by Neta Jackson
No, she hadn’t heard that part. The big house on the cul-de-sac? Guess that explained a few things. She’d seen sleek black stretch limos come and go from time to time—had just assumed he was some corporate big shot. But Grace wasn’t sure if Sam meant weird-that-he-lived-on-the-same-street, or weird-that-she-didn’t-know-her-neighbors-well-enough-to-know-that.
Sam stuck the mail into the living room secretary and eyed Grace with concern. “You sure you don’t want me to stay? Fix supper? Order in?”
“No, no. You’ve done enough, Sam. Go home and get some rest. You drove both ways.” Grace wondered if she’d ever stop feeling guilty about that.
“Grace, look … it’s fine. And as for next week, we’re just going to drive to St. Louis. It’s no further time-wise than Cincinnati. After that, well, we’ll still have a couple weeks before the West Coast tour to decide what to do.”
Grace shrugged. She never should’ve said okay to the St. Louis invitation. Too late to back out now.
“And Grace, I know I’ve already said this, but you did good at the concert last night. My Meemaw would’ve been proud of you.”
Grace allowed a rueful grin. “Yeah, well, but you gotta find another expression besides, ‘Man up, girl!’—even if that’s what your Meemaw used to say to you.”
Sam rolled her eyes. “She still does.” She gave Grace a quick hug. “Okay, I’m off. Be back Monday. And hey, I think Barry’s idea to focus on a resurrection theme next weekend in St. Louis is spot on. Can’t believe it’s Palm Sunday tomorrow … say, you wanna come to church with me? I’m going to sing.”
Grace hesitated … but shook her head. “Thanks. Another time. I promise.”
Leaning back against the door after Samantha headed out to her car, Grace shut her eyes wearily. They’d had a brainstorming session with the band that morning before leaving the hotel about the upcoming concert in St. Louis. She was supposed to look through her repertoire and send Barry a list before Monday.
Tomorrow … she’d think about it tomorrow. She was too exhausted to do it now.
Oreo rubbed against her ankles, meowing pitifully. Grace pushed herself away from the door and gathered up the cat. “Okay, okay, let’s go see if you’ve demolished all that food I left you. You better not have left me any nasty surprises though.”
It was Palm Sunday … but Grace didn’t feel like making the effort to go to Faith Chapel. Mark and Denise would probably invite her to lunch, would want to hear about the concert. What if they asked how the flight went? She would feel like a fool trying to explain her actions.
Besides, she still felt exhausted. Probably more emotional than physical, though even a three-day trip sapped her energy. Why not treat this Sunday as a real day of rest—literally.
She spent the morning in her robe and slippers, drinking coffee, playing praise and worship CDs, and idly sorting through her mail—gas bill, credit card bill, a couple of catalogs, Goodman Theater ad, more junk mail … She put the bills in a slot in the secretary to pay on Monday and sat down on the floor with her file box of song sheets. Was her voice strong enough to hit the high notes of “Hear the Bells Ringing”? She had permission to sing the popular Second Chapter of Acts number in concerts, though not record it on any of her CDs. She also liked “A New Hallelujah” by Michael W. Smith—and what about some of the beautiful Easter hymns?
None of her own songs had a clear resurrection theme. But maybe she could use a few of her songs that focused on Jesus as Savior. Then there was the matter of her most popular song—the song everyone would want to hear, no matter what theme she chose. She just didn’t want to sing that song right now …
By the time noon rolled around, Grace felt encouraged by her song list. And was getting hungry. After a quick shower, she pulled on a pair of jeans and her old, comfy flannel shirt, fixed herself a large green salad with tuna fish for lunch, and let Oreo clean out the tuna can. Taking the salad into the living room, she flopped on the couch and pointed the remote to see if she could find an old movie on TV. Ha! The African Queen—perfect. Nobody like Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn …
Standing in the bathroom, trying to scrub dirt off her face … a bell ringing … she’d be late for school! No, no, she couldn’t be late, they’d ask why! …
The bell rang again. Grace opened her eyes. Oreo was standing on her chest licking her mouth and chin. “Oreo! Stop it!” She pushed the cat away. Yuck! She must’ve fallen asleep with tuna fish on her chin—
The doorbell rang again. The doorbell! Swinging her feet off the couch and punching the Off button on the TV remote, Grace shook the sleep out of her head and peeked through the security peephole. A pleasant brown face … a woman, not a kid … who in the world?
