Candace made a sharp left turn when she got off the elevator. She evaluated herself in the mirror before walking to Ethan’s office. Her red lipstick made her skin beam, and her teeth seemed whiter. She smoothed out the wrinkles in the color-block white-and-black Vince Camuto dress she’d picked up at Burlington Coat Factory. She was out of her element when it came to high fashion.
Her ankles wobbled as she strode down the hall in red suede platform pumps. All this felt so unnatural, but during a talk with her mom, they had both agreed it was time to ramp up the wow factor in her relationship with Ethan if he was willing to dismiss her at the flicker of Grace King’s eyelashes.
Coaching herself as she walked down the hall to Ethan’s office, she reviewed the tips she’d heard the judges give contestants on America’s Next Top Model—suck in your stomach, straighten your shoulders, and remember to smile with your eyes.
Candace had a hard time smiling with her eyes while gritting her teeth. Sharp pains shot up her calves with every step she took. She could already hear Alice making smart remarks about her sudden change in appearance, but to her relief, Alice wasn’t seated at her desk.
Candace took a breath and waited a beat before making her way into Ethan’s office. Even though the door was open a crack, she extended her fist to rap on it. When she did so, the door slid open, and Candace’s jaw dropped. The burning sting of shock paralyzed her. In her head she was screaming, Stop! Get your hands off him! However, in actuality, not a single word came out of her mouth. All Candace could do was watch Ethan cradle Grace in his arms and comfort her with his supple lips. Her lips.
She eased the door open some more and stepped into the office. Her black clutch fell to the floor. The clatter that the clutch made when it struck the floor disrupted Ethan and Grace’s makeout session. The glare that Candace directed at Grace caused her to freeze.
Ethan struggled to get his explanation out. “C-C-Candace, it’s . . . it’s . . . not what it looks like,” he stammered.
Flashing the palm of her hand at Ethan, Candace walked directly up to Grace and slapped both of her cheeks.
Grace cupped her stinging cheeks in disbelief. She couldn’t recall the last time anyone had pimp slapped her, because no one had. Ever.
Candace’s hands shook like those of someone with Parkinson’s. What are you doing, Candace? What if she presses charges? she thought. None of that mattered. Candace chalked up her newfound brashness to her red lipstick. Kicking butt was permissible if you wore red lipstick. She chuckled at the thought.
“Candace,” Grace cried.
“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare.” Candace shook her finger at Grace. “You ungrateful wretch. Don’t you dare call my name.”
“Candace, I’m sorry,” Grace said.
“You’re not sorry. You’re ungrateful. You’re blind. You’re too blind to see that your life has been seasoned with grace, too blind to see that God has blessed you and caused you to flourish in life, too blind to be satisfied with all that you have, and so you have to steal the little bone that I’ve been thrown,” she said, pointing at Ethan. “And now I know why God suffered Naaman to be killed, because this type of betrayal is unbearable.”
The fire of Candace’s wrath caused Grace to break down in tears. Candace sighed, frustrated at the sight. Usually, those tears quashed any problem Grace had; however, those were not going to be enough to quench Candace’s wrath. Those tears only aggravated Candace more. She was stretching forth her hand once more to slap Grace when Ethan decided to intervene.
“All right, Candace. That’s enough,” he said sternly while pulling her hand back.
“What’s enough? Are you sure she’s reaped everything she deserves when she walks around slapping people in the face all the time?” Candace spat.
“But, Candace, you are not the judge,” Grace said.
“You’re right. I’m the victim.” Candace folded her hands across her chest. “Which one of us will you defend, Counselor?”
Ethan’s eyes darted back and forth between Grace and Candace, as if the question Candace had just posed was a difficult one.
Instead of waiting to find out where Ethan’s allegiance lay, Candace turned around and walked out the door just as quietly as she’d entered.
“Ethan, I’m sorry,” Grace said softly. She tried to downplay the delight in her heart that he’d chosen her—at least that was how she’d interpreted his silence.
