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  KEY CHANGE

  by

  BARBARA VALENTIN

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  Copyright © 2015 by Barbara Valentin

  Cover design by Estrella Cover Designs

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FREE BOOK OFFER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY BARBARA VALENTIN

  SNEAK PEEK

  For Father Ray, an undo button pusher of the best sort.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  "Music is my religion."

  —Jimi Hendrix

  Sara Cleff, music critic at the Chicago Gazette, used the undo feature on her laptop to reverse a bad edit she had just made on a concert review she was drafting—and wished for the thousandth time that life came with such a feature.

  If only.

  She could correct every mistake she ever made—even the one she tried to undo on her own. Ever the rebel, she set out to discredit that old adage about two wrongs not making a right.

  And failed miserably.

  Because she knew, as did all of the other girls who got The Talk from Sister Marcus, their terrifying eighth grade teacher at St. Xavier elementary, that what she did, even with 12 years of parochial education to her credit, was technically classified as a mortal sin. Not only did this mean instant excommunication from the church, she was painfully aware that her chance of gaining admittance to the pearly gates was pretty much on par with one of the Kardashians being accused of having talent.

  Nobody's perfect.

  What's done is done.

  Move on.

  Doing her best to pretend it had never happened, Sara locked the terrible memory away forever, telling no one, willing it from her mind. If only her conscience would get on board—then, maybe, she'd have a fighting chance of putting it behind her forever.

  If only.

  * * *

  After barely making a packed train headed into the city, Claire Mendez burrowed between the crowds of fellow commuters and wedged herself between two burly blue-collar types, each taking up a seat and a half in the row next to the door.

  Burly guy #1 had his eyes closed, apparently asleep, with his mouth hanging open.

  Very attractive.

  Burly guy #2 was staring at his smartphone. Despite the earbuds he had plugged into it, a bass beat echoed from his device. Reeking of some cheap aftershave she couldn't identify, he made no attempt to give her more room. Not even a smidge.

  It's gonna be a long ride.

  Only twelve weeks into her fifth pregnancy, Claire's baby bump was already starting to look more like a baby basketball. Her regular clothes were no longer an option. Instead, she wore whatever she could confiscate from her six-foot-three-inch husband's side of the closet. Today, she was sporting his Chicago Blackhawks red home sweater that hung on her otherwise slight frame like a dress under her open winter coat.

  Comfort trumps fashion. It was her new mantra.

  If only she had remembered how warm the sweater was. By the time she found a seat, she was hot, out of breath, and still irritated that her OB referred to her as being of advanced maternal age. She could almost picture the headline on the front page of the National Enquirer. 37-year-old pregnant! Read shocking story on page 5!

  Pulling a little notebook and pen out of her coat pocket, she ran through her to-do list.

  Put load of wash in the dryer. Check.

  Send next week's column to editor. Check.

  Load up Crock-Pot for dinner. Check?

  She winced, wondering if she actually turned the Crock-Pot on after filling it with raw chicken and cream of mushroom soup, and scribbled, "Have key made for Jacquie Calderon." A trusted friend and neighbor of the Mendez family, Jacquie picked up Jonah, her youngest, from kindergarten and watched him on the afternoons Claire had to be in the office.

  Pick up Paul's shirts from the dry cleaners. Damn it. I knew I forgot something.

  Oh well, he'll just have to swing by and get them himself after work.

  Yanking her laptop from her backpack, the Chicago Gazette's newest advice columnist for harried working parents, a.k.a. the Plate Spinner, opened her email inbox and got to work. She spotted four unread messages. The subject line of the first one read: Can't Get Kids to Unplug.

  Chuckling, the mother of four boys started typing the first thing that sprang to mind. "And you want to why…?"

  Deciding that the topic was too involved for her caffeine-starved brain to manage that early on a Monday morning, she deleted her curt response and moved on to the next message, the subject line of which was: What Were You Thinking? Her face pulled into a grimace. Clearly, this reader had an issue with one of Claire's earlier responses or the topic of an earlier column. It wasn't her first complaint letter, and she was sure it wouldn't be her last.

  I'll deal with you later.

  As the train leaned into a curve in the tracks, burly guy #2, the one with the bass-booming cell phone, smushed her up against burly guy #1, who was now snoring. She wondered if Dianne would ever let her work from home full-time instead of just a couple of days a week.

  Redirecting her attention to her inbox, the third unopened email piqued her interest. The subject line read: SOS, Boyfriend Wants to Get Married.

