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."
Sara glanced in her rearview mirror at Aubrey. She looked carsick. "You OK, Aubs?"
Aubrey met her gaze and nodded. Then she looked at Nancy. "Oh, I couldn't. He doesn't even know I exist."
Glancing at Nancy, Sara whispered, "Who are we talking about?"
"Malcolm Darvish."
"Who?"
"That guy in accounting? The one who has that it's good to be me air about him?"
"I have no idea who you're talking about."
"Oh, he's so perfect." Aubrey sighed from the backseat.
Nancy grimaced. "If you say so."
Sara smiled and stole another glance at the now dreamy-eyed Aubrey. "What do you like about him?"
Leaning back in her seat, the travel writer listed off her dream date's attributes. "He's handsome, dresses impeccably—"
Nancy chortled. "Yeah, if you can look beyond his squeaky, pointy-toed shoes and his pants that always look like they're too short." Looking at Sara, she added, "Maybe he's still growing."
Ignoring the interruption, Aubrey continued. "I hear he went to Harvard, and he just bought a condo in that new building over by the river."
Changing lanes to get around a semi, Sara asked, "Is he single?"
"I think so. He doesn't wear a ring." With a quick shiver, she nearly squealed. "I'd give anything to dance cheek-to-cheek with him. Just once."
"Then you should ask him, Aubs. What have you got to lose?"
Aubrey fell silent and stared out the window.
Glancing at her bold shotgun-seat passenger, Sara asked, "How about you, Nance?"
"Oh dear lord, it's not for what three more months? I've got plenty of time to find a date. So many to choose from, ya know?" At that, the associate food editor fell silent for a moment, then asked, "How about you Sara? Think Jer will join you?"
Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.
Sara drew a deep breath. The last place she wanted to invite the marriage-hungry musician was to a wedding, especially since Mattie, who used to write the Plate Spinner column before Claire came on board, asked her to be a bridesmaid. Not sure if either of her travel companions were asked, she didn't bring it up, but still the thought of being at the church, let alone a wedding reception, with Jer made her feel carsick.
Giving her head a quick shake, she replied, "Probably not."
"Oh, how come?" the ever-hopeful Aubrey piped from the backseat.
Sara glanced in the rearview mirror. "He's just not the dancing cheek-to-cheek type."
Nancy, who had announced as soon as she got in the car back in Chicago that she had spent much of the previous night researching restaurants and noteworthy (read: hot and single) chefs at each of their destinations with very limited success, squinted out the passenger side window at the gentle slopes of dormant, snow-covered farmland. With a sigh she announced, "Daphne's Corn Dogs, here we come."
As Sara flipped on her turn signal and curved into the slow winding descent onto US Route 61 southbound, it hit her.
I forgot to leave Jer a check for rent.
* * *
The interim music director at St. Matthias was having a horrible, awful, very bad day. First up, the printer sputtered its last toner-splotched breath just as he sent the master copy of that weekend's worship sheet to the print queue. While he was trying to get a repairperson on the line, the elementary school principal stopped by and just happened to mention that she switched the school book fair to that afternoon. If she had checked with him first (as he had asked her to do at least a dozen times already), she would've discovered that he had scheduled a make-up practice for the children's choir in the same space at the school.
By lunchtime, he wouldn't have been surprised if someone told him he had steam coming out of his ears like an angry cartoon character.
But his day wasn't over. He had to play at a funeral Mass that afternoon for a beloved teenager who had collapsed and died during a high school basketball game from an undiagnosed heart defect and, God help him, he had adult choir practice at 7:00.
And if someone called him "Andy" one more time, he was going to pack his bags and take the first flight to Nantucket to pursue a career in cod fishing.
In a huff, he started making his way down the hall from his office to the main reception area so he could run away escape go grab some lunch.
Just as he was about to grasp the door handle, Mrs. Gibbons, the receptionist who first took the job back when they still did duck-and-cover drills in the school, intercepted him. Holding her wrinkled hand over the phone receiver, she announced, "Father Steve would like to see you."
She mouthed, "Sorry," while pointing toward the Pastor's door.
Taking a deep breath, he turned and straightened his tie before making his way back down the hall.
"You wanted to see me, Father?"
The middle-aged Filipino priest, who tended to rub the more traditional, conservative members of the congregation the wrong way with his unannounced mid-Mass musical interpretations of the Gospel, waved him in.
"Take a seat, Andrew."
Sinking into the chair, one thought crossed the music director's mind. If he fires me now, at least I won't have to hold ch
oir practice tonight.
Father Steve leaned back in his own chair and studied Andrew for a moment before asking, "So, tell me. How do you like it here, Andrew?"
Feeling his face jerk into a forced smile, he replied, "Oh, very much." He followed it with an unconvincing nod.
God forgive me for lying to a priest.
He resisted the urge to twist his face into a wince before asking, "Why do you ask?"
Father Steve drummed his fingers on his desk and narrowed his eyes, "I'll be honest with you…"
That makes one of us.
"…the parish board isn't convinced that we should extend your contract. There have been a number of complaints." He trailed off.
Andrew took a deep breath as the faces of his naysayers, many of whom were in choir, appeared before him. As if their disgruntled faces weren't enough, their whispers and grumbles spoke volumes.
He's too critical.
So rude.
No sense of humor
He works us too hard.
So irreverent.
He doesn't appreciate us.
Now that the grueling Christmas season was behind them, members were bailing on him faster than Protestants on a tour of the Vatican.
"Yes, I know my way of doing things is not what certain parishioners here are used to, but as far as the choir is concerned, with a little more time, I'm sure I can get them to see, well, hear the payoff for all of their hard work."
At that, the priest leaned forward. "For the record, I don't agree with the parish board, and I don't think I'm the only one. In case you haven't noticed, 10:00 am Mass—the one your choir sings at—is our most well-attended."
Picking up a little pink piece of paper, he waved it midair and announced, "And Bishop Kramer enjoyed their performance at Lessons and Carols on Christmas Eve so much that he's coming here to celebrate Easter Mass."
The priest's eyes suddenly seemed clouded with visions of overflowing collection baskets.
"Think you can get that choir of yours on board with your way of doing things by then?"
Andrew lifted an eyebrow and nodded. "Sure thing."
Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel Page 2
