by Neta Jackson
Couldn’t really blame folks for claiming parking spots after going to all that work, though she doubted it was legal. At least she’d done her duty this time and had her walks shoveled, like most of the other neighbors up and down the street—except for the two-flat across the street. The walk was still only half-shoveled where Jeff and the lawn service guy and the twins’ father had tried to make a path for the paramedics two days ago.
Grace wondered what had happened to the old lady who’d fallen down the basement stairs. Was she still in the hospital? Sign said her house was in foreclosure … was she coming back? Had she died? Did anybody on the street even know?
Saturday was the pits.
The temperature had fluctuated between ten and twenty degrees the past few days with just enough wind to knife the cold right into her bones the few times she’d ventured outside. No new snow, but the snow from the mini-blizzard was still half frozen—not conducive to going for a walk or getting exercise.
She stayed in, trying not to think about the sweetheart banquet going on without her. Trying not to wonder what Roger was doing instead. Trying not to think about Jeff Newman’s ski weekend.
And failing.
Nothing like a pity party when it’s just you and the cat, who doesn’t care that you haven’t done your hair or put on makeup as long as you’re there to open a can of cat food and provide a lap for a nap or two during the day.
At least she had Sunday to look forward to. Sam had said she’d drive up from the South Side right after church and bring some takeout for lunch.
Church …
Grace had a sudden craving to go to church Sunday morning. It’d been too long—way too long—since she’d been to church just to worship. On tour, she mostly went to church when she was invited to sing. On her off Sundays, she was usually too beat and justified not going anywhere by taking a much-needed day of rest. That was scriptural, wasn’t it?
But when she woke up Sunday she felt restless. Tired of being cooped up in the house. And hungry too—hungry for something to soothe her soul.
She could call a cab. But not way out to County Line. Roger would be there—though a tiny part of her was tempted to show up and show him. But it would be too awkward, and it was just too far, way out in the western ’burbs. Surely she could find a church closer by.
She thought of the little storefront churches along Touhy Avenue or Clark Street with names like God’s Battle Axe Prayer Ministries or Triumphant Saints Holiness. Ethnic churches she supposed—African American or Jamaican or Ethiopian. Most within walking distance. Ha. What would they think if she walked in, this strange white lady?
More to the point, would she have the nerve? Probably not. Not alone, anyway. Too far out of her comfort zone. She laughed at the irony. Here she was, a Christian artist boldly proclaiming God’s message of love to strangers far and wide, and she couldn’t gather the nerve to be the stranger two blocks from home.
She should have asked Sam if she was going to church. Perhaps she still had time to get a taxi and meet Sam there. Sam attended one of the large black churches on the South Side, but at least she’d be with Sam to help her navigate. Might be interesting.
Grace tried Sam’s cell phone, but it went right to voice mail. So much for that idea. She wasn’t going to just show up at a strange church on the South Side if Sam didn’t know she was coming.
“Well, Oreo, guess we’ll have to have our own church,” she said, pushing the cat over to make room on the couch and picking up the TV remote. A quick scan through the channels turned up a couple of talking heads with thick Southern accents—she with big hair and he with fleshy jowls and a pink tie—inviting viewers to support their ministry and receive a ten-fold blessing … the Crystal Cathedral with its big organ pipes and sea of a thousand-plus faces … a black pastor pacing a red-carpeted platform whose every phrase brought forth shouts of “Amen!” and “Say it!” and “Hallelujah!” from the televised congregation.
She turned off the electric church and tossed the remote, then wandered into her bedroom looking for her Bible. Where had she put it? Had she really not read her Bible since she’d come home from her New Year, New You tour? It was still in her suitcase, which she hadn’t yet completely emptied.
She flopped onto her bed with the Bible her parents had given her for high school graduation. On tour it was hard to find time for personal prayer and Bible reading, though she didn’t hesitate to encourage the young people who came to her concerts to have a “quiet time with the Lord.” She often quoted favorite scriptures between songs—promises like, “Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added unto you” and “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and don’t lean on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him and he will direct your paths.”