  While part of Claire's brain thought, "Huh, usually it's the other way around, but OK," the other part had a vague recollection of hearing this complaint before. Recently. She tried for a moment to retrieve the conversation but could only recall that she heard it while with a group. And that could've been anywhere—in one of her editor's team meetings, at lunch with work friends, at church, or at one of the boys' school events.

  She stared at the screen for a moment longer before giving up and cursing her pregnancy-induced fog brain.

  Dear Plate Spinner—

  My boyfriend and I have three things in common: our address, the fact that he's a musician, and I write about musicians…

  "Sara! It was Sara," Claire announced triumphantly to no one in particular before continuing.

  …and that we both agree Robert Plant is, hands down, the best lead singer in rock music ever. Otherwise, we're total opposites. He's
quiet. I'm bold. He's short. I'm tall. He's British. I'm not. He wants to get married and have kids. I so don't. How can I get him to see that we would never be as happy and carefree married-with-kids as we are right now just living together?

  Signed,

  Dazed and Confused

  Since getting to know the Gazette's rock music critic, Claire knew that the words erratic and brooding would be a much better descriptor for Sara's relationship with her boyfriend than happy and carefree.

  Taking some solace in knowing that her friend was not interested in marrying a guy who, in Claire's opinion, was an insecure mess, she wasn't confident in Sara's ability to hold him off for much longer.

  With that very thought in mind, the advice columnist had no sooner typed, Must ditch loser boyfriend and find a place of your own, when the train banked into its final curve before pulling into the station, wedging Claire, again, between her two seat neighbors. As soon as the train righted itself, she closed her laptop, slipped it in her backpack, and hopped out of her seat and onto the train platform. She then made her way to the Madison Street exit to catch the #120 bus that would get her to the Gazette Building in no time flat.

  She had no sooner made it to her cube on the Features floor than a colleague burst in and dropped into her visitor chair.

  "What took you so long? I've been waiting for hours."

  Claire glanced at her friend as she hung her coat on a plastic hook jutting out of the cube wall.

  As far as looks were concerned, Sara Cleff had them in spades. At nearly six feet tall with large gray eyes offset by heavy, dark makeup, a short, dyed-black bob, and a bored expression that masked her runway-worthy features and deep dimples, she was often mistaken for a model.

  Which might explain why, on spotting her in the audience, musicians tended to drop notes, lose rhythms, and forget lyrics. In short, she complained to Claire, they went all amateur on her.

  While Sara liked to think that it was because of her sometimes eviscerating reviews, Claire kindly suggested that it might have more to do with her appearance.

  "You make the rest of us females look like mere mortals," she reminded her friend.

  But on that particular morning, Claire plunked in her own chair and laughed. "Hey, cut me some slack, huh? I had to get the kids off to school. Then Luke forgot his running shoes, so I had to go back and drop them off. He's got a big track meet over at Lane Tech this afternoon."

  As soon as the words left her lips, a whisper of warning fluttered over Claire, just for a split second. She stopped, tilting her head as she tried to hear what it was saying, but the thought was gone.

  Oh well.

  Sara was wearing her infamous you're-boring-me-to-death look. "Whatever. Did you get my letter?"

  "Yes." The advice columnist tucked her straight blonde hair behind her ears and glanced back at her computer screen, watching as it booted up. "Tell me, why did you bother writing when you know what I'm gonna say?"

  After mulling over her response, the music critic shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe there's a woman out there like me, in the same situation, who might benefit from your infinite wisdom." She hunched her shoulders up and added, "It could happen."

  Claire narrowed her eyes. "You're delusional. You know that, don't you? I can safely say there are no other women out there who are clinging to a dysfunctional relationship just so they can keep living in the apartment of their dreams." She cocked her head and looked into the distance. "Geez, at least I hope not."

  Sinking back in her chair, Sara muttered. "I know. I know. I shouldn't keep leading him on."

  "Exactly," Claire exclaimed. "You've got to tell him how you really feel, and be prepared to deal with the consequences. Or get your own place."

  Sara raised both eyebrows and held out her hands expectantly in front of her. "Yeah, but where else am I going to find a huge one-bedroom apartment with so much character in such a high-end neighborhood? I've checked everywhere, Claire. It's one of a kind—especially at the price I'm paying."

  The Plate Spinner leaned forward and clasped her friend's hand. "Which, I'm afraid, one of these days you're gonna realize is more than you can afford to lose, hon."

  * * *

  Andrew Benet, interim music director at St. Matthias, eased behind the organ console situated in a front corner of the church near the altar. The magnificent instrument had more buttons, knobs, and switches on it than the control panel of a 747. When he pressed his fingers against the keys, the notes squeaked out of the pipes at the back of the empty church at a much higher pitch than he expected. Lifting his hands, he flipped a switch, pulled a stopper, and tried it again.

