…?" Whatever Claire was about to tell her, Sara hoped it would either make or break the entire deal. She braced herself. "Go ahead. Tell me."

  With a smile, Claire finished. "What I have heard from other parents here and have seen with my own eyes, is that he's a really great guy. Very decent. Wildly talented. He came from…oh, I can't remember. Somewhere in the Midwest. Oh, Minnesota. He's got a brother who's a cop. Had him come in and talk to the 7th and 8th graders in the fall about safety, the internet, bullying, that sort of stuff.

  "And," the advice columnist continued with a protective edge in her voice, "I'm pretty positive he would never sublet the apartment while you were on assignment, leave the country, and tell someone to pitch all of your things." She looked into the distance and added, "What a schmuck."

  She squeezed her friend's shoulder. "You should've called me. I'm so sorry you had to go through that alone."

  With that, Sara felt a smile pull at the corner of her mouth. "Well, technically, I wasn't."

  Looking out at the still-crowded narthex, she shook her head before whispering, "It's just, he's so not my type."

  Claire smirked. "Andrew? What's wrong with him?"

  Sara, rolling her eyes, sputtered, "Nothing. Everything. He's so stoic. So proper and self-righteous."

  With a frown, her friend interjected, "Really? He doesn't seem the preachy type."

  "No, that's not what I meant." Looking Claire in the eye, Sara tried to clarify her thoughts. And stop blithering. "But he works here."

  "Yes, I totally get that, believe me. But," Claire tried reasoning, "just because you're living together doesn't mean it has to be anything beyond that."

  With a pained expression, Sara whispered, "Too late."

  Gripping her arm like a vice, Claire nearly shrieked, "What?"

  Unable to tell if her reaction was the result of admiration or just plain shock, Sara did her best to tuck even deeper into the corner. "It's not what you think. I was out with Nancy last night—"

  With a disapproving look, Claire interrupted, "Ach, say no more. I don't care if she's an award-winning journalist, that woman is a tramp."

  Well aware Claire didn't think well of the assistant food editor, Sara looked at her friend like a rebellious teenager would a disapproving parent.

  Claire relented. "Sorry. Probably should've kept that to myself. Go ahead. You were with Nancy…"

  "Well, I had a few drinks. When I got back to the apartment, I realized I didn't have the key he gave me, so I had to wake him up to let me in. That's when I kissed him."

  Claire's eyebrows shot up. "Oh really?" Leaning in conspiratorially, she asked, "How was it?"

  Forgetting where she was, Sara said perhaps a little too loudly, "I thought it was pretty great." Then she whispered, "Until I realized he wasn't kissing me back."

  Her friend looked at her sympathetically. "Oh, sweetie."

  Emerging from the dark corner, Claire started walking her friend to the stairwell her boys had used on their hunt for sugary goodness. "Can I ask you something?"

  Sara nodded.

  "If you don't think he's your type, why did you kiss him?"

  Sara looked down at the tips of her boots peeking out from under her skirt for a long while before she raised her head. "I know I've only just met him, but he makes me feel—" She squinted into the distance, unable to finish. After a few seconds, she laughed at herself, then returned Claire's concerned expression with glistening eyes.

  Her friend prodded, "He makes you feel…"

  When Sara finally replied, the words caught in her throat, but Claire heard them loud and clear all the same. "Like he gives a shit, ya know?"

  Claire gave her a sweet smile that somehow made Sara feel that much more conflicted. "Oh my."

  "I know, right?" With another wave of panic rising within her, Sara pleaded. "So what should I do?"

  Tilting her head, the advice columnist replied, "Sounds to me like you've already decided."

  * * *

  Begging out of coffee and donuts with Claire and her family—her adorable, perfect family—Sara got in her car and drove. And drove and drove and drove. She edged through Ravenswood and Uptown before making her way to Lake Shore Drive. Given that it was a dismal, gray March day filled with low dark clouds that threatened snow, traffic was light as she pulled on at Foster Avenue.