She opened the door. A middle-aged black woman wearing a red wool poncho stood on her doorstep. Straightened black hair with streaks of silver hung to her shoulders, and she held something enveloped in clear plastic wrap and tied with a red ribbon. The woman looked familiar … “Yes?”
“Hope I’m not botherin’ you,” the woman said, all smiles. “I’m your new neighbor, across the street. Name’s Estelle Bentley.”
Of course. She’d only seen the woman from a distance, but now recognized her full figure and attractive features. Mrs. Bentley held out the package. “Just wanted to meet my new neighbors—brought you some of my homemade cinnamon rolls.”
Grace grabbed Oreo just before he tried to slip out the front door. “Oh! That’s … that’s very nice of you.” She stood there awkwardly, momentarily unsure what to do. If she put Oreo down, he might run outside. But she couldn’t hold the cat and take the package too—oh, this was stupid. “Uh, won’t you come in a moment?”
Grace stepped back and the woman stepped in. “Oh, what a lovely home,” Mrs. Bentley said, looking around as the door closed behind her. “Love that antique clock you’ve got … oh, here.” She held out the package again as Grace put Oreo down and shooed him toward the basement.
“Thank you. That’s very kind.” Grace examined the package of plastic wrap and ribbon. “You made these cinnamon rolls? They look delicious.”
Mrs. Bentley’s dark eyes sparkled. “My specialty. Uh, you are …?”
“I’m sorry … I’m Grace Meredith. I fell asleep on the couch and I’m still foggy.” She held out a hand. “And you said your name is Bentley?”
The woman shook her hand with a firm clasp. “Estelle Bentley. Just Estelle is fine. Harry an’ I—that’s my husband—came by yesterday deliverin’ rolls to our new neighbors, but you weren’t home. So glad I caught you today. Wanted you to have these while they’re still fresh.”
“Yes, well, I was out of town. Just got back late yesterday.”
“Really?” Estelle Bentley’s eyebrows lifted with interest. “You travel for business? What do you do?”
Grace really hadn’t planned on getting into a conversation, but it seemed rude to keep the woman standing in the middle of her living room. “Please, sit down. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”
“Oh, I can’t stay but a moment, but … thank you. Coffee if it’s not too much trouble. With sugar.” The woman slipped off her poncho and lowered herself onto the couch.
Grace took the plate of cinnamon rolls into the kitchen and started a fresh pot of coffee. She felt embarrassed by the woman’s generosity. Wasn’t this sort of backwards? She remembered her mother taking a casserole or a pie to new neighbors, but this new couple had been out delivering homemade cinnamon rolls to the old neighbors.
Well, she deserved to be embarrassed. They’d moved in a week ago, and she, for one, hadn’t even gone over to say, “Welcome to the neighborhood.” Had anyone? Probably not. It wasn’t exactly that kind of neighborhood.
As soon as the coffee was ready, Grace poured two mugs, added the sugar bowl, napkins, and a couple of the gooey cinnamon rolls on a plate, and took the tray back into the living room. The woman had gotten up and was standing at her piano, looking at the music she’d been pra
cticing earlier that morning. Grace set the tray on the coffee table. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Had to make a fresh pot. But cinnamon rolls definitely call for a cup of coffee!”
Estelle laughed and turned from the piano. “My sentiments exactly! But those are for you. I’ve had too many as it is.” She chuckled as she returned to the couch and stirred two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into her cup of coffee. “I noticed your piano. Do you play? Oh … silly question. Of course you do.”
Grace had just taken a bite of the soft, sweet cinnamon roll—ohhh, so good—so it was several moments before she could answer. “Well, not really. Some. Mostly I sing.”
Estelle’s mouth widened in a delighted smile. “You sing! Gospel music?”
