Seasoned with Grace

by Nigeria Lockley

  “David, you were just a boy then.”

  Raising his head to meet her eyes, Pastor David replied, “Now I am man seeking forgiveness on behalf of the boy who hurt the girl still chained up inside of you.”

  “Well, are you going to forgive him or not?” Horace called out to Grace from his favorite spot in her condo—in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “If you’re going to be at Mount Carmel, then you’ve got to find a way to reach some sort of closure.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pressed graphite-colored khakis.

  “How do you like your coffee?” Grace asked, leaning over the countertop and dangling a large white porcelain mug from one finger, ready to fulfill his caffeinated desires.

  “The same way I like my women—strong and uncompromised. I like my coffee black,” Horace stated, finally looking over his shoulder at Grace.

  “This will be done in two shakes of a horse’s mane.” Grace spun around and tapped each K-Cup on the rack until she found the flavor she thought would best meet Horace’s desire for strong and uncompromised coffee. Dark Magic, extra bold, ought to suit him, she decided, thinking the description applied more to herself than the coffee. She popped the K-Cup into her Keurig, and in less than two minutes she was traipsing across her living room with a steaming hot mug of coffee in her hand.

  “Here you go, Horace,” Grace said softly as the mug of coffee exchanged hands. “Be careful. It’s hot,” she advised him, delicately resting her hand on his arm.

  “Thank you.”

  Horace blew on the mug a few times. Each time he puckered up, his supple lips called Grace in for a kiss. She eased a bit closer to him as he took his first sip of the coffee. She couldn’t understand why all that talk about reclaiming your life and a few minutes of hand holding had her feeling like she was sitting in a hot spring. Grace removed her blazer and threw her shoulders back. She knew her breasts were still perky enough to command attention from even the most devout worshipper. Horace, however, didn’t even try to sneak a peek from his periphery.

  “Well, Grace, what are you going to do?”

  “Is this a decision I have to make right now?”

  Horace turned around and looked at her face-to-face. “What do you think?”

  Grace knew what Horace wanted to hear. He wanted her to do the good Christian thing and say that she forgave Pastor David for everything that had happened. However, those words had not entirely taken root in her heart yet. She understood his position now, but that didn’t mean she forgave him. Thankfully, the intercom buzzed, announcing the arrival of an unexpected guest.

  “Hold that thought,” she said as she sped off to the intercom.

  “Who is it, Arnie?”

  “Some woman in dark glasses and a ridiculous hat, claiming to be your best friend,” Arnie said, rolling his eyes. In the background Junell could be heard shouting, “It’s me, Gracie,” and it was evident that she was trying to force her head over the counter into the camera’s view.

  The tip of her nose and the extra-wide two-tone brim on the fedora they had bought the last time they were in Milan were enough to let Grace know that it was, indeed, her best friend. “Arnie, let her up, and tell her she’s lucky this is a video intercom.”

  “My best friend, Junell, is on her way up,” Grace announced to Horace. “You two should get along well. She’s all saved and fire baptized like you.”

  Grace remained by the door, waiting to greet her best friend and avoiding Horace’s question. As soon Junell rapped on the door, Grace whipped it open. Removing her glasses and fedora, Junell waddled in. The little pouch of fat she had had when she first announced she was pregnant was now a pronounced mound on her belly.

  “Hey, G!” She wrapped her arms around Grace and scooped her into an embrace. “I missed you so much. Where have you been? Wrapped up in the arms of that chocolate drop you told me about?”

  Grace stared at Junell fiercely. If Junell wasn’t pregnant, she would have popped her one time.

  “I hope I’m the chocolate drop she’s been telling you about,” Horace said as he turned from the window to face the ladies, a wide grin on his face.

  “Oh my . . .” Junell covered her mouth. “I didn’t know you had company.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to post it as my Facebook status,” Grace said, letting out a gurgle of laughter.

  “Well, don’t be such a bad host. Introduce us,” Junell instructed, walking to the center of the open living room.

