by Neta Jackson
He shrugged. “Okay. But … I hope we can still be friends, Grace. Don’t stay away from church just because of me.” He leaned toward her as if he was going to kiss her on the cheek, but she turned her head aside.
“Good-bye, Roger.”
As he walked toward his car, she started to shut the door, but was curious about Tavis. The boy was nowhere to be seen—but her front walk and the length of public sidewalk in front of her house had both been shoveled, though it was obvious there were patches of packed snow and ice that hadn’t come up. She listened and heard a scrape, scrape, scrape from behind the house. Good. The boy was still working. Definitely earning his ten dollars.
Oreo stretched and yawned in a patch of sunlight on the couch, turned around twice, and then curled back up into a cozy ball. All was well in the cat’s life. Grace just stood in the middle of her living room, feeling bereft. Roger was … gone. Her ring was gone—the watch too. Her dream of marriage and family … gone.
Where was God in all this? She thought she’d been doing what he’d called her to do, and that he’d been blessing her for her obedience.
She felt like screaming. What are you doing to me, God?! But her stupid voice had let her down too.
The front doorbell shook her out of her depressing reverie.
Numbly she opened it. Tavis. “Hey, Miz Meredith. I’m done. Found the bag of rock salt in the garage like you said and scattered it on the walks front an’ back. Don’t know if it’ll help much, but …” He shrugged and grinned.
“Thank you, Tavis. Hold on …” She went for her purse and came back with a ten. “I could use some help when it snows again if you’re interested.”
“Sure! Thanks.” The boy waved and trotted off with his shovel.
She watched him go. For some reason, the very ordinariness of getting her walks shoveled seemed like a tiny glimmer of hope. One problem solved. Like a Voice whispering in her spirit, “Just take it one day at a time, Grace. My grace is sufficient for you.”
“My grace is sufficient for you …” Her mind scrambled. What was the rest of that promise? “… for My strength is made perfect in weakness.”
She felt like the poster child for that verse.
She scooped up the cat, who protested being snatched from his nap. So now what? Just take the next step. Which was … the phone call from her sister-in-law. She should call her back.
Chapter 11
The only problem with driving to her brother’s house in Arlington Heights, Grace mused as she nosed her Ford Focus through westbound traffic—surprisingly heavy for Sunday afternoon—was the lack of east-west freeways this far north in Chicago. Seemed like she barely got on the expressway going north, and she had to get off again on Lake Avenue, a four-lane with stoplights every half mile, and take it west all the way to the northwest suburb.
Still, it was nice of Denise and Mark to invite her for Sunday dinner. She needed some company, something to distract her. It’d be great to be with family. “Bring Roger too!” Denise had chirped. “We’re practically on your way home from church.”
County Line Christian Fellowship was even further west. She might’ve looked for a church closer to home a couple of years ago, except for Roger’s involvement there. Maybe now was the time …
“No, it’ll just be me. I’m not going to County Line tomorrow. Did you say two o’clock?” She’d explain about Roger when she got there.
In spite of traffic, Grace pulled into the driveway of Mark and Denise’s modest suburban home after just the usual forty-five-minute drive. Another familiar car sat in the driveway …
“Hey, hey, hey, there she is!” Large knuckles were knocking on her side window.
Grace opened her car door. “Dad! What are you doing here?” Climbing out of the car, she was enveloped in a big hug. “Nobody said anything about you guys coming too.” Her raspy voice was muffled against his big shoulder.
“Gotta see our girl!” Her father, hatless, his thinning silver hair lifting slightly in the chilly breeze, held her at arm’s length. “Still got that nasty laryngitis, don’t you,” he scolded. “We gotta get you inside.” Grace barely had time to grab her purse and the bag with souvenirs she’d bought in Florida for her nephews before being hustled through the front door.
“Surprise!” Marcus and Luke, eight and five respectively, nearly bowled her over with hugs. “Grandma’s here too!”
