Oh well.
Sara was wearing her infamous you're-boring-me-to-death look. "Whatever. Did you get my letter?"
"Yes." The advice columnist tucked her straight blonde hair behind her ears and glanced back at her computer screen, watching as it booted up. "Tell me, why did you bother writing when you know what I'm gonna say?"
After mulling over her response, the music critic shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe there's a woman out there like me, in the same situation, who might benefit from your infinite wisdom." She hunched her shoulders up and added, "It could happen."
Claire narrowed her eyes. "You're delusional. You know that, don't you? I can safely say there are no other women out there who are clinging to a dysfunctional relationship just so they can keep living in the apartment of their dreams." She cocked her head and looked into the distance. "Geez, at least I hope not."
Sinking back in her chair, Sara muttered. "I know. I know. I shouldn't keep leading him on."
"Exactly," Claire exclaimed. "You've got to tell him how you really feel, and be prepared to deal with the consequences. Or get your own place."
Sara raised both eyebrows and held out her hands expectantly in front of her. "Yeah, but where else am I going to find a huge one-bedroom apartment with so much character in such a high-end neighborhood? I've checked everywhere, Claire. It's one of a kind—especially at the price I'm paying."
The Plate Spinner leaned forward and clasped her friend's hand. "Which, I'm afraid, one of these days you're gonna realize is more than you can afford to lose, hon."
* * *
Andrew Benet, interim music director at St. Matthias, eased behind the organ console situated in a front corner of the church near the altar. The magnificent instrument had more buttons, knobs, and switches on it than the control panel of a 747. When he pressed his fingers against the keys, the notes squeaked out of the pipes at the back of the empty church at a much higher pitch than he expected. Lifting his hands, he flipped a switch, pulled a stopper, and tried it again.
Much better.
A few measures later, he was lost in the notes of Bach's Sinfonia from Cantata 156 and the throbbing in his head finally started to dissipate.
Surely the day couldn't get any worse than it had started.
After a few more bars, he indulged in a chuckle, thinking of how old Father Kurtz had treated the congregation in attendance for that morning's 8:00 am mass to the sound of him whizzing in the men's room. Evidently, he had prematurely turned his microphone on. Thankfully, an usher tipped him off, but by then it was too late. Every single one of the students from the parish school in attendance had heard it. Valiantly trying to suppress their giggles, each looked like they'd just taken a swig of some unsweetened cranberry juice.
He imagined his little brother Sam, a newly minted officer on the Chicago Police Department and, like Andrew, a former altar boy, would get a good laugh out of it later but still.
"Andy."
He jumped.
Marge.
Not easily spooked, the sight of the stern elderly woman peering at him over the top of her reading glasses always put him on edge. Right from where he had been trying to get away.
He looked down at the volunteer sheet music librarian he had inherited from the previous music director who, rumor had it, apparently made off with the lead soprano a year earlier.
Wearing a sweatshirt that read, What Happens at Grandma's Stays at Grandma's, Marge looked like she was ready to take a swing at someone. Most likely him.
"So, did you think about it?" she snapped.
Frowning, he asked, "Think about what?"
"Asking Sharon out," she very nearly shrieked. "My niece? Remember? Now, like I said, she's a widow, not much to look at, but she can cook. No kids. She'd be perfect for you."
Andrew, still playing, gave his head a quick shake. "No thanks, Marge. Not interested."
With a huff, the woman walked behind the organ bench on her way to the choir room. "Fine," he heard her sputter behind his back. "Just don't come running to me when the rumors start flying."
Only there for a few months, he was still questioning his hasty retreat from his last parish, the Basilica of Saint Mary in Minneapolis, where everyone revered him.
That is, until he proposed to Leanne Thorsteinson high atop the Stone Arch Bridge at sunset.
Had she said yes, the pair would've been feted at a surprise engagement party thrown by close friends and relatives at the nearby Nicollet Island Pavilion.
