Key Change: an Assignment: Romance novel Read online

  Again with the lies.

  Father Steve stood. "Of course you will. I'm glad you're here, Andrew, but impressing the Bishop would go a long way toward convincing the parish board to offer you a permanent position. Know what I mean?"

  Standing up, Andrew held out his hand. "Yes, I do, Father. Thanks for the heads up. I appreciate it."

  So the meeting didn't go quite as he expected.

  As they walked into the reception area together, Mrs. Gibbons announced, "Andy, a Mr. Danvers called."

  Losing another tenor?

  Looking at Father Steve, she explained. "He's in choir. My granddaughter went to school with his sister. As I recall, she was a scrappy little thing. Carried a little box of raisins with her wherever she went in case her blood sugar got too low."

  Father Steve looked confused.

  Andrew raised both eyebrows. "Message, Mrs. Gibbons? Did he leave a message?"

  "Who?"

  Forcing a tight smile, he prodded, "Mr. Danvers."

  "Right. Yes." She held up her index finger as her cloudy brown eyes scanned the top of the desk for her message pad. "He said he's got a lead on an apartment for you."

  Oh.

  Locating said pad, she started tearing off the top sheet. "I wrote down the address. He said you should stop by today if you can because it won't be available for long."

  She handed it to Andrew. "It's a sublet. Fully furnished. No deposit required."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Hell is full of musical amateurs."

  —George Bernard Shaw

  After confirming with the landlord again that the tenant would not be returning to the apartment prior to the lease expiring, Andrew spent an entire day packing up a surprising amount of things that she had left behind. With his brother's help, he loaded up his Jeep and Sam's pickup. The woman's clothes, shoes, and toiletries went to a shelter for battered women. Anything else he didn't need or want went to Goodwill, save for a box of personal effects like photos and letters that he didn't feel quite right about throwing away.

  Once everything was gone, he cleaned out the place top to bottom. The next day, he moved his things from Sam's house to his new home.

  Home.

  A place of his own. Things were definitely starting to look up for the guy who didn't get a very good start in life. He and his brother, just toddlers when their parents died, were bounced around a half-dozen foster families. It wasn't until they were placed in the home of Chuck and Arlene Benet that they felt truly safe. And loved. Unconditionally.

  Arlene, a piano teacher, spotted Andrew's talent early on, and Chuck, a police officer, liked nothing more than having Sam ask him all about work and took him to visit the station often. Their already large brood of kids accepted them as if they were blood siblings.

  When the boys had been with them for a few years, Chuck and Arlene sat them down and told them two things. First, that they loved them as much as their own children. Second, that they would very much like to adopt them. The memory of it still filled Andrew with a warm glow.

  The boys went to court, changed their last name from McGuigan to Benet, and never looked back.

  With the apartment finally arranged just the way he wanted it, Andrew suddenly couldn't wait for his family to come visit.

  Maybe for Easter.

  On his way out the door to return to the church for the dreaded adult choir practice, he took one last look around. The cranberry, tan, and ivory afghan one of his sisters had made for him as a going away present lay neatly folded across the back of the dark green couch in the living room, and the antique blanket chest he used to keep most of his stuff in served as a passable coffee table. A geometrically patterned area rug and several framed family photos dotting the hallway walls added to the homey feel.

  He grabbed his wallet, keys, and shopping list from the kitchen's granite-topped counter, hoping he had the energy after practice to stock his pantry, fridge, and freezer, and locked the door behind him.

  * * *

  After spending ten very long days squeezed in her car and sharing some rather seedy hotel rooms with Aubrey and Nancy while documenting the sophomoric antics of the fame-hungry Krypto Blight band members on their whirlwind tour of the Midwest in hot spots like Rock Island, Dubuque, Eau Claire, Lafayette, and Florissant—none of which were included in her cell phone provider's network apparently—the last thing Sara wanted to do after dropping her travel companions off was attend the band's final show at the Aragon Ballroom. Yet there she was, concluding once again that their underwhelming stage presence and blatant lack of overall musicality were an affront to indie bands the world over. That she had drawn this conclusion after the first set of their first show on the tour made for one very long assignment.

