by Neta Jackson
“Hey, you’re back.” Mark’s voice boomed in her ear.
“Yes, and my furnace is out,” she croaked. “Sorry to ask but—”
“What? Can hardly understand you. What’s wrong with your voice?”
“I have a sore throat! And the house is cold. Can you come check the furnace?”
“Uhhh …” There was a long pause. “Isn’t there somebody on your block who could come over? I’m on the job already doing deliveries.”
“I don’t really know anybody on my block,” she said a little too sharply. “I mean, not very well. Most of them have probably already left for work, anyway.”
“Hang on a minute, Sis …” Grace heard traffic noises, loud honking, and Mark snarling, “What’s your problem, buddy?” He finally came back on the phone. “What about Roger? Maybe he—”
“Can’t call Roger. He’s … traveling. Business.” The lie came out a little too easily.
“Hmm. Do you have electricity? Gas?”
“Electricity, yes. I’ll check the gas.” Unplugging the charger, Grace scurried into the kitchen with the cord trailing, re-plugged the phone, and turned on a stove burner. Bright blue flames leaped into a perfect wreath. “Gas is on too.”
“Okay, look … Maybe the pilot light on your furnace went out. You should check that first.”
“Can you—?”
“No, Sis, I can’t. But I’ll walk you through it, okay? … Hey, I gotta drop off a package. Hold on. I’ll be back in two shakes …”
It took Grace thirty minutes lying on the chilly concrete floor in the basement laundry room, reaching beneath the furnace with a lighted match taped to the end of a kitchen skewer—it actually took seven matches—but she finally got the pilot relit. With Mark’s help on the phone—still plugged in with an extension cord—she held down the button that let gas flow to the pilot light until it would burn on its own, and then turned everything back on.
The furnace purred.
She felt proud of herself. Next time she’d know what to do.
But it would still take another hour for the house to warm up, so Grace pulled on tights, sweatpants, a turtleneck, and a hooded sweatshirt before making some hot tea and scrambling two eggs for breakfast. Ha. If her fans could see her now …
Fans. She needed to call her agent and cancel that sweetheart banquet date. She eyed the cat, who was begging at her feet. “He’s not going to be happy, Oreo,” she said between bites of eggs and toast, “but I’ve got a good excuse, don’t you think?” Her voice was starting to sound like fingernails dragging down a chalkboard.
Setting her plate down on the floor so Oreo could finish off the last tidbits of scrambled eggs, Grace picked up her phone, which had finally charged, scrolled down through her contact list, clicked on Bongo Booking Agency, and sipped her tea while the phone rang.
“Bongo Booking Agency, how may I direct your call?”
“Um, I need to speak with Walter Fowler.” Walter was good at his job, very professional, and had been working the music scene for twenty years, ten of those with the Bongo Booking Agency in Denver, but he wasn’t exactly the warm cozy sort.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Can you repeat?”
Grace took another sip of the hot tea to help clear her throat. “Wal-ter Fow-ler, please.” She enunciated each syllable.
“Oh. Mr. Fowler is out of the office for the next few weeks. Jeff Newman is taking his calls. Who should I say is calling?”
Out? Argh! She vaguely remembered Fowler had said he’d be gone in February. An anniversary trip or something. But what was she going to do now? Tell a perfect stranger she wanted to cancel a concert? For all she knew, Jeff Somebody-or-other might be one of Bongo’s bigwig agents who booked the really top CCM stars and had never heard of her.
“Um … Jeff who?” she stalled.
“Jeff Newman. Mr. Fowler’s assistant. He’s handling his calls.”
Assistant. She didn’t know Walter had an assistant. At least he didn’t sound like a bigwig. But she was not going to do that concert, so … might as well face the music. She almost snickered at the pun. “Yes, thank you. Tell him Grace Meredith is calling.”
A wall of sound suddenly poured into her ear, a Christian rock group she probably should recognize, but couldn’t quite place. She was just about to lower the volume when the wall of sound cut out and she heard, “Jeff Newman speaking. Is this Miss Meredith?”
