Fifteen minutes later, he was showered, clean-shaven, and ready to go, except he didn't have to be at the church until four-thirty that afternoon. Unplugging his phone from an outlet in his room, he brought it with him into the kitchen, transferred Sara's clothes that she had washed the night before into the dryer and poured himself some coffee. He sat on a barstool, debated throwing a sweatshirt on over his plain, blue, short-sleeved T-shirt to ward off the chill, but started scrolling through his email instead.
His eyes, however, kept drifting over to Sara, out like a light on the sofa sleeper.
While most of her was wrapped in the blankets like a human burrito, with the sun starting to break through the bare branches of the ancient oak tree blocking the expansive bay window, he could see her face quite plainly.
Without all that the heavy dark makeup, he noted, she looked younger.
And kinda sweet, actually.
But then again, she wasn't talking.
Still, he was glad he invited her to stay the night before.
But what about tonight? And tomorrow night? And the night after that?
While he mulled the possibilities, she rolled over and stretched, arching her back and groaning as she did. Resuming her curled-up burrito pose, she opened her eyes and mumbled, "How long have you been sitting there?"
Looking at his watch, he admitted, "About a minute. Or five. Maybe ten." His cheeks suddenly felt a lot warmer.
With a loud yawn, she sat up. "I slept so good." Patting the thin mattress with her hand, she added, "So comfy."
The words hung in the air between them.
Sarcasm before coffee. Great.
Still, the sight of her in his pajama top seemed to lobotomize him. All he could do by way of a reply was nod.
With a shrug, she added, "Seriously, on a sleeper sofa—who knew?"
Snap out of it.
With no small amount of effort, he turned and glanced at the dryer. "Your clothes should be ready in about twenty minutes."
At that, Sara took a deep breath and yanked the covers back, revealing two impossibly long bare legs as she flung her feet to the floor.
Knowing full well that the sudden blast of heat he felt was not delivered by way of the gilded vents along the floorboards, Andrew got up to check the thermostat on the wall next to the upright piano anyway, mumbling, "Gotta love old buildings."
"Mind if I take a shower?" he heard her ask behind him.
Not about to turn around, he replied, "Not at all. The towels are—"
"In the linen closet. I know."
When he heard the bathroom door close behind him, he turned around and took a deep breath. Walking to the other side of the kitchen counter, he took a sip of hot coffee and debated whether or not to make her bed. Deciding it was best to let his guest clean up after herself, he took the liberty of returning his unused pajama bottoms to their rightful place in his drawer.
On the way back into the kitchen, he could hear the shower running. He was just topping off his coffee when the singing started.
He didn't recognize the song, but it didn't matter. Goosebumps raced up both of his arms.
He set his coffee down but nearly missed the counter completely. Catching his mug just in time, the hot liquid spilled out and scalded his wrist. A few minutes under cold running water, and it was fine. Andrew, on the other hand, felt like he had just tripped over the edge of a cliff and was plummeting like a rock.
He yanked a paper towel off of the holder and was busy wiping up the spill when an idea started swirling in his brain.
She needs a place to stay.
I need her in choir.
By the time he heard the shower shut off, he was fairly certain he knew what he'd propose.
Then the bathroom door opened, and through a steamy cloud she emerged with one towel wrapped around her head and another around her torso, looking like a Vegas showgirl decked out in bright-red terry cloth.
"Have to get my clothes," she sang out as she skirted behind him and pulled a few items out of the dryer.
"Be right back." She waved her clothes, lacey underwear included, in the air as she scampered back to the bathroom, leaving the scent of some indiscernible floral arrangement in her wake.
A bemused smile spread across his face as he tried picturing the reaction the others would have to Sara showing up at choir practice. Her height alone would generate whispers. God forbid they get a peek at her tattoo. And worse, what if she drops an "F" bomb while talking to one of them—in church.
OK, maybe this isn't such a great idea.
Then the image of Marge the Matchmaker and her scary scowl floated before him.
But then again…
Lost in thought, Andrew didn't even realize Sara, wearing a tight, bright-blue, short-sleeved turtleneck sweater and a pair of jeans that left little to the imagination, was already out of the bathroom and had started making the bed. Watching as she attempted to shove it back into the couch with the sheet not tucked in properly around the edges, he practically leapt over the kitchen counter.
"Oh, here. Let me do it. You have to be careful not to force it in there, otherwise you might tear something."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stand straight up.
"I can't believe you just said that."
After he shoved the bed into place, he noted her shocked, but amused, expression. "What?"
Shaking her head, Sara looked right at him for a second, then looked away again muttering, "Never mind."
He stood in front of her and jutted out his chin. "No. What? You're blushing. Tell me."
Pressing her lips together, she just shook her head.
Andrew thought for a minute, replaying what he had said, and then narrowed his eyes. "Get your mind out of the gutter."
He noted her cheeks turn a few shades pinker as she gestured toward the couch and let out a deep guttural laugh, "Hey, I'm not the one who said it."
Walking back toward the kitchen, he asked, "You want some coffee?"
"Yeah. Sure. Thanks."
