Grace shook herself and asked Sister Bryce if she could be excused. In the privacy of the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face and slapped herself a few times. He can’t even buy you a meal, Grace. With those lips, who’d be thinking about eating? She doused herself with cold water again and looked in the mirror. All she could see was Brother Horace’s toasty skin. She couldn’t shake his hypnotic eyes, his commanding gait, and his wide back. Get it together. It hasn’t been that long since you were with a man.
Her little pep talk didn’t work. Brother Horace was still on her mind, so Grace pulled out her phone to call the one person who could always—well, almost always—get her thinking in order.
“Ethan, what took you so long to pick up?” she demanded after the fifth ring.
“I can’t talk now, Grace.”
“Ethan, I need you.”
“Grace, I’m sure it can wait. Are you at the church?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can’t get into that much trouble.”
“That’s what you think. There’s this guy here. He looks like—”
“I’m way downtown with Candace. Jesus is closer, so try praying. Don’t forget you have anger management tomorrow morning. Bye,” Ethan said hurriedly before hanging up on her.
Grace frowned at her iPhone. No booze. No boys. No Ethan. Why on earth would she pray to the Lord, when He insists on torturing her?
With her attention still focused on the screen of her phone, which was now dark, Grace walked out of the bathroom with her head down and bumped right into the chest of Horace. Her phone fell from her hands and hit the floor.
Both Horace and Grace stooped down to retrieve her telephone. Horace’s arms were slightly longer than Grace’s, so he was able to pick her phone up first. He let it dangle in his open palm. Grace snatched her phone out of his hand and stood up straight.
“Next time you need to watch where you’re going,” she barked.
Horace licked his lips and stood up straight as well. “I was watching where I was going. I’ve been meaning to bump into you around here. You were the one so engrossed in your little gadget that you didn’t see me.”
Grace tucked her phone into her back pocket. “So, what do you want now? An apology or something?”
“No. Allow me to apologize for interrupting that important exchange. Given the time I just interfered either with the exchange of the most romantic texts or in the late-night negotiations of some major business deal. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, Ms. King.” Horace raised both of his hands in the air.
Even if either one of those notions of his were true, Grace still would not be able to find fault with those deep-set eyes and those plump lips.
“Grace. You can call me Grace.” She extended her hand to prove to Horace that she bore no hard feelings about what had just gone down.
Horace gathered her hand into his and raised it to his lips. He pressed his lips into the back of her hand and focused his eyes on her. The ardor of his gaze arrested her, and Sister Bryce’s high-pitched reprimand set her free.
“Brother Horace, leave that girl alone,” she said, slapping his shoulder with the rag she was carrying in her hand. Horace released Grace’s hand and held his head down while Sister Bryce slapped his shoulder blade a few more times with the rag. “Since you’re so good with your hands, you get out there and help take out this evening’s trash, you rascal.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Horace said, standing at attention.
“Grace, I came to check on you because you were taking so long. I wanted to make sure you were all right. Had I known Brother Horace was over here harassing you, I would have been here sooner.”
“Don’t worry, Sister Bryce. I can handle myself,” Grace said, staring directly into Horace’s eyes.
“It’s not you I’m worried about. Come on and let’s get the tables cleaned and the chairs put away. This ain’t no social club.” Sister Bryce pointed at Horace. “And, you, don’t you mess with this girl. She’s here for a reason, and she doesn’t need to get involved in any trouble.”
“Sister Bryce, I don’t want to tell any lies in the house of God. I don’t know if I can stay away from her.”
Chapter 8
Grace’s eyes darted from wall to wall and from corner to corner in Dr. Sternberg’s office. His degrees from Hofstra and Yale hung neatly in matte black frames on the wall behind his desk. Every paper and folder was meticulously stacked one on top of the other—not a thing was out of place. “They think I’m the one who needs professional help,” she mumbled, counting the number of pens in ajar that read SMILE—IT COULD BE WORSE on the table, which was equivalent to the number of notepads beside them. After an uneventful weekend, Monday had rolled around again and had led her here.
