Claire beamed. "Yeah, I was thinking about it. Maybe something like: Here's the perfect recipe for a hearty meal on a cold winter night. Not only does it warm the house up, it makes it smell scrumptious in the process."
"Perfect," Mattie laughed.
"There's plenty left if you guys want more," Claire announced.
Paul put his fork down and eased back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. "I'm good."
"So, Nick," Claire started. "Mattie mentioned you're up for a teaching job at Knollwood?"
Wiping his mouth, Nick nodded. "Yeah, that's right. One of the PE teachers is retiring, but if I can do that plus keep coaching cross-country and track," he glanced at Mattie before continuing, "we'd be able to get a house of our own sooner rather than later."
Smiling back at him, Claire replied, "Well, best of luck. When will you know?"
Nick pressed his lips together. "No idea. I would think soon though. I know a couple of teachers have already gotten their contracts for next year."
Claire smiled at Mattie who was beaming at Nick. "How exciting. Be sure to let us know, so we can celebrate."
When the others had finished eating, Nick picked up his and Mattie's empty plates and addressed Paul. "Why don't we clean up tonight?"
Paul cocked an eyebrow at his young friend who was nodding toward the kitchen. "Uh, yeah, sure."
Taking Claire's plate that she had just wiped clean with half of a roll, he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. "That was so good," he whispered before whisking it away.
After he closed the pocket door to the kitchen behind him, Mattie sighed, "I hope Nick and I are as in love as you guys are after being married for fifteen years."
"Heh, let's not forget what we had to go through to get here." Why just six months earlier, Claire was a burned-out breadwinner, ready to divorce Paul because he refused to go back to work. After writing to the Plate Spinner—Mattie at the time—for advice, she had responded with an offer that not only redirected the trajectory of Claire's career, it saved her marriage in the process. Well, that and Nick, cross-country coach to Paul and Claire's oldest son and Mattie's marathon trainer, landing Paul a position at Griffin Media, the Chicago Gazette's parent company.
Claire reached over and patted her hand. "Marriage isn't easy. You really have to work at it. But if the stars align just right, love will prevail."
Mattie narrowed her eyes. "I can't believe you just quoted your own column."
"Too Hallmark-y?"
"Yeah, a little."
Claire leaned back in her chair and rubbed her expanding belly. "So how are you doing? How are the wedding plans coming along?"
"Oh. Major developments on the wedding front." With her eyes wide, Mattie briefed Claire on how, when she went up to ask Lester Crenshaw, the Gazette's publisher and a dear friend of the fatherless Mattie and her fiancé, to give her away at her wedding, he not only said yes but insisted that he host the reception at his posh north-shore country club.
With her eyes as big as Mattie's, Claire couldn't help but ask, "How awesome is that? Is Nick on board?"
She nodded, causing her long red curls to bounce on her shoulders. "His cousin Vito's banquet hall just can't compete."
Lowering her voice, Claire asked, "And his mother?"
Mattie waved her off. "Oh, yeah—Nick talked to her. She agreed, as long as she can still do the rehearsal dinner in their backyard the night before."
"The only downside is, Nancy has to pull out of the wedding party. Thank God Nick didn't ask all of the guys yet."
Even the baby did a little happy flip at that bit of news. Still, Claire felt compelled to reply, "Oh, how come?"
"Her mother called. She's getting married the same day. To husband number six, and she wants Nancy to be her maid of honor."
Well, there you have it.
Then Mattie leaned across the table, her eyes a little more sparkly than usual. "Claire, I have a big favor to ask."
Forever indebted to Mattie for picking her to succeed her as the Plate Spinner, she would do anything for her. Defend her against an overbearing future mother-in-law. Go wedding dress shopping with her. Donate a kidney.
"Absolutely. Anything."
"Be my bridesmaid?"
Except be a bridesmaid.
"Oh, honey. I don't know what to say."
