by Neta Jackson
“No, I’m home. Was expecting your call.”
“I’m glad.” Poor guy sounded a bit stressed. “You okay? Been thinking about you all day … sounds like you could use some time off. Did you have a chance to consider flying down here tomorrow to hear my last concert? It’s at the Orpheum Theater. Classy place. I’d so love the band to meet you and—”
“I can’t come tomorrow, Grace.”
His abrupt turndown of her invitation caught her off guard. She waited for the explanation … “Have to work all weekend” or “Not feeling so good” or “I broke my leg.” But nothing.
“That’s it? Just ‘I can’t come’? Roger, it would mean a lot to me! If it’s the expense, I’d be willing to buy the ticket. I’m really missing you and … and this has been my best tour yet. I’d love to share it with you. It’s … it’s an important part of me that I want you to know.”
“I know. That’s just it …” It sounded as if he blew out a long breath. “Look, Grace. I didn’t want to do this by phone. But this touring business isn’t working for me. You’re gone so much. I know, it’s what concert artists do. It’s your dream come true. But … it’s not my dream. What kind of life is that for me? If we got married, I mean …”
Grace stopped breathing. If they got married? “Wha … what are you saying?”
She heard him clear his throat. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking while you’ve been gone, and I … I just don’t think we should keep up the pretense anymore. It’s not working. We’re living in two separate worlds. I need a woman who’s there for me.” He paused, but when she didn’t respond, said, “I’m sorry, Grace. I know this is hard. It’s hard for me too. But I think we should step back, call off the engagement for now …”
Roger’s voice continued in her ear, but Grace had grown numb. Pretense? … Call it off? The words echoed in her head, but at the same time seemed unreal, mangled, like so much gobbledygook.
“… talk about it more when you get home,” Roger was saying. “I’ll let you get settled for a few days, and then maybe we can—”
But her hand had dropped to the bed. Her thumb pressed the Off button. She lay there, numb, for a long time, staring at the abstract painting on the wall. But then the tears came. Rolling over, she buried her face in the mound of pillows as painful sobs erupted from deep in her belly. No … no … no …
How long she lay there crying, Grace had no idea. Much later she heard the outer door to their suite open and close and the muffled sounds of her assistant moving around the other half of the suite, pulling out the daybed, water running in the bathroom. She tried to stifle the sobs, but soon she heard a quiet tap at her door and Sam’s concerned whisper. “Grace? Are you okay?”
She didn’t answer. But as sounds quieted in the other room, voices seemed to scream in her head …
You’re worth the wait?! Ha-ha-ha-ha.
What are you going to say to those starry-eyed fans now?
You fool … you stupid fool … you plastered your engagement all over this tour and now … now he’s left you hanging to flap in the wind …
Chapter 3
Grace stared at her reflection in the lighted mirror. Samantha had just spritzed the finishing touch to her artfully arranged long shag. Arched eyebrows. Thick, dark lashes. Just enough blush. Creamy peach lipstick. All complementing her smooth skin.
But beneath the perfect makeup, she felt frozen.
“I can’t do it,” she whispered.
Behind her in the mirror, Grace saw Samantha react. “You can’t? … Grace! The opening band is doing their last number. You’re on in five!”
“Sam, I … I just can’t.” Throwing down the powder brush she’d been using to take the shine off her nose, Grace buried her face in her hands.
Samantha pulled up a stool beside the swivel makeup chair and, hesitating only a nanosecond, put her arm around the other woman’s shoulders. “Grace, what’s wrong?”
Grace just shook her head, face hidden in her hands. How could she go out on stage after Roger’s phone call last night?
She hadn’t gotten much sleep, but when room service brought their breakfast at ten, she’d pulled herself together, said nothing about the phone call, and Samantha hadn’t asked. By the light of day, it all seemed unreal. Roger had dumped her—just like that? This couldn’t be happening.