“You must be the remarkable Grace King,” Dr. Sternberg said from behind her.
Grace took a few steps farther into the room, allowing Dr. Sternberg some space to enter his own office. He stood beside her, jammed his hands into his pockets, and surveyed his office along with her.
“No one has ever referred to me as remarkable, but I certainly am the one and only Grace King.” She waved her hand above her head, as if she were presenting herself to an audience as a prize on a game show.
“Please take a seat, Ms. King. You’re paying me by the hour.” Dr. Sternberg motioned toward the sofa.
“By the hour? I’m going to have to speak to someone about this. I didn’t sign up for this. Why should I pay for it? You see, stuff like this gets me so—”
“Angry?” Dr. Sternberg said, completing her sentence.
Grace nodded, then slid into a cucumber-green leather chair with an angled back, crossed one leg over the other, and rested her arms on the armrests.
Dr. Sternberg took a seat in an identical chair just a few feet away from her.
“Would you like to hang up your coat?” He pointed toward a wooden coatrack just over her shoulder.
Grace opened the top button of her camel hair coat. “I don’t think I’ll be here that long. Who’s your interior designer?” Grace’s eyes scanned the room. The cool green color palette and the art deco furniture were a great fusion of soft and hard. “I really like the way you have this place decorated. I was thinking about having my condo redecorated while I have all this downtime.”
“I’m completely booked until December.” Dr. Sternberg smiled.
“You did this?” Grace asked, wiggling her finger in a circular motion.
“I most certainly did. I selected a color palette based on the colors that are least likely to induce rage, studied a little feng shui, and tried to select the most beautiful items I possibly could.”
“So, you basically trick your patients into not being angry. Check please.” Grace held her hand in the air.
“No. I just try to create a safe and serene place for my patients to feel comfortable sharing intimate details about their life with me, a total stranger. Then, gradually, they enter into group therapy, and if their mind isn’t right, this just won’t work. There’s something about being surrounded by beauty that lulls you into a state of calmness,” Dr. Sternberg explained.
Grace doubted that he was usually this forthcoming with his patients. Clearly, this little talk was nothing more than a ruse to gain her trust and confidence.
“Is it working, Grace?” he asked eagerly.
Grace looked around the office once more before putting her stamp of approval on the place. “You did good, Doc.”
“Thank you. Now let’s get down to business. We both know why you’re here.”
“You think you can cure me?”
Doctor Sternberg rubbed the bald spot in the center of his head. “There is no cure for anger. However, it can be curbed. Stand up.” He stood and waited for Grace to join him. He walked her over to a closet and opened it. A large, round, ornately decorated mirror hung on the inside of the door.
“Look at yourself.”
Is he craz
y? I know what I look like.
“Doc, did you read the file? I’m a model. I look at myself all the time.”
“Do you ever get an opportunity to look at yourself, or do you look only at a stylized version of yourself, all primped and posed the way that some curator of style has positioned you, like you’re an artifact in a museum? Do you ever get a chance to look Grace King in the eye? Have you ever—”
Grace held her hands up in the air, forming a T, in front of Dr. Sternberg’s face, signaling a time-out.
“Dr. Sternberg, I appreciate your concern, but don’t you think that you’re jumping in the deep end of the pool a little early? You don’t even know if I know how to swim. May I at least take off my coat?”
Bowing in concession, Dr. Sternberg backed up a bit, providing Grace enough room to remove her coat and stretch her long limbs.
“Are you ready now?” he asked after she had set down her coat. “I promise to take it easy on you. I’ll ask you just one more question.”
Grace ran her hands along the sides of her one-piece floral jumpsuit, then adjusted the red leather belt she wore midwaist to emphasize her waist. The sweat on her palms made the jumpsuit’s pants stick to her legs. All you have to do is look in the mirror. Lift your chin and straighten your back, she reminded herself after tucking her hands into her pockets. Slowly, she raised her head, leading with her eyes.