Indeed she was. Grace smiled at her mom, an attractive woman in her early sixties, still working as a librarian at one of the branch libraries in Indianapolis. Margaret Meredith had let her hair go silver and wore it in a short pageboy, softly framing her pleasant face. Hugs all around … Mark, so like their dad, a bit pudgy in the paunch but still good-looking with his dark brown hair and lopsided grin, his pretty wife, Denise, and the two boys, all mophaired and big smiles—especially when she handed the boys the two wrapped packages, which they immediately ripped open to discover large rubber alligators she’d bought at Orlando’s Nature Park.
“Wow. Thanks, Aunt Grace!”
“Yeah,” echoed five-year-old Luke. He squinted up at her. “How come you’re talking funny?”
She pointed a finger into her mouth, and then grinned as she tousled his hair. “Laryngitis. You oughta try it sometime.”
Grace took her father’s arm as Denise shooed them all toward the dining room. “How’s the hardware store, Dad?”
“Oh, you know, hanging in there. Now if one of my offspring would just take over the business, I could retire …”
“Dad!” Mark rolled his eyes. “Don’t start that again. Sis, why don’t you sit on that side with the boys, Mom and Dad over here …”
When they were seated, they all held hands around the dining room table and Mark eyed his father. “Dad? Will you—?” And Paul Meredith launched into a “Sunday dinner prayer,” as the grandkids called it, a bit long, thanking God they could all be together, asking God to bless Tim and Nellie and the kids—Grace’s oldest brother’s family—who lived too far away to be with them today, blessing this home, thanking God for Grace being back home from her tour, safe and sound …
Not so safe. Not so sound, she thought, biting her lip.
“… and bless the hands that prepared this scrumptious meal. Amen!”
The next few minutes were a flurry of passing the pot roast and vegetables, the usual, “Aw, do I hafta eat carrots?” and Denise jumping up to get this and that she’d forgotten.
“So where’s Roger?” Mark asked, heaping roasted potatoes on his plate. “Thought he wouldn’t be letting you out of his sight after being gone a whole month.”
Grace swallowed. She took a deep breath. “We broke up.”
All noise and movement stopped. Food dishes were held in midair. Even Marcus and Luke stared up at her from either side. Grace was aware that all eyes went to the bare third finger of her left hand. She nodded.
“Oh, honey …” Her mother’s face looked about to crumple. “You bought your wedding dress!”
“Please, Mom, don’t.” Grace smiled bravely. “It’s all right. Maybe we can talk about it later. I’m supposed to be resting my voice, so why don’t you all tell me what’s been happening around here while I’ve been gone?”
It took a false start or two to get the conversation going again, but the chatter finally picked up about jobs and politics and weather, until Marcus announced he wanted to quit piano lessons and play drums in the elementary school band next year.
“Like heck,” Mark muttered under his breath and everyone laughed. “You boys go play video games or something until it’s time for dessert. We’ll call you.” It took only two seconds for them to disappear toward the den.
With the boys gone, all eyes turned back on Grace. “Okay.” She laid her cloth napkin on the table. “I need to keep this short, though. Still trying to get over this virus.” As simply as she could, she told them about Roger’s phone call the night before her last concert, Samantha’s mother’s heart attack, and coming h
ome sick. She didn’t say anything about the humiliating “pat down” at the Memphis airport, not in front of her parents. She’d never been able to talk to them about sexual stuff. And … some things were better left buried. “Then he showed up yesterday and took his ring back.”
Mark threw up his hands. “Of all the nerve! He’s nuts!”
She shrugged. “He said he couldn’t handle the long separations when I’m on tour, and he didn’t like our relationship being so public. Not what he wants in a wife.”
Her mother reached across the table and touched her hand. “But, honey, it’s not like you’d be doing that forever. I mean, you’re almost thirty. Once you’re married, you’ll want to start a family, stay at home with the babies—”
“Now, Margaret …” Her father gave a warning shake of his head.
Her mother looked surprised. “Well, wouldn’t she?”
Grace shook her head. “I don’t know, Mom. We never talked about it. That’s what’s so weird. This seemed to come out of the blue. But then, late-night long-distance phone calls when I’m on tour aren’t exactly ideal for keeping up with each other. Somehow I missed the clues. But … Roger was quite clear. The engagement’s off.”
