Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel

by Barbara Valentin

  Not that she ever congregated around lockers in high school because A) she didn't have any besties, and B) the only guy she ever had a crush on was the vile Jimmy Mabry, the scumbag in Ken-doll's clothing whose father owned the local car repair shop. Not exactly the type of news she wanted to spread like wildfire through the halls of St. Xavier's.

  Andrew, on the other hand—well, there was a time she would've blasted over the loudspeaker in the principal's office that she was falling for a guy like him. But that was a long, long time ago.

  Now, more than ever, she wished some Silicon Valley whiz kid would come up with an Undo button that could correct lives, not just words, that were badly in need of an edit—or in her case, a complete rewrite.

  On her drive home, a call from Mike Teegan brought her back to reality. Apparently, Daryl Swerl was out sick and needed someone to cover for him that night. The assignment? Interviewing the legendary guitarist Jeffrey Tinsdale before his concert at the House of Blues.

  "So, ya interested?" She could actually hear Mike grinning through the phone.

  Her response, while not especially professional was clear and direct. "Hell yeah."

  A few minutes later, she was about to slide her key in the lock of the apartment when she heard Andrew at the piano, sounding out the opening bars of a song he had only just heard for the first time the night before. Not wanting to interrupt, she pressed her ear against the door and listened as her heart thudded loudly in her chest.

  Mesmerized, she closed her eyes. She could just picture him sitting there, both hands floating over the keys as he deciphered the melody already stamped on his memory, creating an arrangement all his own.

  She opened the door very slowly, but there was no getting around the loud click that would sound when it shut. As soon as it did, she heard him seamlessly transpose what he was playing into something much more secular.

  God, he's good.

  "Hey," she called out as she came down the hallway.

  When she reached him sitting at the piano, she resisted the urge to slide onto the bench next to him and curl herself around him as she had the night before. Because if she did that, she might suggest that they take a nap, which would be a really bad idea because A) there would be no napping involved, and B) despite what her breakfast buddies might think, he wasn't the one for her, and she knew it.

  Besides, she had work to do.

  So, instead, she stood casually next to the cabinet and asked, "How're you feeling?"

  By the looks of it, he had showered and shaved but still looked exhausted.

  Leveling her with a sweet smile, he said, "Thanks for last night." Then he picked up a slip of paper that was sitting on the music stand in front of him. "And for the note."

  Wanting to spare him the pain of waking up alone and dejected like she had on more occasions than she cared to remember, she wrote a little note and taped it to the medicine cabinet mirror where she was sure he'd see it.

  "Meeting friends for breakfast. Be back in a bit. Hope you're feeling better. xo"

  She shook the small brown paper bag she was holding. "I didn't know what you like for breakfast, so I brought you a muffin. Are you hungry?"

  "Yeah, I probably should eat."

  Motioning him over to the kitchen counter, she asked, "How about some coffee to go with it? Or tea?" She had to bite down on her lip to refrain from asking, "Or me?"

  He pointed to the teapot that was starting to spout steam. "I'll get it. Do you want some?"

  Caffeine already racing through her veins, she declined before dropping onto a barstool.

  "So my editor called with an assignment while I was driving home from the restaurant," Sara announced, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. "I get to interview Jeffrey Freakin' Tinsdale before his concert at the House of Blues tonight."

  Andrew looked at her with a blank expression. "And he is…?"

  Eyes still bright, she laughed. "You're kidding, right?"

  When he still looked dumbfounded, she started tossing him clues. "Jeffrey Tinsdale, the greatest guitarist to emerge on the music scene since Eric Clapton, Jimmy Page, and Eddie Van Halen combined?"

  Nothing.

  "Jeffrey Tinsdale, front man for The Rockaways, well, before they disbanded?"

  Andrew pressed his lips together and slowly shook his head.

  Oh, this could be a problem.

  Giving it one last shot, she lowered her voice while raising both eyebrows. "Jeffrey Tinsdale, who wrote the rock classic, 'Pithy Love'?"

  At this he gave her a clenched-teeth grin and mouthed, "Sorry."

  "Oh my God. How can you not know who Jeffrey Tinsdale is?" When all he did in reply was shrug, Sara put both hands palms down on the counter. "All right, that does it."

  With his now-troubled eyes wide, he asked, "What?"

  Pointing at him, she said, "You're coming with me."

  Taking a step away from her as he dunked a tea bag in a mug of hot water, he chuckled. "I don't think so."

  Sara moved to the couch where she pulled out her laptop and plugged it in. "We should leave here by two."

  He came and sat right beside her on the otherwise very empty couch. "I'm still not feeling that great."

  Without looking at him, she reached a hand over and pressed the back of it, as clinically as possible, to his forehead.

  Cool as a cucumber.

  Hunched over her laptop, with a heavy faux sigh she looked at him sideways. "Faker."

  * * *

  Still fever-free, but still not feeling a hundred percent yet, Andrew took his time getting ready for work on Monday morning after Sara had left in an excited rush to see what her editor thought of the interview she had submitted the night before.

  To think, just three days before, when she barged into the bathroom nearly naked while he was shaving, he was seriously considering releasing her from the deal they had struck.