  “Horace, this is Junell. Junell, this is Horace,” Grace mumbled quickly, her cheeks still glowing from embarrassment.

  “Horace, you are the chocolate drop she told me about. When are you going to give my girl some play?”

  “Junie.” Grace stomped her foot on the parquet floor. “Horace,” she said, pleading with him with her eyes. “Don’t mind her. I think it’s the hormones that have her speaking like this. Usually, she sings hymns and quotes Bible scriptures to me.”

  Chuckling, Horace replied, “You mean when she’s not chasing perps on Bloodshed. Grace, I had no idea you were friends with Junell Pierce.” He turned to Junell. “I am so glad to meet you,” he said, raising her hand to his lips.

  “Oh, Grace, he’s a keeper,” Junell said. “What do you have to eat in here?” she asked, turning toward the kitchen.

  “Have a look around, Junie.”

  “Grace, I’m going to head out. A pregnant woman on the hunt for food can get ugly,” Horace said.

  “All the more reason why you should not leave me alone with her.” Grace clasped her fingers together and pouted. “Please.”

  “She’s your best friend. You’ll be fine.” He placed both of his hands on her shoulders. “I’d rather keep the vision I have of her as the no-nonsense, hot cop in my mind.”

  “You know, I never pegged you for a groupie,” Grace said, poking Horace in the chest.

  Horace leaned in closer to her and whispered, “And once you give yourself over to the Lord, I’ll be glad to be your biggest groupie.” He rubbed his nose against hers, transforming an Eskimo kiss into foreplay for Grace.

  “Don’t torture her like that,” Junell shouted from the kitchen.

  “She’s the one torturing me.” Horace looked into Grace’s eyes and then swiveled his head to face Junell. “All I want is a whole woman, and she keeps on withholding herself from God. I don’t want to have a woman who’s not on my side, like Job’s wife, or a Delilah, who will do me in for a few pieces of silver, and I’m not trying to lose her, because she’s looking backward.” Shifting his gaze back to Grace, he said, “I want her, but I want her whole.”

  His deep-set dark brown eyes and the way his lips curved when he said the letter r made Grace’s legs weak. Her desire to become whole was increasing, but it had not yet grown larger than the enmity that she carried for the church that had been so quick to cast her aside. Then there was the debacle of a movie that his church brother was forcing her to do. A return to the vortex of darkness that she was sucked into after her initial dealing with Javier Roberts didn’t come with a return ticket, either.

  “I’m working on it, Horace.”

  “Stop working and let Him do it,” he said softly, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ll see you at the church for dinner tomorrow. Just know that your chocolate drop is expecting an extra serving of mac ’n’ cheese and yams.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Grace swiveled around and led Horace to the door.

  By the time Grace escorted Horace out and locked the door, Junell had seated herself on Grace’s red leather couch and was noshing on slices of provolone cheese and crackers.

  “I see you made yourself at home.”

  “You have the strangest stuff in your cabinets, girl. If you’re trying to keep Horace, you’re going to need some meat in that fridge and some meat on your bones,” she said, taking a sip of almond milk.

  “Meat on my bones? Junie, what happened to all that ‘I need to read the holy writ’ if I wan
t a man like that?”

  “That was before I saw him for myself. He is a little banquet for the eyes. Of course you need to get saved. I still stand by that notion, and I don’t think you should be doing it for a man. What I do know, though, is if you’re going to keep a brother like that, you’re going to need something for him to hold on to.”

  “I don’t believe you. I think you just want me to walk around, waddling alongside you,” Grace said, laughing as she took a seat beside her friend. “What brings you uptown?”

  “We’re shooting in Central Park, and I was, like, ‘Forget a trailer. I’m going to crash at my girl’s house between takes.’ If I knew you were holed up with him, I would have waited awhile.”

  “It’s not what you think. All he did was sip coffee. See?” Grace pointed to the mug Horace had rested on the table near the window.

  Junell slapped Grace on the thigh. “Well, since we’re both not getting any, we’re in the same boat. Patrick won’t touch me with a baby in the belly. What else has been going on?”