Her brother’s face was a thundercloud. “Probably has his eye on some other bimbo at that matchmaking factory out at County Line.”
Grace made a wry face. “What do you mean, some other bimbo, dear brother?”
Mark turned red. “Oh, you know what I mean. How old is Roger … thirty-two? And doesn’t he teach some college-age Sunday school class? Mature single guy … college girls on a manhunt … recipe for disaster.”
Denise poked her husband. “I think you need to shut up, Mark.”
Grace felt the tears start. She picked up her napkin and dabbed her eyes. “Yes, please. Don’t start any gossip about Roger. I don’t know what happened. Right now, you guys just need to understand that it’s over. And I’m so glad you’re my family. I—” It was no use. The tears spilled over. Her shoulders shook.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her father moved over to the seat vacated by Luke and wrapped his arms around her. She sobbed on his shoulder. “It’s okay, it’s going to be all right. You’ll always be our Golden Girl. Go ahead and cry.”
Golden Girl … Her father’s words made her cry even harder. Not so golden. Not if they knew. But held against her father’s chest, Grace’s sobs gradually eased as the others quietly started to clear the table. Grace heard her mother’s plaintive voice from the kitchen. “I just don’t understand!”
And her brother’s still angry voice: “Jerk has no idea he just lost the best fish in the sea.”
As hard as it’d been to tell them she’d been dumped, the Sunday afternoon with family felt like a soothing balm for Grace’s wounds. They built a fire in the family room fireplace, and Denise served hot cider with cinnamon sticks and peppermint ice cream as they played a cutthroat game of Scrabble—a Meredith tradition. But her parents had to leave around five, heading back to Indianapolis—a four-hour drive—and Grace said she’d better get going too. Mark followed her out to the car.
“If you want me to go punch his lights out, just say the word, Sis.”
She shook her head with a sad smile. “Thanks, Mark. I’ll let you know.”
“Hey, sorry I didn’t get over to shovel your walks. Maybe I can drop by tomorrow. I’ll look at my—”
“It’s okay. I paid a neighbor kid to shovel. Did a pretty good job.”
Her brother looked surprised. “Really? Thought you didn’t know anybody.”
“Well, I don’t really. But I met the family next door, some of them anyway, and they seem real nice. Tavis shoveled the walks. He’s a twin. Cute kid. Thirteen.”
“Thirteen. Hmm, never did think of thirteen as a cute age. All that angst. Kind of dreading it.”
She leaned over and kissed her brother on the cheek. “Marcus and Luke are going to be fine. But good luck with the drums.”
She got in her car, waved good-bye, and backed out of the driveway.
Daylight was fading fast and traffic was still heavy going back toward Chicago, but she felt relieved. She’d dreaded telling her parents about the breakup. Her mom had been so excited about getting to be mother of the bride—a whole different role than the mother of the groom she’d been at Tim’s and Mark’s weddings. And she knew her parents were a little anxious that she was almost thirty and not yet married. Tim had gotten married right out of college and he and Nellie had pre-teens already as well as a surprise baby, who was now three—all girls. They lived in Colorado Springs and she didn’t get to see her nieces very often. At least she had Mark and Denise and the boys nearby. Family. What a gift.
But … there was a lot she hadn’t told them. She just felt so weary. There’d be time to tell them about canceling the sweetheart banquet in Milwaukee next weekend—surely they’d understand that. She did tell them she had an appointment with a throat specialist tomorrow. After that, maybe she’d need their counsel—and surely their prayers—about what to do about her upcoming bookings and the West Coast tour this spring. And the switch in her booking agent …
Oh. She still hadn’t called Jeff Newman back about him stopping over in Chicago to see her on Tuesday! Guess she couldn’t put that off any longer. Why not meet the guy … she’d give him a tentative okay, and let him know for sure after her doctor’s appointment tomorrow.
Chapter 12
Grace stood at her kitchen window Tuesday morning, wondering why she hadn’t heard from Jeff Newman. It had started snowing during the night and was still falling lightly and getting foggy. His plane was probably late.