Which was a lie. There were lots of reasons why Claire didn't want to stand up in Mattie and Nick's June wedding. For starters, she'd be going on eight months pregnant.
Well, OK, that's the only reason.
As if reading her mind, Mattie seemed to know exactly the right thing to say. "Claire, I know we've only known each other for a short time, but I really feel like we've become close friends. Without you, I wouldn't have been able to go back to investigative journalism—which I love—and since then, I don't know—I just think we've grown really close, and it would mean so much to me to have you be a part of the most important day of my life."
Truly touched, Claire blurted, "Well when you put it like that…of course. I'd love to."
They were locked in a hug when the guys passed through the dining room on the way to the family room to catch the Bulls game, beers in hand. Their in-transit conversation went as follows:
Nick: "Oh, hey. I've been meaning to ask, would you mind being an usher in our wedding?"
Paul (with a quick shrug): "Yeah, sure. Why not?"
Before sitting back down, Claire darted into the kitchen and returned with a wall calendar and a small notebook. "OK, so what's the date?"
"June 6th. It's the first Saturday after the Illinois High School Association track and field finals are over. When's your due date?"
"August 12th."
Visibly relieved, Mattie put both hands palm down on the table. "So we're good, right?"
"Well, considering I'll be around 31 weeks, yeah, we're good. Have you started looking at bridesmaids' dresses yet, because by then I'll be ready for a tent."
With a nervous laugh, Mattie replied, "As long as it comes in daffodil."
Claire looked up from her notebook. "I'm kidding, Matt. It's all good. Hey, didn't you say Nick's mom is a seamstress? Have you asked her about doing alterations?" Which led her to ask, "And how many bridesmaids are there? Who else have you asked?"
Mattie picked a little chocolate cupcake up from a tray Claire had placed in the middle of the table and popped it in her mouth. "Oh my gosh, I have so much to tell you."
By the time she was done catching Claire up on all things wedding related, the Bulls had beaten the Cavaliers in Cleveland which would explain all of the cheering coming from the family room, especially after Paul and Claire's two oldest boys had joined them.
And Claire was exhausted.
"Well, we should get going," Mattie suggested as she pulled Nick away from watching the post-game coverage. After they said their good-byes, Claire melded into Paul's open embrace. "I'm wiped."
"Hey, well at least we get to sleep in tomorrow."
Claire looked up him. "Ten o'clock Mass?"
"Sounds like a plan." After planting a kiss on her head, they shut off the lights and headed up to bed.
* * *
After stuffing themselves with Chinese food, putting away the leftovers, and hand-washing Sara's hand-painted chopsticks, she and Andrew spent several long minutes suspended in the "we're living together, but not living together" awkwardness as they stared down the Saturday night that seemed to sprawl out in front of them like eternity.
"So," Sara started. "What's a music director do for fun on a Saturday night? Movies? Plays? Concerts?"
When he responded with another one of his penetrating stares, she continued, "Uno? Yahtzee? Poker?"
"Actually," he said, his voice low and his eyes kind, "I've got to be at church pretty early tomorrow."
Sara studied him for a moment before responding.
Just roommates. Nothing more. Message received.
"Oh, yeah, sure. I'm still kinda beat from being on the r
oad."
Andrew raised both eyebrows. "Right. Well, OK then. Good night." He flashed her a quick smile, cupped a hand platonically on her upper arm, and gave it a gentle squeeze.
In return, Sara gave him a little wave as he turned and started down the hall. "Toodles."
An hour later, she was still wide awake, dressed in his pajama top, sprawled out on the hide-a-bed, dreading going to church in the morning, and wondering where in the hell she could sleep tomorrow night after she informed Andrew that she'd take a pass on his proposition, thank you very much.
On hearing her phone that was recharging on the kitchen counter chirp, she hopped out of bed and read the text. It was from Nancy. Where r u? Sports staging a comeback. Hurry!
Sara glanced at the oven clock. It was only 10:00. If she took the train, she could make it to Kildare's, a popular Lincoln Park bar, by 10:30.
