by Neta Jackson
The e-mail from Newman arrived Tuesday morning, saying he’d negotiated the cancellations by offering to reschedule the Norfolk and Houston venues—they’d work out specific dates later. The two venues agreed to contact ticket holders and say they’d honor them at a later date, still to be determined. Grace sent an e-mail back, asking if those venues would be willing to honor those tickets at another concert or event, in case it didn’t work out to reschedule.
Jeff Newman’s second e-mail was short and to the point: They don’t want just anyone, Grace. They want you.
Sam leaned over Grace’s shoulder and read the e-mail. “Feels good to be wanted, doesn’t it?”
It should—but right now, it felt more like pressure. What did she have to offer?
But she didn’t stop Sam from replying to the fans who mentioned having tickets to those two concerts.
Samantha drove Grace to her appointment with the voice therapist and waited as Dr. Erskine put her through the exercises. “Good grief, that was some workout,” Sam said as they got back in the Honda Civic an hour later. “Are you sure she’s helping you? You sound wasted.”
“Thanks a lot,” Grace croaked. But she did feel exhausted, and was grateful Sam was driving, not her.
Back at the house, Sam said, “Look, I’m going to finish up answering the last of the fan-mail backlog and then I’m outta here. Oh, I made up a schedule for you—Curves on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at eight, and Dr. Erskine Tuesdays and Thursdays at two. That’ll get you out of the house at least once a day. I’ll be back Friday to answer any more e-mails that come in, and we’ll go out to dinner or something. Okay with you? Anything else you want me to do before I head home?”
Grace tried not to show her disappointment. Of course Sam had to go home. She had barely been back from Memphis for twenty-four hours before she’d shown up at Grace’s house. She’d been a big help—more than she knew.
Grace shook her head. “No. You’ve done enough for now. Thanks for staying over. I really appreciate it. And Friday’s good—oh, wait. There is one thing you can do.”
She headed for the guest room, Sam on her heels, and jerked the wedding dress from the closet. “Take this with you. Just get it out of here.”
Chapter 18
The house felt really empty after Sam left. But at least her voice got more rest with no one to talk to except Oreo, who yawned to show his lack of interest. Grace couldn’t believe Sam had signed her up for an eight o’clock with the fitness trainer, though. Eight a.m.! She had to leave the house the next morning by seven thirty. At least her shower and breakfast could wait till she got home, so all she had to do was pull on her sweats and make coffee before the taxi came.
The trainer was at least ten years older than Grace, a slender woman with long legs, short sporty hair, and an easy grin. Could probably run the Chicago Marathon. “I’m Susan,” she said, shaking Grace’s hand firmly. They sat while Susan had her fill out a Fitness Goals Assessment sheet. Grace didn’t really know what to put down, so the trainer set some modest goals—aerobic exercise and strength training—and then proceeded to show her the various pieces of equipment. She had Grace warm up on the treadmill, do five minutes on the elliptical—which felt like a combination of skiing, skating, and rowing, so confusing!—and then showed her how to use a multi-station contraption with various sitting positions and graduated weights she was supposed to pull with her arms or push with her feet to work various muscles.
At the end of the hour session, Grace felt so pooped she was tempted to go home and crawl back in bed. But by the time she got home, she felt more ravenous than tired. While making hot oatmeal and toast, she heard water dripping off the bushes outside the kitchen window. Turning on the TV to the Weather Channel, she saw the forecast called for temperatures above freezing the rest of the week, and in the low forties by Friday.
“Hey, Oreo, hear that?” she said to the cat, who was begging for more breakfast. “I might be able to get my car out of the garage after all!”
Grace turned off the TV and opened the living room drapes before returning to the kitchen—which is when she noticed a small black-and-silver SUV drive slowly up the block, turn around in the cul-de-sac by the big house at the end of the block, and then park in the shoveled-out space across the street where the Farid’s Total Lawn Service truck usually parked. Didn’t think she’d seen the car before—though it could be somebody from the other end of the block. Whoever it was better hope Farid didn’t show up, or he might push that car right on down the street with that big plow of his.
An older black man wearing a Chicago Bears jacket got out of the car—sixtyish, no hat, bald, like somebody’s grandpa—and stood for several minutes in front of the two-flat with the For Sale sign, looking it over. She watched as he went up onto the front porch and peered into the glass door, then came back down the steps and picked his way through the snow along the walk that went around the side of the house and disappeared toward the back.
The house was in foreclosure—at least that’s what the yellow sign tacked onto the For Sale sign said. Was the bank moving ahead to sell the house already? It’d only been a week since the ambulance took the old woman to the hospital. If she had to have surgery, she’d be in the hospital for a week or so, maybe have to go to rehab, but then what? Surely they wouldn’t sell the house right out from under her, leaving her with no place to come home to—
A burning smell wafted from the kitchen. Ack! The oatmeal! Grace ran to the kitchen, but it was too late. She had to scrape the mess into the garbage and start over. But once the oatmeal was bubbling again and the timer set, she drifted to the kitchen window to see if she could get another glimpse of the man. Nobody. But the car was still there.
