Unlocking his mouth from Sara's, he looked longingly into her woozy eyes and did his best to maneuver next to her without falling on his ass—er, bottom.
"Hi, Mr. Benet," several of them sang out. The others just gawked and giggled.
"Girls. What a surprise."
He looked around at the half-dozen faces that were grinning at him expectantly. "You didn't come all the way down here by yourselves, did you?"
"No," Molly Evans, the ringleader, replied. Pointing in the direction of a woman aiming a cell phone in his direction, she exclaimed, "My mom brought us."
When the woman lowered the camera and waved, he held up his hand and gave a quick nod to Sherry Evans, head of the PTA.
Great…
"Well, it was nice bumping into you, girls. See you in church tomorrow."
"Bye, Mr. Benet," they chimed in unison as they raced away.
Shuffling back to the safety of the railing, he leaned against it.
Sara swooshed to his side. "I'm so sorry. This is the last place I thought we'd run into anybody from the parish."
He frowned at her. "Don't be sorry. I'm not sorry."
Looking truly troubled, she looked in the direction the girls had gone. "I don't want you to lose your job on account of me."
He brushed her overgrown bangs from her eyes. "It's not a big deal. Really." With another laugh, he added, "There's nothing in my contract that prohibits dating."
"Yeah, but I'm in choir."
"So?"
"And we're living together."
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "We're roommates. And that's nobody's business but ours."
The look on her face told him she wasn't convinced. He wasn't sure he was either, but after that kiss, he so didn't care.
Turning to face her, he lifted her chin until her eyes met his. "I bet the last place we'd run into anybody from church is at a karaoke bar. Know any good ones?"
At that, her face lit up like fireworks on the fourth of July.
CHAPTER TEN
"I had a perfectly lovely evening, but this wasn't it."
—Groucho Marx
Thawed out and ready to sing her fool head off at Kildare's, Sara led Andrew to the table normally filled with members of the Lifestyle section.
"This is gonna be so much fun," she assured him. "You're gonna love it."
The bar was no more crowded than usual, and it looked like the competition had already started. Felicity Carlisle, a fashion editor, was on stage doing her impersonation of the late great Whitney Houston, powering her way through "I Will Always Love You."
As he walked behind her, the karaoke virgin asked, "So how does this work?"
Sara stopped and turned. To be heard over the noise, she instinctively clutched Andrew by his jacket with both hands and pulled him close before relaying into his ear, "This is live band karaoke which means anybody can hop up on stage, the band starts playing something, the words appear on that screen over there, and you just go for it."
She looked into his face to see if she had made herself clear. That he seemed rather petrified did not escape her attention. That her mouth was oh so close to his didn't either.
"It's about time you got here," she heard Nancy bellow. Tugging at Sara's coat sleeve, she pointed to two chairs she had been guarding with her life.
Damn. It.
As they took their seats, Sara announced to the familiar faces at the table, "Everyone, this is Andrew. Andrew, everyone."
Introductions over, Nancy leaned over and said a little too loudly, "Sure, he's cute, but can he sing?"
Sara watched as the color left Andrew's face.
"Get him a beer," Nancy hollered at a waitress who had just passed by their table.
Addressing Andrew, she asked, "Bottle or draft, sweetie?"
When he didn't respond, Sara turned to him. "Bottle or draft?" Breaking into a grin, she added, "Sweetie."
His smile returning, he replied with his voice low. "Draft."
"Draft," Nancy hollered back.
"Got it," the waitress yelled when she skirted behind the bar.
Sara felt her entire body blush when Andrew squeezed her hand under the table and give her a wink.
The assistant food editor addressed him again. "So, do you sing or what?"
"Uh…a little, but I won't know any of the songs they play here."
"No worries," Sara interjected. "You can cheer us on."
After an intern from Sports did a not-bad job on Green Day's "Boulevard of Broken Dreams," it was her turn.
"Wish me luck," she breathed before handing him her coat and hopping up onstage, where she heard several faceless members of the audience yell her name.
But when the band started playing, "You Oughta Know," by Alanis Morrisette, she turned around to face the band members. Catching the lead guitarist's eye, she shook her head and said, "No. No way. Not tonight."
He nodded her over and silenced the rest of the band. Ignoring the boos and hisses coming from the audience, Sara finally turned and pulled the microphone from its stand just as the opening notes of Adele's "Rolling in the Deep" started thumping loudly behind her. A few bars in, the entire bar was clapping along.
As she poured her soul into the heart-wrenching song, she made a point of not looking at Andrew.
Because he was very much on her mind as she sang it.
When she finished, she put the microphone back on the stand. The crowd was on their feet, including the Ken doll who kissed her in broad daylight just a few hours earlier.
As Sara stepped down from the stage, she saw him put his fingers in his mouth to deliver a piercing wolf whistle, and, in a flash, she was a little girl again, playing in the woods behind her house in Wisconsin, knowing she was in trouble again for staying out after dark.
The effect was sobering. If she let it, the memory had the potential to transform her into the same insecure mess of girl she used to be and in many ways, still was.