After texting on my way, she slapped on some makeup and changed into a billowy white blouse, black tights, her boots, and jacket. She grabbed her purse and carefully closed the front door behind her so as not to make a sound.
It wasn't until hours later, when Sara returned to the apartment feeling a little dizzy and very fuzzy from downing a couple of celebratory shots, that she realized she had left the extra key Andrew had given her on the kitchen counter. On the other side of the locked door.
Well, shit.
She rested her head against it and knocked softly for she didn't know how long. Not expecting him to answer, she turned her back to the wall next to the door, slid to the floor, and folded her arms over her bent knees. Letting her head fall forward, she was almost fast asleep when she felt two strong hands gripping her elbows.
A groggy voice asked, "Sara, you all right?"
She lifted her head, opened one eye, and then the other. Squinting in the dimly lit hallway, she whispered, "Forgot my key."
Seeing the concern in his eyes, something twisted deep inside of her.
"And to leave a note," he muttered.
She took a deep breath and exhaled, "Sorry."
Watching him grimace, he chuckled, "It's all good."
She reached over and patted his cheek. "You look tired."
His smile broadened. "Because it's two in the morning. Come on. Let's get you up."
Once she was standing, she took in his rumpled hair and bare chest.
As he ushered her back inside, she thought to herself, "Kinda hot for a church guy."
That she actually vocalized this sentiment out loud was indeed unfortunate.
Making her way down the dark hallway to the kitchen, she heard him mumble behind her, "Yeah, I get that a lot."
There was something in his tone that caught her ear. Self-deprecation? Loneliness?
Whatever it was, it prompted her to turn, take his face in her hands, and plant her lips against his. Knocking him back against the wall, she leaned into him, taking much longer than it would have if she were sober to realize he wasn't kissing her back. Not really.
Oh.
She pulled back and looked in his surprised eyes. "Sorry about that."
When he didn't respond, didn't say anything at all, she turned toward the open sleeper sofa, and sighed, "Sara strikes out. Again."
Then she flopped down on it face first.
What seemed like a second later, she thought she heard someone whisper her name, but managed to ignore it. Then she felt someone sit on the mattress beside her and something warm press against her exposed neck.
Holy shit.
Nearly jumping out of her skin, she banged it away with her bauble-laden hand and sat up, eyes wide and panting.
"Easy," the Ken doll winced, examining his fingers. "I was just checking to see if you still had a pulse."
Through her smudged, makeup-caked eyes, she noted that her jacket was folded over the arm of the couch, and her boots were sitting together neatly against the wall.
When Andrew shifted his focus from his hand to Sara, he gave her a warm smile.
Again with the blushing.
"I, uh, also wanted to remind you to be at church by 9:30 this morning. I left the address on the counter. Just come right in and find me up near the front, okay?"
Barely registering what he was talking about, she reached over and grasped his hand. "Did I hurt you?"
"I've had worse."
She glanced at him. He was back in a shirt and tie, but this time coupled them with cords and a V-neck sweater.
Such a Ken doll.
A Ken doll that was still sitting on her bed. And still with that smile on his face.
Releasing his hand, she tried to edge a comfortable distance away from him, but he was on top of the blankets, effectively trapping her. Instead, she slid back under them.
"You're being awfully chummy this morning." She yawned. "If you wanted to check my pulse, you could've just grabbed one of my wrists."
Turning his head so he could maintain eye contact, he asked, "So you would've preferred that I grope around under the blankets looking for your wrist? I'll remember that for the next time."
Wondering what had happened from the time they went to bed the night before to now for him to be acting like this, she propped herself up on her elbow and asked, "What's with you?"
After another penetrating, but so-not-smoldering stare, his smile faded, and the gleam left his eye. Then he stood up.
Finally.
"Nothing. I'll, uh, see you at church."
"I'll be there," she replied with a mock salute, well aware that she didn't sound very convincing.
With a quick nod, he was gone.
