by Neta Jackson
Grace got up to use the restroom, then made her way back to their seats. The car was full, but didn’t feel crowded. Several people were playing cards at the tables in the back, laughing and talking, or just drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. Others were in their seats, working on their laptops or reading. Or zonked, legs stretched out on the retractable footrest.
This really was a great way to travel. And she didn’t have to feel guilty about Sam doing all that driving just so she could be rested.
Cornfields of yellow stubble and pastures just beginning to turn a hopeful green flashed by the window. A few farmers were turning over their fields with monster tractors, getting ready for planting. The mournful train whistle sounded its warning at every rural crossing, and once she saw a horse pulling an Amish buggy down a road at a real clip. Things she’d never hear or see thousands of feet in the sky. Nice.
But … would it be feasible to take the train all the way to Seattle? It might take a few days to get there, but once the tour started, they’d have a tour bus from Seattle to LA, and then a few days back by train.
It was her time, after all. Well, Sam’s too. Grace really didn’t want to travel alone. But maybe she should give the girl the option.
Grace opened her notebook and worked a little more on the song she’d been playing with that she’d titled “One.” Would the band be able to pick it up on such short notice? Except … some of the lyrics just weren’t coming together. Maybe trying to do a new song was a bad idea.
A young man sporting a grin, a two-day growth of beard, jeans, and a T-shirt, and a blonde woman dressed in a modest navy suit were holding up an eight-by-ten-inch sign saying “Welcome Grace Meredith” when Grace and Sam made their way into the St. Louis Gateway Station among hundreds of travelers coming or going.
“Hello!” Beaming, the woman reached out to shake Grace’s hand. “I’m Willa Baker, this is Doug Swarthmore. We are so thrilled you were able to come. We’ve been blanketing the city with radio promo and sending invitations to all the churches, so hopefully we’ll have a good crowd tomorrow night. Is this all your luggage, or did you check some bags?” She seemed to notice Samantha for the first time. “And this is …?”
Grace introduced Sam as “Samantha Curtis, without whom the world might stand still,” which earned her a smirky glance from Sam. Once in the church van that proclaimed Hawthorn Christian Fellowship along both sides in large letters, Willa chatted on. They learned that Doug was part of the sound team at Hawthorn and would be working with the band for the concert tomorrow night. And Willa was the event coordinator.
“We didn’t expect you quite this early—just got the call from Bongo yesterday that you were arriving by train. But it’s all good,” the woman giggled. “The hotel should let us check you in early. We don’t have any dinner plans for tonight, but the hotel has a fine restaurant. Of course, you’re welcome to join us for our Good Friday service—starts at eight o’clock.”
Grace felt torn. It was Easter weekend, after all. But there was probably no way she could just slip in and slip out, and both she and Sam had been up since before sunup. “Sounds tempting,” she murmured. “but we, uh, have prep to do for tomorrow.” And she’d like more time to work on that new song. “But I have a question … I’d love a meet and greet time after the concert tomorrow night. Would that work out?”
“Oooo. Great idea. We’ll make sure to reserve a room for that. How many people should we invite? I’m sure the ministry team and pastoral team—if they’re at the concert—would love a chance to chat with you.”
Grace glanced at Sam, giving her a Say something! look.
“I think what Miss Meredith means is, she’d like to meet some of the concertgoers, especially some of the young people—teens, college age.”
“Oh. Yes, of course …” she said. “We’ll work out something.”
The auditorium of Hawthorn Christian Fellowship was beautiful—and immense. “Going to be a bit embarrassing if we don’t fill it,” Grace murmured to Sam as they walked in the next morning, taking in the rows upon rows of plush, red theater-type seats.
“Don’t worry about it. God’ll bring whoever’s supposed to be here tonight. Just pick one person and sing to that person—oh, there’s Barry. Gotta talk to him about the changes you want to make in the first set.” Sam waved at the band manager, who was testing microphones and set off toward the stage.