Grace flipped to the familiar verses she’d marked with tiny Post-its. “All these things will be added unto you …” Did she really believe that? Seemed like a lot of things had been taken away from her lately. And “he will direct your paths …” Really? Felt more like she’d been pushed out of the boat and was treading water.
What was happening to her life? Had God abandoned her too?
She lay propped on the bed pillows, flipping to the verses she used during her concerts, trying to read some of the psalms. It all felt like so many words …
She must’ve dozed off, because the next thing she knew the doorbell was ringing and Oreo streaked out of the bedroom to check out who dared interrupt their nap. Grace followed, wishing she’d gargled or drunk some water or something so she didn’t feel so groggy.
Turning the lock and sliding off the security chain, she opened the door. Her assistant stood on the stoop, swaddled in a black winter coat, matching brown-and-gold knit beret and neck scarf, holding a bulging plastic bag in one hand and the handle of a small suitcase-on-wheels in the other. The large dark eyes peering out from beneath the beret were looking her up and down, lips parted in consternation as if not sure she was at the right house.
“Grace? What in the world … Girl, what is the matter with you?!”
Chapter 17
Grace grabbed for Oreo, who looked like he might make a dash for it, left the door open and marched over to the couch. “Well, nice to see you too.”
“Oh, Grace, I’m sorry. It’s just …” Samantha hustled inside, shut the door, and shed her wraps. She stood there for a long moment in her black Sunday dress slacks and a silky white blouse under a black suit jacket, but when Grace didn’t say anything, she held up the plastic bag. “Lunch. I just need a minute to warm it up.” Sam’s sassy twists disappeared into the kitchen, and Grace heard cupboards opening and dishes rattling.
Dumping the cat, Grace got up and peeked at her reflection in the narrow mirror that hung by the front door. When she got up that morning, she’d wound her long hair into a careless bunch on the back of her head and held it there with a clip, the shag ends falling out untidily around her face. No makeup, skin pale and blotchy, eyes red, lips chapped, clothes rumpled …
Guess she did look a bit the worse for wear. But she had good reasons, didn’t she?
Grace glanced at the schoolhouse clock. Sam was taking longer than necessary to stick the carryout in the oven. She should probably follow her into the kitchen and start over with a real greeting—she really was glad to see her! But she took up a cross-legged position on the couch instead. Samantha deserved to know what had been going on, but Grace needed to suck up some courage to tell the whole story.
When her assistant did come back into the living room, she was carrying two steaming mugs of tea. “Food will need fifteen minutes or so to reheat. Thought you could use this.”
Grace took a sip from the mug Sam handed her. Fixed just the way she liked it, with just the right amount of lemon and honey. “Thanks.” Another sip. “So tell me, how is your mom?”
“All right, I guess, considering.” Sam sank into the overstuffed chair, two hands wrapped around the other
mug. “I was glad I could stay a few days to help out when she first came home from the hospital. But honestly! After a while, nothing I did was right. She kept fussin’ at me, said to quit nagging her about taking her meds and all the butter she was eatin’—all the stuff the doctor said she had to do so it wouldn’t happen again. Decided it was time to leave.” Sam cut her eyes sideways at Grace from beneath her tiny twists. “Besides, she kept calling me Sammie Ruth. Sammie Ruth this, Sammie Ruth that. Like I was still ten years old.”
“That’s your middle name?”
“Yeah. What’s yours?”
“Actually, Grace is my middle name.” She flushed a little. She always went by Grace Meredith. That was her professional name, and no way did she want her full name to go public. But … Samantha was discreet. Part of a personal assistant’s job description. “I’m named after my mother, Margaret—Margaret Grace. But of course they called me Grace, since we already had a Margaret in the family. I’ve dropped the Margaret, except for legal stuff. And you are sworn to secrecy.”
Sam smiled and made an X over her heart with her forefinger. “Promise. Though I think Margaret is a beautiful name. Margaret Grace …”
Grace gave her a warning look.