Not tonight.
Forcing a smile, she made her way directly to Andrew who appeared to be completely gobsmacked by her performance. "That was outstanding."
No longer having to force her grin, she melded into his open embrace.
I could stay here forever.
After just a minute though, he gave her shoulders a squeeze. "We should probably get going," he started apologetically. "It's getting late."
"But it's so early," Nancy protested.
Sara regally addressed everyone at the table as Andrew helped her on with her coat. "I believe my work here is done. Carry on."
Settling into a seat on the nearly empty train on the Brown line, Andrew draped his arm across her shoulder. Snuggling into him, she observed, "This was the best day ever" and thanked him again before kissing him on the cheek.
Only, he didn't exactly look like he agreed. He looked like he was a hundred miles away.
Not sure she wanted to hear the answer to the question she was about to ask, she asked it anyway. "What are you thinking?"
He removed his arm from her shoulder and gave her a penetrating look—not the kind that would have Sister Marcus reeling. It was the kind that had her guard go up faster than her Aunt Ruby's hand at bingo night. When he finally spoke, his question surprised her. "Were you thinking of Jer when you were singing back there?"
To herself, she thought, No, actually, I was thinking of us.
But to him, she said, "No. I wasn't thinking about Jer."
Andrew gazed out the window at the dark walls of the train tunnel.
Knowing she shouldn't ask yet another question to which she didn't want to hear the answer, she asked it anyway. "Who were you thinking of when I was up there."
Before he could answer, their train slowed and then jerked to a stop, and they got out.
He didn't reply until they emerged onto Chicago Avenue and headed north on Franklin.
"Leanne Thorsteinson."
"I'm sorry?"
"That's who that song made me think of."
When he looked at her, she could see a world of hurt swirling behind his baby blues.
She walked beside him in silence, dread clenching her insides while she waited for him to say more, but he didn't.
Taking her hand in his, he gave it a reassuring squeeze.
Only she didn't feel reassured. She felt like this best day ever was about to become one of the worst.
After they had hung up their coats in the foyer closet, he walked into the hallway and flipped the switch that illuminated all of the framed photos she had passed by every single day since he moved in but never once gave a second look.
Pointing to the first one of a smiling couple holding a baby boy, he said, "That's me with my parents. My mom was pregnant with Sam in this one." The one next to it was of the four of them. Andrew couldn't have been more than three or four years old. Cute as a button.
"That's the last one they took of us as a family before they died."
She glanced at his face. He looked stoic but was gripping her hand harder than he had for their entire walk from the train.
Her heart broke for him.
"I'm so sorry," she breathed, but it seemed ridiculously inadequate.
He stared at the photo for a few seconds longer.
"To tell you the truth, I don't really remember much about them."
Giving her hand a tug, they moved down the hall a bit.
In the next one, he and Sam were both much older. High school, maybe, and both looked crazy happy. Andrew was in a cap and gown. Sam, a bit shorter and stockier, looked just like him.
"Nice. You guys are definitely brothers."
Sara studied it while he moved on to the next photograph. As he stood looking at it, he released her hand and straightened the frame.
Stepping to his side, she saw it was a group shot. Andrew stood right in the middle and had both arms around a pretty, petite blonde who was baring her perfectly straight teeth in a blinding smile as she stood in front of him.
Barbie.
Sara looked at him, waiting for the story behind it. When he didn't deliver, she offered, "I take it that isn't one of your sisters?"
Her question seemed to jolt him back to the present. "Oh, uh, no." Pointing to the Barbie doll, he explained, "That's her. That's Leanne. Thorsteinson."
We could've had it all.
Sara lifted her chin. "Girlfriend?"
"Back then, yeah," he explained. "This was taken at my parents' anniversary party."
She looked at it again. In it, Andrew was wearing the same blue Henley sweater he had on the night they met. "When was it taken?"
"About a year ago."
Oh, boy.
Summoning her thick-skinned armor, she took a deep breath, raised both eyebrows, and asked, "And when did you say you moved to Chicago?"
When he turned to look at her, his eyes were dark, his expression unreadable.
"Let's sit."
Sara glanced at the clock. It was after midnight. "I take it you're not playing at seven o'clock Mass?"
He shook his head.
She took a seat at one end of the couch, watching as he grabbed a beer from the fridge before positioning himself at the opposite end.
Sara waited, pretty damn sure she didn't want to hear what he was about to tell her.
"Back in high school," he started, "my senior year, the older sister of Sam's best friend was asked to homecoming by this guy, one of the football players on the team. She didn't know him really well, but he was, ya know, a football player, so she was pretty excited about it."
Sara nodded.
"So she gets all ready for the dance, and the guy doesn't show. Doesn't call. Nothing. Stands her up."
"I hate jocks."
Did I just say that out loud?
"I know, right?"
Guess so.
"Anyway, Sam is over there playing video games with his buddy and sees this happening, feels sorry for her, tells me all about it the next day, and goes on and on about how I should ask her out."
