Sara stepped through the doorway he had opened for her and took in the luxurious lobby, the floors of which were covered in classically patterned carpets, and the walls were lined with dark wood trim and decorated with various works of art, all in gilded frames. Never having been to a formal event—not even prom in high school—a tingly little zip of excitement ran through her.
"May I take your coat, Miss?" The coat-check girl waved from behind her counter.
She slipped it off and handed it over. "Here you go. Thanks."
Taking the little ticket from her, the girl said, "Don't loose this. It will be a madhouse later."
Sara popped it in the sleek black clutch she had borrowed from Claire. "Got it. Thanks. Uh, can you tell me where the St. Matthias Spring Fling Gala is being held? My date has our invitation."
My date.
"Absolutely. It's in the Main Dining Room on the sixth floor. The elevators are right over there."
Turning to where she had just pointed, Sara said, "Thank you very much."
She unfolded her wrap as she made her way over and draped it across her shoulders. When the doors parted, she stepped in and pushed the button labeled 6. A moment later, she felt her phone that she had set to vibrate buzz to life in her clutch.
It was Andrew. Where r u?
Instead of responding right away, she made her way to the check-in table behind which a middle-aged woman with a pinched look on her face sat.
"May I see your invitation, please?"
"Oh, well, my date has it."
"And who would that be?"
"Uh…" Scanning the crowd around her, she hesitated.
"I'm sorry, but I can't let you in without it," said the woman, who looked so very pleased with herself for keeping a cunning gala-crasher from entering the event.
She was about to ask, "Well, can you just point me to the bar, please?" when she felt a hand at her waist and heard a familiar voice say, "She's with me, Denise."
The woman beamed. "Oh, hi, Andrew. I didn't see you there."
Sara turned, and there he was.
Wow.
There was just something about a guy with black hair wearing a black tux. She couldn't get over how good he looked.
As he ushered her through the crowd to the bar, she said, "You look really great."
"What can I get you folks?"
Turning to her, Andrew asked, "What would you like?"
Sara addressed the bartender, "Pinot Noir, please."
"Make that two."
While they waited, he whispered in her ear, "And you look breathtaking."
Feeling the entire side of her body that he was on blush, she mouthed, "Thank you."
"We should probably find our table. I think dinner starts soon."
With the wrap draped low across her back, they made their way to the dining room. Following him through the crowd, she couldn't help but notice the stares and hear the whispers.
"Look at her tattoo," someone actually had the balls to say out loud as she passed. If she were there alone, nothing would have stopped her from turning on whoever had said it.
It's just a frickin' tattoo, pal. Millions of people all over the world have them. Not a big deal. Got it?
But she wasn't alone, and tonight wasn't about her.
That didn't stop a wave of anxiety from threatening to wash over her and drag her down with it. Just as it began to surge inside her, she felt Andrew's hand slip into hers and give it a gentle squeeze.
"Come on. This way. There's someone I want you to meet."
Then he actually steered her in the direction from which the voice came.
"Father Steve, I'd like you to meet Sara Cleff."
Oh.
The priest looked pleased. Holding out his hand, he grinned, "Sara, so nice to meet you. You're in choir, yes?"
With her defenses still on high alert, she nodded while he kept talking.
"I was just telling everyone about my father when I saw you pass by."
"Uh-huh…"
"He was a tattoo artist back in the Philippines. Best in the country. Most of his customers came from the naval base there." Motioning to her upper back, he added, "Nothing as elegant as yours. Could you turn around, please?"
I'll be damned.
She faced Andrew who had been standing behind her and was now wearing a smirky I-told-you-so look on his face.
Turning back to the priest, she thanked him for the compliment.
"Have you two checked out the auction items yet?" one of the women standing next to the priest asked.
"Actually," Andrew piped up. "They've been sitting in my office all week, so I've seen way too much of them actually."
Almost on cue, a dinner chime sounded at the entrance to the dining room, signaling for the guests to take their seats.
Five excellent courses later, the waiters began whisking dirty dessert dishes away and started pouring coffee and providing after-dinner drinks. Sara's attention turned to the band that had been playing softly in the background throughout. As a singer and several more orchestral instruments joined them, it looked like they were about to crank it up a notch. She no sooner heard the beginning strains of an old standard ("Tenderly"?) when Andrew asked, "Care to dance?"
This is it.
Taking in his smile and the just-dimmed lights, she whispered, "I'd love to."
Joining a few other couples dotting the dance floor, she turned to him. He took one of her hands in his and placed the other at her waist.
He raised his eyebrow at her. "No leading."
"No problem," she laughed, feeling uncharacteristically nervous.
As other couples filled in around them, she felt him pull her closer.
I'm not in love. I'm not in love. I'm not in love.
Then it happened. He pressed his cheek against hers, and she closed her eyes.
I am so in love with this man.
Despite the song ending way too soon, she couldn't move, didn't want to. Until she heard him whisper, "Sara."
Eyes wide open, she pulled back just enough to look into his face as her heart started racing in her chest.
