by Neta Jackson
Sam nodded soberly. “The other tours were great, Grace—really. But this one feels especially anointed. God is really using you.” She handed Grace a steaming cup of honey-lemon tea. “But I’m gonna be honest with you. Your voice did not sound as strong tonight, and we still have two—well, one and a half—concerts to go. You still need to take care of your throat.”
“Yes, Mama Sam.” Grace obediently drank her tea … but woke up Saturday morning with a flaming sore throat. She’d hoped they could get to the beach—after all, it was the first day of May! In California!—and soak up a few rays before practice that afternoon, but Sam talked her into soaking up those rays by the hotel pool instead. Grace needed to take it easy if she wanted to make it through the concert tonight.
Sam even intercepted her phone calls—including one from Jeff, who’d called to wish Grace the best on her last night. “Sorry, she can’t talk right now. Actually, Jeff, you might want to get the Bongo staff together and pray. She’s got a really sore throat and we’ve still got tonight’s concert.”
Grace rolled her eyes. She wished Sam wouldn’t be so dramatic. Her assistant listened, nodded, said “Uh-huh” and “Uh-uh” a few times, then clicked the phone off. “Your agent—” She overemphasized the word with a little smile. “—is really concerned. Asked if you’d seen a doctor. Asked if there was anything he could do. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up tonight.”
Grace managed a snort. “Yeah, and if he did he’d wonder what all the fuss was about if the concert goes off without a hitch.” But she couldn’t help grinning. It was just the kind of thing Jeff would do.
Thanks to Sam’s nursing, Grace was feeling much better by the time she walked onstage that night. She’d chosen a simple black crepe V-neck dress that skimmed her knees, her long hair falling softly in layered strands around her shoulders, and she knew she looked good in spite of the slight scratchiness in her throat.
The church was packed. To keep each evening fresh, she and the band sometimes rearranged the order of the songs, and she continued to depend on that nudge from the Holy Spirit for what to say. The first set seemed to go well, and at the break, she obediently drank lots of water and sucked on her lozenges. One more set tonight … and just a short set in the morning. I can do this. “Be strong,” Sam whispered as the emcee brought down the lights after the break and boomed into the mike, “Once again, we bring you Just Grace!”
Waves of loud applause greeted her as she moved into the spotlight wearing the silver chiffon dress—her favorite. Just Grace. Her heart was full as she nodded to the band and they swung into Todd Agnew’s “Grace Like Rain.” The song was slow and easy, in a comfortable range, and she sang it confidently. “Hallelujah, grace like rain falls down on me …”
But she had a little trouble on the next song—failing to hit one of the high notes, but recovering and coming in again on the next phrase. Giving herself a little break, she talked to the audience with words of encouragement, sharing one of the truths God was teaching her: “You feel as if you don’t deserve God’s grace? Well, you’re right! You don’t. Neither do I. But that’s what grace is all about—God longs to pour out his love and mercy, no matter what mistakes we’ve made, even though we don’t deserve it. And that’s what brings us through …”
With those key words, the band moved into the song made popular by the Mississippi Mass Choir: “Your grace and mercy brought me through …”
Grace made it through the first chorus, but realized she was struggling with the first verse. The volume wasn’t there, and her voice sounded ragged, even to her. Pulling the mike aside while she cleared her throat, she brought it back again but hummed through the rest of the verse—hoping it might seem something planned—and then came back in on the chorus.
But it wasn’t happening. She couldn’t hit the notes. A small bubble of panic started to rise in her chest—but just at that moment Sam appeared at her side with a handheld mike in her hand, smiling at Grace, mouthing, “Sing alto” …
It only took a nanosecond for Grace to realize what was happening. Sam was going to make this a duet!—letting her drop her voice into the alto range while Sam picked up the soprano. Grace smiled back … and opened her mouth to sing again. Together they finished the chorus and moved on to the second verse.
Their voices blended beautifully, and together they sang the final chorus through to the last line: “Your grace and mercy … brought me through!”
As the last notes died away, Grace slipped an arm around Sam’s waist and held her close as she raised her other arm high. The audience was on its feet, hooting and hollering, clapping and clapping.
They’d loved it.
Sam started to slip away, but Grace grabbed her hand and held her there. Trying to find a break in the applause, Grace spoke into the mike. “As you can see, it wasn’t ‘Just Grace’ tonight”—
Laughter swept the room.
—“it was God’s grace, all the way.”
Chapter 39
Grace sank down into one of the big leather seats in the cavernous waiting room of Los Angeles Union Station Sunday evening, glad to get off her feet. It’d been a long day—singing at the worship service in the same church that had hosted Saturday night’s concert, packing, checking out of the hotel, saying good-bye to Barry and the band, and waiting for a car to take them to the train station. She was looking forward to getting on the Southwest Chief and kicking back with nothing to do for two days except rest and watch the scenery.
Sam propped their suitcases against a couple of the other leather seats but didn’t sit down. “Did you see all the police and security guards? Even some K-9 dogs. Wonder what’s up?”
Grace flinched. It was a bit unsettling to see so much security. Did it mean they’d be searched before they could board? Mr. Bentley had practically promised that didn’t happen on the train. She shuddered. She didn’t want to think about it.
Sam looked around. “I’m hungry. Wonder if they’ve got any restaurants or concessions around here. We’ve still got half an hour till we can board.”
“Won’t they serve dinner when we get on the train?”
“Yeah, but I need something to tide me over. You?”
“Sure. Nothing sweet though.”
As Sam disappeared, Grace took a good look around her—and almost had to laugh. The rows of wide leather seats for waiting passengers had old-fashioned high backs and wide wooden arms, making her feel a bit like Goldilocks trying out Papa Bear’s “too big” chair. But the seats did seem to fit the waiting room’s personality: high arched doorways, large ceiling beams, intricate inlaid wall tiles, and highly polished floors. Beautiful.