Andrew stared at the keys in front of him, his thoughts darkening as he recalled the moment when she politely declined, citing her previously undisclosed intention to join the good Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet in St. Paul.
As she tearfully explained how she was waiting for the right time to tell him, all he could think was what a bad idea it was to propose on top of a bridge.
Or the best idea ever, depending on how you looked at it.
After that, the good parishioners of the Basilica couldn't seem to stop talking about how their esteemed assistant music director got turned down by the pretty parish preschool teacher.
Not a day went by when someone wasn't expressing their condolences to him, saying things like, "It's for the best," or "God works in mysterious ways."
You're telling me.
With a heavy sigh, Andrew lifted his hands off the keys and turned in her direction. "Rumors about what, Marge?"
The elderly woman turned. "Are you kidding? A good-looking guy like you, single? At your age?" She cocked an eyebrow. "People are starting to wonder."
Wonder what?
After a minute, it hit him.
Oh.
He waved her off. "Let 'em wonder."
Turning back to the hymn, he mumbled to himself, "My personal life is no one's business but my own." It was his new mantra, and he was sticking with it.
He started the Bach piece again from the top. Priding himself on never missing a note during Mass, ever, he wasn't about to start now.
A few minutes later, Marge emerged, her arms full of beaten-up, black, one-inch binders that were destined for the recycling bin. "These are goners."
Andrew kept playing. "Make sure they don't have any music in them."
"Of course." She sighed as she set them down on the seat normally occupied by first soprano Lorelei Healy and started flipping through them. "What about Carol Bingley's daughter? She's pretty enough. As far as I know, she's not seeing anyone."
Ignoring her until he finished the piece, Andrew slid off the organ bench. "Tell me, Marge. Do you work on commission?"
Marge looked confused.
Grabbing the binders she had already gone through, he dropped them onto a different chair and sat beside her. "It's not that I don't appreciate your effort. It's just that, well—" His mind scrambled to come up with a way to get this well-intentioned woman to stop playing matchmaker on his behalf. "Did you ever listen to a really magnificent performance? Ya know, the kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end?"
Nodding, she replied, "Sure. I actually cried at the symphony once."
Relieved that she bit off on his faux reasoning, Andrew's face brightened.
Flush with confidence, he concluded, "If I ever find a woman who makes me feel like that, then I'll know she's the one for me."
So impressed by his ability to impart such an absurd notion with the utmost sincerity, he barely heard Marge mutter, "Because my shoes were killing me."
"Exactly."
After a few seconds, she squinted at him over her glasses. "You'll fall in love with the woman who makes your feet hurt?"
A laugh burst out of Andrew, and it echoed through the church. "What?"
Flustered, she spat out, "All that talk about hairs standing up on your neck or thunderbolts or whatever's supposed to mean love at first sight, it's all a myth. There's no such thing. Love grows over time. You just have to be open to it. Now about my niece, can I tell her to expect a phone call from you?"
Standing up, Andrew replied, "No, Marge. You cannot."
"I don't suppose it would help to mention that Sharon lives all alone in that great big house of hers."
"No, it wouldn't," he sighed as he bent to pick up a stack of broken binders.
"I just thought you might be wearing a hole in your brother's couch."
"As eager as I am to find a place of my own, I'm not about to enter into a relationship with a stranger just so I don't have to impose on my brother anymore."
The sheet music librarian joined him as he started down the aisle toward the exit, talking to herself. "She wouldn't be a stranger once you meet her."
While his brother hadn't complained once about Andrew crashing at his apartment, Andrew knew he never would. They'd been through too much together and got along just fine. And it wasn't like he wasn't saving up for the deposit he'd need to sign a lease. It was just taking a lot longer than he expected, that was all. Housing in Chicago wasn't cheap, not in the neighborhoods he was looking anyway. As such, he wasn't in the position to move out of his brother's yet, at least not until the parish extended him a permanent position. And on a day like today, he wasn't even sure he wanted them to.