Ethan raised his tortoiseshell glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Grace, let’s not do this now. Let’s work on getting things back on track. When do you plan on returning to Mount Carmel?”
Grace rolled her eyes. Community service was the last of her worries. Her future plans did not include returning to the church. “Do I have to go back?” she asked, pouting.
The trauma of revisiting her rape through Javier’s script, compounded by Candace’s slap, was enough pain for the whole month. Grace couldn’t stomach spending any more time with those hypocrites at church, who, like Candace, spouted off verses of love and still criticized her life, as if they knew what was going on, as if they could endure all that she had. How could Candace even think Grace’s life had been “seasoned with grace”?
There was a time when the church was a great place to her but after being ridiculed, rejected, first by her own parents and then the whole congregation because of a mistake, the church was no longer a refuge; it was more like a place of torture.
“You can purse your lips all you want.” Ethan stepped behind his desk, creating distance between the two of them. “But you’re going back to the church, you’re going to do the darn movie, and you’re going back to anger management. As a matter of fact, we’re going to set that up for you right now.” He picked up the phone and began dialing. With his hand over the receiver, he dismissed her. “You know where the church is, right?”
Grace nodded.
“Then get going.”
Alone in his office, Ethan tried to figure out how he would get back into Candace’s good graces. He called her twenty-six times and left her at least ten messages. The first ten times the phone went straight to voice mail, and the other sixteen calls were acts of desperation. He didn’t want to walk out of his office after what had taken place that afternoon without getting a chance to share his side of the story. He wasn’t the smooth and cunning type when it came to the ladies. Unfortunately for Ethan, he knew how to turn on the charm only in the courtroom. There he could be spontaneous, assertive, and comedic—whatever it took to win the jury was what he delivered. Yet when it came to the opposite sex, he was as inept as a toddler learning to feed himself.
After narrowing his apology strategy down to two methods—the Spike Lee, She’s Gotta Have It “Please, baby” plea or the “Forgive me, as Christ forgave you” Christian guilt trip—he practiced each one in the mirror, weighing their effectiveness, the entire afternoon.
“How many times are you going to do that this afternoon?” Alice shouted over the intercom, daring to set him straight. “These walls aren’t as thick as you think. I can hear you. You do know that, right?”
“Alice, don’t you have work to do?”
“I suppose I could ask you the same question,” Alice retorted. “But I’m not. What I will do, though, is make a recommendation. I don’t know what you did while I was gone to wind up all alone and begging, but this is not the time to rehearse an opening statement or devise some tactical plan to divert attention and shift the blame. Now is the time to bare it all.”
Ethan scooted his chair up closer to the desk, listening intently to Alice’s advice.
“Tell her how you feel, admit that you did wrong, tell her why you did wrong, and apologize. If she doesn’t accept your apology, you know what you do?”
“What?”
“Move on,” she yelled. “I know you’re looking for the one. I know you want Ms. Bible Belt to be the one, but if she’s not able to deal with the truth, accept your flaws, and iron out the wrinkles in
your relationship, she’s not the one, and I recommend that you cut your losses now.”
“Cut my losses,” Ethan muttered, mostly to himself. “How am I supposed to do that?”
“It won’t be easy. This will either make or break your relationship, boss.”
“Thank you, Alice, for that ‘facts of life’ moment. Now get back to work. Please get Javier Roberts on the phone for me.”
Chapter 18
“Who ran over your puppy?” Horace asked, nudging Grace’s elbow.
Cracking half a smile, Grace eked out a sparse hello. She wasn’t up for any chitchat this afternoon. It was Friday, and she was spending it in a church, which made her even more determined to hold on to the anger and sadness that had seized her.
“Where have you been?” Horace snatched a chair from the table to the left of Grace and sat down beside her. “This place hasn’t been the same without you, Grace.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t,” she said listlessly, without looking at him.