Grace felt slightly chided by her assistant—but of course Sam was right. This isn’t about me, she told herself—but she still hoped they had a decent crowd.
The practice sessions went well—except for the new song. The poetry just wasn’t clicking. Petey said he’d like to work more on the melody. “Give it some time,” Barry said. “Maybe you can do it on tour.”
Grace was disappointed. It took her down a peg or two. Would she ever be able to write her own songs again?
As she and Sam waited offstage that evening for her cue to begin, she caught a glimpse of the auditorium. The balconies were sparse, but the lower level was nearly full, which, she’d been told, held at least a thousand. Thank you, Lord! A good crowd after all. Mostly a sea of white faces, though, which was often the case at her concerts. How did Sam feel about that, or Zach in the band, always playing to mostly white audiences?
She’d never really thought about that before. Somehow meeting the Bentleys in their home, wondering if they’d like to come to one of her concerts … She’d love to draw a more multicultural crowd, but how? Could she sing gospel—the kind Estelle Bentley listened to? Probably not, though she’d heard the band cut loose on some gospel songs a few times, just jamming. Maybe—
“You’re on,” Sam murmured, giving her a nudge.
“… our special guest, straight from Chicago—Grace Meredith!” The dramatic announcement by Hawthorn’s minister of music brought a burst of applause from the audience.
Grace took a deep breath, put on a smile, and sailed over the red carpeting of the large stage into the spotlights, carried by the applause. As they’d planned, the band began a soulful introduction to “Rock of Ages,” a hymn that bridged Good Friday and Easter. As she waited for the applause to die and her eyes to adjust to the bright lights, she remembered what Sam had said earlier: “Pick one person and just sing to that person.” Might help her focus … ah, there was her musical cue.
“Rock of Ages, cleft for me …” Her start was strong, low and steady. “Let me hide myself in thee!” Faces were beginning to emerge from the bright lights. Her eyes swept the first row as she sang the next line: “Let the water and the blood, from thy wounded side which flowed …”
There. A young teenager in a red sweater caught her eye, face enraptured. She’d focus on her.
“Be of sin the double cure, save from wrath and make me pure …”
The band repeated the melody of the last line before starting in on the second verse. A man sitting next to the girl had a big smile on his face. Must be her father—
Wait. No … it couldn’t be!
But it was.
Her agent. Jeff Newman.
Chapter 26
Willa Baker found Grace at intermission and told her they’d picked twenty people at random to get “backstage passes” for the meet and greet time. Grace told her to be sure to include the girl in the red sweater in the front row and anyone she was with. “And that’s my agent sitting next to her. Bring him back too.”
“That’s Jeff Newman?” Willa Baker peeked into the sanctuary. “Of course! He arranged this whole concert. We spent hours on the phone—he was so helpful.” She peeked again and tittered. “Gosh, he’s hot. Is he single?”
Grace stopped short of rolling her eyes.
But she had to hand it to the event coordinator: there was even coffee and lemonade in the church lounge for the meet and greet after the concert. Grace hugged the girl in the red sweater—“I’m Becky,” the girl said, giggling with two of her friends—and told her she was her inspiration that evening. “I
was?” Becky’s eyes went wide, setting off another round of giggles and embarrassed hands covering her face.
But Grace kept looking for Jeff—and finally saw him as the crowd thinned, leaning against the wall with a paper cup of coffee, still grinning. She’d almost forgotten how attractive he was—all that dark curly hair and a dark shadow where a beard would be if he let it grow. She made her way over to him and spouted, “Jeff Newman! Don’t ever do that again! At least warn me next time you decide to spy on my concert. I nearly forgot a verse!”
The lopsided grin got wider. “Sorry about that. Though it was kind of fun to catch your eye and watch you flounder for a second or two. Nice recovery though.” He nodded approvingly. “Good concert. Your voice sounds really great.”