Andrew stopped and took a swig of his beer. "I knew Leanne from school, and we were in choir together at church, but I never hung out with her or anything."
He kicked his shoes off and stretched his legs out on the coffee table. "Anyway, I waited a couple of weeks before I asked her to the movies. And she said yes."
He stopped and stared at Sara for a minute.
She narrowed her eyes and resisted the urge to ask him if there was a point to his story.
"So, yeah, we dated for—" He blew out a breath before continuing. "Years. All through college and then, what, almost five years after that. Her idea, not mine."
Sara opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was, "Huh."
Andrew raised both eyebrows and chuckled. "Yeah." Then he gave his head a shake and put his beer down. "So, last summer. In June, I forced her hand and proposed."
Sara held her breath.
Andrew grabbed his bottle back. "She said 'no.'"
Oh, thank God.
"And," he continued while working on a corner of the beer bottle label, "she took the opportunity to inform me that she wanted to become a nun. Just didn't know how to tell me."
He stared at his shoes for a few seconds and mumbled, "After all that time."
Again, Sara was speechless. Almost.
"I don't know what to say."
He looked at her and let out another chuckle. "That's exactly what I said."
Great minds…
He started peeling the label off of his bottle. "I didn't see it coming. After all that time, I just didn't see it coming."
Quietly, Sara prodded, "So you moved to Chicago…?"
At this, he lifted his head. "Yeah. I heard a position had suddenly opened up at St. Matthias. It was right about the same time Sam was due to graduate from the police academy here, so it was perfect timing."
"And you haven't been home since?"
"Well, we both went home for the holidays."
Sara nodded. And waited.
"That's when I heard she was a candidate with the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet. It's a convent up near where we lived."
She nodded again. "Have you talked to her since…?"
Don't make me say it.
"Since she dumped me?"
Bingo.
"Yeah."
"Nope. But my Mom does apparently."
Narrowing her eyes at him, she came right out and asked, "Are you still in love with her?"
Before she could finish her question, he looked directly at her and said, "No. Not at all."
Taking a deep breath, he exhaled and said, "Clearly, it was a blessing. Can you imagine marrying someone who didn't trust you enough to confide in you?"
Sara's chest tightened. She wasn't sure she'd ever be able to confide in him. At least not now. Maybe not ever.
After a few quiet moments, she got up and moved much closer to him. Feeling him wrap his arm around her, she brushed some hair off of his forehead and ran her finger down the bridge of his nose. "For what it's worth, I'm glad she said 'no.'"
At this he smiled. "That makes two of us."
For the remainder of that week, Sara trolled department stores and resale shops trying to find a gown for the dinner dance. Normally relishing her height, the inability to borrow clothes from friends was definitely a drawback.
Before she knew it, the week was almost over, and she found herself sitting next to Glynnis at choir practice, listening to Andrew read the tenors the riot act about using the rhythm the composer intended, not making their own up on the fly.
Glad she wasn't in the hot seat, Sara sat back and took a big swig from the water bottle she had tucked under her seat. When it was the alto section's turn to go over their part, she was more than ready and started singing loud and proud.
Not two measures in, Andrew stopped playing the piano. Looking toward the section, but not focusing on any one of them in particular, he announced loudly, "This isn't American Idol. If you can't
hear the person singing next to you, you're singing too loudly."
Cocking an eyebrow, she fixed her death gaze on him, but he didn't give her the satisfaction of making eye contact.
"Again," he announced before counting them in.
As they started singing, he called out, "Much better."
Damn straight.
But not four measures later, he shot out, "Come on, ladies. I didn't say to sing slower, did I?"
Holy hell.
When practice was over, she made her way to the choir room to return her binder to its designated slot and grab her coat, thinking of the best way to tell him that if he stopped with the insults during practice, he'd probably stop bleeding choir members.
She was just coming back out again when she heard Marge ask Andrew, "So if you still need a date for the gala, I checked with my niece, and she is available."
Sara seemed unable to move all of the sudden.
The gala he invited her to is a church function?
Why she would've thought otherwise, she wasn't sure, but that he neglected to mention that little nugget gave her pause.
Free drinks, though.
But, then again, with everyone in choir apparently going, why did he ask me?
She was pondering that very thought when she heard him say, "No thanks, Marge. I'm good."
The old lady who took the fine art of interrogation to a whole new level asked, "But you said you weren't going to go by yourself. Shirley told me she put you down for two."
Crap, she's good.
Wondering if Marge was a reporter in a previous life, Sara held her breath and watched as he waved to a few choir members as they said good night.
Pointing to the back of her neck, she heard Marge ask. "Is it her?"
What is she doing? No one's standing behind her.
Starting to think Marge was more delusional than nosey, Sara was further confused by her reaction when she saw Andrew give her an almost imperceptible nod.
With his back to her, she couldn't see his face, but she could tell by Marge's that what he must've done or said both shocked and surprised her. "Oh, really?" she grinned. "Well, good for you."
She watched as Marge patted his arm before turning to pack up her things. And it was right about then that he turned and saw Sara standing there.
Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel Page 17