She’d pushed it out of her head and coped by keeping busy—sending Sam out to get her outfits steam pressed for tonight, making sure her laptop was locked in the hotel safe, double-checking that her concert bag had all the things she usually needed. Sam had seemed a little miffed at that—she never forgot the two bottles of Evian, the Slippery Elm Lozenges, spritz, coconut hand cream, mouthwash, deodorant, Grace’s favorite perfume, makeup kit, hairbrush and dryer, hand mirror, safety pins, Band-Aids … everything Grace might need.
Sam had seen her to the theater after lunch for the usual sound check and run-through, before taking off for a few hours to see family. Things had been a little rough between Grace and the band. She’d felt tense, irritable, and had taken more than the usual number of breaks. But she wasn’t the only one who was exhausted, and everyone had chalked it up to this being the last concert on the tour. Barry Fox had said graciously, “No worries. You always pull through, Grace.” He’d even kissed her on the cheek. “Go get ’em, girl.”
Grace heard a voice crackle in the headset her assistant was wearing and Sam responded, “Okay.” Half a second later Sam turned the swivel chair away from the mirror, took Grace’s hands down from her face, and held them firmly in her own hands.
“Grace Meredith, look at me … look at me!”
Grace shook her head, staring down at their hands, fingers interlocked, brown and white. She wanted to hang on for dear life.
“Grace, I know you must be exhausted. But there are a thousand fans out there who came to hear their sweetheart sing tonight. A lot of them are teenagers confused about sex, wondering ‘why wait?’ when all they hear from every direction is ‘why not do it?’ They came tonight because you’ve taken a strong stand about the value of waiting until marriage. You’re their role model … and if that’s the message God’s given you, he’ll give you the strength to get out there and sing, no matter what you’re goin’ through right now.”
Grace was startled. Sam sounded more like her mother than her assistant.
She looked up and locked on Sam’s face. The firm grip on her hands and the steady gaze of Sam’s dark brown eyes were having an effect. “You’re … you’re right, Sam. I’ve got to go out there for my fans …” She let herself be helped to her feet. “Do I look all right? My hair … finger-comb it again, would you? And water—I need some water.”
“We’ve got one minute. You look great. Here’s your water. Go … go!”
Yanking open the door, Samantha hustled Grace through the cavernous hallway, up the stairs, through the backstage area around props, stage sets, instrument cases, and snaking electrical cords—“Watch your step!”—and into the wings of the stage, the two of them hidden by the rich folds of the heavy curtains falling from the pulleys above.
Doug What’s-his-name, the concert host, glanced their way from center stage and a relieved smile lit up his face. “… and here she is, all the way from the Windy City to the Home of the Blues … Grace Meredith!”
A roar of cheers, whistles, stomps, and claps erupted from the unseen audience beyond the stage lights. Grace sucked in a quick breath.
“You can do this!” Sam hissed, gently pushing the small of Grace’s back. Grace nodded, took another deep breath, and swept onto the stage.
On cue, the five-man band broke into the familiar swing of her opening number, an old favorite from her first CD. The black silk dress she was wearing—its hundreds of rhinestones up and down the sleeves and around the neck flashing and sparkling under the lights—made Grace feel as if she were floating across the stage. As she took the hand mike, everything else—the long tour, the exhaustion, her tender th
roat, the upsetting phone call—disappeared. Closing her eyes, she crooned the first words of her opening song as the audience erupted in another roar.
But it didn’t last.
As Grace moved through her first set, she knew her voice sounded ragged at the edges. To compensate, she began avoiding the high notes, filling in with a muddy middle range. With Roger’s phone call nibbling at the edges of her consciousness, she skipped several of her homey talks between songs, which were usually lighthearted and personal anecdotes during the first set. She always saved the more serious reflections about life and love and relationships for the final segment.
The break and intermission couldn’t come soon enough.
“It’s all right, gonna be all right,” Sam encouraged, as Grace collapsed into the padded chair in her dressing room. “Here …” Sam handed her a steaming cup of the honey-lemon tea. “You’ll make it. Just give your voice a rest. Last concert, remember?”