Why was she so nervous? It wasn’t like she had to convince him to take her on as a client. She was already well established with the agency, and Newman had said the switch was simply a client overload for her agent. But was he experienced? He’d sounded a lot younger than Fowler.
Regardless, he wasn’t going to be happy when she told him the otolaryngologist had strongly recommended a monthlong rest of her voice and treatments by a speech therapist to restrengthen her vocal chords. Besides the viral infection that had inflamed her throat, he’d said overuse, vocal fatigue, and stress were responsible for her loss of voice. The specialist had been very thorough, not only doing a medical workup and vocal history, but performing several tests, including an endoscopy—she hadn’t been able to eat or drink anything for ten hours prior to her appointment—and something called a “nasal fiber-optic laryngoscopy,” both of which required enough twilight anesthesia that they’d advised her not to drive, so she’d taken a taxi both ways.
So much for Monday.
Well, it was what it was. At least she had good medical reasons for a sabbatical. Maybe she’d be ready to resume doing concerts again after a few weeks of rest. And surely Bongo Booking had run into these types of problems before with other clients, since—according to the specialist—voice disorders were as common among singers as tennis elbow and knee injuries were to athletes.
Bongo Booking …
Grace couldn’t help a small grin as she turned from the window and headed into the living room to get an update on the weather. Strange name for an agency that specialized in booking contemporary Christian music artists. Go figure. But at least “Bongo” got attention and a place near the front of the alphabet in listings.
The TV screen leaped to life as she pressed the remote. Oprah. Was she still on? She’d heard rumors the diva was moving her show to LA. Well, whatever the hot topic was, the show would be over soon. It was almost ten. According to the flight schedule Newman had e-mailed her, he was supposed to land at O’Hare around nine thirty, pick up a rental car, and drive to her house. He’d suggested meeting here so she wouldn’t have to go out. Thoughtful of him. His last e-mail said the agency had lined up the rental car and a couple of other business appointments for him as long as he was in Chicago … Wait. What’s this?
A weather warning was running across the bottom of the scree
n. Heavy snow accumulation possible by evening rush hour. Ugh. Now she was doubly glad she didn’t have to drive anywhere.
But waiting was hard. She’d cleaned the house … had the makings for a simple Thai salad and pita bread lunch … answered a few e-mails … and changed outfits twice. Should she go homey, with jeans and bulky sweater? Business casual pantsuit? Long winter skirt and tall boots? Her phone finally rang at 10:25. It took her a moment to recognize it. She’d reset the ringtone to a simple pleasant guitar strum—for now, anyway. The caller ID said Jeff Newman.
“Grace! So sorry to keep you waiting. Air traffic was backed up because of weather and my plane just landed.”
“That’s okay. I figured as much. Glad you made it down safely.”
“Oh, yeah. God’s got us covered, right? Anyway, no checked baggage so I’m on my way to pick up the rental car. I’ve got GPS on my phone, so I should be able to find you. Let’s see … it’s going to be eleven thirty at the earliest. Still okay for you?”
“Fine.” Not like she was going anywhere. “See you then.”
It was noon before the doorbell rang. She’d changed again, deciding on business casual: black slacks over ankle boots, feminine white blouse, belted corduroy cranberry jacket, and her makeup had a soft-rosy glow. After a week of slopping around in slippers, hair in a ponytail or clip, and no makeup, it felt good to spruce up a bit.
Grace took a deep breath and opened the door. A gust of wind blew a swirl of snow inside. A man stood on her stoop, hatless, his shoulders hunched inside a leather jacket with the collar up, a leather messenger bag hanging from one shoulder. Snowflakes had already layered on his dark hair, but a red scarf was wrapped around his face and ears. “Grace Meredith,” said a muffled voice.
She pulled the door open wider, remembering to keep an eye out for her four-legged escape artist. “And you must be Jeff Newman.”
The man stepped in and she shut the door as he stamped snow off his shoes on the wide mat just inside. Unwinding the scarf, he shook his head and ran a hand over dark curly hair to rid it of the wet snowflakes. “Whew. Thanks. It’s getting nasty out there. Again, apologies for being late. But the traffic!”