  No, she'd much rather be alone at home, indulging in a pint of ice cream or a bottle of Guinness—or both—followed by a long hot shower and a good couple of hours sleep in her nice comfy bed with the pillow-top mattress pad, butter soft flannel sheets, and perfectly firm but huggable pillows. A chronic insomniac, she relished those first few hours of nocturnal bliss she usually got before troubled dreams stirred her awake. Hence the heavy eye makeup she routinely wore.

  Don't leave home without it.

  As she drove, Sara's only hope was that Jer was still off at some gig and not too angry with her for not leaving a rent check behind.

  It was odd though that she hadn't heard boo from him while she was on the road. The two texts she had sent since arriving back in Cook County went unanswered.

  After scribbling a few lines in her notebook, she swiped her black bangs out of her eyes and scanned the crowd around her. A tight pack of fans standing near the stage, apparently tone-deaf, had their arms in the air and were bouncing to the beat while they chanted the lyrics with the band.

  Friends and relatives, no doubt.

  She couldn't imagine who else would pay to have their senses assaulted like sandpaper on silk. The rest of the crowd stood motionless, their faces reflecting a collective mixture of disappointment and confusion, like they were expecting the Rolling Stones and ended up with this sad excuse for entertainment.

  Wanting evidence to bolster what was sure to be a controversial feature on the band, Sara snapped a shot of the disillusioned crowd on her way out.

  Worth a thousand words.

  * * *

  "Come on, people. This isn't the first time you've heard this piece. Let's take it from the top. Everybody up."

  Easter was just over six weeks away. With the Bishop presiding over Mass, the pressure was on to get the choir performance ready.

  His eyes drifted above the sheet of music in front of him and focused on the stalwart members of the adult choir slowly rising out of their cushioned seats. Some were shaking their heads. Others exchanged exasperated glances with one another. The rest checked their watches or yawned.

  Ranging in age from 25 to 87, the adult choir, made up entirely of volunteers, was lacking just one thing. Cohesion.

  And enthusiasm.

  OK, so two things.

  If he had a dime for every time he had to remind them to stop trying to out sing each other, he could fill all of the collection baskets currently sitting empty in the usher's room off of the narthex.

  Either they weren't listening or worse, didn't care. After all, why should they? It wasn't their job on the line. It was his.

  He swallowed hard, thinking of the lease he had just signed on an apartment he had just sublet.

  Far enough from the church so he wouldn't run into any parishioners on his days off, he fell in love with it as soon as he stepped foot in the fully furnished unit—especially the thick plaster walls, original wood moldings, built-ins, and hardwood floors, stained-glass accents in the front bay window, and best of all, the recently tuned upright piano in the living room.

  "Ready? Here we go."

  He pressed his fingers down on the piano keys and nodded his head, counting the beats. "One and two and—" He gave a sharp nod, si
gnaling the sopranos and altos to start singing.

  About half did. The other half started straggling in a beat or three later.

  Andrew stopped playing. Several voices kept singing.

  "Stop. Stop," he called out, waving his hands in the air.

  Forty tired faces glowered back at him.

  "Look, I want to get out of here as much as you do, so let's get it right the first time, shall we?"

  More grumbling.

  "Sopranos. Where should your eyes be?"

  "On you," they droned.

  "Really? Let's see if you remember that this time. And Altos."

  More heads looked up from their music at him.

  "Good job starting on time, but there's no need to scoop into the notes. Last I looked, we were in Chicago, not Nashville. Everybody ready?"

  Much to Andrew's, and he was sure the entire choir's relief, the second time wasn't half bad.

  After the hymn's last chord faded into silence, he looked up with a grateful smile. "That was almost perfect. So close. All right. Let's call it a night. Good job everybody. See you Sunday. Oh, and don't forget to get here by 9:30 so we can warm up before Mass starts."

  Clearing the music rest on the grand piano, Andrew retrieved its quilted cover from the choir room and carefully arranged it over the flawless finish of its cabinet.

