I ought to write all this down.
After pulling into his spot behind the building, he leaned over and popped open the glove compartment to look for a little pad of paper and pen he usually stored there for logging mileage and maintaining the Jeep's service schedule.
With a list of questions in hand, he took the stairs two at a time.
I have a very good feeling about this.
Not two minutes later though, that very good feeling was gone. Not only was Sara not there, none of her things were either. Not her clothes, her toiletries, her box of personal effects he had saved. Not even the items of hers that he had bought back for her from Goodwill.
It was like she was never there, and the emptiness crushed in around him.
* * *
"Hey, Charlie. What are you doing here?" Sara asked the Gazette staff photographer as she passed by his cube on the way to hers.
The clip-clop of her boot heels echoed through the office that was sparsely populated even for a snowy Sunday afternoon.
Leaning back on his chair to watch her go by, he called out, "I don't have a life. What's your excuse?"
I'm hiding.
"Deadlines, Charlie. Always a deadline."
As soon as her laptop booted up, she uploaded the photos she'd taken of the Krypto Blight tour and finished refining her lengthy piece before sending it to Mike Teegan. Taking a closer look at her email inbox, she spotted a reply from him on her assessment of Ellie Klein's disastrous foray from the top of the country charts to the bottom of the pop charts.
She clicked Open and held her breath.
All it said was, "Thanks for this. Stop by tomorrow, and we'll talk."
She frowned at her screen. Considering Mike's typical responses were more like short opinionated essays than emails, the brevity of this one didn't sit well with her.
Hitting the reply button, she typed, "Looking forward to it," and hit send.
"You'd better get home, Sara," Charlie said as he passed her cube. "The snow's getting heavier, and it's already dark."
She looked up at him. "No worries. I'll be right behind you."
As she made her way down the street toward the parking garage, she braced herself for life with the type of man who pressed his pj's and used flavored creamer in his coffee.
Six weeks is a very long time.
Glad she had worn her boots, she quickly realized they were more suited for fashion, not function. And she wished she still had her nice long wool overcoat. While the leather of her jacket kept out the wind that was racing down Michigan Avenue, it offered little protection against the bitter cold. Even after she ducked into the parking garage around the corner, without a hat, scarf, or gloves, the chill sank into her bones. She slammed her car door, turned the key in the ignition, and put her defroster on high before heading down the ramp and onto the unplowed street.
Having grown up in Wisconsin, she was a pro at driving in the snow. It was the ice underneath it that scared her. She took a wide berth of buses as she edged down the nearly empty avenue before turning onto Chestnut and heading west. She slipped her snow-caked Honda into Jer's old spot behind the apartment building as far as she possibly could, hoping it wouldn't get nicked by any snowplows or overzealous shovelers.
Before getting out of her car, she looked in the backseat at her boxes of belongings and debated about lugging them back upstairs.
Later.
She grabbed a stadium blanket that lay folded on the floor behind the passenger seat and draped it over both boxes, grabbed her overnight bag and purse, and got out of the car.
It was dark, and the light that was supposed to illuminate the parking lot was only giving off a dim glow through the heavy flurries.
Her high-heeled boots, still damp from her walk through the unshoveled sidewalk to the parking garage did little to keep her steady and her feet warm as she slogged through the heavy, wet snow. By the time she made it around to the front door, her hair was soaked, and a thick wedge of white stuff had packed itself between the collar of her jacket and her bare neck. She was shivering so hard, she could barely fit her key in the front door lock.
Once in front of the apartment door, she found that trying to slide the key in the lock proved to be more difficult than she could manage. All she seemed able to do was poke at the door with the tip of the key. On her third attempt it opened while she was still hunched over, squinting at the lock.
Straightening up, she saw Andrew standing before her, a sight for cold eyes, still in his dress shirt and sweater, but he had ditched the tie and swapped the cords with jeans.
Other than that, he looked like hell. And she told him as much through her chattering teeth.
With his face breaking into a relieved smile, all he said was, "Hey."
Still shivering, she asked, "Can I come in?"
As if finally noticing that she was covered in snow and turning blue, he took her purse and suitcase from her and set them on the floor in the foyer. "Of course. Come on."
Locking the door behind them, he ushered her through the hallway and motioned for her to sit on one of the kitchen barstools so he could help her off with her boots.
She pressed her bare, raw, red hands against his nice warm shoulders as he unzipped them and pulled.
"Your socks are soaked. Your feet must be freezing."
Sara hunched her shoulders up and nodded.
Next, he peeled off her coat and draped it over the back of a chair on the kitchen's tile floor so it could drip as it thawed.
Letting out a gasp as the snow wedge escaped down her back, she heard him say, "Stay right there." He disappeared for a minute before returning with a nice fluffy towel that he handed to her. "Here."
Setting it in her lap, she arched her back and pleaded, "Get it out?"
"Oh, uh, let me see." First he gingerly peered down the back of her blouse but saw that it was stuck against her skirt's belted waistline. "I'm just gonna…"
"It's OK." She shuddered. "Just get it out."
