Grounded

by Neta Jackson

  Grace felt a twinge of disappointment. Yesterday she hadn’t wanted him to stay—but now his leaving felt too soon. She’d hoped for a little more time to visit, but she’d overslept, and then gotten distracted by the drama across the street. “It’s been no trouble, really! But you need some breakfast before you go. Sorry it’s so late.” She headed for the kitchen. “Scrambled okay?”

  “Sure,” he called after her. “But don’t go to any extra work for me. You’ve already fed me twice. Three times if you count all that popcorn we ate last night.”

  Pouring a cup of the ready-made coffee, Grace grinned to herself as she whisked eggs, poured two glasses of orange juice, and stuck two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster. All that popcorn. And hot chocolate. And peanuts. Munching away to break the intensity of a cutthroat Scrabble game. She’d won—but just barely. And he’d demanded a rematch. Which she also won, but again just barely.

  But it was fun. She’d laughed a lot. The Scrabble and easy conversation had taken her mind off her laryngitis and the awful experience at the airport and the canceled concerts … and even her broken engagement.

  “Breakfast is ready!” she called a few minutes later, dishing up the eggs.

  “On the phone. Be there in a minute!”

  It was more like three minutes, but Jeff finally slipped into a chair at the kitchen table. “Sorry. I was talking to the office, asking if they wanted to reschedule my meeting with the client in Nashville, or if I should just come back to Denver. Found out they’d already rescheduled with the client for tomorrow, so guess I go out to the airport and take the first standby to Nashville I can get.”

  She passed him the eggs. “Ouch. My guess is O’Hare will be pretty backed up after all the canceled flights yesterday. You might have a long wait…. Um, do you want to ‘do the honors’ again?”

  “Sure.” He bowed his head and prayed another brief and simple blessing over the food, though this time he added, “… and bless Grace Meredith for her hospitality above and beyond the call of duty. Restore her voice to full health, so she can continue to bless others with her gift of music. Amen.”

  She looked up and smiled at him. “Thank you. That was nice.”

  “Meant it. You’ve been a trouper.”

  “You’re the one who’s been inconvenienced.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t feel too sorry for me. Cathy—she’s our receptionist at Bongo, real nice girl, got married last year—said her cousin is coming to town in a couple days and she’s lining up a weekend of skiing for the four of us. Cathy thinks I need to redeem my snow experience in Chicago.”

  Grace looked down at her plate. A weekend of skiing … with “Cathy’s cousin.” Jeff forked in a mouthful of scrambles. “Never been skiing. That was next on my bucket list, now that I live in Colorado. Something to look forward to when I get back. Though”—he made a face—“not my choice for a blind date. I’m likely to make a fool of myself on the slopes. Better pray for me … mmm, these eggs are good. Mind if I finish up the rest in that bowl?”

  Feeling flustered, Grace handed him the serving bowl, but got up abruptly to stick another couple slices of bread into the toaster, her back to Jeff.

  She should have just said, “Sure, I’ll pray for you,” but something stopped her. Something a little bit like jealousy.

  That didn’t make any sense at all.

  She buttered the toast and handed one to Jeff, hoping he couldn’t see through her forced smile.

  Chapter 15

  Grace sat cross-legged on the couch, staring at nothing in particular while Oreo kneaded his paws on her lap and purred up a storm, as if saying, “Finally! Some attention!” But if Oreo was getting any attention, it was by default. Grace’s mind was elsewhere.

  Good thing Jeff Newman was gone. Having a houseguest made her talk too much, and the doctor said she was supposed to avoid all “nonessential talking”—a directive she’d basically ignored while he was here. What else did the doc say? … Oh yeah, drink lots of liquids and use a vaporizer at night—which she’d also forgotten after their late-evening battle-of-the-Scrabble-board.

  And another thing. She was glad he’d left because … she felt confused. Why did she have such a reaction to him saying he was going skiing with a date this weekend? He was just her agent, for pity’s sake! The guy was single, good-looking, personable—so of course he’d be dating. It was no business of hers.