  When he turned, he was startled to find Maureen Higgins, a soft-spoken and, as far as he knew, widowed first soprano, standing behind him.

  Surprised anyone would still be speaking to him after that evening's especially contentious practice session, he braced himself. "Maureen. What can I do for you?"

  She thrust a small plastic tub at him. "Here. Chicken stew and dumplings."

  He fought back the urge to ask if the choir had put her up to it, suspecting it might be poisoned.

  It's always the quiet ones.

  Still, not having eaten anything since lunch several hours earlier, he eyed it hungrily and said, "How nice. Thank you."

  "Oh, it's no bother." With a rare laugh, she added, "I still cook like I have a house full of kids at home. And you look like you could use some home cooking."

  At least now I have my own kitchen.

  Having spent the bulk of the week settling into his new apartment, he was looking forward to making some of his favorite foods. Just had to stock the pantry and the fridge.

  If memory served, there was a grocery store on the way home.

  Holding the container up, he smiled at her and said, "Thanks. I really appreciate it."

  "Anytime," she said as she pulled on her jacket. "Just don't eat it tonight."

  He fought back the urge to ask, "Because the poison won't kick in until tomorrow?"

  Instead, he went with, "Why's that?"

  Maureen looked aghast. "Because it's Lent, and today's Friday."

  Andrew forced a laugh. "That's right. I was just testing you."

  Maureen just stood there looking at him like she was about to say something.

  He waited, but she didn't. Instead, she turned and picked up her purse and music binder.

  "Well, good night, Maureen. See you Sunday."

  He had just stepped in the direction of his office so he could lock up when he heard her say, "Ya know, my mother always used to say that you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Know what I mean?" she asked as she pushed through the doors with him.

  Feeling a dull thud in his chest, Andrew considered sharing with Maureen how he left his honey back at the Stone Arch Bridge last June.

  Thinking better of it, he gave her a polite nod. "Be careful going home. Thanks again for the stew."

  * * *

  Watching where she walked so as to avoid dipping her thigh-high, black boots in puddles of spilled beer, Sara made her way to the closest exit. The pounding bass continued to echo in her ears even as she stepped out onto Lawrence Avenue. Despite the cold, the sidewalk was teaming with pockets of noisy people looking for fun on a Friday night.

  Had she noticed the valet leering at her, she likely would not have given him such a generous tip before getting in her car and making her way to Bell's Market for some creamy, frozen deliciousness and a six pack of her favorite dark ale.

  Open 'round the clock, the small organic grocery store was popular with the eclectic residents living in the surrounding neighborhoods of Lincoln Square and Ravenswood. Thankfully, on this night, there were only a handful of cars in the lot.

  Wedging her on-fumes Honda in between a motorcycle and a dark-blue Jeep, she pulled the key out of the ignition, grabbed her purse, and sauntered into the store. While a frigid wind had picked up outside, the interior felt more like a sauna and smelled of too many overcooked samples of crab puffs and tofu tacos. She slipped off her jacket to reveal a snug bustier as gray as her eyes, flung her leather jacket over her arm, and headed for the frozen food section.

  While scanning the many rows of pint-sized cartons, she zeroed in on the flavors trying to find one that had the potential to satisfy her craving. She pulled out one labeled "Red Devil" and read its description. Red velvet-flavored ice cream spiked with red chili peppers.

  A look of disgust swept over her face, and she shoved it back into place.

  Catching the introduction of an old Sheryl Crow hit strumming out of the store's sound system, Sara started idly harmonizing just below the melody. Half the time, she didn't even realize she was doing it. By the time the song finished, she had decided on a pint of Berries and Dream ice cream (black raspberry cheesecake flavor with savory hunks of graham cracker crust).

  As she reached for it, her burned-out brain wandered back home to William's Cove where she used to go berry picking in the woods with her mom. But that was before she decided to ditch Sara, her brother, Kerry, and their dad for an airline pilot based in Miami. Didn't even say good-bye.