“Okay, okay!” But Sam frowned at Grace. “But what about you? You said the sweetheart gig got canceled. What happened? Is it your voice? Is your throat still giving you trouble? Have you seen a doctor?” A ding went off in the kitchen. “Oh, food’s hot. Be back in a sec.” Sam scrambled out of the chair and disappeared into the kitchen. Two minutes later she was back with two plates heaped high with fried chicken, red beans and rice, crab cakes and—
“Fried green tomatoes!” Grace squeaked. “Where’d you get all this?”
Sam laughed. “My favorite soul-food place on the South Side. Thought I’d bring you a little taste of Memphis, since you weren’t there long enough to enjoy the food.”
Memphis … Grace winced.
“What?” Sam frowned. “You made a face. You don’t like soul food?”
“No, no, food’s great. It’s just …” Taking a deep breath, Grace described what had happened at the airport after the last concert. It was the first time she’d told anyone that part, except for her doctor, and she had to reach for the tissues.
Sam listened wide-eyed, her own face crumpling by the time Grace finished. “Oh, Grace, I’m so sorry. That’s horrible! Did you file a complaint? Oh, if only I hadn’t left you alone to—”
“Oh stop it.” Grace regretted her tears. Regretted that on that horrible weekend she actually had felt like blaming Samantha for abandoning her. “You had to do what you had to do. Couldn’t be helped. I didn’t file a complaint”—she hadn’t even thought of that—“but there’s no way I’m going to go through that airport security again.”
Samantha stared. “But … you have to fly. I mean, you’ve got that West Coast tour coming up, and several concerts before that! Surely it won’t happen again—I mean, lightning doesn’t strike twice, right? Those security people pick people at random—just to prove they’re not profiling, you know.”
Grace just kept shaking her head. How could she explain?
Samantha was quiet a few moments. Then she ventured, “That’s not all, is it? You were upset even before you did your last concert. Was it the phone call with Roger? When I came back to the room after my sister and cousin left, I heard you crying …”
They talked. Grace told her the whole story. Their food got cold. Samantha moved over to the couch, put an arm around Grace, and let her cry.
“And on top of everything else,” Grace sniffed, “my agent dumped me too, turned me over to his assistant.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It gets better—or worse. His name is Jeff Newman. He came to Chicago to meet me last Tuesday—the day of the big storm, remember? Oh … you were still in Memphis. But you can still see how much snow is left. Anyway, he got stranded here. At my house. Overnight.” Grace rolled her eyes.
“No!” Samantha started to giggle. “What’s he like? Forty-five, balding, bit of a paunch—or maybe he’s one of those music agents we sometimes see with a Mohawk, pierced nose, tattoos everywhere?”
Grace shook her head. “Neither. Actually seems like a nice guy. Maybe thirty.”
Samantha raised an eyebrow.
“Forget it,” Grace said. “I’m in no place to start thinking about men again.” She paused. “Besides, he’s spending the weekend skiing with a girlfriend as we speak.”
“Oh.” Samantha made a face, and then jumped up. “I’m going to warm up this food again—microwave this time. All this bad news is hard to take on an empty stomach. And say …” She paused in the doorway. “Would you like me to give you a facial? I do it for my cousins all the time. And you might feel better if you had a hot shower and gave that hair a good brushing. When was the last time you had it cut and conditioned? Before the New Year, New You tour, I’ll bet. Tomorrow. First thing tomorrow we’re going to the beauty salon. Fan mail can wait.”
“Tomorrow? You’re coming back?”
“Coming back nothing. I’m moving in.” Sam pointed to the suitcase. “Well, not really, but I brought my jammies just in case. I had a feeling I might need to stay a few days.”
Samantha was as good as her word. After they’d eaten, she padded a kitchen chair with pillows from the bedroom, made a “cape” out of a plastic garbage bag, and sat Grace down, head back on a pillow, feet up on another chair. Soaking a clean hand towel in hot water from the teakettle, she laid it gently on Grace’s face to steam open her pores. From beneath the towel, Grace heard Sam raiding the bathroom down the hall, and a few minutes later she came back with a basket of creams and lotions.