  Except that she’d enjoyed being with him. A lot. Enjoyed being in the company of a guy who seemed to like and respect her, which was no small thing in light of her recent experiences.

  “Grow up, Grace!” she muttered aloud. “You’re acting like a fickle teenager.” She knew as well as anybody that when a girl gets rejected, it’s tempting to fall for the first guy who gives her a second glance, trying to prove she’s still desirable. She’d counseled a teen or two on that very subject. The break with Roger was barely a week old. Deep down she hadn’t given up hope that they might find a way back to each other.

  Maybe it was a bad idea for Newman to be her agent—except she’d already told him last night the switch was fine with her, and she was looking forward to working with him. To change her mind now would raise awkward questions—like why. So she was stuck with Jeff Newman. It was unlikely she’d see him again anytime soon, and even more unlikely he’d ever get stranded at her house again in a snowstorm. Soon, their unusual, yet entirely enjoyable, experience would sort itself out into a proper businesslike arrangement—

  Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong!

  The front doorbell rang urgently. For two panicky seconds, Grace’s heart felt as if it stopped altogether. She hadn’t actually gone out to check if his rental car was gone, but Jeff had left at least an hour ago. Surely he wasn’t back again.

  Dumping Oreo off her lap, she tiptoed to the door and peeked through the security peephole. A young brown face surrounded by the fake fur of a parka hood bounced on the other side of the door.

  Her heart quit racing.

  She unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Hey there, Tavis,” came out in a croak. Ugh. She definitely needed to rest her voice. She was supposed to see the voice therapist tomorrow.

  “Hi, Miz Meredith. You want your walk shoveled?” The boy pointed to the shovel that Jeff had left leaning beside the front door. “Or is that guy who’s stayin’ with you gonna do it? He an’ my dad were shovelin’ over at the old lady’s house, but just thought I’d ask.”

  Grace cringed. What if it got out that a man had stayed overnight at her house? Gossip like that sometimes went viral … her career would be toast! What if—

  Calm down, Grace. Nip it in the bud. “Oh, no, he’s gone. My agent was here for a business meeting and got stranded by the storm. But the towing company got his car out and he’s on his way to Nashville.” Stop it, Grace. The kid didn’t need to know all that. She willed a smile. “So, yes, I definitely need my walk shoveled, if you’re up to it.”

  The dark brown eyes glittered. “Well, gotta tell ya, I’m gonna have to charge more this time. That’s a lotta snow. Gonna take me a long time.”

  “Hey, Tavis!” a girlish voice yelled. “You were s’posed to wait for me!” Another junior high–size figure waded through the deep snow toward her stoop.

  Tavis rolled his eyes. “My sister—she wants to help shovel too.”

  Now Grace’s smile was genuine. “That is a great idea. Except I only have one shovel. Do you have another one?”

  Tavis’s twin popped up beside him on the stoop. “Hiya, Miz Meredith. My mom says she met you. I’m Tabitha.” A mittened hand shot out and Grace shook it, though she was starting to shiver standing in the open doorway with no coat.

  “I’m happy to meet you, Tabitha. Tell you kids what—I’ll make it fifteen bucks each if you get the sidewalk out there and my front and back walks shoveled. If you can’t do it all—I know it’s a big job—I’ll adjust accordingly. Deal?”

  The twins hooted and high-fived each other as sh
e shut the door.

  Yikes. Had she just offered to shell out thirty bucks to get her walks shoveled? What kind of precedent was that? But as she peeked out the window at the mounds of snow—two feet deep in some places because of the wind—she decided it was worth every penny.

  The city trucks finally plowed Beecham Street Thursday morning, burying parked cars that hadn’t been shoveled out and moved. Grace was grateful she’d put her car in the garage before the storm—except that now she couldn’t get it out. City trucks didn’t plow alleys and some of the drifts were over two feet deep. What was she going to do? She had an appointment with the voice therapist that afternoon.

  She called a taxi.

  At least she’d been a good girl and had rested her voice the past twenty-four hours, along with drinking copious amounts of water and hot lemon-honey tea—no coffee—and running the vaporizer all night. Her voice strength was at least back to where it was when Jeff Newman showed up.

