Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel

by Barbara Valentin

  Edging closer to her, he whispered, "I told you. I need you at cantor practice."

  Realizing he was referring to her when he was ticking off names before practice, Sara shook her head. "Oh no. No way. That wasn't part of the deal."

  She had been a cantor before, back at St. Xavier's, and loved it—probably because her desire to live at a particular address wasn't hanging in the balance.

  Raising an eyebrow of his own, he scraped, "Well, that was before Irene Pavlik fell and broke her hip. I need you to fill in Easter weekend."

  Sara looked over his shoulder at the group that had stayed, mostly women, a few men, all looking like they belonged at a senior citizen's bridge tournament.

  With a quick shake of her head, she mouthed, "No."

  He lowered his chin. With the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his eyes, he mouthed, "Please?"

  When all she did in response was narrow her eyes, he added, "OK. You can have the bedroom this week and next."

  Before he could get the last word out, she said, "Deal."

  Approaching the small group, she said, "Hi, I'm Sara."

  Two hours later, she burst into the apartment right behind him, more revved up than she ever remembered being after karaoke night—and she hadn't even been drinking.

  "Ya know, that was actually kind of fun. You should let us do duets. Or quartets. Or, hey—have you ever thought of doing like a flash mob kind of thing where members of the choir could be peppered throughout the congregation, and then, one by one, they each stand up and start singing?"

  Andrew turned to her after he hung his coat up in the foyer closet. He looked beat but amused all the same. "This is Mass we're talking about. Not an episode of Glee. I'm glad you enjoyed it though," he managed while stifling a yawn. "Sorry for putting you on the spot like that. You were a trouper."

  Feeling a warmth spread over her face, she didn't bother suppressing a grin. "Thanks."

  After hanging up her coat, she followed him down the hall into the kitchen area like an excited puppy who wanted to play as soon as its master returned. "Listen, I'm sorry about this morning. I shouldn't have barged into the bathroom while you were shaving."

  He plopped on the couch and stretched his long legs on the trunk in front of him before failing to suppress another yawn. "Forget about it. Why is it so cold in here? Aren't you cold?"

  She didn't catch the surprise in his eyes when she plopped right next to him.

  Ignoring his questions, she tucked her feet under her and turned to him before blurting, "And you. You're so good. I had no idea."

  He stared at her for a long couple of seconds with a grin breaking across his shocked face. "I can't believe you just said that. I mean, I'm not surprised. I just can't believe you said it out loud."

  Sara was quiet. Then, after replaying what she had just said, laughed harder and louder than she had for a very long time. Feeling lighter than air, she gave him a not-so-light shove in the shoulder. "Now whose mind is in the gutter?"

  Giving her a look that would have prompted Sister Marcus to chase after him with a cattle prod if she'd seen it, he titled his head and said in a barely audible voice, "I'm not the one who said it."

  And all of the sudden, Sara couldn't seem to focus on anything other than his warm sparking eyes. Like cobalt-blue magnets, they reeled her in. As she leaned closer, she felt him raise his arm that would otherwise have gotten smushed between them and drape it across her back. His hand pressed against her with just enough pressure to be encouraging.

  He's so gonna kiss me back this time.

  Feeling her heart race, her eyes dropped to his mouth.

  The things she wanted to do to it.

  The things she wanted him to do to her with it.

  She started to feel sensations in her body that had been dormant for so long—too long. On reactivation, though, they managed to trip an alarm in her brain.

  Whoop, whoop. Ken doll alert. Commence evasive action. Repeat. A Ken doll has been spotted in the immediate area. Commence evasive action.

  With a feather soft brush of her lips against his parted ones, she pulled back and whispered, "Good night, Andrew."

  She waited for his eyes to meet hers. While the sparkles were gone, they were still generating enough smolder to cause significant burns on her already-scorched heart.

  Feeling his hand run up and down the length of her back, he whispered. "Good night."

  Sara went to bed. Alone. And, having not fallen asleep for a very, very long time, she did not have a good night. Not. At. All.

  * * *

  "Stand still, sweetheart."

