Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel

by Barbara Valentin

  He got up and shooed her toward the office door. "Go on now. Take the day. Enjoy it."

  Doing what?

  Sara closed Mike's office door behind her as she left and was wondering what to do next when her phone chirped in her pocket. Pulling it out, she saw she had just received a text from a number she didn't recognize. She tapped the screen.

  Andrew here.

  Doing her best to quash another excited little zing that zipped through her, she started typing, How the hell did you get my number?

  About to hit Send, Sara paused when another text came through.

  Have mtg in Joliet. If u get home before me, put dish in fridge in oven—45m @ 350, pls.

  With his use of the word home scraping against her sensibilities, she muttered, "He made dinner for us?"

  On the way back to her desk, she deleted her previous unsent text and replaced it with No prob, noting yet another thing Jer never did for her.

  With no particular urge to go back to the apartment, she shut her laptop down and tried thinking of what she could do with her newfound freedom. Taking a cue from Claire, by all rights a professional plate spinner, Sara drafted a list.

  After writing, "Get a haircut," she promptly crossed it off.

  Need an appointment.

  Next, she wrote, "Go grocery shopping," only to cross that off as well.

  Would I get stuff just for me or for both of us?

  She started chewing on her thumbnail.

  I could just stay here and work.

  With half a mind to do just that, she was about to turn her laptop back on when she overheard two women chatting as they passed by. Something about catching an end-of-the-season clearance sale at Macy's.

  What a fine idea.

  Sara slipped her laptop in her bag and made her way to Water Tower Place intent on replacing at least some of her depleted wardrobe at the famed department store and perhaps some of the other shops peppered throughout the multileveled mall as well.

  Three hours later, she was back at the apartment. In the bedroom actually. A half-dozen shopping bags littered the bed. That it was made up better than she had left it that morning did not escape her attention.

  She flung open the closet doors. A good three-quarters of it was filled with Andrew's things. And the remaining quarter would hardly suffice.

  First things first.

  She hoisted the box of her personal things on top of a bin on the shelf above the clothing rod, careful not to hit the light bulb poking out of the socket on the ceiling.

  Then, with a shrug, she shoved all of his hung garments to one side, smushing dress shirts against dress pants and suit coats. While she was sure Andrew would be mortified, she had no qualms using the same line of reasoning he had given her for enduring the whole church choir thing.

  It's only for six weeks.

  After hanging up her new skirts, dresses, and blouses, she turned to the dresser. When it was hers, she always put her underwear in the top drawer, then jammies and comfy clothes, then shirts, then jeans and tights. She slowly pulled open the top drawer to find it about half-filled with a limited variety of carefully folded solid and plaid-print boxers.

  Figures.

  Moving them to one side, she dumped her lacy bikini briefs and bras on the other. She did the same with the remaining drawers. When she was finished, she felt accomplished and settled.

  The lovely aroma of rosemary chicken invaded her nostrils. Gathering up the shopping bags, she made her way to the kitchen where she folded them all back up and shoved them against some paper grocery bags already folded in the pantry.

  Noting that it was only four o'clock, she turned on the stereo and ran her index finger along the row of Jer's abandoned CDs, looking for one that would strike her fancy, pausing on some before resuming her quest. She was about to give up when her finger landed on Sam Phillips' Martinis and Bikinis.

  Perfect.

  Singing along to her favorite track, aptly titled, "I Need Love," she poured herself a glass of Pinot Grigio that she had picked up on the way home along with a small loaf of sourdough from an artisan bakery and a bouquet of daisies and danced alone in middle of the kitchen, waiting for the timer on the casserole to ding. When it did, she set it on top of the oven and set the temperature dial to Warm, wrapped the bread in foil, and placed both back in the oven. Spying an already-tossed salad big enough for two already made in the fridge, she pulled out the brandy-snifter-slash-swear-jar and filled it with water before cutting the daisy stems short enough for them to pop out at just the right height.