Grace flushed. “Not exactly gospel. Contemporary Christian music, praise and worship, that sort of thing. I, um … that’s what I do. Just got back from doing a concert in Cincinnati, and I have another next weekend in St. Louis.” Was she telling too much? Felt like her tongue was flapping.
The woman’s mouth dropped and she slapped her leg. “Praise Jesus! Another Christian in our new neighborhood! What did you say your name is … Grace—?”
“Grace Meredith.”
Mrs. Bentley shook her head. “My, my. I’m sorry to say I haven’t heard of you. But that’s my fault—I don’t keep up with the new crop of Christian musicians. And, have to admit I listen mostly to gospel—Babbie Mason, CeCe Winans, Fred Hammond—folks like that. But I’d love to hear your songs sometime.”
“That’s all right.” Grace smiled, trying to put the woman at ease. Oreo was back and hopped up on the couch, staring with unabashed curiosity at the visitor. “Oreo! Shoo! I’m sorry … are you okay with cats?”
“Oh, no problem. We’ve got a dog now.” Estelle rolled her eyes. “Takes a lot more work than a cat. Now there’s a story … say! Would you like to come over to our house for supper sometime this week? Harry will be so delighted that we have a Christian sister for a neighbor! And then you can meet the rest of the family—our grandson, DaShawn, you’ve probably seen him around, and his daddy, Rodney, who’s just here temporary-like … well, long story there. But then we can really get acquainted.” She stood up. “I should go. But please come. What evening would be good for you?”
Grace also stood, swallowing the bite of cinnamon roll she had in her mouth with difficulty. Go to supper at their house? She didn’t even know these people! “Uh …”
“Now don’t say no. As much as you travel, I’m sure you can use a good home-cooked meal. What about Wednesday? I get home from work about four, Harry comes in about six … would six thirty be okay?”
Grace licked her lips, her mind scrambling. She had to send her song list to Barry today … the band would practice the music tomorrow night … then she was supposed to practice with the band Tuesday night and Thursday, leaving for St. Louis on Friday …
Nothing on Wednesday.
“Well … all right. I think I could make it Wednesday night.”
“Praise Jesus! See you at six thirty then.” Estelle Bentley gave Grace a quick hug, pulled her red wool poncho over her head, and headed for the door.
When the new neighbor had left, Grace just stood in the middle of her living room. Had she really agreed to go to supper at the Bentley home that coming Wednesday? She should have excused herself, said she was too busy preparing for the upcoming concert.
Because the truth of the matter was, she had too much on her plate right now to deal with getting to know new people. Estelle Bentley was so eager to “really get acquainted.” But that meant people asking you questions and having to talk about yourself. And right now, she didn’t feel very confident—about herself, about her work, about … anything.
Sighing, Grace gathered up the coffee mugs, plate of cinnamon rolls, and her dirty lunch dishes and headed for the kitchen. Cleanup done, she stood by the kitchen window and contemplated the two-flat across the street. Her new neighbors. Okay, this was silly, but … she’d never had supper with a black family before. Not in their own home. She’d eaten with Samantha, sure, here at her house or in a zillion restaurants, but she’d never been to Sam’s apartment. Or her church. Never had to be the minority.
What did that say about her? Hey, diversity is fine as long as I can stay on my own turf. Just don’t take me out of my comfort zone!
How pathetic was that?
Grace turned from the window. She should go. After all, the lady seemed really nice. And they were Christians too. Wait till she told Sam—she’d probably never hear the end of it.
Chapter 24
Grace studied her closet. What does a person wear when you go to dinner at a stranger’s house? Not too dressy—something casual but not grungy. Maybe her black slacks, a turquoise knit top, and some silver-and-turquoise jewelry—the Native American set she’d bought for herself the last time she sang in Tucson. She wouldn’t need a coat—it had actually gotten up to the mid-seventies today! A perfect spring evening.
She should take a hostess gift—flowers? box of chocolates? She’d have to run out and—wait. Mrs. Bentley had said she’d like to hear her songs. Maybe she should take one of her CDs as a gift. Or was that too self-serving? Hey, look at me! Worse, what if they didn’t like her music? Mrs. Bentley said she mostly listened to gospel—probably black gospel. Still, it was the thought that counted, wasn’t it?