In a flash, he reached down her back, pulled out the offending snow pack, and tossed it into the sink. The feel of his warm hand brushing against her cold skin prompted her to gasp.
Covering her hands with his nice toasty ones, he whispered, "You're frozen. What were you thinking?"
She gave her head a quick shake. "Didn't know it was gonna snow."
He stood in front of her and stated the obvious. "You're completely soaked. You better get out of those wet clothes before you catch a chill."
At that, her breath hitched. "Too late."
"Right. OK, then a hot shower. Give me a second, and I'll get it ready for you."
"Not too hot," she chattered. Every Wisconsinite knew you should only use lukewarm water on frostbitten skin, and she felt frostbitten from head to toe.
Thirty minutes later, she was on the couch dressed in his blue plaid flannel pajamas, tops and bottoms this time, her feet were tucked into his wool socks, and her entire body was wrapped in the afghan. The shaking had subsided, but the chill wouldn't release its grip on her.
Handing her a mug, Andrew instructed, "Drink this."
She looked up at him. "Will it make me larger or smaller?"
Placing it in her outstretched hands, he answered, "Warmer. It will make you warmer."
Before she took a sip of the hot liquid, she asked, "Not a fan of Lewis Carroll?"
"No. I tried watching the movie, but I just couldn't get into it."
She gave him a disapproving look as he sat down beside her and said, "Come on. Drink up."
"So bossy," she whispered as she raised the mug to her lips and took a swig.
The hot, sweet and sour mix of honey and lemon, coupled with the warm familiar buzz of whiskey, filled her mouth.
Swallowing hard, she tried handing the mug back to him. "This isn't tea."
He held up his hand. "I never said it was. It's a hot toddy. Finish it."
She took a big gulp. "There's whiskey in this. Are you trying to
get me drunk?" While protesting over such a thing seemed out of character, her tired brain told her it was good form.
His eyes dark, he let out a low chuckle. "Heh, no. People drink this to warm up, relieve cold symptoms, that sort of thing. It's an old Minnesota recipe."
Sara just clutched the mug and nodded before opening her mouth to accommodate an enormous, jaw-popping yawn. After taking another swig, her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten anything since downing a vending-machine bag of peanuts at work earlier. But she was too tired to think about food. Come to think of it, she was too tired to think about anything…anything at all.
CHAPTER SIX
"You can't have everything… Where would you put it?"
—Steven Wright
On Monday morning, Sara woke up with a start.
"What time is it?" she whispered, looking around her bedroom. Her face slowly creased into a frown.
The closet doors weren't hanging open, and her clothes weren't strewn about as usual.
I don't remember cleaning up in here.
Sinking back into her nice comfy bed with the pillow-top mattress pad, butter-soft flannel sheets, and perfectly firm-but-huggable pillows, she closed her eyes, hoping to catch the tale end of a dream. Already she was having a hard time remembering the details, but it was the type of dream in which you wanted to stay forever.
It took place there in the apartment.
What she wanted more than anything was to dive back into the feeling of being light and happy. And loved.
Her eyes popped open again.
Somebody else was in the dream with her. She squinted, trying to remember before the details disappeared for good.
It wasn't Jer, that's for sure. She never felt light and happy around him. Dark and moody was more like it.
Resting her head back on the pillow, she stared at the ceiling.
Nope. It was gone.
With a wave of despair about to crest over her, she peeled back the blankets, remembering a promise she made to meet Mattie, Aubrey, and Nancy for breakfast before heading into the office.
Glancing at the other side of the queen-size bed, she was glad to see it was unoccupied.
Claire's right. I've gotta ditch Jer.
The thought had no sooner crossed her mind, then it all came flooding back.
Wait. He ditched me.
She held her hands to her face as the entire weekend flashed before her eyes in a rapid-fire sixty-second replay.
Oh my God.
She looked down at her blue-plaid, flannel-wrapped legs and whispered, "Oh my God."
Stepping over to the closet door, she carefully pulled it open, knowing full well it would squeak if she forced it. As she took in the row of neatly hung men's shirts and suits, she grimaced.
I can't believe I'm living with a Ken doll.
Eager to get in the shower and out of the apartment, she slowly turned the doorknob and stepped into the shadow-filled hallway. Not yet six, the morning light was just starting to filter in through the front bay window. Tiptoeing into the living room on her way to the foyer to retrieve her carry-on bag and purse, she saw the sleeper sofa was open. And occupied. She sucked in a breath.
Andrew was on his side, wrapped snuggly in the blanket, save for a bare arm that was tucked in front of him. His hair was a complete mess, a shadow of scruff darkened his face, and his mouth was open, just a little.
Adorbs.
But, then again, he wasn't pointing at a brandy snifter because she had just uttered an expletive.
As quietly as possible, she got her things and ducked into the bathroom to get ready. Finishing with time to spare, she crept back into the kitchen, poured a cup of the coffee her rather hunky roommate had readied the night before, and checked her phone.
But her eyes kept drifting over to him, still in the same position, thinking of how he took care of her the night before and, she assumed, the night before that. No judgment. No scolding.
"No expectation of payback," she thought grimly. And no cold shoulder afterwards.