  The voice therapist was a lot younger than the otolaryngologist, maybe just a few years older than herself, Grace decided. The woman had wavy light-brown hair worn shoulder-length and reading glasses perched on her nose. Looked like a librarian. She introduced herself as Dr. Erskine and seemed genuinely interested in Grace’s career history. What kind of music did she sing? How many tours did she do a year? Did Grace have a CD? She’d love to hear her sing …

  “But not today!” the therapist laughed. “Today I want to do a few more tests. I’ve gone over your test results from Monday, and of course the first thing to take care of is that viral infection, which you say is doing much better. But I’d like to do a fiber-optic test today to assess your larynx function, as well as do a telescopic examination, which will feel awkward, but will help identify any lesions on the vocal folds—nodules, polyps, cysts, hematomas—that kind of thing.”

  Grace swallowed. “You think there’s a problem like that?”

  Dr. Erskine smiled. “Don’t worry. Most of what we do is to rule things out so we can treat you most effectively. Now, you might be more comfortable if you removed your earrings …”

  By the time Grace got home, she felt exhausted. She’d had to make all kinds of sounds and even try to sing scales up and down her pitch range with the doctor’s scopes in her mouth. The good news was no lesions on the vocal folds, but, according to the therapist, she was suffering from acute vocal fatigue and abnormal muscle tension of the larynx, resulting in the ongoing dysphonia. “Hoarseness,” Erskine translated.

  So now she had biweekly appointments for the next month, with exercises to strengthen her vocal chords, build better breath support, and … Grace wasn’t sure what all. “But even if you start to feel better,” the therapist had warned, “use this sabbatical to slow down, get extra rest, pay attention to your diet and exercise, do some reevaluation of the emotional stressors in your life—in short, take care of yourself. It’s all related, you know.”

  It was almost as if the doctor knew about the emotional stress-ors in her life. But she couldn’t … no. Probably just her regular spiel to all her patients. Still, Grace knew it was good advice. But how to get all that extra rest and healthy diet and exercise and de-stress her life—that was something else altogether. For the past week she’d just been plodding her way through each day. Only the family Sunday dinner and Jeff Newman’s extended visit had broken up the monotony.

  Grace tossed her coat on a chair and flopped down on the couch, which Oreo took for a personal invitation to jump into her lap. What in the world was she going to do with a whole month at home—in the dead of winter? She needed a plan … except she was too tired to make a plan. She’d figure that out tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep. Right now she needed food.

  She pulled out her phone, typed in the appointment reminders on her calendar, and was in the middle of a call to Siam Pasta ordering pad thai and jasmine rice, when a notice flashed on her cell screen that she had a new text message—

  “Yes, yes, Beecham has been plowed … did you say forty minutes? … All right, thank you.” Ending the phone call, she quickly switched to Messages. Oh. From Samantha Curtis. Had it been a whole week since she’d communicated with her assistant? Feeling a pang of guilt, she clicked on the message …

  Grace! Sorry for not staying in touch better. Busy helping mom. But coming home Sat. Your voice OK? Is Roger still going 2 Sweetheart concert with U? If U need me, I could come 2. Otherwise, when do U want me to catch up fan mail & stuff? Best! Sam

  Grace tossed the phone on the couch with a groan. She still hadn’t told Sam she’d canceled the sweetheart gig plus the next couple concerts as well. Or that Roger was out of the picture. Or that her trip home from Memphis had been hell. Or that she had a new agent. Knowing Sam, once she had the whole story she’d be all over her like a mother hen, cluck-clucking, giving her opinion of Roger’s desertion, checking on her every day, making sure she was taking care of herself, offering her a shoulder to cry on … though, to be honest, she wouldn’t mind a little of Sam’s motherly TLC, even if the girl was her junior by five years.