Grace was startled. The voice was lighthearted. Friendly. Young. “Uh, yes. Grace Meredith. Mr. Fowler is my booking agent and …” She had to stop and clear her throat. “Please forgive me. I’m on the verge of losing my voice … can you hear me?”
“It’s fine, Miss Meredith. But you don’t sound so good. Are you all right?”
For some reason, the obvious concern in the voice on the other end of the line made her feel like crying. How stupid was that! But she might as well use the opening …
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. I just returned from my New Year, New You tour, and—”
“Oh, sure! I heard about that tour. Sounded like a winner. But guess it was tough on your voice. Nasty time of year. Don’t know how you do it.”
He’d heard about her tour? “Uh, right. I wanted to talk to Mr. Fowler, because I need to cancel my next concert—”
“Hold on, give me a sec … right, I’ve got your schedule right here. That would be the sweetheart banquet booked by Living Hope, that megachurch in Milwaukee, week from next Saturday. That the one?”
This guy was really on the ball. “Yes.” She knew she sounded raspy but she didn’t try to clear it. “But my voice … I can’t do it.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then … “Miss Meredith, I understand. You sound like you could use a long rest. But that is almost two weeks away. Are you sure your voice won’t have recovered by then? Our contracts require a doctor’s certification if we have to cancel a concert. Otherwise, the agency—and ultimately you—will have to repay the advance with a penalty. And, I hate to say it, it’s not so good for your rep.”
Grace’s shoulders sagged. She hadn’t thought about the cost of canceling. Hadn’t really had time to think it through—hadn’t thought through much of anything the past few days, for that matter. Or prayed. Or asked God what to do. All she knew was that she couldn’t do that sweetheart banquet, even if her voice did recover. “I’m … I’ll be seeing a doctor. I’ll send you certification.”
She ended the call—and then felt bad that she hadn’t even said good-bye or thanked him for his concern. But she was so close to tears again, she was afraid she’d end up blubbering if she didn’t get off the phone.
Picking up her plate from the floor, Grace dumped the dishes in the sink and checked the thermostat. Sixty-four degrees and climbing. At least the furnace was working. She should call Mark back, let him know everything was okay … then she should call Samantha … no, first she better make that call to her doctor and get an appointment.
She left a message with the doctor’s receptionist for a callback and had just stepped into the shower when she heard “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name” from the bedroom. Wrapping a towel around her wet body, she hurried into the bedroom and snatched up the phone. “Hello? This is Grace Meredith.”
“Grace? Good grief, you sound awful.”
Roger.
Chapter 7
Grace stood in the middle of her bedroom clutching the cell phone in one hand and the towel in the other. She didn’t want to talk to Roger.
But what if he was sorry? Didn’t mean what he’d said. Wanted to make up.
“I’ve got laryngitis.” It was the only thing she could think of to say in the moment.
“I can hear that. I … was just calling to see if you made it home all right from Memphis. And, well, it’s been a few days. I thought we should talk some more about, you know, ending the engagement. But if your voice isn’t—”
“No, I didn’t.”
A silent blip h
ung between them. She could just see the sudden frown on his handsome face—square jaw, strong chin, gray-blue eyes, dark-blond hair he wore in an Ivy League style, short on the sides, a bit longer and slightly spiked on top. Probably dressed in gray slacks, white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, a silk necktie loosened at the collar—proper, conservative, just a tad casual. No doubt calling between meetings at the financial consulting firm in downtown Chicago where he was climbing the corporate ladder. The firm didn’t take coffee breaks.
Roger finally spoke. “Uh, you didn’t … what?”
“Didn’t make it home all right.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You asked if I made it home all right from Memphis.”
“Oh.” Another silent blip. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“I can’t … can’t t-talk about it right now.” She was shivering now, still wet from the shower and only partially covered by the wrapped towel. “My furnace went out. House is c-c-cold. I was in the shower. This isn’t a g-g-good time.”