  Setting it on the kitchen counter, she took in the vision of domestic bliss.

  Something's missing.

  To complete the scene, she located two rough-woven place mats that were tucked in a drawer under the oven mitts and set them on the kitchen counter. Next, she topped them with two place settings, just as Andrew had before serving her Chinese food on Saturday night.

  How very Barbie of me…

  She checked the time, wondering when he would be home.

  Home.

  Taking a big swig of her wine, another thought crossed her mind, and it scared the crap out of her.

  I could get used to this.

  Before she could take another sip, she heard a key slide in the lock. Not wanting to look too eager (or too Barbie-esque), she ducked into the bathroom, emerging a short time later to greet Andrew.

  And the man he had brought home with him.

  "Oh."

  Andrew, who she couldn't help but notice looked quite dashing in his suit, tie, and overcoat, was smiling at her. "Sara, hi."

  Holding his hand toward his companion friend fellow Ken doll, he said, "This is David Fahey. He's the head of music ministry at Saint—"

  I'm such an idiot.

  She didn't hear the rest of what he said. Feeling her insides start to cave in, she reached for her jacket that she had abandoned on the couch earlier and nodded at him. "Nice to meet you."

  Andrew narrowed his eyes at her then glanced at his friend. "David, this is Sara."

  With a rather dazzling grin, the blond GQ-model wannabe stuck his hand out toward her. "Nice to meet you."

  Before she had a chance to shake it, Andrew slipped between them, gripped her shoulders, and looked her in the eye. "Don't go."

  To David, he said, "I'll be right back" and disappeared into the bedroom.

  The blond Ken doll leaned toward her. "Andrew and I go way back." Then he leaned even closer and whispered, "He's told me all about you."

  Blurting the first thing that popped into her head, as she often did after a sip or two of wine, she scoffed, "But we've only just met."

  By way of a reply, he tilted his head toward the place settings on the counter. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

  "Oh no," she started as she plunged her hands in her coat pockets. "It's nothing."

  Probably should've popped a breath mint.

  Feeling her cheeks warm, she felt compelled to explain. "Just dinner. I'm not normally here. This early. Got time off for good behavior."

  Stop talking.

  While David gave her a polite grin, he did a poor job masking the fact that he was rather disturbed by that last comment.

  "Huh. Well, I'm, uh, just here to get some music I need from Andrew. I don't know how he got his hands on it, but last I looked, it was out of print."

  Sara nodded, and the two stood looking at each other for a long awkward moment before Andrew came sweeping back, waving some sheet music sans overcoat and tie.

  "Sorry, the bin I had it in was…" with a quick glance at Sara, he finished, "a little hard to get to."

  With that, David bid her adieu, and Andrew showed him to the door.

  She had just started looking through the CDs again when she heard him come up behind her and say her name.

  Lowering the volume ever so slightly, she turned. Mustering her cool, detached voice out of some far corner of her otherwise-flustered self, she raised an eyebrow and said,
"What's up?"

  Go me.

  OK, so maybe it had more to do with the glass of Pinot she had almost polished off before he walked through the door with his blond buddy.

  "I just want to let you to know—"

  Oh God, here it comes…

  Doing her best to remain poker-faced, she held his gaze while her insides braced herself for what he was about to tell her.

  "I'm not—"

  She leaned a little closer to him. "What? You're not what?"

  Interested in me?

  Interested in girls?

  Ready for a relationship?

  In favor of legalized marijuana?

  He leveled her with one of his smoldering looks that had her wishing she had changed into some of her new lacy undergarments, just in case.

  "What?" Her mouth formed the word, but no sound came out.

  Biting his bottom lip, he nodded back toward the kitchen and said, "Sure that Pinot Grigio goes with what I made for dinner."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing."