Yes, last concert. And Roger wasn’t here. Wouldn’t come. Didn’t want to come. O God, I can’t do this!
But she had to do it. She couldn’t just not show up for her last set. The blogging community—a community so easily tempted by rumor—would be all over it before morning. She couldn’t afford that kind of hit to her reputation.
After finishing her tea, Grace changed into the gray-and-lavender dress with the fluttering handkerchief hem, freshened her makeup … then got the two-minute warning. The break was over all too soon. Sam kept whispering encouragement as they stood just offstage behind the heavy red curtain. “I’m prayin’ for you, girl. Remember, ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me’—”
“Miss Curtis?”
A male voice behind them caused both Grace and Samantha to turn. One of the stagehands, wearing a headphone over a Redbirds baseball cap, stood awkwardly in the wings, looking at Sam. He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “Main office says you’ve got a phone call. Said you might want to take it in Miss Meredith’s dressing room.”
Sam shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t take it now. Just get a message, okay?”
“Uh, office said it was urgent.”
Sam looked distressed. “Grace, I’m sorry …”
Grace always felt more secure when she could look offstage and see her assistant standing there, smiling, sending an encouraging thumbs-up. Something she especially needed tonight. But taking a deep breath, she murmured, “You better take it. I’ll be all right. Just keep those prayers going.”
“Okay.” Sam rolled her eyes. “Better not be my cousin Keisha, though. If it is, I’m gonna kill her. She’s been raggin’ on me ’cause I didn’t get her free tickets to tonight’s concert. The nerve of that girl!”
Grace watched her disappear behind the jumble of stage sets, feeling slightly abandoned. But the concert host was saying, “Welcome back, Grace Meredith!” accompanied by waves of applause, hoots, and whistles from the audience.
“I can do all things …”
She pasted on a smile. The show must go on.
The crowd rose to their feet as she sang the final line of her last number, “Others can see … you are special to me.” Acknowledging the enthusiastic applause with a final wave and a smile, Grace left the stage. It was over. She’d made it. Hopefully most of the audience hadn’t noticed the strain in her voice, though Barry and the band would’ve, for sure. But she’d even given her usual pep talks, about the importance of purity, of saving the gift of sex for marriage, telling her mostly young audience they were “worth the wait.”
But she felt like a phony.
Worth the wait? Obviously Roger didn’t think so. But why? Why? Had he somehow found out … no, impossible. They just needed time. Once she got home, they’d work it out … wouldn’t they?
Once hidden behind the heavy red curtain, she stopped. Her assistant was nowhere to be seen.
“Miss Meredith?” The stagehand in the Redbirds hat hustled over. “Miss Curtis asked me to tell you that she has a family emergency. Said she left you a note in your dressing room.”
An emergency? That sounded ominous. Fighting disappointment that the woman she counted on to pick up the pieces after an exhausting concert had disappeared, Grace managed to make her way to her dressing room. There on the dressing table was a folded sheet of tablet paper, with something paper-clipped to it.
A copy of their e-ticket back to Chicago. Dated tomorrow. Passengers Grace Meredith and Samantha Curtis.
Grace unfolded the note. Dear Grace, she read. Mama had a heart attack late this afternoon—and I just saw her a few hours ago! But they’ve taken her to the ER and my aunt begged me to come right away. I’m so sorry to leave you in the lurch, but I don’t have a choice. I’ll probably need to stay here in Memphis for a while. Here’s the e-ticket. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything. Take care. I know you did great tonight because God is good … all the time. Sam.
Chapter 4
The next day, as the limo driver piled the teal-blue suitcases on the curb in front of Delta Airlines, Grace Meredith squinted at the sheet of paper she was holding—just as a gust of wind tore it out of her gloved hands. “Oh, no! That’s my e-ticket! Catch it! Catch it!”