“Mmm, feels wonderful,” Grace murmured, her eyes closed as Sam followed a thorough facial cleansing with astringent, and then a good face massage with a soothing lotion. So relaxing …
“Ouch!” Her eyes flew open.
“Sorry.” Samantha didn’t look sorry. “Those eyebrows need a good tweezing. Hold still.”
Now that was getting a bit personal, Grace thought. But after the facial, she obediently took a hot shower, washed and conditioned her hair, and put on some makeup. Watching herself in the mirror as she used the blow dryer, she smiled, realizing the transformation was having its desired effect. When she came out of the bathroom, Samantha nodded approvingly. “Better. Much better. Still need to get that hair shaped and the split ends cut off tomorrow. But right now”—she steered Grace down the hall toward her bedroom—“we’re going to get you out of those sweatpants and into something decent.”
“Why?” Grace protested as she was propelled into her bedroom. “I mean, I appreciate all the TLC, but I’m not going anywhere.”
“Who says?” Samantha slid open the closet door and pulled out a pair of black slacks and a royal-blue brushed sweater, holding them up against Grace. “It’s February fourteenth, sweetie, and who wants to sit home on Valentine’s Day? Not me. And definitely not you. What we need, girl, is some chocolate.”
When Grace woke up the next morning, she felt more rested than she had since she’d come home two weeks ago. It had felt so … so comforting to know Samantha was in the house last night. A slow grin spread over her face remembering their foray into the frozen wasteland to find chocolate. They’d just come out the front door swaddled in coats, hats, scarves, and boots when Sam had stopped, puzzled. “Can’t remember where I parked my car. Couldn’t find any parking on your block. All those lawn-chair barricades and homemade signs saying, ‘Don’t even think about parking here!’ are scary.”
“Didn’t know you had a car.” Grace had always envied how easily Sam got around the city by public transportation.
Samantha had shrugged. “I didn’t, until yesterday. Leased one when I got back. Trying it out for a month, see if I want to buy. It’s cold standing on those El platforms.”
They found the little Honda Civic parked two blocks away, drove down Lake S
hore Drive to Ghirardelli’s Chocolate Shop and Soda Fountain on North Michigan Avenue and ordered two of their signature chocolate brownies with double-rich vanilla-bean ice cream on top, swimming in hot fudge sauce. Ignoring all the couples getting their Valentine’s Day chocolate fix, they’d giggled over high school and college antics like a couple of teenagers …
Grace stretched, slid out of the covers, and stuck her feet into her slippers. It had felt good to laugh and just have fun—though a tiny part of her noggin wondered if letting down her hair with her personal assistant was the wisest thing to do for their working relationship.
Sam was all business by the time Grace got out of the shower. “You have an eleven o’clock at Johnny’s Beauty Salon and a two o’clock at Curves—”
“Curves!”
Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Didn’t you tell me your doctor said to use this sabbatical to get healthy again? Get lots of rest, eat right, exercise—”
Grace rolled her eyes. “All right, I get it.” Curves. Sam was getting downright bossy.
Except for the trip to the beauty salon and getting Grace signed up with a trainer at Curves, Samantha worked most of the day on answering the backlog of fan mail—both e-mail and letters. She created a form letter reporting about the New Year, New You tour they’d just finished, adding “Thanks so much for writing, your comments mean so much,” and then personalized each reply in some way, especially if a fan had a question. But there was one sticking point. “What should I say to these fans who say, ‘Can’t wait for your upcoming concert, already have tickets’?”
Grace winced. How would Bongo handle that? “Um, put those into a Hold folder for now. Newman said he’d get back to me after he’d handled the cancellations. Guess we have to let them know something.”
Sam frowned. “How many cancellations are we talking about?”
“Just two. Norfolk and Houston.” For now, anyway. There was that sticky question about how she’d travel—and what to do about her concerts. She wasn’t ready to talk about being “worth the wait” yet. Not after Roger’s sudden departure. And not after … she stopped herself from going there. She couldn’t look at her past. Not now. And now wasn’t the time to tell Sam she was toying with giving up the whole shebang.