  Sara watched as Lucy DeRosa, Mattie's future mother-in-law, hovered behind her with pins sticking out of her mouth. "I don't want to snag the silk."

  "Sorry Mrs. De—"

  Feeling a hard tug on her wedding dress bodice, Mattie looked over her shoulder at the woman taking it in. "Stop with the Mrs."

  Glancing at Sara, her sister Claudia, Claire, and Aubrey all sitting on the bed in Nick's old room that was now Lucy's sewing room, she replied through a dimpled grin, "Sorry, Mom."

  Lucy squeezed her shoulder from behind, "That's more like it."

  Then, looking at Mattie's bridal party, she asked, "So what did you girls have in mind for your dresses?" Before they could answer, she started rattling off ideas, pulling pins from the corner of her mouth as she spoke.

  "Something similar to Mattie's, but with straps or maybe cap sleeves, or did you want to go with something completely different? I was at a wedding last year, Lina Guirerri's daughter. The bridesmaids all wore these very ruffly gowns. Now I don't have anything against ruffles, and I can manage them just fine, but they were just too different from the bride's. Know what I mean? Made it look like they didn't belong together." When she finally stopped talking, she looked at the women perched on her son's old bed and repeated, "Know what I mean?"

  They nodded in unison.

  "To tell you the truth, Mom, we've already decided. Claud, did you bring the picture?"

  As her sister and matron of honor handed Mrs. DeRosa a picture of the one dress they had all agreed would compliment their disparate sizes, including Claire's ever-expanding girth, she continued, "And we all like the color daffodil."

  Lucy glanced at her over her reading glasses, "Yellow?" Looking directly at Sara, she shook her head and said, "Bad color. It'll make Sara here look jaundiced, Aubrey will look like a ghost and you, Mattie, with your gorgeous red hair?" She just shook her head again. "No way."

  Sara glanced around the room. Mrs. DeRosa made a good point. She hated the thought of wearing a yellow gown but didn't want to hurt Mattie's feelings. She seemed so set on it.

  "Oh, OK," Mattie started. "Any recommendations?"

  Clearly pleased that her opinion was requested, Lucy shot out, "Red."

  Claudia pointed her finger at her sister. "Told ya."

  Sara chimed in. "Works for me."

  Everyone looked at Aubrey. "I though June weddings were supposed to be pastel-colored?"

  Lucy shrugged. "Gee, I never heard that before. I suppose if you were planning an outdoor wedding, pastels would be pretty, but even roses are red. Am I right?"

  Turning to Mattie balancing on a stepladder before her, she placed her hands on her hips. "What do you think, hon? It's your wedding."

  Mattie looked down at her, then over at her bridal party, three-quarters of which were nodding at her.

  "Think you could swing red, Aubs?"

  Realizing she was the only hold out, her soft-spoken friend waved. "Oh. Yeah. Count me in."

  Mattie clapped her hands together. "Excellent. Red it is." Leaning over, she hugged Lucy. "Thanks, Mom."

  Sara, who couldn't be happier for Mattie, felt a tiny little something inside of her die. Again.

  * * *

  When Andrew got up that morning, he knew something was wrong. He could feel it coming on during choir practice the night before. That heavy, wet blanket of fatigue, the pressur
e in his head, the achiness. He was hoping a good night sleep would do the trick, but after what Sara did—well, OK, it wasn't all her fault.

  Truth be told, if he were feeling better, he wouldn't have let it end when it did. Yeah, there was so much about her he didn't know, but there was so much about her that he already liked. A lot. The smell of her perfume, the faint traces of which stuck to his clothes all day long, her infectious laugh, the way she would sing a hymn she just learned while she was cooking or working on her laptop, the way she packed him a lunch when she made one for herself, and that she would stop whatever she was doing and camp out on the couch whenever she heard him play the piano.

  He marveled, too, at how, after only two encounters, she had already managed to defrost several of the more stalwart members of choir.

  And then there's the way she looked in her underwear the morning before.