  —Theodore Roosevelt

  Dear Plate Spinner—

  I've got three kids, ages four to eleven, and I work full time as does my husband. The problem is our daughter. She's the only girl, and while I'm trying to teach by example that she should be a strong independent woman, reliant on no one and able to blaze her own trail, she's turning into a spoiled rotten little prima donna girly girl right before my very eyes.

  Do you think it's a phase, or should we seek professional help?

  Signed "At Wit's End"

  P.S. I forgot to mention, she's the four-year-old.

  Using her index fingers, Claire pecked out, "Sorry, can't relate" and was about to hit Send when Mattie burst into her cube with enough energy to punch a hole in the ozone layer.

  "Hey, ya busy?"

  "No. Just uninspired. What's up?"

  "Nick was just offered a contract to teach PE at Knollwood next year. He's so excited."

  "Hey, that's great news."

  Mattie's happiness was boundless. And contagious. So much so that Claire felt the urge to divulge her own bit of news that wouldn't be made public until later that week. Leaning forward, she whispered, "Paul and I got some good news of our own."

  "Tell me," Mattie demanded through a dimple-baring grin.

  "It's a boy." Hearing the words come out of her own mouth was cathartic. She felt a tsunami of excitement well up inside of her. Either that or it was the giant burrito she scarfed down for lunch just an hour before.

  As Mattie wrapped her arms around her and moved her right and left, she exclaimed, "Five boys. That's so fantastic! Paul must be crazy excited."

  With a chuckle, Claire conceded, "Oh, he is. He's already looking into getting a new jogging stroller for the two of them."

  "Of course." Mattie laughed. Then, sweeping a glance over the rest of the cubes on the floor, she sank back down and asked, "Have you seen Sara lately?"

  Claire had. Several times since running into her after Mass as a matter of fact, but not wanting to betray her pal's request for confidentiality, she just nodded.

  "As much as I hate to say it, I'm so glad Jer left. He wasn't right for her. And she never would've dumped him on her own. But this new guy, he sounds like he'd be a perfect fit."

  Claire frowned.

  This new guy?

  Fairly sure Mattie and Nick would have met with Andrew while planning their wedding ceremony at St. Matthias, she asked, "Did she tell you his name?"

  This seemed to confuse her. "No. You?"

  "Ya know, I don't recall. You're right though. It is good news."

  "Yeah," Mattie agreed, but was quick to add, "I just expected her to be a whole lot happier about it, though, ya know?"

  On this the Plate Spinners, both past and present, agreed.

  * * *

  On the morning of her first official choir practice, Sara, having overslept by a good half hour, bounded out of bed wearing nothing more than a skimpy tank top and panties, grabbed fresh underwear out of the drawer, and yanked a sweater and a pair of leggings out of the closet. Hoping to get in the shower first, she was not pleased to find the bathroom already occupied.

  After listening for a moment, she knocked on the door. "Andrew? You gonna be much longer? I have to get ready for work."

  The sound of something hard tapping against the sink came through the door.

  "Uh, yeah. Just give me a couple of minutes."

  She hung her head back and glared at the ceiling.

  Can't he finish shaving in the kitchen?

  With nothing but the thought of being on time to her 8:00 am planning meeting with Mike and Daryl, she announced, "Sorry. I gotta get in the shower. Hope you're decent."

  She grasped the handle, turned it, and pushed. But it only went a few inches before Andrew blocked it with his foot. From what Sara could see in the mirror, it looked like she had caught him mid-scrape. Locking his astonished eyes on hers, he stopped and exclaimed, "I'm shaving."

  Throwing her head back a second time, she pleaded, "Yeah, and I'm really late. Come on. It's just me."

  Nothing.

  "Can't you just close your eyes for a second so I can jump in the shower?"

  At that, the door swung open.

  "Thanks."

  Making sure his eyes were indeed shut, she slipped into the men's-body-wash-scented steam and paused to give him a quick once-over, zoning in on where he insinuated his tattoo was allegedly located as he stood in front of the sink wearing nothing but a towel cinched at hip level.