“What do you see?” Dr. Sternberg asked in a whisper.
She took a quick inventory of her face. Her pores appeared to be growing, and she’d put on a few pounds. They hadn’t caused her to lose the contour in her cheeks yet. All the nights she had spent staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what her next move should be, had prompted some bags to collect under her eyes.
“What do you see?” Dr. Sternberg asked again.
“A tired model.”
“Not what do you do, but what do you see?” Dr. Sternberg stepped behind her, disappearing behind her tall frame. He squeezed her arms and jerked her body a bit. “Look at yourself, Grace. What do you see when you look at yourself?”
The word seemed to be spray painted across the mirror—mistake. Mistake was all she could see. Closing her eyes was no help. The word mistake reverberated in her ears like a gong. Cold shoulders and hushed whispers were imprinted upon the backs of her eyelids, along with the word mistake.
“What do you see, Grace?”
When she opened her eyes, the word was still there on the mirror.
“A mistake,” she said dryly. “When I look in the mirror, I see a mistake.”
Chapter 9
Grace pounded the pavement as she headed up Lenox Avenue, toward 125th Street, to meet Junell for lunch. Since Junell’s show, Bloodshed, was filmed in New York, they tried to meet for lunch as often as possible. After the eye-opening encounter she’d had at anger management the previous day, she wasn’t in the mood for small talk or for the mini-sermons that Junell always seemed to have prepared every time they talked. Nor had she been in the mood for the guilt trip Junell would lay on her if she canceled. Thus, she had decided to head on out, regardless of her mood.
A walk usually made her feel better, although it didn’t feel that great in pointed-toe heels. Grace noted all the new construction and the renovation being completed on the brownstones that lined Lenox Avenue. She hoped to one day own one of those brownstones and to have a cute little family to go with it. First, she’d need a husband.
Having a husband was no longer a necessity for most women. There were plenty of women opting to be single parents today. No, sir, that ain’t for me, Grace decided, watching a woman lug a stroller in one hand and a baby in the other down the steps of a brownstone. She preferred the stability, the help, and the warmth that a man could bring over independence. The only problem Grace had—besides being involved in one too many public brawls—was finding a husband, especially now that Candace had Ethan under what seemed to be some kind of love spell. Being forced to spend all her time serving food at Mount Carmel was not conducive to finding a mate, either.
“Grace! Grace!”
Grace stopped walking and scanned the dust and scaffolding, searching for the one who had called her name. Brother Horace emerged from between some scaffolding, with his bulky arms on display in a sleeveless gray shirt. Most of his clothes were covered in splotches of white paint and a coating of dust.
“Nice jacket,” he said as he ran his fingers down the lapel of her jacket.
No one was allowed to even breathe on her custom-made Balenciaga motorcycle jacket, yet all she could think about was how cute Brother Horace looked in his hard hat.
“What are you doing walking around here with no bodyguards?” he asked.
“Do you think I need someone to guard my body, Brother Horace?” Grace added a little extra arch to her back.
Smiling, Brother Horace removed his hard hat, giving Grace a direct view of his sumptuous brown eyes. “With a body like that, someone should be watching you.”
“Brother Horace.” Grace lightly slapped him on the chest, fabricating a look of innocence. “Are you being fresh?”
“Yes, I am. I’m saved, not dead. I know a good-looking woman when I see one.”
“Wow.”
“Don’t act so shocked. I know you know you’re one of God’s greatest endeavors,” he said, licking his lips. “I’d like to see more of you, Grace.”
“Yeah, I’ll see you on Wednesday at the pantry.”