  For the entire way down to the 57th Street exit where she got off and parked in the Museum of Science and Industry parking lot, she tried convincing herself that agreeing to Andrew's terms for cohabitation would be yet another in a long line of mistakes she'd already made during the course of her screwed-up life.

  Before this weekend, there were only two other people who Sara could say with any confidence had ever made her feel cared for: her mom and her brother. While her mother had actually walked out on her, her brother may as well have. When he had found out what she had done…

  Sara sat there for a very long time, staring out her windshield, seeing nothing but the expression on Kerry's face when he confronted her with a rumor he'd heard down at the garage, contorted with anger because she hadn't come to him for help first, and hurt that he had to find out from someone else. Jimmy Mabry of all people.

  While he said very little, his words hurt more than she could've ever imagined. "I'm done."

  She accepted Mike Teegan's internship offer the very next day, and she hadn't seen nor heard from Kerry since.

  Because I'm pond scum.

  She took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel with both hands.

  "And I'm really tired of this pity party," she said to absolutely no one as she shifted her car into drive and pulled back onto Lake Shore Drive, heading north into the oncoming wind-whipped flurries and thinking of little more than that weird welcoming whoosh she felt when she stepped foot into the nave of the church that morning.

  * * *

  In the post recessional-hymn commotion brought on by thirty-some adults trying to funnel through the narrow choir room door to return their music binders and retrieve their coats, Andrew stayed out of the fray by playing one more solo piece, usually a nice long one. He'd even play it twice if he had to.

  But not today.

  After catching Sara make a quick exit after Mass, he was eager to see if her teary eyes after the warm up and strong vocals through the rest of the Mass were indicative of her willingness to accept his offer of joining the choir.

  And living with me.

  When it seemed the last of the choir members had passed by on either side of him, making their way toward the exit as he played, he slid off the bench as soon as he finished.

  "So who is she?"

&nbs
p; It was Marge, standing there with her plaid wool coat, trying to work her leather gloves onto her arthritic hands. While she sounded friendly, her ever-present scowl gave away her true mood.

  Feigning ignorance, he asked, "Who?"

  Marge's scowl deepened. "I asked around. No one's seen her here before."

  Andrew stood in front of her. "When I started here, you mentioned you had just retired."

  Nodding, she said, "Yes, that's right."

  "Was it, by any chance, from the CIA?"

  "Oh." She swatted him with her gloves that she had yet to put on.

  Gathering his sheet music, Andrew edged around the trifocaled obstacle and said, "She's a friend, Marge. Just a friend."

  He ducked into the choir room to store his music and retrieve the cover for the Steinway. On his way out, armed with a change of subject, he announced, "I heard we're supposed to get some heavy snow today," but Marge had already gone.

  After he covered the piano, he switched off the organ console and pulled on his coat, hoping to duck through what he could see was a still-crowded narthex without encountering any disgruntled parishioners who still asked him inane questions like, "When is Mr. Greely coming back?" and "Can't you play any faster so Mass won't take so long?"

  I hate donut Sundays.

  He was almost at the doors to the parking lot when he thought he heard Sara's voice.

  "It was pretty great."

  Stopping in his tracks, he turned his head in the direction he thought it came from but didn't see her—just a bunch of adults trying to visit while keeping an eye on their sugared-up kids.

  Huh.

  He left, hopped in his Jeep, and hoped for the best. As he made his way home, he tried anticipating what he'd find. Would she be excited? Grateful? Maybe she'd be making lunch or napping. One thing he did know, she sure as hell wouldn't be cleaning.

  Maybe he'd create a chore chart like the one his mom had used.

  That would probably go over as well as the swear jar did.

  Light snow started dotting his windshield. Flicking on the wipers, his thoughts drifted to what he'd make for dinner later, which prompted him to consider swinging by the grocery store while he was out. Then he started wondering what kind of food Sara liked, if she cooked, what kind of schedule a music critic kept during the week, and whether coming up with a dinner schedule would be too much.