by Neta Jackson
That alone was enough to make her decide to take the train next time.
Her cell phone rang, muted somewhere in her purse, just as she picked up Oreo, who’d been meowing insistently ever since she walked in the door. “Let it ring,” she murmured to the cat, holding him close and rubbing her face in his soft neck fur. “How’ve you been, baby? Yeah, yeah, I know, three days is a long time, but I’m home now …” But she couldn’t leave the cat alone when she went on tour in a few weeks. She’d have to board him at Meeow Chicago again.
Only later, as she fixed herself a cheese omelet and popped Estelle Bentley’s last cinnamon roll into the toaster oven to warm up, did she bother to get out her cell phone to see who called. She had a new voice mail … from Roger.
Grace caught her breath. O Lord, now what? Did she even want to listen to his message? She’d already given his ring back—what more did he want? But she tapped the Play button and held the phone to her ear, her heart rate speeding up a little …
“Hi, Grace, it’s Roger. Was hoping to talk to you—just wanted to hear your voice, been wondering how you are. Call me back, okay? Or … I can try again later. Take care.” And the message clicked off.
Chapter 27
Grace stood in the middle of the kitchen, stunned. Roger’s voice—it was soft, almost tender. She pushed the Play button again. “… just wanted to hear your voice, been wondering how you are …” Her neck prickled. Was he playing games with her? … No. He wouldn’t be that cruel. But what did it mean?
A scorching smell pulled her out of her trance and she jerked the frying pan off the stove. So much for her “brunch.” She dumped the burned omelet in the trash and started over. The cinnamon roll had cooled again in the toaster oven, but she ate it anyway, hardly noticing what she ate. Should she call him back? Wait for another call?
She decided to wait. Why not run across the street to thank Mr. Bentley for his suggestion to take the train to St. Louis. Maybe he’d have advice about the longer trip to Seattle.
The day was warm for April—in the seventies. Nice. The sky was clouding over, could be rain by evening. But she didn’t need even a sweater to run across the street and ring the doorbell for the second floor of the two-flat. She didn’t see the black car, but maybe they just put it in the garage—
The front door pulled open. The Bentleys’ gangly grandson grinned at her. “Hey, Miz Grace. Happy Easter.”
She returned his smile. “Happy Easter to you, DaShawn. Say, is your grandfather home?”
“Nah. He an’ Miz Estelle went to the hospital to see my great-grandma. She had another stroke last night, but they thinkin’ she might get better.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that—I mean, sorry to hear she had a stroke.”
“DaShawn!” A male voice yelled from somewhere inside. “Who’s at the door?”
A moment later, Rodney Bentley came striding out of the first-floor apartment, then slowed when he saw Grace.
“Oh, it’s you … uh, Miss Meredith, right? Thought it might be someone else. You lookin’ for my pop an’ Estelle?”
Grace nodded. “DaShawn says they’re at the hospital with his great-grandmother.” What was the relationship? Mrs. Bentley—Estelle—clearly wasn’t the boy’s natural grandmother, so probably not Rodney’s mother either. How did the great-grandmother fit in here? Was she the elderly woman she’d seen with the Bentleys that time looking at the house before they bought it?
Rodney was saying, “Yeah, ya just missed ’em. But they oughta be back this evening. Don’t think they’ll stay overnight again.”
“Yeah,” DaShawn butted in, “they stayed all night last night and still went to church this mornin’!” He rolled his eyes. “Me, I’da crawled in the bed an’ stayed there, Easter or no Easter.”
Rodney seemed to give his son a shut up look and Grace realized she should go. “Well, I’ll catch up with them later. Sorry to hear about your great-grandma, DaShawn. I hope she gets better.”
She had started down the steps when she heard Rodney say, “Uh, Miss Meredith? If you hear about any job openings, I’d appreciate you lettin’ me know. I’m lookin’ for a job, any kind of job, the sooner the better.”