She replaced the couch cushions and sat on a bar stool opposite him. "So…what happened to my stuff?"
He handed her a mug and pushed a bottle of hazelnut creamer toward her, which she promptly pushed back. "I donated it."
Given the look on her face, he may as well have said, "I piled it high on the parkway, doused it with gasoline, lit it on fire, and roasted some marshmallows."
She pulled her face into a grimace and whined, "That's just as bad as putting it on the curb. I'll never get any of it back now."
"No, probably not," he replied. "But we can stop by the places I dropped stuff off at and see if any of it hasn't been claimed yet."
"Claimed? By whom?"
"Needy people. I gave your clothes to a women's shelter over on Damen and the rest to the Goodwill up on Sheridan."
She got up and pointed in the direction of the front door. "Well, let's go."
When he didn't move, she asked, "What are we waiting for?"
He set his cup down and leaned across the bar counter toward her. "Before we do, I have a proposition for you."
Drawing in a deep breath, her expression grew serious. She sat back on the barstool and with her voice almost lower than his asked, "What?"
"You need a place to stay…"
Dropping her chin, Sara's eyes met his. "Yeah…."
"And I need—"
She narrowed her eyes into thin slits. "Be very careful. Your next word may just be your last."
He lifted both eyebrows. "An alto. I really need an alto."
There. I said it.
Clearly this was not what she was expecting to hear. She turned her head and looked at him sideways with a sneer pulling at her lips. "For what?"
"The adult choir at St. Matthias."
At this, she let out a loud laugh. "You're joking. Me, in a church? Not gonna happen."
Coulda swore I put a rosary in that box.
"Why not?"
"Well,
for starters, lightning will strike the moment I step foot across the threshold, killing dozens of innocent bystanders instantly."
Andrew raised his coffee cup to his lips and then lowered it. "Which is exactly why I keep a fire extinguisher right next to the entrance. And if that doesn't work, I can always hose you down with holy water."
Suddenly his mind was filled with an image of her standing there soaking wet.
He took a fortifying swig of steaming, hot liquid and set his mug down with a loud clank. "Seriously. It would only be until Easter," he croaked through scalded vocal chords. "After that, you'd be off the hook."
He watched as she pursed her lips and studied him through narrowed eyes that made him feel like she was scanning him with x-ray vision.
Her voice oozing with caution, she asked, "Why? What happens at Easter?"
"The Bishop is coming to our parish to say Mass. It's a huge deal. I wouldn't be surprised if he showed up for parts of the Triduum as well. If he's impressed by the choir, I have a much better chance of landing a full-time job there."
A grimace tugged at Sara's mouth.
Taking in her pained expression, he started to explain, "The Triduum is the three days before Easter—Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Easter Vigil on Saturday night."
She pressed her lips into a thin line and rolled her eyes. "Yeah. I know what it is. I sang in choir at St. Xavier's up in Williams—well, where I grew up."
"Ha." Andrew pointed at her like he just won a bet. "I knew it."
Sara clasped her coffee mug with both hands and hunched her shoulders, scowling at him.
"And if I refuse?"
Her response took him by surprise.
To bolster his position, he could state the obvious.
You'll be homeless.
Instead, he countered. "You clearly enjoy singing, and my guess is you want to keep living here as much as I do."
Her face twitched into a sneer again. "I wouldn't go that far."
He couldn't help but notice that her eyes darted to her left as she said it.
During the course of his brother's police academy training, Sam taught him how to tell when someone is lying. "If they look to their left when they answer your question, they're lying. If they look to their right, they might still be lying, but probably not."
Not an exact science, but still—Busted.
He continued to study her over the rim of his mug, wondering why else she would have willingly stayed with a guy who ended up walking out on her while she was out of town and clearly didn't give a crap what happened to her things.
He set his mug down. "Come on. You help me; I'll help you. You come to practice every week—"
"Wait, what?" she shot out.
He held up his hand. "Let me finish. You come to practice every week and sing at 10:00 am Mass each weekend, and you can stay here for as long as you like. All you have to do is pay your half of the rent. The rest we can figure out as we go along."
I probably should've thought this through a little better.
Andrew paused for effect before concluding, "Take it or leave it."
He did his best to look like he didn't care either way.
With her arms folded in front of her, Sara propped her elbows on the counter. "Let me get this straight. I pay half the rent to keep living here, with you—" She stopped and gave him a slow once-over before continuing. "Plus, I have to go to choir practice and Mass every week from now until Easter?"
He shifted on his feet before nodding. "That's right."
She arched her eyebrow and leaned across the counter with a smoky stare.
Unable to hold it, Andrew coughed and looked at his feet.
"OK, I'll do it, but only if I get the bedroom."
His head shot up. "What? Uh-uh. I've been sleeping on my brother's couch since I moved to Chicago. I am not giving up the bed."
Sara glowered at him. "Oh, and I have to sleep on a crappy sofa sleeper for what, a month?"
Under his breath, Andrew hedged, "Well, a month and a half. Six weeks from tomorrow, actually."