Don't say it.
His eyebrows pulled up as he opened his mouth to speak.
"I'm in love with you."
Damn it all to hell.
As the orchestra swelled into the chorus of the next song that had started while they stood there, he took her face in his hands and repeated, "I'm in love with you, Sara Cl—"
He would've finished what he was saying, too, if she hadn't pressed her lips against his to stop him from saying it again. And he kissed her back. Right there in front of everybody.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on
treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being."
—Oscar Wilde
Andrew and Sara did not stay for the St. Matthias Spring Fling Fundraising Gala silent auction. In fact, they did not even stay for a third dance. While Sara retrieved his overcoat from the coat-check girl, Andrew gave his ticket to the valet. Once the Jeep arrived, they piled in and headed home, taking Dearborn Street because it was quicker at that time of night than Michigan Avenue.
The entire way home, she wrestled with when to tell him.
Before? Ought to.
During? Definitely not.
After? Shouldn't.
"Stay right there," he instructed after he pulled into his slush-filled parking space behind the apartment building. Opening the door on her side, as soon as she stood up, he leaned toward her and hoisted her over his shoulder.
"Andrew," she shrieked. "What are you doing?"
He didn't answer until he deposited her on the cleanly shoveled sidewalk in front of the building. "You would've ruined your shoes."
Under the streetlight glow, she could see how bright red his cheeks were from the exertion, or the cold, or both. As he panted, his breath fogged, and his eyes glistened brighter than the stars in the c
lear sky above them.
Before it is.
"Let's go inside," she whispered.
Only somewhere between the front door and the apartment door, she lost her resolve entirely.
Suddenly, she couldn't get his coat, and the scent of him that went along with it, off fast enough.
"Here, let me," he murmured. A quick glance at his smoldering eyes confirmed the sense of urgency she heard in his voice.
I can't do this to him.
With what little reason her rapidly intensifying flight-or-fight instinct hadn't robbed her of, she made up her mind to leave before things between them went any further.
It's for the best.
I never told him I loved him.
I'm doing him a favor, really.
I'm sure he'll thank me later.
She rushed down the hallway ahead of him, dropping her clutch on the kitchen counter before working the zipper down the back of her gown as she went, and closed the bedroom door behind her. After hanging it up in the closet, she pulled out her suitcase and filled it with as many clothes as she could before yanking on a pair of jeans, a turtleneck, and her short black boots.
Taking a deep breath, she braced herself.
Make it short and sweet.
Sara knew if she made eye contact with him, she'd never make it out of the apartment.
As soon as she stepped into the hallway, she heard his voice. Despite him standing just a few feet from her, it sounded like it was coming from very far away.
"What are you doing?"
Her heart thumping in her chest, she looked toward him but not at him. In a voice that sounded smaller and shakier than she intended, she said, "Thanks for everything, but I should be going."
"Go? Where? Why?"
Sara pulled her key chain out of her clutch, but working her apartment key off of the damn thing proved next to impossible with her hands shaking as much as they were. She was about to give up when Andrew covered them with his and pleaded, "Sara. What's happening?"
Shit.
She wanted to yell, "Just let me break your heart and get this over with, all right?"
Instead, she averted her eyes and issued a harsh warning. "Trust me. You don't want me."
"Yes, I do. More than anything." The tone in his voice harbored somewhere between confusion and anger.
She lashed out. "You don't even know me. You and me? It would never work."
"Why not?"
Don't look at him. Don't look at him.
With her eyes about to overflow, she started to sputter, "Because you're so…so…holy, and I'm not."
Feeling his hands at her elbows, he sat her down on a barstool, and demanded, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
She finally dragged her eyes to his. "I don't deserve you. I've done stuff, OK? Stuff that, if you knew about it, you wouldn't want me around anymore, so just trust me, all right? I'm doing you a favor."
She pulled her hands from his, grabbed her keys, put her leather coat on, and headed down the hall as she swiped at the tears streaming down her face with her fingers.
"But we made a deal."
His words followed her into the hallway as she closed the door behind her.
By the time Sara made it to her car, she was shaking like a leaf.
She started up her car and flicked through her contact list wondering whose place she could crash at for the night.
Claire? I couldn't impose on her two nights in a row.
Aubrey? She thought of her travel-writer pal's teeny tiny studio apartment in the Ukrainian Village. No room.
Mattie? Getting busy with her fiancé, no doubt.
That left Nancy. Given that it was a Saturday night, she knew just where to find her.
Kildare's. And that was the last place she felt like going. Out of options, she pulled out of her space and made her way there.
"What do you mean she's not here?" she asked Felicity Carlisle, a fashion writer who had, on more than one occasion, channeled Aretha Franklin in the Lifestyle section's bid for karaoke supremacy.
"She just isn't. Said something about staying home to binge watch Celebrity Chef."
"Seriously? OK, thanks," she shouted over some poor soul doing a sorry rendition of "Feelings" after one too many cheap shots.