Her conscience pricked her. Like I have a right to get all concerned now. It wasn’t as if she’d made any effort to get to know the woman, other than a wave or “Nice day!” on the rare occasions when they both happened outside at the same time. Even in good weather Grace usually went out the back door, since she kept her car in the garage and came and went through the alley.
Still. She felt bad. If that kid hadn’t broken the old woman’s window with the snowball, she might’ve died without anybody knowing about it for days. Maybe weeks. Unless she had family somewhere in the city who checked on her. Must be hard to get old and live alone.
An involuntary shudder almost made Grace spill her coffee. She was pushing thirty and not married. Her engagement to Roger had seemed like a sure thing. Wedding dress. Wedding plans. They’d buy a house. Hopefully have babies and go to PTA meetings, show up for graduations, cry at their weddings, proudly show off pictures of the grandchildren, and grow old together …
Pfffft. Gone overnight, just like that.
The timer dinged. Grace turned off the oatmeal, but now it didn’t look that appetizing. Oreo seemed to sense her mood and rubbed against her ankles. Grace picked up the cat and hugged him close, listening to his happy motor start up. But even her beloved cat wouldn’t live long enough to keep her company when she got old—
No, no, no! She was not going to mope around about growing old. Grace dumped the cat and dished up the oatmeal. The session at Curves had energized her and she wasn’t going to waste it.
She’d wanted to clean out some of her closets for months. A little spring cleaning wouldn’t hurt in February. While chowing down the oatmeal and toast—she really was hungry!—she made a list of chores. Number one on the list: guest room closet, especially now that the wedding dress was gone. But just before heading down the hall with a box of garbage bags, she glanced once more out the front window.
The little black SUV was gone.
By the time Grace finished cleaning out the guest room closet, she had a whole garbage bag full of clothes, old shoes, two sets of sheets, and a nonfunctioning electric blanket to take to the Salvation Army. And she was motivated to start in on her own closet the next morning since her Thursday appointment with Dr. Erskine wasn’t until two. But the
tomblike silence of the house was giving her the jitters, so she kept the TV on as she walked back and forth between her bedroom and the front room, making piles on the couch of stuff she no longer wore or used. Or wanted. The blue dress Roger said he liked? Out. Same with the dress she’d been wearing when he’d popped the question.
The weather report confirmed that a high of forty degrees was expected by Friday, and she could almost see the piles of snow steadily shrinking every time she glanced outside.
And the black SUV was back.
Curiosity got the best of her and she stopped what she was doing to stand where she could see but not be seen. The same man got out of the car—one of those Toyota RAV4s—but this time a woman was with him. He helped her out of the passenger side and she held onto his arm as they made their way up the slushy walk to the front porch. A plus-size black woman, but even from a distance she seemed attractive—one of those women who carried her weight well. She too looked the building up and down, giving it a good once-over, as the man—her husband?—pointed at this and that.
A few minutes later another car parked behind the RAV4, and a man in a suit and topcoat joined the couple on the porch. He led them to the front door, unlocked it, and all three disappeared inside.
Grace shook her head. Must be a real estate agent showing the house. Really too bad. She wondered if any of the neighbors knew what had happened to the old woman. Well, guess it was none of her business. If she wanted to finish this closet-cleaning business before she had to get ready for her second visit to the voice therapist, she’d better keep at it. Probably wouldn’t feel like doing much of anything once Dr. Erskine put her through all those vocal paces.
The unplowed alley was such a mess with all the melting snow—rutted ice beneath several inches of water—that Grace called another taxi to make her eight o’clock at Curves Friday morning. Didn’t feel much like going, but Samantha had said she’d be back today, and Grace decided she’d rather face the trainer than Sam’s disapproval if she missed.
Hopefully she could come early. With Sam’s help, maybe they could take all the stuff she’d weeded out to the Salvation Army or Goodwill. And at least she’d have someone to talk to.
The workout at Curves still felt grueling, especially since the trainer added some free-standing exercises with hand weights. But Susan said, “Good job,” at the end of the hour, which perked Grace up a bit. Checking her cell on the way home in the taxi, she realized she’d missed a text message from Sam saying she wouldn’t be able to get there until almost noon. Bummer. She was about to shut off the cell when a new text message popped onto her screen. Sent e-mail yesterday. Can you get back to me before the weekend? Jeff N.
Grace screwed up her face. She’d gotten so involved in her spring-cleaning project she hadn’t checked e-mail for two days.
Popping some frozen waffles into the toaster—not like the ones her mom used to make from scratch, but cooking for one called for an easier option—Grace pulled up her e-mail, which took a while to download. Thirty-six new messages in her fan-mail folder. She was tempted to open that folder, but decided to check her regular e-mail first.
Spam … spam … a cute forward from her mom of a skateboard-riding dog … more spam … a long e-mail from her brother Tim about the soccer exploits of his oldest girl, Nanci, which he’d sent to his whole e-mail list, of course … oh, there was the one Jeff Newman sent yesterday. The subject line said, Concert tour theme?