  “My plan to get Ethan and his girlfriend back together worked out. Javier Roberts wants to sue me blind if I don’t do his ridiculous film—”

  “Wait. What is the deal between you two? I really don’t get why you don’t want to do the film. He’s supposed to be the next Lee Daniels, and you know what that means. Oscar buzz.”

  Grace massaged her face with the palms of both hands. She’d been friends with Junell for a long time now, but it was highly unlikely that Junell would believe Javier had raped her and was now casting her in a movie that depicted said rape. It definitely sounded like a great plotline for a movie, but it didn’t sound plausible, Grace reckoned.

  “I’ve run out of good excuses for not filming. I report to the set at the end of the week.” Grace used one of her hands to support her head. “Actually, I’ve got to read through this script a few times if I’m going to be ready by Friday.”

  “Want my help?”

  “No, thank you, Junie. I just need some peace and quiet to get into this role.”

  “Chamomile tea always helps me transition from Junell Pierce to Detective Agnes Base. I’m going to waddle out of your way. Call me if you need me. I’ll be shooting in the park for the next three days. Don’t move. I’ll let myself out, and I’ll tell that doorman to stop playing with me.”

  Grace laughed. “Arnie is innocent. Be nice to him.”

  Junell let herself out, leaving Grace alone with her thoughts. She walked up the steps to her bedroom and pulled out the fresh copy of the script that Ethan promptly had delivered as soon as Grace agreed to have a sit-down with Javier. He must have done it before he headed out to dinner with Candace. After grabbing the script, Grace sat down with her legs folded on the edge of her queen-size bed. She ran her hand along the cover page a few times. She felt light-headed before she even opened the script. Her mouth began to feel prickly, and the stench of Javier’s breath filled the room as she cradled the script. She vaulted off the bed, pelted down the steps, and ran into the kitchen and grabbed the one thing that always drove the bad memories away—whiskey.

  Her right hand shook as she poured the first glass. After two sips, she checked her hand, which was still shaking. She refilled her glass tumbler and downed the whole thing. Her right hand was still shaking, and she could feel a twinge in her left hand. She put the bottle on the counter and grabbed her wrist to control the shaking.

  Reach for me. Reach for me.

  “Is that you, God?” she shouted, looking up at the ceiling. “Is it really you? Why don’t you reach for me? Where were you when I needed you the most?”

  Here. Here. Here.

  “I suppose you would say that, but I don’t have any use for a God who says He’s always here but hasn’t shown up.” She growled at the air, then snatched the bottle of whiskey off the counter and poured it directly into her mouth. “I almost thought I could trust you again. I prayed for you to take away the pain.”

  Healing comes in the fight. Fight the good fight of faith.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Whiskey always dulls the pain of unanswered prayers.”

  Chapter 31

  Grace awoke to a shadowy figure standing over her bed, clapping his hands and shouting, “Lights, Camera. Action. Let’s go. Today is the day you become a star.”

  Raising her head slightly, Grace looked out the corner of her eye and shooed the figure away. “I don’t want to be a star,” she said, burying her head deeply in her pillow. She hated when her dreams were all animated and lifelike. Now was not the time for that. She needed at least three more hours of sleep to shake off her hangover.

  “They don’t give out stars on the Walk of Fame for sleeping or being tardy,” the figure said, snatching the sheet off Grace and tossing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt at her.

  Grace sat up and massaged the corners of her eyes and tried to make out the identity of the blur of brown standing before her. She saw dark brown pants. Her eyes scrolled up, and she noticed that a simple Ferragamo belt accented the waist and kept a freshly dry-cleaned navy blue button-down in place. A matching dark brown blazer covered the frame of the figure standing before her.

  “Grace Terisha King, I’m going to need you to get out of bed and move. You skipped anger management yesterday, and I’m not going for your games today.”

  Finally it clicked. The brown blob standing before her was Ethan. “Don’t ever wear this god-awful color combination again. How’d you get in here?” she said, massaging her aching temples. “I thought I took the spare key from you.”