Calling her at home which, in hindsight, would've been the smart thing to do if she were in the right frame of mind—which she wasn't—Nancy picked up on the second ring. "Hey, girlfriend. What's shakin'? I thought you had some big party thing tonight?"
"Uh, no. Listen, can I come over?"
Her question was met with dead silence.
"Nance?"
"Yeah, sorry—Bobbie Flay was just slathering a pork roast with mole sauce with his bare hands. He could slather me with mole sauce anytime."
Ewww…
Sara was seriously thinking of returning to the apartment and facing the music with Andrew when Nancy asked, "How soon can you get here? I'll whip us up some mango margaritas."
"Sounds perfect. I can be there in fifteen."
* * *
Andrew didn't go to sleep for a very long time that night. Instead he changed into his jeans and flopped on the couch feeling like his emotions had just been run over by a truck. He spent the next several hours vacillating between hoping she'd walk through the door again and wondering what the hell had happened. He woke up on the morning of Palm Sunday, still in his clothes and still on the couch, to a phone call from Marge asking if he would be playing at Mass that morning or not.
Not bothering to change, shave, or shower, he showed up with seconds to spare before the first service of the morning. When that let out a little earlier than normal, he ducked into his office to run an electric razor over his face and change into some dress clothes.
"Look what the cat dragged in," Marge droned as she passed him on the way into the choir room before the third service. "Where's your girlfriend?"
He ignored her, as well as anyone else who had anything to say to him that morning. Better that than to give them the reply he really wanted to which was, "None of your damn business."
When the last Mass ended, he tore through traffic to get back to the apartment, hoping against hope that he'd find Sara there.
Bursting through the door, he was disappointed to find it unoccupied. He was crushed, however, to find the rest of her things gone and her key on the counter. Next to a check made out to him for her half of the rent.
All he had left of her was her number in his contact list. Swiping down to the S's, he stared at it for a long time, wondering if he should call her or text her or do something. At a loss for what to do next, his eyes fell on the name right above Sara's.
Sam.
He pressed it and then pressed the green Call button.
"Hey, man. How're ya feeling?"
"Lousy. You off today?"
"You know it. Wanna hang out?"
"Yeah. That'd be great. I'm on my way."
Two hours and a couple of beers later, Sam was up-to-speed on everything there was to know about Sara.
"The thing is," Andrew concluded as he watched the late-March sunset from Sam's apartment window, "I can't imagine what she could've possibly done to think I'd shove her out the door when she told me about it."
Sam leaned forward. "You must really love this girl."
When Andrew didn't reply, he asked, "You got her license plate number?"
He tipped the last of his beer in his mouth and added, "I'd be happy to check it out for you."
Andrew shot him a look. "Is that legal? Can you do that?"
His brother shrugged. "It's a fine line. I could probably make a case for it though."
"What do you mean?"
"Unlawful entry, trespassing…"
With a grimace, Andrew exclaimed, "What? No. Absolutely not. I just want to know where she went and that she's all right."
Images of her crossing paths with another guy like Jer were one of the things that kept him up during the night, espec
ially since she seemed to think that was all she was worthy of.
"You said you know where she works, right? Can't you just try to catch her there?"
Andrew rubbed his eyes. "Oh, yeah, right. Stalk her. Why didn't I think of that?"
With a laugh, Sam retorted, "Cause you were too busy asking your cop brother to do it for you."
Andrew took a deep breath and a long pull of his beer.
"Gimme her plate number, and I'll see what I can do."
Grabbing another two beers out of the fridge, he asked, "Do you know anything else about her? Where she lived before? Any relatives?"
Andrew shared what he knew which, admittedly, wasn't much. "She's from Wisconsin, some place named William's-something. She went to St. Xavier's parish, sang in the choir. Her mom ran off when she was young, and she's got a brother. An older brother."
Sam jotted everything down on a pad of paper. "Got it. I'll see what I can find out. In the meantime, wanna stay for dinner? I was gonna order some deep dish."
* * *
"Oh, it's gonna be so great having you for a roommate, Sara. I don't know why we never thought of doing this before."
Nancy set the box of things that Andrew had bought back for her on her kitchen table with a loud clank. "Why do you keep this junk anyway? Looks like it belongs at Goodwill."
"Careful, Nance. This 'junk' means a lot to me." Looking down at it, Sara whispered, "Now more than ever."
"Whatevs," Nancy replied using another one of her lame attempts to sound younger than she was. Talk in the newsroom was that she was pushing forty.
"Besides," Sara started, "Not all of us have doting, wealthy mothers. Hell, I'd settle for a poor, needy mother."
"Ugh, you can have mine." When Sara made a face, Nancy explained. "She's never really been a mother. In fact, I don't think she knows how. She just buys me stuff. In return, I have to stand up in her weddings." With a shrug, she concluded, "Which, I think, is fair."
"How many times has your mother been married, Nancy?"
The assistant food editor looked around her spacious West Loop loft. "Pffft, counting this new guy? Six?"
"Holy crap. Which one, if you don't mind me asking, was your dad?"
Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel Page 19