  Much better.

  A few measures later, he was lost in the notes of Bach's Sinfonia from Cantata 156 and the throbbing in his head finally started to dissipate.

  Surely the day couldn't get any worse than it had started.

  After a few more bars, he indulged in a chuckle, thinking of how old Father Kurtz had treated the congregation in attendance for that morning's 8:00 am mass to the sound of him whizzing in the men's room. Evidently, he had prematurely turned his microphone on. Thankfully, an usher tipped him off, but by then it was too late. Every single one of the students from the parish school in attendance had heard it. Valiantly trying to suppress their giggles, each looked like they'd just taken a swig of some unsweetened cranberry juice.

  He imagined his little brother Sam, a newly minted officer on the Chicago Police Department and, like Andrew, a former altar boy, would get a good laugh out of it later but still.

  "Andy."

  He jumped.

  Marge.

  Not easily spooked, the sight of the stern elderly woman peering at him over the top of her reading glasses always put him on edge. Right from where he had been trying to get away.

  He looked down at the volunteer sheet music librarian he had inherited from the previous music director who, rumor had it, apparently made off with the lead soprano a year earlier.

  Wearing a sweatshirt that read, What Happens at Grandma's Stays at Grandma's, Marge looked like she was ready to take a swing at someone. Most likely him.

  "So, did you think about it?" she snapped.

  Frowning, he asked, "Think about what?"

  "Asking Sharon out," she very nearly shrieked. "My niece? Remember? Now, like I said, she's a widow, not much to look at, but she can cook. No kids. She'd be perfect for you."

  Andrew, still playing, gave his head a quick shake. "No thanks, Marge. Not interested."

  With a huff, the woman walked behind the organ bench on her way to the choir room. "Fine," he heard her sputter behind his back. "Just don't come running to me when the rumors start flying."

  Only there for a few months, he was still questioning his hasty retreat from his last parish, the Basilica of Saint Mary in Minneapolis, where everyone revered him.

  That is, until he proposed to Leanne Thorsteinson high atop the Stone Arch Bridge at sunset.

  Had she said yes, the pair would've been feted at a surprise engagement party thrown by close friends and relatives at the nearby Nicollet Island Pavilion.

  Andrew stared at the keys in front of him, his thoughts darkening as he recalled the moment when she politely declined, citing her previously undisclosed intention to join the good Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet in St. Paul.

  As she tearfully explained how she was waiting for the right time to tell him, all he could think was what a bad idea it was to propose on top of a bridge.

  Or the best idea ever, depending on how you looked at it.

  After that, the good parishioners of the Basilica couldn't seem to stop talking about how their esteemed assistant music director got turned down by the pretty parish preschool teacher.

  Not a day went by when someone wasn't expressing their condolences to him, saying things like, "It's for the best," or "God works in mysterious ways."

  You're telling me.

  With a heavy sigh, Andrew lifted his hands off the keys and tur
ned in her direction. "Rumors about what, Marge?"

  The elderly woman turned. "Are you kidding? A good-looking guy like you, single? At your age?" She cocked an eyebrow. "People are starting to wonder."

  Wonder what?

  After a minute, it hit him.

  Oh.

  He waved her off. "Let 'em wonder."

  Turning back to the hymn, he mumbled to himself, "My personal life is no one's business but my own." It was his new mantra, and he was sticking with it.

  He started the Bach piece again from the top. Priding himself on never missing a note during Mass, ever, he wasn't about to start now.

  A few minutes later, Marge emerged, her arms full of beaten-up, black, one-inch binders that were destined for the recycling bin. "These are goners."

  Andrew kept playing. "Make sure they don't have any music in them."

  "Of course." She sighed as she set them down on the seat normally occupied by first soprano Lorelei Healy and started flipping through them. "What about Carol Bingley's daughter? She's pretty enough. As far as I know, she's not seeing anyone."

  Ignoring her until he finished the piece, Andrew slid off the organ bench. "Tell me, Marge. Do you work on commission?"

  Marge looked confused.

  Grabbing the binders she had already gone through, he dropped them onto a different chair and sat beside her. "It's not that I don't appreciate your effort. It's just that, well—" His mind scrambled to come up with a way to get this well-intentioned woman to stop playing matchmaker on his behalf. "Did you ever listen to a really magnificent performance? Ya know, the kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end?"

  Nodding, she replied, "Sure. I actually cried at the symphony once."

  Relieved that she bit off on his faux reasoning, Andrew's face brightened.