Digging in to her omelet, she looked around the restaurant at the other patrons, the busboys milling about, the light fixtures—anything but him.
Not until he asked, "So what made you want to become a music critic?"
After she finished chewing her food, she finally met his gaze. "I don't know. I always liked analyzing performances and then writing about them."
Eyebrow arched, she continued, "Over time, I've gained some credibility. Now people check what I have to say about a performer or group before they buy a CD or plunk down big bucks for a show. It's pretty cool actually."
He didn't seem nearly as impressed by her as she was.
"You have that kind of power over the masses?"
There was something in the way he said it that made her feel like the most pompous person on the planet. She felt the color rise again in her cheeks.
With a shrug she replied, "Occupational hazard. How about you? What made you choose your profession?"
He thought for a minute. "I don't know. In some ways it chose me."
Her interest piqued, she asked, "What do you mean?"
"When my brother and I were kids, Dad would take us to church where Mom played the organ, still does, and a couple of our older siblings sang in the choir. I couldn't wait to take lessons and join in. Sacred music has always intrigued me. And the pipe organ, how it works? I find that fascinating."
Sara felt herself slip into interview mode. "How so?"
"Well, like an orchestra, the organ can have nearly endless possibilities for sound. Same thing with choral music. There are so many possibilities."
He held a hand out to her. "Well, what am I telling you for? You've sung in a church choir before, so you know what I'm talking about. Sacred music can always touch the soul." With a shrug, he added, "Once it does, there's no turning back."
Watch me.
After polishing off his French toast, he pointed to her shoulder and started, "So what's the song tattooed on your—"
Sara nearly choked on her food. After swallowing it down, she held her fork midair and croaked, "Next question."
He narrowed his eyes and looked down at his plate. "I'm only asking because it looks like it's—"
"Not up for discussion, OK?" A sudden longing to see Kerry again welled up inside of her. She tried blinking away the moisture pooling in her eyes before actual drops formed.
Too late.
With a quick brush of her fingertips, she swiped at them, clenched her jaw, looked across the room and whispered, "Next question, please."
"I'm sorry," she heard him say with his voice soft and low.
She had to blink a few more times, dab at the corners of her eyes with her napkin, and take a swig of her ice water before she was ready to look him in the eye again.
When she did, he asked with a teasing smile, "Does this mean you don't want to see mine?"
With that, the water she had just gulped threatened to resurface. She held a napkin to her mouth while she forced it back down before rasping, "You don't have a tattoo."
Leaning back in his seat, he raised an eyebrow. "Oh, but I do. Wanna see it?"
He slowly pulled his sweater up over his right hip and started tugging the hem of his T-shirt out of his jeans. Right there in the middle of a restaurant. She was mesmerized, wanting to see what kind of tattoo a Ken doll would get.
A heart with "Barbie" written across it?
Just as she was about to lunge across the table to get a glimpse, the gum-cracking waitress returned with their check.
Dammit.
"Can I get you anything else?"
Andrew, with his eyes still on Sara, plucked his T-shirt and sweater back down. "Had enough?"
Not nearly.
Four hours later, Sara and Andrew returned to his apartment with a few of her prized possessions that he bought back for her, including, but not limited to, her grandma's kitschy green glass relish dish, her fruit-themed shrimp forks, and four royal-blue, ceramic coffee mugs each bearing the shiny gold Cleff Marina logo. The plates went fast, the staffers at Goodwill told them, as did her perfectly good coffee pot, toaster, and microwave.
From there, Andrew had taken her to the women's shelter. As soon as they stepped inside to inquire if anyone had dipped into her belongings yet, Sara spotted several of the residents already wearing some of her favorite pieces of clothing, like the khaki-green, fisherman-knit sweater she stole from her brother years ago, the pretty pink and gold scarf she picked up at an Old Town art fair that summer, and a long, crinkled, floral-patterned skirt that never ever needed ironing.
"Can I help you?" a volunteer asked Andrew.
"Yes, I was here the other day to drop off—"
Sara interrupted. "Never mind." To Andrew, she just said, "Let's go."
She didn't say a word to him the entire way back. Instead, she thought of how her pal Mattie Ross always said the whole world could be divided into two groups: givers and takers.
Sara had always considered herself a taker. There were times even when she prided herself on it or, worse, used it to justify her actions.
What else could people expect of someone whose own mother abandoned her for some schlep named Wally who somehow managed to convince her mother that she'd be so much happier flying around the world with him than raising her and her brother while running the Bay Shore Bar and Grill next to her husband's smelly marina?
But when she saw those women at the shelter—some with visible bruises, some not so visible—wearing her clothes, painful memories of her parents arguing all the time surfaced. How many of those women, she wondered, felt obligated to stay in abusive relationships?
She continued to stare, recognizing more than just her mother in those women. She saw herself.
As she drove Andrew back to the near-northside apartment building, she tried labeling the emotion she was feeling. Unable to find the right word, she said nothing at all.
When they approached the door to the unit, Andrew, his arms filled with a box of her things, simply tilted his head to the right and said, "This side."