* * *
Sara's sole ambition had always been to be a reporter. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Before she started working on her high school newspaper, she wanted to be a waitress, just like her mom had been at the Bay Shore Bar and Grill, adjacent to her family's marina.
However, once she saw her first story in print—a critique of the bands that performed at her high school's variety show— she was hooked. Without a journalism degree to her credit, she often went above and beyond to earn the distinction of being not just a reporter but also a respected journalist.
To that end, she had just submitted an unsolicited piece to her editor, Mike Teegan. Her target victim subject was megastar Ellie Klein who had, in Sara's not-so-humble opinion, just made a disastrous foray from hard-core country to pop. If the story didn't earn her the respect of one Daryl Swerl, the Gazette's reigning senior music critic, she figured she might as well pack her bags and move back to William's Cove to work at the family marina. And quite frankly she'd rather be strapped to a chair and forced to listen to opera for the rest of her life.
When she wasn't working, Sara's hobbies included selectively piecing together her eclectic wardrobe by trolling clearance sales up and down the Magnificent Mile or secondhand stores in the city's many ethnic neighborhoods. But her favorite form of entertainment involved an overinflated dose of workplace rivalry, two-for-one drink specials, large crowds, good friends, the kind you could embarrass yourself in front of and not live to regret it, and live-band karaoke contests.
Why that very weekend, despite the Sports section's recent attempt to steal the crown with a rousing rendition of an old Journey classic, the Features section ultimately prevailed after Sara's colleagues shoved her onstage where she delivered a jaw-dropping performance of the schmaltzy standard, "Because You Loved Me."
Good times. Good times indeed.
The memory of it was very much on her mind the following Monday morning when their managing editor called an emergency meeting. Squished into a not-big-enough conference room, the Features section reporters speculated on the reason behind it. Rumors had been circulating for weeks.
The paper is bleeding revenue.
Griffin Media is shopping the Gazette to potential buyers.
Layoffs are imminent.
Sara shifted in her seat and glanced at Mike Teegan, the Entertainment editor who was chatting with David Morse, a veteran food critic rumored to have just purchased a small mansion of a lake house in Benton Harbor, Michigan.
No wonder he looks as nervous as I feel.
Mike, however, was being his usual animated self. That he seemed to be avoiding eye contact with Sara, though, was odd. That he hadn't said boo about the article she had just submitted was worrisome. He had been her mentor ever since he discovered her writing for the Williams Cove Courier straight out of community college. Her coverage of the resort town's legendary lakefront concert series that year caught his attention after the Milwaukee Sentinel picked it up.
He would've told me if I was losing my job, wouldn't he?
At the time, all she had by way of a college education was a few college-level classes, but that didn't faze him in the least. He was more impressed that she was funding her tuition with winnings from open-mic-night donations and karaoke contest wins at the Bay Shore Bar and Grill than he was by the grade she got in Journalism 101.
Which was an A, thank you very much.
Mike offered her an internship straight away. Eager to escape the popular resort town in southern Wisconsin where she had grown up with her father and older brother, Sara grabbed the opportunity with both hands.
A few weeks later, she moved in with Jer Caravelli, an up-and-coming studio musician, who happened to live in an amazing vintage apartment on the near north side of the city that made her living quarters at the Uptown YMCA seem like a sparsely furnished broom closet.
Besides, given that his name was starting to appear on the credits of some decent new CDs, he was a thousand times more impressive than Jimmy Mabry, a hapless gearhead/garage band drummer she used to hang with back home in William's Cove and whom her older brother Kerry had threatened with extinction on more than one occasion.
And for good reason.
Maybe if Sara had seen Jimmy for the loser that he was, she wouldn't have accepted his invitation to join him under their pier at midnight where, after chugging back some syrupy liqueur, she gave it all away—her virginity, her virtue, and, after he shared the finer details with his buddies at the garage, her reputation.