“Okay. Sure. Maybe we—”
She clicked Off and threw the phone on the bed. Why did she do that? She’d whined like a four-year-old. But it made her mad that he assumed everything was hunky-dory just because she’d answered the phone. And then he’d gone straight to wanting to talk more about ending the engagement.
Probably wanted his ring back.
She’d make him beg first.
Grace got back in the hot shower until her teeth stopped chattering, finally dried off, blow-dried her long hair, dressed in a pair of slim jeans and a clean turtleneck—and on impulse dug out the old flannel shirt she used to wear horseback riding back when she was a horse-crazy teenager. She’d taken a gazillion lessons at a riding stable just outside Indianapolis where she’d grown up and fantasized about owning her own horse one day. The horse never materialized, but the flannel shirt had survived high school, university, the move to Nashville, then back to Chicago, concerts and tours, and numerous wardrobe upgrades, even though it mostly hung in the closet. One flannel tie to the girl she used to be …
She felt rattled by Roger’s phone call. Part of her had longed to hear from him, hoping he’d apologize for the late-night phone call last weekend, surprise her by meeting her at the airport, kiss and make up. After all, his main complaint was how often she was on the road. But … why now? It was the end of her New Year, New You tour and she didn’t have another long tour until April. Just a few fly in, fly out dates, be gone three days max.
The other part of her wanted to scream and slap his face. How could he dump her the night before her last concert, making a fool out of her “I’m worth waiting for” testimony? Couldn’t he at least have waited till she got home, told her face-to-face?
The coward.
Argh! She needed to do something physical, let off some steam. She couldn’t go for a walk. It was still snowing. Besides, her sore throat might be a virus. Better stay inside. She’d vacuum. The house needed a good cleaning.
Striding into the second bedroom where she stashed the vacuum cleaner, she slid open the closet doors—and froze.
Her wedding dress hung in the closet, encased in a zippered plastic bag, white, full, and delicate. She stared at it for a full minute, and then slowly lifted the padded hanger off the bar. It was her dream dress, the dress she’d gone shopping for a week after Roger had slipped the diamond-and-ruby ring on her finger, even though they hadn’t set a wedding date yet. Hanging it on the hook on the back of the bedroom door, she slowly zipped open the protective bag and slid the brocade dress off its hanger.
The silver threads woven into the fabric shimmered in the natural light coming from the snowy world outside.
Holding the dress up to her body, Grace looked in the mirrored sliding doors of the closet. The first time she’d put on the dress, she’d felt like Cinderella in her magic ball gown. The dress had a curved sweetheart neckline, plunging just enough to look feminine and luscious, but not so low it wouldn’t be appropriate for a church wedding … short, capped sleeves with lace trim … and an empire waistline outlined with a white silk ribbon, below which the dress fell in soft folds in front and gathered in back into a train that would trail several feet.
Grace stared at the reflection in the mirror.
More like Cinderella than she’d figured. The clock had struck midnight and the magic was gone. Poof.
With swift determination, she hung the dress back on its padded hanger, zipped up the plastic bag, and stuffed the dress back into the closet. Yanking out the vacuum cleaner, she jerked it into the carpeted hallway, plugged the cord into a socket, and when the power head roared to life, pushed it vigorously back and forth.
Why am I still in this tiny house? Two bedrooms. One bath. She’d bought it two years ago with some help from her parents when she’d decided to move back to the Midwest after ending her run with the record label in Nashville. A classic brick bungalow in a decent urban neighborhood. Quiet. On a dead-end street bounded by St. Mark’s Memorial Cemetery. Closer to family.
At the time, it seemed a good investment, a good first home—modest, gave her time to take her career in a new direction with the independent tours and her purity message. CD sales had been better than expected, maybe enough to afford a newer house in one of the suburbs. But, she’d figured, why move when she was going to get married? She and Roger would choose a house together …
Grace pulled the vacuum into her bedroom. She still hadn’t unpacked. The damp bath towel lay on the floor. She threw everything onto the unmade bed and tackled the rug.