  I knew he was bluffing about having a tattoo.

  Turning her back to him, she tucked her clean clothes into the towel rod, stepped into the shower, and yanked the not nearly opaque enough shower curtain behind her.

  How am I just noticing this now?

  Before turning on the water, she slipped off her panties and tank top and dropped them in a lacy little heap on the floor.

  "OK, you can open your eyes," she announced.

  With a hard tap of the razor against the sink, she heard him respond, "You said I only had to keep 'em closed for a second."

  Sara made a mental note to go online after her meeting and check apartment listings.

  Ever since Monday night, when she'd made those three progressively foolish mistakes, starting with getting all dreamy-eyed and domestic over a stupid casserole he had made for them, assuming his professional colleague was, well, more than that, and the highly egregious rosemary-chicken-Pinot-Grigio pairing, she tried avoiding him at all costs so as to prevent a repeat performance—until that morning, when she found herself standing buck naked in the shower while he finished shaving.

  After a lightning-fast soap down, shampoo, and rinse, she turned off the water. Tucking the edge of the shower curtain around her, she reached for the towel draped on the rod next to her clean clothes. It was just out of her reach.

  She then watched in horror as Andrew turned and used it to dry his just-rinsed face and draped it over his shoulders when he was finished.

  "Hey, I was gonna use that." She made no effort to hide her irritation.

  Without saying another word, he walked toward her, and she tightened her grip on the shower curtain.

  What he did next prompted her to want to take a second shower, this time a cold one, if only she had the time.

  With his eyes fixed on hers, he gripped the towel that was tied around his hips and pulled the right side dangerously low to reveal a small, elegantly scripted tattoo. McGuigan.

  Then, after reaching over to grab a hand towel, he tossed it to her and said, "All you had to do was ask."

  I'm really beginning to hate this apartment.

  Twelve hours later, she found herself sitting stone-faced in the midst of the chattering alto section at St. Matthias. Granted, the atmosphere seemed much more relaxed than it h
ad on Sunday, and she had to admit everyone was being so friendly and seemed genuinely glad to see she had returned. Except Andrew, who didn't even seem to notice that she had arrived not five minutes after he did.

  Whatever. Let's get this over with.

  "Here, dear." Glynnis, her alto neighbor, handed her a little slip of paper. "Better get your music in order. He's kind of a stickler about starting on time."

  Why am I not surprised?

  Sara looked over at him, standing there in Levi's (her favorites, yes, but still) and a plain gray crew neck sweater. He was talking to Marge with one eye on her and one on the clock affixed to the wall behind her.

  "Thanks, Glynnis."

  She examined the list of over a dozen pieces of music. Some in the hymnal, some in her music binder. Thankful that Marge had placed the music in her binder alphabetically, she had barely gotten herself organized when she heard him say, "OK, we've got a lot to go over tonight, and we don't have a lot of time because cantor practice starts in an hour."

  Thank God.

  "Lorelei, Daphne, and Sara, I'll need you to stay for that."

  While Sara was looking around wondering who the other Sara in the choir might be, she heard him say, "All right, let's get started. Everybody up."

  After plowing through the majority of the list in the allotted time, she felt like someone had taken a blowtorch to her vocal cords. Granted, when she sang karaoke, she only had to do one, maybe two songs, but Andrew had demanded that each section repeat their part, measure by measure, until perfected.

  Looking with envy at the others around her who were smart enough to have brought water bottles, the beautiful harmonies they produced when he had them all sing together echoed in her head like a choir of angels. She still couldn't get over how much she missed hearing it.

  "OK, thanks everybody. See you Sunday. 9:30 sharp." He turned and started chatting with all of the soloists who sang at Sunday Masses as they congregated by the Steinway.

  When she slipped one arm in her jacket sleeve, he left them and walked right up to her. "Where are you going?"

  Arching an eyebrow, she said, "Home."