  “Correction. I returned the spare key, and after the last alcohol-induced coma debacle, I took the liberty of securing another spare key once your door was repaired. It was, and clearly still is, in your best interest.”

  “I’m not a baby, Ethan.”

  “Then dress yourself and make sure you brush your teeth. I’ll make you some coffee. I need you ready to roll out. I promised Javier I’d have you on the set by nine thirty.”

  Grace coasted through hair and makeup on autopilot. She didn’t blink or speak to a single person on the set; she just stood as still as a mannequin while being prepped to be raped on-screen. It didn’t make a bit of sense, but this was what she’d signed up for. It had occurred to her that she could just walk off the set. People already thought she was a basket case; she didn’t have a reputation to lose. At the same time, her future and Ethan’s rested on the completion of this film. Javier Roberts was promising them fortunes untold and Oscar nominations at a minimum. There was no way she could forfeit the opportunity to be in the same league as Halle, Lupita, and Jennifer Hudson. This would be her chance to show her father and all those people who said she was nothing but a whore that she was more. That line of thinking would have helped her if wounds weren’t still raw.

  When the stylist tapped her shoulder, the bristles of the brush collided with skin, causing her to cringe. The rough texture of the bristles reminded her of Javier’s coarse, dry hands prowling her body. One of the runners handed her a steaming cup of kombucha, while others directed her to the set.

  “You can’t have the tea on the set with you,” Javier said sternly when she got to the set.

  Grace looked at her hand and then placed the cup on the floor, next to the wooden legs of the director’s chair. Javier was already in position behind the camera. For this scene he was both the director and the perpetrator.

  “Remove the shoes and undo a few buttons on that shirt. Your hair is shouting innocent, and I need your body to sing a siren song on camera. You have to be vulnerable and desirable in this scene.”

  Following his commands, Grace stepped out of the slippers she was wearing and opened the first three buttons of the oversize men’s button-down shirt she was wearing. She dipped the tip of her toe onto the institutional white tiles on the floor of the set, like she was testing the temperature of the water before jumping into a pool. She snatched her foot back and looked around the set. The wall
s were pristine white, like they were that night. The noise embargo that Javier had issued gave them the appearance of privacy, but when she looked out the corner of her eye, she saw that the boomer was there, holding the mic, and the cameraman had one eye glued to the camera and was signaling for Grace to hurry up and get on the set.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen. Lights, camera, action,” Javier Roberts commanded.

  In a trancelike state Grace stepped onto the set, then took long, lethargic steps toward the couch in the center of the room. She slowly sat down. Arching her back, she rested on an elbow and let her legs, which were wrapped around each other like twisted tree branches, dangle off the couch. She rattled off her lines as quickly as she could and took short, quick breaths between lines, trying to keep her breakfast down. It worked until Javier touched her. He placed his fingertips on her wrists, and his coarse fingers scorched her skin. The pain of his touch coursed through her veins, and memories of the past mixed with the present.

  Grace shouted, “Please. Please don’t do this to me. Please. I don’t want to go through this.”

  “Cut!” Javier screamed over the pleas and dribble-filled cries.

  The room spun dangerously out of control for Grace. Before she could contain them, her coffee, bran muffin, and a spot of kombucha were on the floor. Javier let go of her wrists and helped her to her feet.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace said, wiping the corner of her mouth with the collar of the shirt.

  “You need to take five?” Javier reached for her arm, and Grace stepped back on her wobbly legs.

  “Don’t you dare touch me,” she muttered under her breath.

  Grace headed back to her trailer, which was parked just outside the studio, on Tenth Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street. Once she arrived at her trailer and stepped inside, the first thing Grace saw was her reflection in the mirror over the vanity table. When she looked at herself, she saw beneath the M•A•C foundation and concealer and noticed the soft sparkle that the orange button-down created against her skin. The image in the mirror was a fractured and fatal version of herself. She was hollow and dry. The prickles of a cactus were softer than Grace right now.