Roger had certainly seemed like “The One” when she first met him two years ago at County Line Christian Fellowship, a large suburban church straddling the line between Cook and Dupage Counties. He had All-American college-football good looks, was a leader of the singles group and one of County Line’s many up-and-coming professionals. She’d participated in many of the church’s musical presentations, and he’d seemed mesmerized by her soprano voice, even pleased as her career picked up. Everyone said what a great couple they made, so well suited. No one was surprised when they’d announced their engagement last year.
Should I have seen it coming? Roger usually called me every night when I was on tour … but on this last tour, the calls have been more irregular …
Pulling the vacuum cleaner out of the bedroom and down the hall into the living room, she plugged it into another socket and set to work again.
… and now that I think about it, when we did talk, he seemed kind of distant when I tried to tell him about that night’s concert, as if he was bored, or distracted. Something …
As she stooped to pick up the mail on the floor by the front door, the framed photo on the lamp table beside the couch caught her eye. A picture of her and Roger, cheek to cheek, smiling happily at their engagement party. Turning off the machine, she picked up the photo and stared at it wistfully for a long moment. Surely it couldn’t be over. They had so much going for them! Both were mature adults with solid careers, a shared faith, mutual attraction. They were equally active in ministry, though in different spheres. She’d considered herself blessed to be engaged to one of County Line’s most eligible single guys—something she didn’t take for granted at the age of twenty-nine.
Who’d just dumped her.
Pressing her lips into a thin line, she stuck the photo out of sight in the walnut drop-front secretary desk, along with all the letters, junk mail, bank statements, and magazines her brother had picked up each time he’d come by to check on the house. She could’ve asked the post office to hold her mail, but with a mail slot, no one could see the mail piling up inside and she didn’t have to go get it when she got home. The bank paid most of her regular bills automatically. Still. She should go through the mail soon to check her statements and make sure everything was up to date … and read her fan mail—the mail that Samantha usually answered so artfully. Precious letters. Letters that encouraged her and kept her going.
Well … tomorrow. She
’d take care of the mail tomorrow.
Grace resumed vacuuming, but for some reason the glut of mail lured her. Maybe just one letter, something reassuring. Turning the vacuum cleaner off and dropping the wand, she opened the secretary and picked out a letter, one with the familiar Forward from the box she rented at Mail Boxes Etc. just for fan mail. Slitting the envelope with a letter opener from the walnut desk, she curled up on the velvety sectional couch and pulled out a sheet of thin-ruled notebook paper. Immediately Oreo appeared and hopped into her lap as she started reading …
Dear Miss Grace,
I love your CD! I was so excited when you came to Florida this month. My parents got tickets for me and a girlfriend for my birthday, which is January 5. It was my Sweet 16. They didn’t know it, but it was God who told them to get those tickets. Because you see, my boyfriend has been asking me to have sex with him. Big time. Told me if I really loved him, I’d prove it by having sex. Well, I do love him. He is so cute! Like, he plays basketball and is really popular, and might even play for the NBA someday. He buys me all kinds of gifts, like a watch and the cutest stuffed tiger and for my birthday got me some really cool perfume. All the girls are jealous of me, and I don’t want to lose him. So I’ve been thinking about the sex.
But when you talked about how you decided to wait till marriage to have sex, because “I’m worth it”—it really made me think. How if a boy really loves you, he won’t want to put you at risk for getting pregnant or getting a disease or needing an abortion, stuff like that.
Grace flinched. She forced her eyes back to the letter.
Like, that’s so true! One of my girlfriends got pregnant and had a baby, and she can’t do fun stuff anymore or anything. And her boyfriend didn’t hang around after that either. So when you told us you’re engaged to a wonderful man who respects you, and it was “worth the wait”—well, I just want you to know I want to be like you! I’m going to—
With sudden fury, Grace balled up the letter and threw it across the room. Startled, Oreo jumped off her lap and crawled under the couch. Snatching a throw pillow, Grace sent it flying after the crumpled-up letter. Then she grabbed another one and hugged it tight against her chest as sobs shook her body and pent-up tears came fast and furious.