  He knew he shouldn't have peeked, but come on. He was, above all else, a guy, and she was—well, she was nothing short of gorgeous.

  Maybe it was for the best that she said good night when she did.

  Wouldn't want to get her sick.

  At least that's what he told himself as he drifted off to a very fitful night's sleep.

  By 6:00 am, he'd had enough with the tossing and turning. He had to get up and out, away to think. Certain some fresh air would help, he snuck into the bedroom where Sara had buried herself under the blankets.

  It was everything he could do to not crawl in there with her.

  After changing into his sweats, he headed out. First, he went to his office to check his schedule. Relieved to see that he didn't have any appointments, he sent texts to his back-up musicians, asking them to take over his Masses for the weekend and sent a note to Marge asking that she notify the choir that they wouldn't be singing the next morning.

  She responded almost immediately. "Will do. I knew you were coming down with something. Push liquids, and stay in bed until you feel better."

  He was just getting back in his Jeep to head home and do just that when his phone rang.

  Sam.

  "Hey, stranger. How come I haven't heard from you all week?"

  His little brother, just getting off the night shift, sounded apologetic. "Work's been pretty crazy. I didn't wake you up, did I?"

  "No, I've been up for awhile. What's up?"

  "Not much. You up for some coffee?"

  Not really.

  "Yeah. Sure. Of course. Where?"

  "The usual?"

  "I'll be there in 15."

  "See ya then."

  Geddes was an old coffee house that predated all of the chain-store replicas. Not one coffee cup in the place matched, you couldn't get it to go, and you couldn't leave without sinking your teeth into one of their ginormous muffins. Only, on that particular morning, all Andrew wanted to do was go home and go to bed.

  With Sara.

  To sleep.

  Arriving before his brother, he waved at the manager who was tending to a customer at the far end of the shop and slid into a booth that gave him a good vantage point of the entrance. While he waited, he stared out at the gray skies and dirty snow piled against the curb that wasn't going anywhere as long as the temperature remained below freezing.

  "Good morning. What can I get for you?" It was Sally, the part savvy businesswoman/part new age gypsy manager, always ready with a smile and a story if you were up for it. But today, he was definitely not up for it.

  Hoping to intercept what might otherwise be a long conversation, he managed a smile and said, "Hey, Sal. My brother'll be here any minute, so two black coffees and two muffins."

  With a wink, she said, "You got it." Pausing before she left him alone, she asked, "You feelin' OK?"

  Reassuring her with a quick nod, he sank a little lower in the booth and stared at the cars going by, wondering what he had gotten himself into with Sara—and what he should do about it. Ever since he opened the door on Sunday night and saw her on the other side, he felt like something had switched on inside of him. Life had suddenly become exciting and purposeful. Her coming back that night, because she wanted to, was all the validation he needed that she was indeed the answer to his prayers.

  Just don't blow it.

  He could see it in her eyes whenever he nitpicked about stupid things like hand towels and making the bed before she left for work in the morning. But he also saw the way she looked at him at practice, like her soul had been asleep for a very long time and was just now starting to come alive again.

  Kinda like when she was about to kiss him the night before.

  "Just let it ride," his father would say. His mother always preferred the biblical version. "Leave it in God's hands."

  No problem.

  He covered his face in his own hands, trying to do just that when he heard Sam's voice.

  "Jesus, you look like hell."

  Andrew opened his eyes and saw his little brother, a fully armed and uniformed Chicago policeman sitting across from him.

  "Nice to see you too."

  The frown on his face deepening, Sam continued, "I'm serious, man. You look like you haven't slept in days. New neighbors keeping you up at night?"

  I wish.

  "Here you go." Sally deposited their coffee and muffins and with a jangle of her bracelets was off again to check on other customers.

  "What's the matter?" Sam asked as he tore into his muffin.

  Seeing as he was the one who set Andrew up with Leanne, the older sister of his best friend back in Minnesota, he had been wrestling all week with telling Sam about Sara. Feeling a blast of warmth blow down on him from a vent in the ceiling, he hunkered down over his coffee cup.