The uniformed driver shoved the last suitcase on top of the pile and darted after the paper as it skittered across the three slushy lanes of traffic trying to unload at Memphis International Airport. Tires skidded as the driver stiff-armed a taxi, which managed to stop just inches from running him down. It happened so fast, Grace hardly had time to cry out—but by the time she realized the man was safe and looked back to see where the wind had taken her flight itinerary … it was gone.
Just then the pile of suitcases on the curb toppled over, splaying over the sidewalk and earning her nasty looks from other passengers heading for the sliding doors into the terminal.
Grace stood rigid on the curb, clutching her wool coat tightly around her neck. Could anything else go wrong this horrible weekend? First, Roger’s devastating phone call. Then Samantha had suddenly disappeared, right in the middle of the concert. Her assistant had to know she was a wreck, especially at the end of a grueling concert tour. She—
Good grief, what’s the matter with you, Grace? You’ve let yourself get mighty spoiled, that’s what. The note said the girl’s mother had a heart attack, for pity’s sake! But it didn’t help that her throat was sore, her head ached, she’d slept badly again—if at all—and having to do everything herself this morning had made her late. She had less than an hour to get through security and make her plane!
“I’m sorry, miss. Couldn’t catch it.” The limo driver had reappeared and was snatching the wayward bags out of harm’s way. “You want me to get a cart”—he glanced nervously at the limo, motor running at the curb—“or do you want to do curbside check-in?” He gestured hopefully toward the Delta employees in the small enclosure nearby. “It’s faster.”
“Yes, yes, curbside, please. I’m late as it is. But my e-ticket …” Anxiety threatened to bring the tears to the surface again.
“Don’t worry, miss. They can pull it up on the computer. Just give them your name and destination.”
Scurrying back and forth, the limo driver managed to get the two large and two smaller bags to the curbside check-in. “That’s it. They’ll take care of you.”
“Thank you.” Grace pulled her carry-on out of the line of bags. It had her medicines, toiletries, jewelry … had to keep that with her. She glanced at her watch—only fifty minutes till her plane was supposed to leave! But just that simple glance made her wince. The delicate silver watch with the tiny ruby birthstone had been a birthday gift from Roger, matching the silver engagement ring on her finger …
She suddenly realized the limo driver was still standing there.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. The tip. Samantha always took care of that too. You’ve become a spoiled brat, you know that, Grace Meredith? Fumbling in her large leather purse, she opened her wallet. Nothing smaller than a twenty.
She handed one of the bills to him.
“Thank you, miss! Have a good trip.” Touching his hat briefly, the man hurried back to the limo, got in, and pulled away.
Grace watched him go.
Now she had nobody.
“Miss? Miss? Do you have your ticket?” The curbside agent beckoned to her. And just like the driver had said, when she explained about the lost e-ticket, he simply looked her up on the computer, and in five minutes had all three of the checked bags on a cart tagged for Chicago. He handed her a boarding pass. Another tip. At least she didn’t have to pay extra for the bags—first-class passengers were allowed three checked bags free. Thank God for small favors, like free upgrades thanks to frequent flyer miles. And once she got on the plane, maybe she could sleep a little. She might even drink a glass of complimentary wine to help her relax—one benefit of traveling without Sam, who no doubt would give her a disapproving look.
Grace headed through the doors, welcoming the blast of heated air as she came into the terminal. Was January always this cold in Memphis? She’d been there two days and it felt no different than Chicago. Glancing at her boarding pass—Concourse B, Gate 12—she surveyed the bewildering array of signs. There … that way.
A disembodied voice announced over the PA, “The security level today is Orange.” It was always Orange. Pulling the carry-on, Grace followed the line snaking its way back and forth toward security. Why was it going so slow? Her anxiety mounted again. Forty minutes now … thirty-five … thirty … finally! She hefted her carry-on bag onto the conveyer belt, shrugged off her heavy winter coat and loaded it into a plastic bin along with her purse, zipped off her knee-high leather boots and threw them into another bin. Ugh! She hated walking on dirty airport floors in just her stocking feet. But she lined up the bins on the conveyer belt and watched the first one follow her carry-on into the scanner.