Sara plunged her hand into his warm, fleece-lined coat pocket to retrieve the key and slid it into the lock. Once inside, as soon as he set the box down, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
Turning five shades of red, he asked, "What was that for?"
She shrugged. "No idea." All she knew was that it made the pain of her past subside. Just a little.
His eyes bright, he asked, "Ready to run through some music?"
She slipped off her jacket and exhaled a dramatic sigh. "Sure. Why the hell not."
Sara was eight years old the first time her father had shoved a microphone in her hand. They were at the helm of the big old paddleboat on which the marina used to give tours of Lake Compton, at the east end of which Williams Cove was tucked. Looking out at the crowd of smiling, expectant grown-ups, she froze, unable to think of a single song, despite belting out Top-40 hits at the top of her lungs whenever she thought no one was listening.
"Come on, Trouble. You can do it. Make me proud now," her dad had urged as he steered the boat away from the dock.
The microphone had felt as heavy as a brick in her little hand. The urge to drop it and run away had started to overtake her. She was about to do just that when the sound of a guitar strumming a familiar melody behind her signaled that Kerry had come to her rescue. Again. Turning, she'd seen her older brother, just about 18, sitting there on a chair bobbing his head, counting her in.
"One and two and…"
Sara blinked.
The music stopped.
"You OK?" Andrew was sitting right there next to her on the piano bench.
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Go ahead. I've got it."
His hands poised over the keys, he asked, "You sure?"
She nodded. "Yep."
He started again, and she followed along, leaning in to read the tiny print, but trying at all costs to avoid any additional physical contact.
After making it
all the way through once, she was feeling pretty good about herself until he said, "OK, now this time, watch the dynamic markings. Don't be afraid to crescendo when it tells you to, otherwise, you're just flatlining."
She gave him a look. "I thought I did pretty fan-frickin'-tastic, thank you very much."
Flipping the music back to the first page, he said without looking at her, "You sounded better in the shower this morning. Come on. Again."
So she did. When they finished, he looked at her with his eyebrow raised. "That's more like it."
For reasons unbeknownst to her, acing the alto part of that simple little hymn made her feel a thousand times prouder than when she snatched the karaoke trophy away from the guys in Sports a few weeks back.
"OK, we'll be singing that during offertory tomorrow," he explained as he put it back in his folder and pulled out a larger binder. "Now, let me run you through the rest of the Mass."
When they had finished, he slid off the bench and checked his watch. "Oh, I'd better get going. I've got five o'clock Mass tonight."
He had no sooner left then returned again.
"Forget something?" Sara asked as she plugged in her laptop, debating whether she should get some work in or take a nap.
"Yeah. Here." He held out a key.
He may as well have whipped out an engagement ring. She felt herself shrink away from him. "But I haven't made up my mind yet."
A barely perceptible flicker of disappointment crossed his face. "I know. But if you want to go anywhere while I'm gone, you'll need a key to get back in, right?"
"Oh, yeah, right." She snatched it from him and set it as far away from her as possible on the kitchen counter, like it was some ominous token of doom.
"Catch you later."
"Later," he called from the foyer before closing the door behind him.
While she knew she should put the finishing touches on her Krypto Blight piece that was due first thing Monday morning, with the place finally to herself, all she wanted to do was process the titanic shift in her universe.
She stood and took a good look around the apartment. The addition of Andrew's personal touches —a couple of plants, some throw rugs, and pictures on the walls, made the place seem so much more warm and inviting. While she had only been away for a week or so, it was a far cry from what it was when she left—basically a high-end flophouse for wayward musicians.
And music critics.
Why, not twenty-four hours before she had been dropping Nancy and Aubrey off before she headed to the Aragon Ballroom. As far as she'd known, she was still living with Jer, stringing him along so she could keep living in an apartment she loved but couldn't afford. Now, most of her belongings had been cast to the wind, and her only hope of retaining her prestigious address was to step foot in church twice a week for the next six weeks.
Claire was right.
Her pal, an advice columnist extraordinaire, knew Sara's scheme would come back to bite her in the butt, and boy did it. With fangs.
Flipping on the stereo, she gently pulled Dark Side of the Moon, the only album with the power to anesthetize her, out of the bin she noticed was now alphabetized. Removing the vinyl disk from its plastic sheath, she lowered it onto the turntable with side two up, and carefully set the needle to the smooth band between the first and second tracks.
Then she lay down on the couch and closed her eyes.
Two hours later, she was roused by a growling stomach and the enticing aroma of kung pao chicken. Sitting up, she found that the crocheted afghan from the back of the couch was draped on top of her.
Must've fallen on me.
The apartment was dark, save for the soft light coming from the kitchen where Andrew had set two plates on the kitchen counter.
"Hey. You like Chinese food?" he asked as he pulled little white boxes of steaming hot food from a brown paper bag.
Jer never brought home take-out for the two of us.
"Love it." She eased onto a barstool. "How was, uh, Mass?"
Seeing as it had been several years since she'd been, she couldn't find the words to express how much she was dreading what she was sure would be a fiery reentrance into the building.
"Father Steve's sermon was riveting as always," Andrew replied as he pried open the boxes and plunged serving spoons into each. With a wink, he added, "But I don't want to spoil it for you."