Taking a long look around the empty apartment, she laid back in bed and moaned, "Do I have to?"
It wasn't until she had gotten up and was making the bed that she realized she wasn't wearing his pajama top. She was wearing what she'd wear to work. Or a club.
Fragments of memories started flashing through her groggy brain.
Being at the bar.
Was that last night?
Singing some old Heart song. "Crazy on You?" "Magic Man?"
Winning the trophy.
Damn straight.
Drinking shots.
Way too many shots.
Nancy putting her in a cab, so she didn't have to take the train.
Hope she paid the guy 'cause I sure as hell didn't.
But she was certain Andrew was asleep the whole time.
Wasn't he?
After she had taken a long steamy shower, Sara used her fingertips to wipe the steam off of the medicine cabinet mirror.
Starting at her bare face, she wondered how much makeup was too much for church.
Brushing on some blush and flicking a bit of mascara on her lashes, she had just leaned in to apply her lipstick when it hit her.
Oh, good lord. I kissed him.
And he didn't kiss back.
CHAPTER FIVE
"I used to be Snow White, but I drifted."
—Mae West
On autopilot for the first two Masses of the morning, Andrew immersed himself in the music, doing all he could to not think of Sara's middle of the night greeting assault kiss. He tried reminding himself that she had been drunk at the time. Why else wouldn't he have kissed her back?
But then again, why else would she have kissed him in the first place?
Girls like her don't fall for guys like me.
On the outside, she was all wild child what with her Goth-like appearance, foul mouth, and heavy drinking. He couldn't imagine bringing her home to meet mom and dad—especially when dad is a cop and mom is a church organist who is still in touch with his former fiancée.
Try as he might, he couldn't keep his thoughts from wandering to the feel of Sara's hands holding his face.
And the way her breath tasted of whiskey as she moved her mouth over his.
Leanne never kissed me like that.
In hindsight, not a big surprise. While pretty, kind, and able to silence a room full of misbehaving four-year olds with just o
ne look, she was above all chaste.
When he thought of Sara, right or wrong, the word chaste just didn't come to mind. Unable to come up with a word that did, he knew in his heart of hearts that she wouldn't be trading her leather coat and boots for a nun's habit anytime in the near future.
So, advantage, Sara.
As the crowd from the 8:30 am Mass cleared out, he kept his eyes trained on the back of the church as members of the adult choir began trickling in for warm-up. He greeted each as they passed him on the way to their seats. When he spotted Marge, he called her aside.
"You OK this morning?" she asked as she peered at him over the rim of her reading glasses.
"Yes. Why?" Again, his eyes darted to the back of the church.
"You seem jumpy, and your face is flushed. You feeling OK?" the retired nurse asked again as she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Before he hand a chance to dodge away, she reported, "No fever. Maybe you should have your blood pressure checked."
He started leading her back to the choir room. "I'm fine." Then, in a hushed voice, he instructed her to fill an empty binder with music they'd be singing for that morning's Mass.
"Find yourself a new hostage?" she asked before ducking through the door.
As he turned back toward the rest of the choir, he noticed, while some were getting their music ready, most had their eyes on the back of the church.
Taking a deep breath, he followed their collective line of vision.
Oh, thank God.
Until he laid eyes on Sara, he wasn't aware of how anxious he had been about whether or not she'd show, what she'd be wearing, and if she'd be on time.
She seemed rather stupefied, if that was even possible. He watched as she gingerly dipped her hand in the Baptismal font and made the sign of the cross, then slowly started making her way up the side aisle with her eyes fixed on him.
A long black skirt that she had topped with a belted greenish-blue, long-sleeved blouse swooshed against her legs as she moved. No heavy makeup. No visible tattoo to render the bass and tenor sections mute. His relief was without bounds.
As she approached, he noticed the soprano section was already whispering like they'd just seen a streaker run through the narthex. The tenor and bass sections, on the other hand, were silent if not slack-jawed.
Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel Page 8