Grace turned back. “Of course. I don’t know of any offhand, but if I do hear of anything, I’ll let you know.” It was a lame thing to say, she decided, walking back across the street. She had no idea what jobs were available, blue collar or white collar. What kind of skills did he have, anyway? Why in the world did he ask her? There wasn’t anything she could do about it—
“That’s something you can pray about for us.” That’s what Mrs. Bentley had said when they were loading the dishwasher the other night.
Once in the house, Grace sank onto the couch—which Oreo considered a personal invitation to hop onto her lap. So at least she could pray. “Lord …” she murmured, and then paused. What should she pray? She started again. “Lord, the Bentleys’ son needs a job, and they asked me to pray. So I’m asking you on Rodney’s behalf that he’d find a job soon. And Lord, while I’m at it, be with the great-grandmother who’s had a stroke. I don’t know how bad it is, but it must be hard on … on …” Hmm, whose mother was she? “… hard on Harry and the rest of the family. Comfort them and help her to recover and may your will be done. Amen.”
Oreo rubbed his head against her chest as if she’d been talking to him. Hopefully her prayers went further than that—though Grace sometimes still felt as if she was on probation with God.
Sudden tears welled up and Grace curled up in a ball on the couch, hugging the cat, who finally decided enough was enough and squeezed out of her grip. What was she going to do? Jeff Newman had told her to dig deep, to find her passion …
But she was afraid.
She must’ve dozed off, because she woke with a start. What was all that screaming and yelling … had she left the TV on? No, the screen was black. Rolling off the couch, she stumbled half-awake to the front window and peeked out. At first she didn’t see anything—it was starting to rain, big fat drops sweeping across the street and pinging on her window. But then a movement caught her eye and she saw a skinny black woman in tight pink pants stomping down the opposite sidewalk, holding on to her hat or wig or whatever she had on her head. Across the street, Mr. Bentley and his grandson were heading into the house, followed by a black dog. Rodney stayed out on the porch of the two-flat watching the woman go, but before long he too disappeared into the house.
What was that all about?
Pushing herself on the treadmill at Curves the next morning, Grace cranked up her walking speed from 3.5 to 3.7 … and up to 4.0. After ten minutes she pushed the speed even further, up to 4.5, and then 5.0, which made her jog. Sweat ran in little rivulets between her breasts. She couldn’t keep up the pace for longer than ten minutes and slowed down to walking speed—but it felt good. She’d come a long way in two months. Maybe she’d start jogging for real, build up her strength.
Yesterday’s tears had snuck up on her, but that was yesterday. She determined not to blubber about things she couldn’t do anything about. On the treadmill she decided to call Roger back. Not during the day though. She didn’t want to catch him at work or have to leave a message. She’d wait till tonight—if he didn’t call first. After all, she was stronger now, and not just physically either. She didn’t feel desperate. Yes, she was still sad, still disappointed about the broken engagement, but she and Roger had to make peace if she was going to move forward, right?
Once showered, breakfasted, and dressed, Grace started to call Sam about travel arrangements for the West Coast tour, but glancing out the front window, she noticed the Bentleys’ car out front. Maybe she should catch Harry.
This time when she rang the doorbell, a buzzer buzzed back and she pushed the door open. “Come on up!” called Estelle’s voice from above.
Grace mounted the open stairs on the right. “It’s me, Mrs. Bentley—Grace Meredith.”
Estelle appeared in the open doorway
as Grace turned the corner at the top. “Well, well,” the older woman beamed. “Come on in, young lady. An’ you can call me Estelle, all right? I’m glad to see you—though I’ve only got time for a quick cup of coffee, because I’m needin’ to go to work soon. But come in, come in!”
“Oh, I can’t stay,” Grace hastened to say. “I just wanted to thank Mr. Bentley for encouraging me to try the train for my trip to St. Louis. I saw the car … is he here?”
Estelle laughed as she led the way back to the kitchen. “The Toyota? Don’t go by the car—he’s got an Amtrak car now.” She grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and poured coffee. “Now sit, sit. Sorry, Harry’s not home. He’s already gone to work, won’t be home till tomorrow. Somethin’ they call doin’ a short run … milk and sugar?”