“You know something? I am so tired of you looking like a sad sack of potatoes, when God made you a lily. If you don’t get anything else out of this experience, you’re going to get some deliverance. Let’s go,” he said, snatching her hand so hard, she nearly flew out of her seat.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded to know.
“To the sanctuary. The pastor is up there, and I want him to lay hands on you.”
“Oh, no,” she said in protest, digging her heels into the floor, to no avail. That only made it easier for Horace to drag her across the linoleum tiles. “I have to help Sister Bryce clean this mess up.”
“I’m sure she’ll figure something out.” Horace came to a halt at the doorway. “Sister Bryce,” he shouted across the dining room, “I’m taking Ms. King to the sanctuary to get Pastor to pray for her. Is that all right with you?”
Sister Bryce clapped her hands together in delight. “Praise God. Prayer changes everything, Ms. Grace. You gon’ be all right now,” Sister Bryce said, waving her cleaning rag in the air at them.
Grace cursed Horace and the rest of the gang of Holy Rollers, who were determined to get her, as they marched in single file up the steps that led to the sanctuary. They mounted the last step and entered the vast sanctuary.
The scent of the old wooden pews resting on top of the burgundy carpet and the sight of the hymnals strewn about reminded her of her first and only church home—Mount Moriah. Tears lined her eyes as she looked upon the scraggly pieces of wood that made up the altar.
“Hey, Pastor.” Horace waved at a man who was hunched over between two pews, scraping gum off the back of the one in front of him. “When you’re done over there, can you please pray for this sister over here?”
“Sure. Give me one minute to get the rest of this gum up,” the pastor said, without looking up.
The smooth copper tone of the pastor’s voice resonated in Grace’s ears. There was something familial and intriguing about it. Deciding that his rich and welcoming voice was evidence that he was probably a good orator, Grace stepped forward to receive her healing.
The pastor stood up straight and dusted off his pants before turning to greet Horace. “Fill me, O Lord, with your words to say to bring about change and deliverance in the life being presented before me,” he said, then pivoted around to face Horace and Grace.
“This here is Gr—”
“Grace King,” Pastor David said, completing Horace’s introduction.
“I didn’t know you were a fan, Pastor David,” Horace remarked.
Grace raised her eyes toward Pastor David and then backed up into Horace’s chest. Pinned against him, she whispered to him through clenched teeth, “Is this really your pastor?”
“Yeah. Why?” Horace whispered back.
“I don’t need him to lay hands on me. He already has.”
Choking on his spit, Horace backed up and doubled over.
“Grace King,” Pastor David repeated as he made his way across the sanctuary to get closer to her. By the time he reached her, tears were rolling down her cheeks in what seemed like two small brooks. “Where have you been?” he asked, reaching for her hand.
“Trying to stay far away from you,” she said, snatching her hand back. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Me far away from here so you could concentrate on your ministry?” She made air quotes around the word ministry, then awaited a response.
“Never once did I say anything like that.”
“You didn’t have to. Your henchmen did the dirty work and the heavy lifting.”
“Henchmen?”
“I’m confused,” Horace interjected, scratching the center of his head.
“Me too,” Pastor David said, grimacing.
Grace wiped the tears from her eyes and began to chant, I am a warrior, in her head, trying to amp herself up to handle Pastor David’s denial. First, he’d denied their baby, forcing her to get an abortion, and now here he was, denying that this had taken place. Denying the fact that on more than one occasion his parents and her parents had surrounded her like vultures flying over carrion and had stoned her with proverbs about adulteress women who destroy good young men. She hadn’t wanted to be that. The last thing she had wanted to do was hurt David, she thought when she gazed into his eyes, which he was still squinting in confusion.
“Get me out of here,” she said to Horace.
“No, Grace, you are not going anywhere,” Pastor David said, raising his voice. “You will not walk out of my life again without explaining yourself.”