  With yet another sigh, he stopped what he was doing, again, and thought about her—the way her dimples only popped out when she smiled, the richness of her laugh, the way she sang to him when he was half asleep, the feel of her fingers combing tenderly through his hair.

  Then there was the way she felt lying next to him in bed.

  And the look on her face when she was sound asleep.

  So perfect.

  The ringtone on his phone pulled him out of his daydream.

  "Hey, Mom. What's up?"

  "How are you feeling?" She asked breathlessly. "I just got off the phone with Sam, and he said you didn't seem quite yourself when he saw you on Saturday."

  He hung his head back for a second before responding, thinking of all the times he told his brother to not tell her things that might worry her especially given the distance now separating them from her.

  "I'm fine. Just a bug. I stayed in and slept all weekend."

  "Well be sure to stay hydrated, and rest when you need to, all right?"

  With a chuckle, he replied, "I promise."

  Just when he was about to say his good-bye, her heard her ask, "Now what's this I hear about a new girlfriend?"

  I'm gonna kill Sam.

  Before he could reply, she practically reached through the phone, grabbed him by the neck, and asked, "Who is she, and when can we meet her?"

  "Easy, Mom. It's really not as serious as all that."

  Not yet anyway.

  Not easily appeased, she lowered her voice and asked, "So where'd you meet her? What can you tell me about her?"

  "What's with all the questions? You sound like dad interrogating a suspect."

  The phone was quiet on the other end before he heard a muffled voice, like she was holding it against her hand while she was talking to somebody nearby. After a few seconds, her voice came through loud and clear. "Listen, honey. There's somebody here who would like to talk to you. Do you have a few minutes?"

  He pulled his phone away from his ear and looked at it. Who could possibly need his mother to get permission to talk to him inst
ead of contacting him directly?

  A cold chill ran down his spine.

  Leanne.

  "Actually, Mom." He spoke loudly into the phone so whoever was there with her would be able to hear. "I've got to get to work. I'll catch up with you later. Love you. Bye."

  Lost in thought as to what Leanne could possibly want to talk to him about, he wasn't ready for another interrogation as soon as he came through the office door at St. Matthias.

  "Andy, you look awful, dear. How are you feeling? Are you sure you should be here today?"

  Stopping in front of the receptionist's desk, he looked down at the frail Mrs. Gibbons. "I feel better than I look. How are you?"

  She motioned for him to come closer. "You forgot to RSVP to the Spring Fling Gala, so I put you down for two, just in case."

  Gala?

  Sure he heard her wrong, he asked, "I'm sorry. What gala?"

  She opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a creamy white post card stamped with the parish emblem and handed it to him. As his eyes scanned the details of the black tie Spring Fling fundraiser being held at the Union League of Chicago in three weeks, he remembered.

  Since the thought of attending alone didn't appeal to him, he hadn't planned on going, even though Father Steve had asked that he make it a priority to attend.

  But that was before Sara entered his life. The idea of slow dancing with her filled his head as he handed the invitation back to Mrs. Gibbons. "No, I didn't RSVP, did I?"

  In a move that seemed to take her quite by surprise, he leaned down and pecked her wrinkled cheek. "Thanks for thinking of me, Mrs. G."

  Sauntering down the hall to his office, he called over his shoulder, "Plan on saving a dance for me."

  When Andrew got settled in his office, he pulled out his phone and texted Sara. R u free on the night of the 29th?

  CHAPTER NINE

  "If you can't get rid of the skeleton in your closet, you'd best

  teach it to dance."

  —George Bernard Shaw

  Sitting at her desk on Monday morning, Sara could hardly believe all that had happened to her since she arrived at Mike's planning meeting the previous Friday morning with just seconds to spare. Friday night's choir and cantor practice, the kiss she almost gave Andrew afterward, going to Mrs. DeRosa's to get measured and go fabric shopping, then coming home and finding Andrew passed out on the couch with a fever.

  Here, she paused, wanting to replay every single detail of what happened next.

  When she caught her reflection in the black screen of her blank monitor, she gave her head a quick shake.

  Stop obsessing. Get your ass in gear, and find another apartment because Easter is just a month away.

  Given the overwhelmingly positive things happening to her at work, she figured a raise, if not a promotion, was imminent. First, there was all that praise she received on her Krypto Blight piece, especially since, as she predicted, the band didn't win squat at the Grammy's the night before. Congratulations, you totally called it, Daryl Swerl himself texted on her way into work. Second, her editor couldn't say enough about her interview with the a-m-a-z-i-n-g Jeffrey Tinsdale—the most talented and humble music legend she had ever met in her life.

  Points for not gushing once during the entire interview.

  She was just about to dive into her reader emails when she heard her phone chirp.

  It was Andrew, asking what she was doing on the 29th.

  She checked her calendar and saw that it was completely wide open. Still, she could think of any number of things to do on a Saturday night.

  For starters, karaoke. There is, after all, a trophy to win back.

  Any number of concerts in area clubs. I just haven't been able to find any good ones yet.

  Oh, and giving herself a pedicure. After all, sandal season is right around the corner.

  But to him, she texted, Nothing. Why?