What's with that?
Perched on a barstool, she was still studying him, coffee mug in hand, when his eyes fluttered open.
"How long have you been sitting there?" he mumbled.
She picked up her phone to check the time. "I don't know. Five, ten minutes?"
He sat up, and her eyes honed in on his arms, the muscles of which flexed as he clutched a pillow in front of his chest.
Oh my.
"Do ya mind?"
She caught herself. "What?"
He motioned for her to turn around.
"Oh. Sure."
He's shy? How cute is that?
Pressing her lips together, she turned and averted her eyes to the kitchen—which had all sorts of shiny, reflective surfaces.
"Be right back," she heard him say.
Uh-huh…
The feel of hot liquid spread over the top of her thighs.
"Shit."
Freshly brewed coffee soaked into her one good black skirt. With no time to wash it, she hopped up and blotted it with a kitchen towel.
Hearing the bathroom door open, she set it on the counter and watched as Andrew approached wearing the T-shirt and pajama bottoms that he had apparently forgotten to wear to bed the night before.
"How'd you sleep?" he asked, combing his hand through his hair.
"Really good, thanks."
Feeling the color in her cheeks rise, she continued, "That hot—what did you call it?"
"Hot toddy."
"Good stuff."
One side of his mouth curved into a smile, and a little zing sped through her. "Glad to hear it."
"There's just one thing," she said as he started making up the sofa sleeper.
"What?"
"How did I get into bed?"
While he tucked the sheets and blankets between the mattress and bed frame with the speed and precision of an Army nurse, Andrew replied, "I carried you. You were out like a light."
She looked at him sideways. He looked strong but not that strong. "You did not."
He stopped what he was doing and turned to face her. Putting his hands on his hips, he asked, "Want a demonstration?"
Yes.
"Oh, no," she laughed nervously as she shifted on the stool, sweeping him up one side and down the other with her skeptical eyes.
He certainly didn't seem to be suffering from any pulled muscles or a hernia. Maybe he was telling her the truth. Unable to stop blushing like a moron, she checked the time on her phone. "Oh cripes. I'd better get going."
Cripes?
Slipping off her barstool, she watched as he took a coffee mug down from the shelf and started filling it. Then she edged into the kitchen behind him to pull her now-dry jacket off of the chair. "Catch you later?"
He stopped mid-pour. Setting the pot down, he turned toward her but didn't go out of his way to make eye contact. "Does this mean we have a deal?"
Before he was able to get the last word out, she clipped, "Yes." Then she just stood there looking at him like an idiot, waiting for him to say something, anything.
After an interminably long minute, he unleashed another sleepy smile and nodded. "Great." Then he locked his baby blues on her. "Catch you later."
Sara pointed at him. "Right."
Coat on, she was almost at the door when she heard him call her name. She stepped back into the kitchen, trying not to look too annoyed at the delay. "Yeah?"
He was examining the kitchen towel she had used to blot her skirt. "What happened here?"
Uh…
"Oh, I spilled some coffee on my skirt, so I used that to blot it up."
He tilted his head at the stained towel. "So why didn't you throw it in the hamper?"
All she could manage by way of a reply was one very arched eyebrow.
Tossing it to her, Andrew added, "You should probably spray some pre-wash stuff on it too to get the coffee stain out."
With both eyebrow
s raised, Sara pressed her lips together and nodded. "Right."
Definitely gay.
Depositing her bag on the kitchen table, she grabbed a squirt bottle from the top of the washing machine and doused the towel with it on her way to the hamper. After silently washing her hands in the kitchen sink, she accepted the clean towel Andrew handed to her, then turned her back on him and left.
What in God's name have I gotten myself into?
* * *
By the time Sara made it to Chez Doug's, a hopping coffee shop next to the Gazette Building that had red walls, lots of dark wood, and deep, high-backed booths, she found her friends comfortably ensconced in a corner, deep in conversation. Slipping in next to Mattie, she watched as the newest investigative reporter on the Gazette staff leaned across the table toward Nancy and Aubrey sitting together on the other side.
"She's making me crazy."
"Who?" Sara asked. "Your future mother-in-law?"
She watched as Nancy shook her head. "Wedding planner."
"Aren't they supposed to do your bidding?"
Turning to her, Mattie exclaimed, "That's the thing. She isn't. In fact, she isn't doing anything. And the wedding's in June! She came so highly recommended. Maybe she's overextended."
"So fire her."
"I can't," the bride-to-be replied glumly. "I signed a contract."
Feeling protective of the former advice columnist who had always empathized entirely with Sara's inability to feel that she deserved any of the good things life had to offer, Sara nudged against her and, like a genuine Mafioso, asked, "You want I should go, uh, talk ta her…?"
With a quick laugh, Mattie replied, "Thanks, but I think I'm gonna unleash my Sicilian future mother-in-law on her." Pointing to Sara and Aubrey, she continued, "Oh, and don't forget—I hope you two can still make it to her house this Saturday."
Aubrey shrugged. "Yeah, sure."
Mattie turned to Sara. "Think you can make it?"
Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel Page 10