Grace laughed, and then an evil sort of chortle escaped from her throat. She could feel her blood pressure rising. “I am not one of your puppets. You cannot tell me what to do.”
Pastor David reached for her hand again, and she backed up into Horace’s arms. Grace was afraid that if Pastor David touched her even slightly it would all come back—the love, the desire, the longing for her child, who had been snatched out of her womb. Her drama with Javier Roberts and the kiss she’d shared with Ethan had been enough to keep her thoughts about the child she’d gotten rid of at bay. Now just looking at David made her wonder if it was a boy and if he would have had the same smooth birch wood complexion as his father. Batting back those thoughts, she looked up at Horace and tried to plead with her eyes for him to get her out of there.
Horace rubbed her shoulders and whispered in her ear, “I told you that you were going to get some deliverance. Your past is preventing you from reaching your future.”
Grace looked up at him again. Not only was he fine, but he sure was deeper than she had him pegged for. Pastor David stared at her intently, as if that would bring the words out of her. Then he placed his palms together in front of his chest in an act of supplication. That was how he’d asked her out on their first date after church. Grace had rejected him the first time he asked her out during the break between the morning and afternoon services. He was thinner then and less muscular, she thought, taking note of the way the sleeves of his hunter green polo shirt hugged his biceps. She’d said no mostly out of obligation to her parents. They were raising her to be an elect lady, and elect ladies didn’t date casually. They married. When she was fifteen, marriage wasn’t something she was interested in, so she’d humbly declined.
Then David had cornered her after choir rehearsal in the kitchen of Mount Moriah. She was leaning on the soft gray granite countertop, waiting for some water to boil. Her throat was sore from belting out “I’m Going Up Yonder,” and her mother had insisted she drink some tea so she’d be ready for the evening service. When he crept into the kitchen, Grace had pretended not to notice him.
He must have been thinking of that moment too, because a wide grin spread across his face, just as it had that day when her eyes softened and she agreed in a gentle whisper to go on a date with him.
“Grace,” he said hesitantly.
Grace raised her head high enough for their eyes to meet.
“Please,” he said, his hands still folded i
n front of his chest.
Rubbing her head, Grace realized that if she said yes to Pastor David this time, it wouldn’t be as pleasurable for either one of them as their first date had been. Her chest tightened, and she heaved out a hard, “Yes, but can we sit down?”
Pastor David nodded and slid into a pew to the left of him. Horace supported Grace as she wobbled to the pew, and then he held her elbow as she lowered herself onto it. “I’m going to leave you two alone,” Horace said tepidly, turning away from Grace.
Extending her long arm, Grace reached for Horace and caught his pinkie. “Don’t leave me alone,” she mouthed to him. There was no guarantee that after hearing her confession, Horace would remain a Grace King supporter, but that didn’t matter to Grace. For now, at least, she had a supporter.
Horace stepped back, the floorboards creaking ever so slightly under him, and sat next to Grace. Both men looked around the sanctuary, avoiding eye contact with each other and with Grace. Horace looked straight ahead to the pulpit, and Pastor David fixed his eyes on a black spot on the carpet.
“You were being groomed for the ministry is what they told me,” Grace said, breaking the awkward silence.
“Who said?” Pastor David asked eagerly.
Holding her hand up, Grace said as calmly as possible, “Please don’t interrupt me. I’ve been carrying this pain for fifteen years.” She turned to Horace, whose gaze was still fixed in front of him. He placed his hand on her knee and squeezed it gently, encouraging her to continue.
Grace went on. “I was sick for about a week straight, vomiting, fainting, and whatnot. My father declared that Jesus was going to heal me about three days in, and by the end of the week my mother was in my room, sniffing me like a bloodhound. She said I smelled like copulation, and dragged me to the doctor while my daddy was at work.” Grace’s heart rate sped up, just as it had when she’d sat with her mother in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. She could feel the tears forming ranks around her eyeballs. The front line was ready to begin marching down her face.
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