The waffles popped up. Why was he bugging her about a theme? She was supposed to be taking a break. Plopping the waffles onto a plate, she spooned vanilla yogurt over them, poured on some maple syrup for good measure, and dug in. Maybe she’d read some of her fan mail while she ate. Why ruin a good breakfast doing business?
But once the syrupy plate had been rinsed and put into the dishwasher, Grace sighed, poured another cup of coffee, and opened Jeff’s e-mail. She couldn’t exactly ignore her agent …
Dear Grace,
Hope you’re feeling much better and that wonderful voice of yours is recovering. The Bongo staff here is still teasing this California kid about getting snowbound in Chicago. I see the weather out there might be helping to clear all that snow away, though. Of course, there’s always Farid’s Lawn Service if you need a hurry-up job …
Grace had to smile. Walter Fowler would never have started an e-mail this tongue-in-cheek.
Meantime, we’re getting requests for final promo material for your upcoming West Coast tour. Are you still planning to continue your purity theme? If so, we could just change the New Year, New You name and you could basically present the same sets. But if you’d like to go a whole new direction, now is the time.
Same for the two college concerts you have scheduled before the tour: at Greenville College in downstate Illinois on March 19 and Cincinnati Christian University the following week. Could be the same repertoire as the tour, or something totally different. Up to you. We just need to be giving these venues a little direction as they prepare to promote the concert. Otherwise they’ll make presumptions or come up with their own ideas—and believe me, you don’t want that to happen. I once worked with a band that called themselves Big Bash and they just said “do whatever you want” to a promoter. When they got to the venue, all the posters said, Dig Hash—and all the potheads for miles around showed up en masse …
Grace couldn’t help laughing—for about half a minute. But reading the last couple sentences sobered her up.
Would like to hear from you before the weekend if possible. We should get on this right away.
Best, Jeff
Before the weekend? That meant she had to send something today. But what? She had no idea.
Grace closed the laptop and wandered into the living room, but felt too restless to sit. She drifted around the room, winding the schoolhouse clock, absently arranging and rearranging photos and paper clips and notepads on the secretary desk, brushing cat hairs from the couch—and avoiding the piano. Even thinking about the upcoming concerts made her feel panicky. She only had a month—three weeks now—to get her act together so she would feel confident enough to walk out on a stage and sing her heart out. And that had nothing to do with her voice, which hopefully would be back to full strength by then. She’d really believed in her message—“I’m worth the wait”—but it all sounded so hollow now.
Maybe she should give up doing concerts, do something else with her life. If she did, would Roger come back?
Would I want him if he did?
She was still pacing when the doorbell rang, interrupting her fruitless spiral of thoughts. Samantha stood grinning on the stoop, but Grace saw the grin fade slightly as her assistant came in, and she was suddenly aware that she was still in her sweatpants and T-shirt, hadn’t even showered since her workout. She threw up her hands defensively. “I can explain. Went to Curves this morning, got distracted when I got back, just haven’t—”
Samantha held up a hand to stop her and the smile was back. “It’s all right, Grace. You don’t have to dress up for me. But if you want to shower or whatever before we start, I can check the fan folder and see what needs to be done today, then we can get to work, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, good. Okay.” Grace escaped to the bathroom. When she came out toweling her hair, Sam was scrolling through e-mails on her laptop in the kitchen.
“Have you read these fan letters yet? Here, let me read you this one—”
“Wait.” Grace sat down across from her assistant at the kitchen table. “There’s something I want you to read first. Let me …” She pulled the laptop over, found Jeff’s e-mail, and turned the laptop back to Sam. “Read that.”
Sam shrugged. “Okay.” She was silent a few minutes as she read and then looked up. “Sooo … what are you thinking?”
Grace shook her head, picking at a spot of dried food on the table. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. Newman wants to hear from me, like, today, and … Sam, I don’t know what to do! I can’t do the New Year, New Yo
u thing again. And the “worth the wait” theme? I know everyone likes that song, but … I don’t know. I need more time … I—I’m all confused, you know, after Roger … after …”
Samantha reached a slim brown hand across the table and laid it on Grace’s nervous fingers. “Hey. First things first. Let’s pray about it, okay? It’s gonna be all right.”
Grace nodded and Sam plunged right in. “Father God, you are the one who gave Grace her talent and her voice and the precious theme she’s been sharing with young people all over this country in the first place. You’ve been using her concerts, working your purpose out in the lives of her fans, so we know you haven’t brought her this far to leave her now. So we’re asking you to make it clear what’s next. Put the right theme on Grace’s heart so that she can sing from her heart, just as she’s done before. And we’re thanking you right now for what you’re going to do, whatever that is.”
A lump formed in Grace’s throat as Sam prayed. Had God been using her? Did he still want to use her? But how? Could she really thank him for what he was going to do, even before she knew what that was? She knew the right answers to these questions, of course. She could teach a course on doing the right thing, trusting God. But she was struggling to feel God’s presence in any of this. Sam had so much faith! But she didn’t know Grace was tempted to just throw in the towel. Didn’t know the troubled memories that threatened to undo her confidence in her calling.
God did.
Would he give her a new focus knowing she felt so ambivalent right now?