That was sweet to hear. She’d tanked up on lozenges and hot tea during the short intermission while the Hawthorn emcee took an offering for something or other, but personally she’d felt her voice had stayed clear and strong. “But what are you doing here? I just talked to you in Colorado on Thursday!”
He shrugged. “Felt kinda bad, arranging this venue so last minute. Realized you were making a major effort to get here and had to come up with a whole new song set on top of it. Thought the least I could do was show up and give you some support. Besides, I haven’t ever heard you in live concert. Decided this weekend was as good as any—well, except for the holiday. Yesterday was a madhouse at the airport, but I was able to get a flight this afternoon, and … here I am.” The grin again.
Grace hardly knew what to say. She was glad to see him—but she also felt awkward. Before she could respond, he waggled his paper cup. “This coffee doesn’t quite make it. Any chance you’d be up for a real cup of joe or something? I saw a coffee bar on the next block. But if you’re wiped and need to crash …”
“No, no, that’d be great. Takes me a couple hours to wind down after a concert, anyway. But I should tell Sam—oh, speaking of Sam …”
Grace waved Sam over, feeling slightly giddy with adrenaline and fatigue. “Sam, this is Jeff Newman, my new agent, who showed up tonight unannounced and had the bad manners to sit in the front row.” She deliberately kept a straight face. “And Jeff, this is Samantha Curtis, my assistant—in name only. She’s actually She Who Must Be Obeyed. You two have talked on the phone, right?” Ignoring the face Sam made, Grace added, “Anyway, Sam, we’re going out for coffee to take care of some business, won’t be long.” Business … why did she say that? Jeff hadn’t said anything about “taking care of business.”
But Jeff just greeted Sam warmly—“About time we met in person!”—and said he’d get Grace back to the hotel in an hour. Sam tossed her twists and looked him over with a critical eye. “You better. We have to be at the train station in the morning by seven thirty. Bum way to spend Easter Sunday, but had to take what we could get. Anyway, go … go.” She fluttered a hand at Grace. “I’ll pack up your stuff in the dressing room. But don’t be late!” She scurried off with her clipboard.
Chuckling, Jeff escorted Grace out of the church. “So that firecracker is Samantha Curtis. How old is she?”
“Twenty-five, I think.” Grace pulled her soft pashmina shawl around her shoulders against the cool April air. “Yeah, she’s bossy—that’s what I pay her for—but she’s a jewel. Don’t know what I’d do without her. Ethnic food and chocolate are her cure for everything, I think—though I drew the line at the pajama party she tried to cook up a couple weeks ago.”
“Pajama party!” He thought that was pretty funny. Grace didn’t mention she kind of wished she’d gone. But a few minutes later they slid into a booth at the coffee bar a block away and ordered two decaf lattes. Grace felt herself relaxing. “So tell me what you thought of the concert.”
Jeff laid an arm along the back of the padded booth and seemed to be studying her. “As I already said, it was a nice concert. And your voice is sounding great.”
Nice. For the first time, Grace heard a qualification in the word. Not “great,” not “awesome.”
She sighed. “Okay. I need to know. What did you really think? To be honest, I’ve been struggling with getting my confidence back, so I know I wasn’t at a hundred percent.”
He didn’t answer right away, again seemed to be studying her. She felt a bit flustered. Was her hair a mess? Had she chewed off all her lipstick?
The lattes came and he leaned forward, wrapping both hands around his tall mug. “What I said was true. It was a nice concert—very nice. Good theme for Easter weekend, some real good song choices. But …”
She winced. “Uh-huh. I knew it.” Don’t cry, you big baby, she told herself. She took a sip of her latte and realized her hand was shaking.
“Something was missing. Your passion.” Jeff leaned forward. “Grace, I’ve seen the video from your New Year, New You tour, and you had a passion in those concerts. Your songs, your stories, the way you talked to the audience—it all came from your heart. Maybe …” He frowned thoughtfully. “Have you thought about returning to that theme—encouraging young people to stay pure sexually, to believe they’re ‘worth waiting for,’ as you so often said?”