Grace shook her head. “Just black. Thanks.” She watched as Estelle stirred two heaping teaspoons of sugar into her own coffee before sinking down into a chair at the small kitchen table. “I came by yesterday, but DaShawn said you were at the hospital with his great-grandma, that she’d had a stroke. I’m sorry to hear that.”
Estelle nodded soberly. “That’s right, Lord have mercy! It’s been a few weeks now since Mother Bentley had her first stroke. We were hoping she could move into the first-floor apartment—that’s the reason we bought this place. Then she had another stroke over the weekend, an’ they told us she was in a coma. But, praise Jesus! She woke up on Easter mornin’, alert as you please, and we think she’s gonna come through! Now you tell me, is God good or is God good!”
Grace nodded with a polite smile. She was curious about the woman who’d been yelling outside their house yesterday late afternoon, but she didn’t want to ask.
“Now tell me how that concert went!” Estelle went on. “I was prayin’ for you—well, have to admit, once we got word about Mother Bentley, that sort of took over my prayers. But I did pray for you. How did everything work out?”
“It was great. The train was restful, there was a good crowd Saturday night, and my voice held up. Thank you for the prayers. Since it was Easter weekend, I did a resurrection theme and I think it, um, went, um, well …” Grace suddenly faltered and looked away. Jeff’s words echoed in her head: The concert was “nice,” but lacked passion. She took a sip of her coffee to recover her composure.
Estelle eyed her carefully. “But … ?”
Grace slowly set her coffee mug down. The woman was too perceptive. “It’s just … well, I need a focus for the West Coast tour and time is getting short. Now that the St. Louis concert is over, I need to start practice sessions with the band, but—” She shook her head. If she wasn’t careful, she’d get blubbery again. Why did this woman do that to her?
“Hmm. You said your last tour went really well … what did you call it? ‘New’ somethin’.”
“New Year, New You.”
“Which meant … ?”
Grace squirmed inside. “You know how we all make New Year’s resolutions. Well, I encouraged young people to make a very important resolution, to wait till marriage for physical intimacy. Kind of a purity theme. Trusting God to bring them the mate he has for them, that they’re worth waiting for … that kind of thing.”
“Lord knows that’s needed.” Estelle got up and refilled their mugs. “Why don’t you just use the same theme? Seems like your West Coast fans need that message as much as your fans down south.”
“Well, it’s not the New Year anymore, and—”
“Goodness sakes!” Estelle chuckled. “Just give it a new name.”
Grace shook her head. “It’s … it’s awkward for me right now. You see, I, uh, was engaged this past year, and I made it public at all my concerts, but my fiancé, he, uh, recently broke it off and …” Darn it! She reached for a napkin and pressed it to her eyes.
“Ah. I see.”
Grace took a deep breath and blew it out, quickly recovering. “I’m sorry. Really, I’m over it, pretty much anyway. But it … it just feels complicated, and I … I need a different focus right now. Guess I could use prayer about that.”
“So you need a new name for this tour?”
“Well, I can always use ‘Grace Meredith in Concert.’ That’s what I’m doing now. It’s just … I like having a theme in my head to help me choose the right songs to sing. And sometimes it helps with promotion—gives the promoters something to advertise besides me.”
“Mm-hm. I see …” Estelle glanced at the kitchen clock as she hefted herself out of her chair and took their half-full mugs to the sink. “I’ve gotta go to work in a few minutes—Manna House ladies depending on me for somethin’ to eat come lunchtime. An’ I teach a sewing class after lunch on Mondays till three, but I should be home no later than four.” She walked Grace toward the stairs. “Tell you what, I’ll drop over to your house around four to pray about that new theme you need. Don’t you worry now. God is faithful! He’s gonna give you just what you need.”
The next thing Grace knew, Estelle had enveloped her in a warm hug and sent her off down the stairs, calling after her, “See you at four!”
Standing on the Bentleys’ front porch a moment later, Grace blinked in dismay. She hadn’t expected Estelle Bentley to take her that seriously when she said she needed prayer.
Chapter 28
The mail had come while she was across the street, but Grace just tossed it on the coffee table and grabbed up the cell phone she’d left sitting there. Three voice mail messages were blinking on the screen—all from Sam. She called back.