  He answered immediately. I need a date.

  That little zing zipped through her again. With an uncharacteristic smile creeping over her lips, she texted back, For what?

  Dinner dance. Union League Club. Black Tie.

  Her mind became filled with images of old people in formal wear sitting like statues at big round tables in a stuffy, cigar-smoke-filled, men-only club, the walls of which were probably covered in dark paneling, pearl necklaces and black cummerbunds as far as the eye could see.

  She started texting, Pass when another text came through.

  Open bar.

  Deleting her earlier response, she texted I'm in and then sat staring at the words on her phone, wondering just what it was exactly that she was in for.

  The next week and a half went by in a blur. Both busy with work, Sara saw little of Andrew but discovered that sneaking a peek at him sleeping each morning before she snuck out was just as addictive as her daily dose of caffeine.

  Floating down Michigan Avenue on her way to work, she enjoyed the added bonus of warmth and sunshine that a sudden but brief burst of spring had afforded her, brightening the otherwise dreary March. While flowers planted up and down the Magnificent Mile had yet to pop, there was an invigorating freshness in the air that made everything feel new. This, coupled with the fact that she had an actual formal date with Andrew a week from Saturday to look forward to, made everything in Sara's life seem almost perfect.

  Almost.

  There was just that one little thing, that one little mistake that she could never undo, lurking deep in her subconscious, ready to pounce whenever she started to feel a glimmer of happiness. So, the closer the date got, the busier she made herself, doing her best to block it from her mind altogether.

  Everything was humming along just fine until she got a text from Mattie on her way into the office that Friday morning, informing her that their dress fittings with Mrs. DeRosa the next day had to be postponed because she had to finish a rush job on a neighbor's premature and gravely ill grandchild's christening gown.

  She was still working hard to erase certain sad images from her mind when she was practically accosted by Claire, who wanted her opinion on her latest column.

  "I didn't get any feedback from Dianne on it. Not a peep all week." Thrusting the Lifestyle section at Sara, she demanded, "Read it and tell me what you think."

  "Calm down," Sara advised as she took the paper from her. "Dianne wouldn't run it if she didn't think it was worthy. You know that."

  Claire gave her head a quick shake, "But she's been in meetings all week. What if it slipped through, and it wasn't supposed to?"

  Narrowing her eyes, Sara asked, "Do you always get this paranoid when you're pregnant?"

  "Yes," the normally put together Plate Spinner moaned. "And I hate it." Pointing to the paper, she added, "The only cure is to get lots of reassurance from the people I love and trust, so come on. Read it and tell me if it's awful."

  Sara tried not to gape at her friend. "Uh, all right. Sure."

  She sat in her chair and silently scanned the following:

  Dear Future Daughter-in-Laws,

  I know I haven't met you yet, but when I do, please don't be frightened if I come running at you waving a tape measure.

  If you find that last bit alarming, please, hear me out.

  As the mother of all boys, I just realized I have no one to whom I can endow my wedding dress. My mother's before me, it's a lovely ball gown embellished with Chantilly lace and yards of tulle, complete with a matching bolero jacket and pillbox hat. It would be a shame to let it go to waste (insert heavy, prolonged sigh here).

  But, I digress.

  As I was preparing my youngest son's breakfast the other day—a kitschy dish we like to call "Egg-in-Bread"—and I arranged it on his plate just so, it occurred to me that you may someday curse the ground I walk on, accusing me of not only pampering your future husband but, worse, creating a needy man who demands that his spouse match, or even exceed, his mom's level of doting.

  For shame.

  I handed my youn
gest his food, and he thanked me. But when he pushed the envelope and asked for some milk, I nearly snarled, "Get it yourself."

  Then I set out his clothes for him (after I made his bed, of course).

  Far be it from me to raise a high-maintenance hubby. However, since he is my youngest, I fear the damage may have already been done with my older sons. Please accept my sincerest apologies.

  I didn't intentionally set out to create narcissistic oafs, incapable of independent living. I blame working-mother guilt.

  I'll admit it. I put my career first. After dumping them in day care, I would rush to my job as if the Earth itself would stop spinning on its axis if I was but a minute late.

  By the time I'd pick them up at the end of a long day, I invariably felt compelled to demonstrate my affection by doing irrational things like shoving my beloved Eric Clapton CDs—

  Here Sara paused and arched an eyebrow at her friend. "You like Clapton?"

  Eyes wide, Claire nodded.

  "I have an even greater level of respect for you than I did five minutes ago."

  "Keep reading," the columnist laughed.

  Sara refocused on the page, finding where she had left off.

  Like shoving my beloved Eric Clapton CDs into the glove compartment so we could instead sing along with the likes of Raffi, Ariel, and Belle. I mean, really, who wants their little cherub humming "I Shot the Sheriff" during circle time?

  At this, Sara laughed. "Good one."

  Then, exhausted to the point of insanity, I didn't think twice about putting my boys' needs before my own—even if it meant storing extra clothes for them in their diaper bag while I rushed to work with oatmeal-stained shoulders, or cutting their meat for them so I could enjoy my own meal in peace. (I swear I won't do this at your wedding reception.)