  "Is this about Leanne?" Sam asked, taking a sip of his coffee. "'Cause I'm telling you, man, I still don't know how you get over a shock like that. Never saw it coming. She seemed so perfect for you."

  Covering his face again with his hands, Andrew let out a low groan. "No. This is not about Leanne." He glanced up at the ceiling and then pushed his full coffee cup away from him. "I think we both knew she wasn't perfect for me."

  Sam nodded and shrugged one shoulder.

  "OK. So, tell me. What's goin' on?"

  Raising his eyebrow and staring at the center of the table, he vocalized the one thought on the forefront of his mind. "I think I might've met someone who is."

  * * *

  After Mrs. DeRosa got each of their measurements, the five female members of the bridal party piled into Lucy's big old Buick sedan and headed to Parnell's Fabrics. Following her up and down the aisles, they examined bolt after bolt of every shade of red taffeta available.

  Stumbling on one labeled, "Firecracker Fusion," Sara called out, "Found it."

  Claudia got to her first. "Ooh, I like it."

  Aubrey appeared to be a tad shocked at the brash shade but got over it quickly when Sara showed her the label. "It's perfect."

  By the time Claire and Mattie found them, the bride-to-be was looking rather disheartened. When her eyes fell on the fabric, she looked less than enthused but said, "Sure. Why not?"

  "Matt," Sara urged. "Check the label."

  Just as Sara had hoped, she was rewarded with a broad grin. On seeing that the fabric had almost the same name as the Firecracker Half Marathon that turned the tide of her and Nick's romance, she exclaimed, "It's perfect."

  "Well, all right then," Mrs. DeRosa laughed after she finally caught up with them. "Bring every bolt you can find with that same label over to the cutting table while I go look for some tulle."

  Two hours later, Sara was heading back to the apartment not sure what she'd find. While it was a Saturday, by the time she had gotten up that morning, it looked like Andrew was already long gone. The couch looked untouched, and the coffee pot wasn't even turned on. Hoping she hadn't crossed another line the night before when she gave him an almost-kiss, she pulled into Bell's Market.

  I suppose I could call him. See if we need anything.

  Checking the time, sh
e saw it was 4:30.

  What if he's already at church?

  Taking her chances, she headed into the store for some bare essentials: ice cream and ramen noodles.

  "Hello," she called into the shadow-filled apartment as she closed the door behind her. "Anybody home?"

  Guess not.

  Feeling her lack of sleep from the night before catch up to her, she slipped her ice cream in the freezer and set the box of ramen on the counter. When she turned toward the living room to turn on the floor lamp, she let out a gasp when she saw Andrew lying on the couch, apparently fast asleep.

  Even though he looked to be wearing sweats and a hoodie, he was curled into a fetal position—like he was cold but too tired to do anything about it. Grabbing the afghan from the back of the couch, she unfolded it and spread it over him. Taking a step away, she paused and looked back down at him. His hair was all messed up, and he clearly hadn't shaved.

  What's going on?

  In the soft light coming from the kitchen, his face looked red. As in flushed.

  Crouching down, she touched the back of her hand against his cheek and pulled it back almost instantly.

  He didn't feel warm. He felt hot.

  Getting up, she went into the bathroom. She used to keep a big bottle of Tylenol on the bottom shelf of the medicine cabinet.

  Weird that I haven't had to use it once since he got here.

  She opened it slowly and found a different bottle but the same brand.

  Great minds…

  Shaking two into her hand, she went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water.

  She set the glass on the trunk and crouched before him again. Giving his shoulder a jiggle, she whispered his name.

  No response.

  Next, she smoothed some thick soft hair off his forehead and stroked her fingers through it a couple of times.

  I could do this all night long.

  Speaking a little more loudly, she called him by name and added, "Wake up. You need some medicine."

  At this, his eyes squinted open. With a wince and a groan, he turned on his back. "What time is it?"

  "5:30. Come on now. Can you sit up?"

  When it was clear he couldn't manage it on his own, Sara pushed him vertical just enough to wedge herself between his back and the arm of the couch against which his head had just been lying.