“There you are!” her assistant said after the first ring. “I got worried when you didn’t answer after trying three times. I thought you’d be back from Curves ages ago.”
“I was. But I ended up having coffee with my new neighbor across the street and forgot to take my phone. But, hey, I pumped it up to five miles an hour jogging on the treadmill today for about ten minutes—how about that?”
“Coffee with your neighbor? Hey, that’s great. I’d like to meet her sometime. But do you have a couple minutes? I’ve got some information about taking the train to Seattle. Do you want to do this over the phone, or do you want me to drive up?”
Sam hadn’t even heard what she’d said about her new milestone at Curves. “Let’s do what we can by phone. What’s the deal?”
As it turned out, Sam said, there was only one train a day leaving for Seattle, the Empire Builder, which left each day at two fifteen.
“So how long does it take from here to there?”
“Two nights, but gets in around ten in the morning on the third day. Since your first concert is Friday night, I figure we’d have to leave on Tuesday afternoon, which would get us in on Thursday morning, giving us plenty of flex time if the train is late. Or we could fly to Seattle on Thursday, which takes about four hours. I talked to Barry—the band is planning to fly. They’re taking some equipment and renting the rest on the other end. We could all fly together, but … it’s up to you. You’re the boss.”
Why was Sam talking this way? She’d seemed really open to taking the train when Grace had brought it up before.
“You said two nights …”
“Right. If we take the train, we should definitely take a sleeping car. The roomettes hold two people, but those seem kinda small. They also have larger bedrooms, and I checked—there’re still a few available on that Tuesday. Those have their own toilet and sink and even a shower, I think. Oh, meals are included in the sleeping car ticket too, that’s kinda nice. But the Amtrak lady said if we want a bedroom, we should make our reservations, like, today, ’cause that’s just two weeks from tomorrow and she can’t hold them.”
“Sam, I want to go by train. But …” Grace hesitated. “But if you’d rather fly, you could travel with the band—”
“Are you kidding?” Samantha laughed on the other end. “The train sounds like a blast. I just didn’t want to sway you one way or the other. If you’re game, I’m in.”
Grace sighed with relief. A two-day trip by train would be
a lot more enjoyable traveling with Sam. They talked about a few other details—luggage limits, one bedroom or two. They decided on one, since Sam was willing to sleep on the top berth that folded down.
“Oh, one more thing,” Sam said. “I got a call from Barry. The band needs the song list for the West Coast tour. I told him you’re working on it—you are, right?—and we’d get back to him as soon as possible.”
“I know. I get it.” Grace heard the sharp note in her voice. She tried to soften her tone. “Maybe we can brainstorm when you come to work—is tomorrow good for you?”
Oreo was down to his last can of cat food—not to mention that “Mother Hubbard’s cupboards” and the refrigerator were pretty bare too. Grace made a run after lunch to the grocery store, plus did a couple other errands she’d put off. But she kept a wary eye on the time just in case Estelle Bentley made good on her declaration to come over after work. Sure enough, Grace had no sooner put the groceries away than the doorbell rang.
Six minutes after four.
“Sorry to be late,” Estelle puffed, sinking down onto the couch. “But I’m still gettin’ used to Harry workin’ again—he was always the one who got DaShawn started on his homework after school. I had to make sure the boy applied the seat of his pants to the seat of the chair before I could leave—not easy after he got used to lazin’ around all last week durin’ spring break.” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Would’ve asked his dad to supervise, but Rodney’s out too—lookin’ for work, hopefully.”
“Would you—” Grace started, intending to offer some tea, but was taken aback when Estelle started to laugh.
“Would you look at me?” The laugh grew louder. “I forgot to take off my apron when I left Manna House and not a soul said anything to me about it!” She patted the large white apron. “An’ I had seven women sewin’ tote bags an’ learnin’ to read patterns for two hours. Even DaShawn said nary a word when he got home from school.” Her dark eyes crinkled. “An’ how long were you gonna sit there with me all decked out in this here apron without telling me?”