  Oreo jumped off her lap and wandered off. Grace, sprawled listlessly on the couch, watched him go. Somewhere outside, she heard kids calling, laughing. Probably on the way home from school, throwing snowballs. Inside, she sat in a pocket of silence … except for the ticking of the schoolhouse clock, which seemed to grow louder as the minutes passed.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …

  Saturday … the day Sam was coming home. Two days away. But for some reason, it felt like forever. Just her and Oreo and that darn ticking clock, stuck in this house like house arrest.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …

  Saturday … the day she and Roger had been scheduled to show up at the sweetheart banquet in Milwaukee as the sweetheart poster couple.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …

  Saturday … the day Jeff Newman would be on the slopes skiing with his blind date.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …

  Suddenly grabbing for her phone, she found Sam’s text and hit Reply:

  Sam! Glad Ur mom doing OK. Sweetheart was canceled. Can you come to the house on Sunday? She hesitated a moment, then typed, Really want to see you. She signed it Grace, and hit Send.

  And then she grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it tight.

  Chapter 16

  A text message from Jeff Newman on Friday said he was on his way back to Denver, he’d work on the cancellations first thing Monday and let her know how it went. And thanks again for the hospitality.

  Grace stood at the front window, absently watching somebody across the street shoveling out his car, wondering how to reply. Businesslike? Chatty? Ask how his meetings went in Nashville? Tell him to have fun this weekend? Finally she just typed Thanks and hit Send—just as a UPS truck pulled up in front of the house and put on its hazard blinkers. Had to be her brother …

  “Can’t stay long, Sis,” Mark said as she opened the door for him. “Just wanted to check on you. You doing okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Mark jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I see you got your walks shoveled. Neighbor kid?”

  “Kids plural. Twins from next door. Seems like a nice family.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s twelve thirty. Want some lunch?”

  “Nah, can’t. Got a ton of deliveries. Hope your car isn’t one of those buried by the snowplow. Aren’t people supposed to move their cars so the city can plow the whole street?”

  Grace shrugged. “Street signs say cars on one side are supposed to move on odd days during a snow emergency, the other side is supposed to move on even days until both sides get plowed.” She shrugged. “But my car is safely tucked in my garage surrounded by snowdrifts and an unplowed alley. Going to have to shovel it out myself, I guess. Or wait till spring when it thaws.”

  Mark guffawed, then grinned apologetically. “Sorry. Not funny. Uh, maybe I can come back this weekend and shovel it out. Or tell you what—I’ll call Roger and
tell him to get his butt over here and dig you out. The cad owes you that much.”

  She gave him a don’t-you-dare look. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, I’m supposed to be taking it easy for the next few weeks till my, you know”—she pointed at her throat—“gets better, not running around.” But she grimaced. “Unless I go stir-crazy first. It’s been a looong week.”

  A series of impatient car honks outside sent Mark to the front window. “Uh-oh. I’m blocking somebody. Gotta go.” He pulled open the front door. “You want to come out to the house again for Sunday dinner?”

  “Oh, Mark, thanks, but—”

  “I mean, if we can get your car out—or I could pick you up.” The car honks got more insistent. Her brother yanked the door open and glared at the big SUV, which was nose to nose with his UPS truck. “Who’s the jerk?” he muttered.

  “Uhhh, not sure.” Fancy car. Might be the guy at the end of the block in the McMansion. “But about Sunday … Sam—Samantha Curtis, my assistant—is coming here that afternoon. She’s been in Memphis ever since my last concert, her mom had a heart attack, and—”

  “Okay, okay, I get it. Gotta go.” Mark was already down the steps. “Call if you change your mind. See ya!” He hustled down her walk and detoured via a shoveled-out parking space in front of the house next door to reach his truck. Watching from the window, it seemed to Grace like he backed down the street a lot slower than he had to. Probably just to spite the guy in the SUV.

  She snickered. Her brother was a nut—lovable, but still a nut.

  Standing at the window till the UPS truck disappeared from sight, Grace noticed the shoveled-out parking space next door had lawn chairs set up in it, no doubt to keep anyone else from parking there. She glanced up and down the block and saw three or four other shoveled parking spaces with similar barricades, interspersed between the lumps of snow-covered cars.