In spite of feeling as nervous as the time she’d first met Roger’s parents, Grace showed up on the small porch of the Bentleys’ two-flat and rang the bell. The Bentleys’ two-flat… strange to think of it that way. It’d always been “the old lady’s house” in her thoughts. Even that was wrong. Should’ve been “Mrs. Krakowski’s house.”
She still hadn’t heard if the old woman had survived her ordeal.
The door opened. A boy about twelve or thirteen with close-cropped black hair looked at her curiously. “You Miz Meredith?” When Grace nodded, he pulled the door wider so she could step into the spacious foyer. An open stairway on the right led to the second floor. A door on the left must be to the first-floor apartment. The boy yelled up the stairs, “Yo, Pops! The lady’s here!” He turned back to Grace. “Go on up. They expectin’ you.”
As Grace started up the carpeted stairs to the second floor, she heard the boy open the door on the left and yell, “Hey, Dad! Supper’s ready! An’ we got company!”
Well, at least she knew what the relationship was.
As Grace got to the top of the stairs, a black man about six feet tall with a smooth shaved head met her with a warm smile in the open doorway. “You must be Grace. Estelle’s been telling me all about you.” Up close, she noticed a trim gray beard and moustache framed just his mouth and chin. Shave the head, grow it on the face. But it made him look distinguished.
He shook her hand, introduced himself as “Harry,” and ushered her into a sparse living room facing the street. Nothing fancy—just a couch and a couple chairs, a flatscreen TV, an area rug on the floor, no pictures on the wall, but a couple large plants hung in the bay windows and several more were sitting on floor stands. The bay windows were open, letting in a light breeze.
Grace took a seat on the couch just as Estelle Bentley bustled in, wearing a large white apron and carrying a tray with several small glasses. “There she is! No, no, don’t get up, young lady. Would you like some cranberry juice? It’s nice and cold, feels good on a warm day like this.”
Grace took a glass and smiled her thanks. Her hostess was wearing her hair pulled back from her face and gathered on top of her head in a loose topknot, which seemed to enhance her large eyes and generous mouth.
“Mercy! We’re so glad you came,” Estelle beamed. “Supper will be ready quicker’n water runnin’ downhill … now where did that boy slip off to? DaShawn! Come finish settin’ the table! An’ Harry, call Rodney. Don’t want my food coolin’ its heels on the table while we hunt everybody down.”
Estelle bustled back toward the kitchen, while Harry excused himself and disa
ppeared down the stairs toward the first floor, leaving Grace alone in the living room, sipping her cranberry juice and wondering just what she was doing there.
But the boy came running up the stairs a moment later, threw her a grin, and headed for the kitchen, followed by Harry Bentley at a more moderate pace, and a younger man she presumed was the boy’s father. She stood up as Harry said, “Miss Meredith, this is my son, Rodney … Rodney, Grace Meredith, one of our new neighbors.”
“How ya doin’?” Rodney mumbled, giving her hand a quick shake. He sat down on the edge of one of the chairs, as if not planning to stay long. He was taller than his father, slender, with muscular arms and tattoos peeking out from his short shirtsleeves, hair an inch or so long worn in a short, careless afro, and eyes that didn’t quite look you in the eye. Maybe thirty-five?
“Y’all can come on to the table now,” Estelle called from the other room. Grace followed Harry into the dining room, where a wooden table surrounded by five chairs—only three of which matched—had been set with bamboo placemats and blue-rimmed ceramic dishes. Harry pulled out one of the chairs for Grace and she sat down, eyeing the table, which seemed piled with food—a platter of pungent fried chicken, another with thick slices of ham, a creamy yellow casserole that looked like macaroni and cheese, and a bowl of steaming green beans dripping butter. As the rest of them sat, Estelle came in carrying a basket covered by a red-checked cloth. DaShawn licked his lips and made a grab for the basket, but she slapped his hand away. “That cornbread just came outta th’ oven, young man. Gonna burn your fingers.” She sat down with an oomph. “Now I know this here’s a high-yeller meal”—Grace heard Rodney snicker—“but them green beans an’ ham oughta color up the plate. Harry, ya gonna do the honors?”