Go me.
She bit the inside of her mouth and stared out the window.
How could I have been so stupid, so…?
"So," Dianne Devane, the managing editor, started as soon as she walked into the room. Peering into their faces, she said, "I'm not going to lie to you, kiddos. We're in trouble."
Sara blinked. She could barely afford her half of the rent as it was, and she was fairly sure Jer wouldn't be willing to float her yet another extension.
"We're going to have to figure out ways to maintain our journalistic excellence while cutting costs."
Here we go.
The managing editor stopped and placed both hands palm down on the table. "Not people."
Oh, thank God.
"So, here's what I propose." Standing up straight, she started walking the circumference of the room as she continued. "Cross-functional assignments."
Excuse me?
Smiling at their puzzled faces, Dianne airily explained. "First up, 'The Long Road from Garage to Grammy.'"
Sara pulled her eyebrows into a skeptical scowl and made no effort to change it when Dianne looked directly at her and pointed. "Sara."
"Yes?"
"Stop scowling. Wrinkles at your age are so unattractive."
Clenching her jaw, she raised an eyebrow and tried once again, in vain, to catch Mike's eye.
"That's better. Now, have you heard of a band called," she paused to check her notes, "Krypto Blight?"
Sara pressed her lips together before replying as politely as possible, "Of course. They're supposed to be the hottest band to come out of the Midwest since the Smashing Pumpkins."
Dianne looked at her for a minute, a slow smile creeping across her Clinique-covered lips. "That's right. They're about to launch a tour to promote their debut album. Midwest only. Seven cities in ten days, wrapping up here at the Aragon on the 16th. I want you to document their every move—well, not their every move but backstage, dressing rooms, who gets along and why, how they met, what makes them tick, get a sense for their staying power. You wanted a big break. Here's your chance. Make it count."
Next, she turned to the assistant food editor. "Nancy. I want a review of regional dishes, local chefs, and locally grown and produced cuisine for each stop along the
way. Keep it seasonal, keep it topical."
"Would you please tell her it's still February?" she hissed under her breath to Sara.
Turning yet again, Dianne addressed the visibly nervous travel writer. "And Aubrey. Guess what? You're going along for the ride to uncover hidden destinations in each city. Diamond in the rough stuff. Antique markets, Amish settlements, winter festivals, toboggan runs, ice sculpture contests. You get the idea."
Dianne paused long enough to survey her baffled staffers before asking, "Sound good?"
Sara glanced at Aubrey who had turned at least two shades paler and Nancy who looked like she was about to say something but in a rare show of restraint appeared to have thought better of it.
Before any of them could respond, Dianne announced, "You leave tomorrow. Stop by Sheri Phelps's desk before you leave tonight. She'll have your itinerary and hotel information."
She peered down at the three women like a big game hunter who had just bagged a fresh kill before delivering her parting shot. "Use your cell phones for photos. Oh, and mileage reimbursement is only 25 cents on the dollar, so I suggest you all drive together."
* * *
"Are we there yet? I can't feel my feet."
Aubrey, who had selflessly agreed to sit in the very cramped backseat of Sara's sturdy little Honda for the first leg of the Krypto Blight tour hadn't complained once. Until now. According to the GPS they were just ten minutes away from the Davenport exit.
Sara, preoccupied with trying to dispel the nagging feeling that she forgot something, was busy running through an inventory of everything she had packed for the tenth time. Coming up empty again, she asked her travel companions, "So who are you guys bringing to Mattie and Nick's wedding?"
"I have to bring a date?" Aubrey practically whimpered from the backseat before asking for the third time if Sara's car had backseat side-impact air bags.
Nancy turned to face her. "Yeah, your plus one." Quiet for a moment, she exclaimed, "Hey. Maybe you can ask what's-his-name."
Remember the Night: a Heroes of the Night military romance novel Page 24