  An all-too-familiar ache weighed heavily in her chest, and a fat tear plopped from the corner of her eye when she blinked.

  Hearing the strains of another old acoustic classic fill the air, her memory bank fast-forwarded to the night of her 21st birthday, when her brother, ten years older, entered them in the Bay Shore Club's open-mic contest. While he played guitar and sang lead on James Taylor's "You Can Close Your Eyes," Sara harmonized on what had always been her favorite bedtime song. The place was packed with regulars, mostly friends and neighbors who knew what the family had been through, along with a fair amount of strangers visiting from towns dotting the shore of Lake Michigan between Chicago and Milwaukee. As usual, Sara scanned the crowd for her mother's face and as usual was disappointed but not surprised.

  By the time they finished singing, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

  All things considered, it was the best night of her life.

  And everything went downhill from there.

  She stared blindly at the pints of ice cream before her, amazed that it had been almost three years since she had last seen or heard from her brother. And how it had been about that long since she had the opening bars of that song tattooed in a delicate black strand starting on her upper left shoulder and ending on her right.

  Lost in the haze of a sad memory, the sound of someone trying to work out the melody directly behind her was more than disconcerting. Raising her pint of ice cream like she had just pulled the pin on a live grenade, she turned in the narrow aisle and found herself looking into the kindest blue eyes she had ever seen.

  "I'm not familiar with that one."

  The smooth cadence of his voice gave her pause.

  Radio announcer? DJ?

  "Is it in cut time?" he asked.

  Sara's eyes followed his as they drifted upward to take in her pint-size weapon.

  They were so blue, like robin's eggs (must be contacts), and were fringed with spiky black lashes.

  With a sob still lodged in her throat, she warbled, "What do you think you're doing?"

  Before he could reply, she glanced up and down the empty aisle, disappointed that she came off more
like a pussycat than a piranha.

  Even as an odd sense of peace started to envelope her, she hissed, "You can't just sneak up on a complete stranger and—"

  "I'm very sorry." Lowering his chin, he met her distraught gaze. She watched as a smile curved the corners of his mouth upward, revealing a sparkling row of pearly whites.

  He leaned toward her, and for a split second she thought he was going to hug her. As surprising a move as that would've been, what surprised her more was that she would have let him.

  Instead, he put his hand on her forearm and gently lowered it.

  She just stood there, unable to speak, like he was some sort of sorcerer who cast spells on unsuspecting women shopping for ice cream alone on a Friday night.

  "I didn't mean to upset you," he ventured. "I've just never come across anyone with a measure of music tattooed across their…"

  As his gaze dropped to the bare skin above her tight, cleavage-baring bustier, his cheeks reddened under a day or two's worth of dark stubble. "Well, shoulders. Across their bare shoulders before."

  Dragging his eyes upward to meet hers, he fumbled, "I mean, across her bare shoulders. Because you are, of course, a woman."

  Sara's eyebrows bunched together under her bangs. The spell was broken.

  After an intentionally long minute, she asked, "You don't get out much, do you?"

  At that, his cheeks went crimson.

  Freakin' adorable…

  Eyeing him like a cat does a mouse, she looked the grocery-store stalker up and down. He was barely an inch taller than she was. Granted, the heels of her boots gave her at least a two-inch boost. His thick black hair was on the shorter side, and most of it was combed up off of his forehead. He had a slight overbite, a heart-shaped face, and his eyes tilted down a bit in the corners. As for clothes, topping what she couldn't help but notice were some nicely fitting Levi's, he had on a plain white T-shirt under a thick, tightly woven, navy-blue Henley sweater.

  Two words sprang to mind.

  Ken. Doll.

  He fit the mold perfectly. Ruggedly handsome, Ken dolls were the embodiment of all things competent, self-assured, charming, and wholesome. Sara knew the type well. They'd infiltrate William's Cove on weekends, driving up from their wealthy hamlets dotting Chicago's north shore to sail on gorgeous Lake Compton or golf at one of the nearby resorts. While she never minded the well-mannered breed or the generous tips they usually left when she waited their tables, she always felt so inferior in their presence.