Grace stared into her mug, slowly shaking her head. She couldn’t. Not now. Not yet. She just wasn’t ready to be that vulnerable. Not just because of the recent breakup and what that implied. But because she felt like such an imposter …
A lump formed in her throat and she couldn’t speak.
Jeff sighed. “I’m sorry, Grace. You asked, and I wanted to be honest with you.” He leaned forward. “Because I believe in you! You have the makings of a star—not the unreachable kind, but the sort of artist that everyone can relate to. And I know that passion for life is still there. It doesn’t have to be the purity theme, or whatever you want to call it. You’ve had a setback, but you still have a lot to give. If the real Grace can crawl out of that hole where you’ve locked her away, your music will go off the charts.”
Grace still shook her head, the lump in her throat growing larger. Her eyes blurred … but just then she felt Jeff’s hand cover hers on the table. His touch sent little shivers up her arm. He spoke again. “Look deep inside, Grace. Tap into that passion, the truth that sets you free. I know it’s there. You just have to know it too.”
Sam took one look at Grace in the morning and said, “You okay? Didn’t you sleep well last night?”
Grace grimaced. “Not the best. Just thinking about a lot of stuff. I’ll be okay.” She stifled a yawn. “But I definitely need coffee. Maybe a bagel. Is the hotel café open yet?”
“Mm-hm.” Sam arched an eyebrow at her knowingly. “You didn’t tell me he was so good-looking.”
“Oh, come on! He’s my agent. We talked about my voice, the concert, stuff like that.” She colored slightly. But it was true, wasn’t it?
They managed to get to the train station by seven thirty, and once on board, Grace got an Amtrak pillow and pretended to be asleep most of the way back to Chicago. But she kept thinking about what Jeff had said about tapping into something she felt passionately about … and knew it was true. Something was missing from her music. “Look deep inside …” he had said.
That was the problem.
She was scared to look too deep. Scared to poke at old wounds. Afraid of what she might find. Afraid of how people would see her. Or maybe afraid of how she would see herself.
Grace dozed on and off as the train whistled its way through the Illinois countryside at every country crossing, her conversation with Jeff weaving in and out of her semiconsciousness, along with the memory of his touch when he laid his hand over hers …
“Grace? Grace … we’re pulling into Union Station.” Sam’s gentle shaking pulled Grace out of her stupor. She shook the sleep from her head and helped gather their suitcases and various bags.
“I feel sorry for the band,” Sam said, as the train eased to a stop with a slight bump and they made their way to the exit. “They’re probably still on the road—and here we are, fresh as a daisy.”
“That’s all right. Just sorry you had to miss Easter services.” Grace gave her assistant a hug after Sam hailed two separate taxis. “But thanks for everything. Don’t come to work tomorrow—we both need to take a day or two off.”
“You still thinking about taking the train to Seattle?”
Grace nodded. “Thinking about it. I know we have to decide. I’ll call you tomorrow, maybe we can talk about it then.”
“Okay. I might go ahead and check train schedules, see what’s available. Sleeper car, right?”
Grace grinned as she climbed into the back seat of the Yellow Cab. “Definitely. But not today! Go home. Go to church. Do something besides thinking about that West Coast tour.”
“Somebody has to think about it.”
At least that’s what Grace thought Sam said as her assistant shut the back door of the taxi, waving from the curb as the cab driver pulled away.
As Grace was letting herself into the house, she saw the Bentleys’ RAV4 pass by and do a turnaround in the cul-de-sac. Wonder where they go to church …
She waved as the small SUV parked in front of the old lady’s two-flat—in front of the Bentleys’ two-flat, she reminded herself—but went on into the house and closed the door behind her. Grace didn’t feel like chatting right now, but maybe later she’d go over and thank Mr. Bentley for suggesting the train. He was right. She hadn’t even thought much about security going either way, though she’d seen some Amtrak police here and there, even one officer with a dog strolling among the passengers in the station.