While his directness and confidence aroused the butterflies in Grace’s stomach, there were two big warning signs that flashed before her eyes. One, his bank account was way too low, so there’d be no romantic getaways to Golden Bay beach in Malta and no suites at the Mandarin Oriental. And then there was the whole “man of God” thing. She’d already experimented with romance in the church. It was the greatest romance she’d ever known and the worst heartbreak she’d ever felt. If Grace had been allowed to continue dating her then boyfriend, David, if their relationship hadn’t ended because he was forced to put his career in the ministry before his feelings for her, she wouldn’t be so full of distress right now, she thought. Loving a man of God wasn’t a roller-coaster ride that she was about to step willingly onto again.
“I have to go, Horace. I was on my way to meet a friend for lunch before you stopped me.” She walked away without saying good-bye and refused to look back, even though she could feel his eyes locked on her every move.
Grace scuttled her way up the next three blocks to the restaurant, then plopped into the seat across from Junell at their table on the sidewalk.
“Why are you out of breath? Paparazzi or crazed fan?” Junell asked, pushing a glass of water at Grace.
Grace took a gulp of the water and fanned her cheeks a little before she began speaking. “It was neither. I’m so glad to see you, Junie.”
“I’m glad to be seen. I hope you don’t mind eating alfresco. It’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to eat alfresco, and with this gorgeous weather, it works out perfectly. Sixty degrees is the perfect temperature for September. I’m so over summer. I ordered you a shrimp po’boy, and I ordered the pulled pork for me. Is that okay?”
“A shrimp po’boy? Do you know how many calories that is? And you ordered pulled pork?”
“You’re not working now, so why are you counting calories? You could use a little meat on those bones,” Junell said, reaching over the table and pinching Grace’s slender and toned triceps.
“Girl, who am I fooling? I’m not working right now, or anytime soon. I suppose I can indulge a little.” Grace smiled widely at Junell’s round face. There was a certain warmth that Junell emanated. “Now, I have an excuse. Unemployment will make you consume carbs in mass quantities, but when did you start eating pork? Or are you still in character?”
“Since I found out I was pregnant. We tried to keep it under wraps until I hit the three-month mark, which is today. Grace, can you believe it? I’m pregnant!” Junell raised her arms in the air, doin
g a double fist pump.
Grace didn’t move. Her heart prompted her to celebrate, to get ready to throw a baby shower that rivaled Kim Kardashian’s baby shower. Meanwhile, her mind told her, Don’t you move! Don’t you even crack a smile for her. You have no reason to be happy. She’s having a baby not you.
“Aw . . . G, I’m sorry.” Junell rubbed the back of Grace’s hand. “It’s not too late for you to have children. Just because you had an abortion doesn’t mean the Lord won’t bless you with a baby someday.”
“Well, what is He waiting for? It wasn’t my choice to have an abortion. My mother and father convinced me that it would be best for me and for the father.”
“What did the father think?”
Grace paused as the waiter arrived with their food. Right now she did not need someone looking for a come up to overhear this story and leak it to the press. The waiter took his time placing their plates gently in front of them. Then he snapped open their cloth napkins and poured them each a fresh glass of water. Grace knew he must have recognized her or Junell and was delivering the best service he could in order to walk out with a handful of cash.
“What would you ladies like to drink?”
“I need something strong,” Grace said, peeling off her leather jacket. She looked at the list of cocktails, skipping over all the ones that ended with ini or had some type of fruit as an ingredient. “Gimme the Down in the Delta.”
Junell looked at her over her drink menu with both of her eyebrows raised.
“Don’t look at me like that, Junie. The strongest thing in it is gin. We both know I can handle a little bit of gin. She’ll stick with the water,” Grace said, turning back to the waiter. Grace snatched the drink menu from Junell and shoved it and her own menu in the waiter’s hands. “Thanks, love.” She patted him on the rear end, sending him away.
“You’re not off the hook, Grace. What did the father think?” Junell said, pressing, as she propped her elbows up on the table and rested her head on her hands—a sure sign that she wasn’t going to let this conversation go.
Seasoned with Grace Page 5