Remember the Night: a Heroes of the Night military romance novel (26 page)

Dianne paused long enough to survey her baffled staffers before asking, "Sound good?"

Sara glanced at Aubrey who had turned at least two shades paler and Nancy who looked like she was about to say something but in a rare show of restraint appeared to have thought better of it.

Before any of them could respond, Dianne announced, "You leave tomorrow. Stop by Sheri Phelps's desk before you leave tonight. She'll have your itinerary and hotel information."

She peered down at the three women like a big game hunter who had just bagged a fresh kill before delivering her parting shot. "Use your cell phones for photos. Oh, and mileage reimbursement is only 25 cents on the dollar, so I suggest you all drive together."

*   *   *

"Are we there yet? I can't feel my feet."

Aubrey, who had selflessly agreed to sit in the very cramped backseat of Sara's sturdy little Honda for the first leg of the Krypto Blight tour hadn't complained once. Until now. According to the GPS they were just ten minutes away from the Davenport exit.

Sara, preoccupied with trying to dispel the nagging feeling that she forgot something, was busy running through an inventory of everything she had packed for the tenth time. Coming up empty again, she asked her travel companions, "So who are you guys bringing to Mattie and Nick's wedding?"

"I have to bring a date?" Aubrey practically whimpered from the backseat before asking for the third time if Sara's car had backseat side-impact air bags.

Nancy turned to face her. "Yeah, your plus one." Quiet for a moment, she exclaimed, "Hey. Maybe you can ask what's-his-name."

Sara glanced in her rearview mirror at Aubrey. She looked carsick. "You OK, Aubs?"

Aubrey met her gaze and nodded. Then she looked at Nancy. "Oh, I couldn't. He doesn't even know I exist."

Glancing at Nancy, Sara whispered, "Who are we talking about?"

"Malcolm Darvish."

"Who?"

"That guy in accounting? The one who has that
it's good to be me
air about him?"

"I have no idea who you're talking about."

"Oh, he's so perfect." Aubrey sighed from the backseat.

Nancy grimaced. "If you say so."

Sara smiled and stole another glance at the now dreamy-eyed Aubrey. "What do you like about him?"

Leaning back in her seat, the travel writer listed off her dream date's attributes. "He's handsome, dresses impeccably—"

Nancy chortled. "Yeah, if you can look beyond his squeaky, pointy-toed shoes and his pants that always look like they're too short." Looking at Sara, she added, "Maybe he's still growing."

Ignoring the interruption, Aubrey continued. "I hear he went to Harvard, and he just bought a condo in that new building over by the river."

Changing lanes to get around a semi, Sara asked, "Is he single?"

"I think so. He doesn't wear a ring." With a quick shiver, she nearly squealed. "I'd give anything to dance cheek-to-cheek with him. Just once."

"Then you should ask him, Aubs. What have you got to lose?"

Aubrey fell silent and stared out the window.

Glancing at her bold shotgun-seat passenger, Sara asked, "How about you, Nance?"

"Oh dear lord, it's not for what three more months? I've got plenty of time to find a date. So many to choose from, ya know?" At that, the associate food editor fell silent for a moment, then asked, "How about you Sara? Think
Jer
will join you?"

Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Sara drew a deep breath. The last place she wanted to invite the marriage-hungry musician was to a wedding, especially since Mattie, who used to write the
Plate Spinner
column before Claire came on board, asked her to be a bridesmaid. Not sure if either of her travel companions were asked, she didn't bring it up, but still the thought of being at the church, let alone a wedding reception, with Jer made her feel carsick.

Giving her head a quick shake, she replied, "Probably not."

"Oh, how come?" the ever-hopeful Aubrey piped from the backseat.

Sara glanced in the rearview mirror. "He's just not the dancing cheek-to-cheek type."