He watched as Sara clenched her jaw and glared at him. Then, doing that getting louder as she talked thing again, she spouted, "Six weeks? You expect me to sleep on a crappy sofa sleeper for six weeks? After just having gotten back from ten days of having to share a room with two other women in some of the Midwest's finest one-star hotels?"
She can definitely crescendo.
Pointing her finger at him, she warned, "You're pushin' it, pal."
Andrew watched as she slipped off her barstool and swooped behind him to retrieve the rest of her things from the dryer. "Maybe I do love this apartment," he heard her grumble before she slammed the dryer door closed. "But not that much."
A vague sense of panic welled up inside of him. He wasn't used to having his ideas shot down—not like this. Compromise was not his strong suit, and he knew it. Still, not wanting to lose her, his mind started to fire on all cylinders, trying to think of ways to get her to stay.
Just as she dumped her things back in her suitcase (without even folding them? really?), he asked, "Can you sight read?"
"What?" She was busy trying to tug the zipper closed.
Sitting on the stool she had just abandoned, Andrew asked again, "Can you sight read?"
Giving up on the zipper, Sara stood up and put her hands on her hips, looking just as defiant and abrasive as she did when she rebuffed him the night before in the ice cream aisle at Bell's Market. "Yeah. So what?"
"OK, hear me out. Don't make up your mind just yet. Let's go grab some breakfast, my treat, and we'll go look for your things. Then when we get back, let me run you through the pieces we'll be doing at Mass tomorrow morning so you can sing with the choir."
When she pulled a face, he held up his hand, "Just this once. And then afterward, if you don't want anything to do with it, or me, no hard feelings."
She relaxed her posture and started examining her fingernails.
"But," he continued before she could reply, "If you want to give it a go, we can take turns in the bedroom."
This time, he corrected himself before she had a chance to react. "Take turns with the bedroom, I mean. A week on, week off—whatever."
With the exception of pursing her full lips again, which Andrew was beginning to realize triggered certain reactions in him that, should he ever divulge them in confession, would prompt even the pious Father Steve to rethink his vocation, her expression was indecipherable. Without a word, she just reached over, slipped on her leather jacket, and started buttoning it up.
Feeling more deflated than an off-season beach ball, he got up and set his coffee cup in the sink.
Can't say I didn't try.
When he turned to face her again, the last thing he expected to see was her dangling her car keys midair. "Well, come on. I know a great breakfast dive about ten minutes from here."
CHAPTER FOUR
"I have six locks on my door all in a row. When I go out, I lock every other one.
I figure no matter how long somebody stands there picking the
locks, they are always locking three."
—Elayne Boosler
Ferndell's was one of those storefront dives that people pass by every day without appreciating or even realizing the culinary treasures that could be had for a song within. That was how Sara put it to Andrew anyway when she pulled him through the door.
"Trust me," she said as she handed him a large, plastic-coated menu. "This is the place to come if you're hungry." Scanning the breakfast entrees, she mumbled, "And I'm starving."
After placing their orders with a gum-popping waitress and watching as she filled their coffee cups, Sara looked across the booth at Andrew, who was just staring at her with those beautiful blue eyes, clearly amused.
Her guard shot up, and she suddenly realized she was sans makeup. In public. Despite feeling completely undressed save for the color rising in her cheeks, she met his gaze. "What?"
Eyebrow arch
ed, "I can't figure you out," was all he said, with a hint of a smirk, making her feel like she was a problem that required solving—like a human Rubik's Cube.
Is it that obvious?
Not sure how to respond, she reached for her cup. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"Go for it."
In the awkward silence that followed, Sara tapped her fingers against either side of her cup. "So…do you go by anything other than Andrew? Sounds kind of stuffy."
He answered with his eyes and a slow shake of his head.
"Really? Not Drew? Or Andy?"
At this, he pulled a face, "No. Please. Do not call me 'Andy.'"
"No worries," she murmured as she brought her cup to her lips, noticing for the first time that she found his slight overbite and the way his eyes angled down a bit in the corners when he wasn't smiling really rather endearing.
Taking a sip, she held the warm cup in her cold hands. "You don't look like an Andy. You could definitely pull off 'Drew' though."
With his cheeks taking on a decidedly pink hue, he said through a shy smile, "Nope. Just Andrew."
After a minute, he cocked his eyebrow. "What about you? Any nicknames?"
Suddenly the memory of her dad's trademark wolf whistle slicing through the woods behind their house up in William's Cove rang in her head. Sounding more like someone calling their dog in—not their child—he'd holler, "Trouble! Come on home now. It's gettin' dark."
She set her cup down on its saucer with a wobbly clank.
Looking around for their waitress, she asked, "Where's our food? It normally doesn't take this long."
Andrew, seemingly concerned that he had tripped a nerve, lowered his voice and asked, "Is that a yes?"
Flustered, she picked up her fork and examined it. "Yes, I have a nickname but no—" She put her fork down and looked at him with the most serious expression she could manage. "You'll never get it out of me."
He lifted his chin. While the glint in his eye said, "Challenge accepted," out loud he just said, "Fair enough."
Sara nearly leaped up and hugged their waitress, who had just arrived with their food.
Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel Page 6