She pursed her lips together. "I don't suppose you kept my chopsticks…?"
Reaching into a different drawer, he held up two sets. "Is that what these are? I thought they were really big toothpicks."
At that, she laughed out loud. "Dork."
With the kitchen lights behind him, his eyes were dark as he flashed her a grin that might've otherwise made her knees buckle if he wasn't—well, wearing a stuffy shirt and a tie.
"You're wearing a shirt and a tie," she observed out loud. "You left here in jeans and a T-shirt."
He pushed two of the large boxes toward her plate. "Help yourself." Settling onto a stool across the counter from her, he heaped some fried rice onto his plate and explained that he kept extra work clothes in his office just in case he was ever running late or something came up.
Sara's eyes lit up. "Oh, I do that too," she remembered with her voice full of hope. "Which means I have at least two pairs of shoes and some clothes in my cube." Spooning food onto her plate, she added, "This day just keeps getting better and better."
When she looked up again, with her mouth full of food, she was surprised to see he wasn't eating. He was just looking at her, his elbow on the counter with his fingers wrapped loosely around his chin. She could see the questions swirling behind those narrowed baby blues. Questions she was pretty sure she did not want to answer.
"So," she started, "you want to give me the lowdown on this choir of yours? Will I be the only one under the age of 50? Anybody you want to warn me about? And, before you answer, are you sure you're not setting me up for a major choir fail?"
He looked amused. "No, yes, and no. We've got a couple of high school seniors this year. A soprano and a bass. You'll want to be ready for Marge. She's the librarian. She'll get you your music and binder and record your contact information. Probably ask for finger prints and a retinal scan."
Then he set his chopsticks down and leveled her with another look that had her starting to think some very unholy thoughts. "And I will never put you in a situation that you're not ready for, so no—no choir fail. Not tomorrow, anyway."
Surprised by a wave of warmth that started from her scalp and swooshed down to the tips of her toes, she struggled to find her voice. "Good to know."
"Oh, and that reminds me. I think it's best if we don't tell anyone we're, ya know, um—"
Cocking an eyebrow, she offered, "Living in sin?"
"Roommates." Despite his smirk, his cheeks were a lovely shade of embarrassed.
Pointing her chopsticks at him, she said, "You sure blush easy for a guy."
Flicking open the top button of his shirt, he loosened his tie and replied, "No, I don't."
"Like hell," she argued. "You're bright red. Go look in the mirror."
While he didn't follow her directive, he did stand up. "That reminds me. I got you something at Goodwill today."
Sara watched as he opened a lower cabinet, produced a large brandy snifter, and set it on the counter next to her plate.
"Sweet. A tip jar." Forget waitressing. She could beg tips at karaoke bars.
Andrew shook his head. "Nope. This will serve as a swear jar."
The smile left Sara's face. "What for?"
Locking his eyes on hers, he replied, "Every time you swear, you have to put a quarter in."
Heh, you better get a bigger frickin' jar.
"I don't swear."
"You cuss like a sailor."
She stabbed at her food with her chopsticks. "Like hell I do."
D'oh.
Andrew just pointed to the snifter.
Growling, she dug in her pocket and dropp
ed a coin in, listening to the clink echo after it landed at the bottom. "Do hand gestures count?" Shifting in her seat, she mumbled to herself, "Who gives a rat's ass if I swear?"
Jer never complained about it.
"That's two." Pointing once again to the snifter, he suggested, "Why don't you just put a dollar in, and take the quarter back."
"That's not a swear," she protested. "It's a rodent and a body part. I hardly think that counts."
Andrew thought about it for a minute. "OK, I'll give you that one."
Sara chortled, "Damn straight."
Out of quarters, she shoved a dollar bill in the snifter. Tired of this little game, she held her chop sticks midair and said with a voice that one might use if one were pretending to be sweet and cheerful when all they really wanted was to throttle you, "Here's a tip. Next time you ask a girl to be your roommate, you might want to wait until after she agrees before pulling this little puppy out."
With his eyes on her, he slowly pulled his chopsticks out of his mouth. "Duly noted," he mumbled. Then, in one deft move, he lifted the snifter by its base and dumped her cash on the counter.
As she grabbed the money back, he cautioned, "You might want to hang onto that. I have a feeling you're gonna need it. And a whole lot more." After a somber wink, he added, "In fact, you might want to think about taking out a loan."
* * *
Across town, Claire and her husband Paul were hosting some relatively new but very special friends of theirs, Mattie Ross and her fiancé, Nick DeRosa. Mattie, Claire's Plate Spinner predecessor, played a big hand in rescuing her from a severe case of career burnout. Nick, in the meantime, helped Paul jump back on the corporate treadmill after doing time as a stay-at-home dad to his and Claire's four boys.
Having fed said boys earlier, Claire served up hearty braised pot roast with pappardelle noodles, salad, and warm rolls. As the two couples sat around the table in the spacious mission-style dining room, Mattie moaned and wiped her mouth with a rust-colored cloth napkin.
"Claire, you have got to put the recipe for this in your column. It's so good."
Having just polished off his second serving, Nick nodded emphatically.
Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel Page 7