Nancy, who had announced as soon as she got in the car back in Chicago that she had spent much of the previous night researching restaurants and noteworthy (read: hot and single) chefs at each of their destinations with very limited success, squinted out the passenger side window at the gentle slopes of dormant, snow-covered farmland. With a sigh she announced, "Daphne's Corn Dogs, here we come."

As Sara flipped on her turn signal and curved into the slow winding descent onto US Route 61 southbound, it hit her.

I forgot to leave Jer a check for rent.

*   *   *

The interim music director at St. Matthias was having a horrible, awful, very bad day. First up, the printer sputtered its last toner-splotched breath just as he sent the master copy of that weekend's worship sheet to the print queue. While he was trying to get a repairperson on the line, the elementary school principal stopped by and just happened to mention that she switched the school book fair to that afternoon. If she had checked with him first (as he had asked her to do at least a dozen times already), she would've discovered that he had scheduled a make-up practice for the children's choir in the same space at the school.

By lunchtime, he wouldn't have been surprised if someone told him he had steam coming out of his ears like an angry cartoon character.

But his day wasn't over. He had to play at a funeral Mass that afternoon for a beloved teenager who had collapsed and died during a high school basketball game from an undiagnosed heart defect and, God help him, he had adult choir practice at 7:00.

And if someone called him "Andy" one more time, he was going to pack his bags and take the first flight to Nantucket to pursue a career in cod fishing.

In a huff, he started making his way down the hall from his office to the main reception area so he could
run away escape
go grab some lunch.

Just as he was about to grasp the door handle, Mrs. Gibbons, the receptionist who first took the job back when they still did duck-and-cover drills in the school, intercepted him. Holding her wrinkled hand over the phone receiver, she announced, "Father Steve would like to see you."

She mouthed, "Sorry," while pointing toward the Pastor's door.

Taking a deep breath, he turned and straightened his tie before making his way back down the hall.

"You wanted to see me, Father?"

The middle-aged Filipino priest, who tended to rub the more traditional, conservative members of the congregation the wrong way with his unannounced mid-Mass musical interpretations of the Gospel, waved him in.

"Take a seat, Andrew."

Sinking into the chair, one thought crossed the music director's mind.
If he fires me now, at least I won't have to hold choir practice tonight.

Father Steve leaned back in his own chair and studied Andrew for a moment before asking, "So, tell me. How do you like it here, Andrew?"

Feeling his face jerk into a forced smile, he replied, "Oh, very much." He followed it with an unconvincing nod.

God forgive me for lying to a priest.

He resisted the urge to twist his face into a wince before asking, "Why do you ask?"

Father Steve drummed his fingers on his desk and narrowed his eyes, "I'll be honest with you…"

That makes one of us.

"…the parish board isn't convinced that we should extend your contract. There have been a number of complaints." He trailed off.

Andrew took a deep breath as the faces of his naysayers, many of whom were in choir, appeared before him. As if their disgruntled faces weren't enough, their whispers and grumbles spoke volumes.

He's too critical.

So rude.

No sense of humor

He works us too hard.

So irreverent.

He doesn't appreciate us.

Now that the grueling Christmas season was behind them, members were bailing on him faster than Protestants on a tour of the Vatican.

"Yes, I know my way of doing things is not what certain parishioners here are used to, but as far as the choir is concerned, with a little more time, I'm sure I can get them to see, well,
hear
the payoff for all of their hard work."

At that, the priest leaned forward. "For the record, I don't agree with the parish board, and I don't think I'm the only one. In case you haven't noticed, 10:00 am Mass—the one your choir sings at—is our most well-attended."

Picking up a little pink piece of paper, he waved it midair and announced, "And Bishop Kramer enjoyed their performance at Lessons and Carols on Christmas Eve so much that he's coming here to celebrate Easter Mass."

The priest's eyes suddenly seemed clouded with visions of overflowing collection baskets.

"Think you can get that choir of yours on board with your way of doing things by then?"

Andrew lifted an eyebrow and nodded. "Sure thing."

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."

KEY CHANGE

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