Grace closed her eyes, alone for the first time that day—if one could be alone surrounded by hundreds of other passengers. Her voice had recovered somewhat overnight with lots of gargling and a steam treatment. But when they’d arrived at the church that morning, the event coordinator—who’d been at the concert the previous night—asked if she and Sam could do a reprise of their duet. “And,” he added, “we were wondering if the two of you would also sing ‘Amazing Grace’? That would be very poignant, you know—black and white together—given the history of that song.”
History of that song … Yes, written by a former slave trader, his confession of God’s amazing grace, that God would “save a wretch like me.” And it had been moving. Zach was practically in tears afterward.
So why did she feel conflicted? Samantha had come to her rescue, had saved her song, and the audience had loved it. And Grace was grateful … but what did that mean for the future? Would Sam expect to do duets with her at every concert? Was she being selfish to even wonder about that? Prideful?
Samantha Curtis did have a beautiful voice. Maybe she should talk to Jeff about her one of these days, see what he thought about getting her an agent—
“Hola. May I sit here?”
Grace’s eyes flew open at the unfamiliar voice. A young girl, maybe seventeen or eight
een, stood a few feet away, pointing at the high-back chair next to Grace. Skinny jeans, a tan suede jacket. Thick, dark hair fell over one side of her face. Very pretty really—large brown eyes with long lashes, bow-shaped lips, creamy tan skin.
“Sure.” Grace smiled politely. Odd, though. It wasn’t like there weren’t other empty seats around the waiting room.
The girl sank down into the seat, looking even more lost in the big chair than Grace had felt. “Gracias. I’m going to Chicago, first time.” She eyed Grace curiously. “You are from Chicago?”
Grace nodded. “Yes. On my way home.”
“Nice.” The girl smiled shyly. “Do you like Chicago? … Oh, I’m Ramona.” She extended a slender hand.
Hmm. Super friendly. Grace shook her hand and smiled back. “I’m Grace. Yes, I like Chicago.”
Ramona tipped her chin toward their luggage. “You have a lot of bags. You did not want to check them?”
Okay. Now she was getting nosy. “Not all mine. I’m traveling with a friend.”
“Ah. I see.”
The girl seemed about to ask another question, but just then Sam walked up holding two bags of luscious-smelling popcorn. “Oh … hi. Hope I’m not interrupting something.” She nodded at the girl, then held out the two bags of popcorn toward Grace. “Parmesan or Spicy Paprika?”
“Mmm. Parmesan. Thanks.”
Sam shoved Grace’s suitcase aside and sank into the seat on the other side of her. “The only thing open on Sunday in the whole place is the Traxx Bar. Hope this is okay.”
“Dee-lish. Oh—Sam, this is Ramona. She’s going to Chicago too.”
Sam gave the girl a smile and a little wave. “Hi.” She leaned across Grace and held out her bag of popcorn. “Would you like some?”
“Oh, no, no … that’s okay.” The girl glanced across the big room. “Oh. There’s my man. I have to go.” Ramona bounced up. “Have a good trip.”
Grace watched as the girl scurried away, pulling her small bag. A tall, blond guy was waving at her. He looked at least in his late twenties, much older than Ramona. Did her parents know she was off to Chicago with this guy?
Sam looked at her watch. “I thought they said we’d be boarding by now. I’m gonna check.” She hurried off, and a few moments later came hurrying back. “First class passengers are gathering around the corner. Huh! You’d think they’d make an announcement on the intercom or something.”
Ten minutes later, Grace and Sam climbed on an electric cart with two other first class passengers and held on tight as the driver scooted through the station, up a ramp, and out onto the platform before braking to a stop and unloading their luggage. The Southwest Chief stretched out before them on the track, Amtrak attendants standing at the open car doors. Pulling their suitcases, Sam stopped at the first sleeper behind the engines and baggage car and showed her ticket. “Car 433?”
The attendant smiled and pointed down the track. “Two cars down.”
A sturdy African American woman in uniform stood by the door of Car 433. “Let me help you with those.” She swung their big suitcases aboard and checked their tickets. “Bedroom E is on the second level. Up the stairs, turn left. Welcome aboard!”
Grace and Sam stowed their big suitcases on the luggage rack on the lower level, then made their way to the second level and into E. Collapsing on the long padded seat that turned into a lower berth, Grace laughed. “Ah! Home sweet home for the next two days!”
Sylvia, their sleeping car attendant, came by as the train pulled out of the station to let them know the dining car steward would be by shortly to get their dinner reservation and to ask if they had any questions. But after the two days on the Empire Builder, both Grace and Sam figured they knew the drill. By seven o’clock they were seated in the dining car perusing the menu and introducing themselves to their tablemates, a middle-aged white couple.
“Tim Crawford, my wife Patty. Just came out to visit our son at the navy base in San Diego. You?” Grace felt a little embarrassed to introduce herself as a concert artist, but Sam had no qualms and chatted freely about the recent West Coast tour. Patty seemed especially interested.
Their salmon and chicken dinners arrived along with salads, rolls, hot tea, and soft drinks—Tim and Patty had wine with their salmon dinners—and the foursome chatted amiably as the wait staff bustled back and forth, not missing a step in spite of the sometimes swaying car. Grace, sitting by the window just beyond the galley in the middle of the dining car, was riding backward, watching as drainage ditches and large concrete walls hiding housing developments slid past her view. Not exactly great scenery coming out of Los Angeles.
A man coming through the galley and passing their table caught her attention—a middle-aged African American wearing a plaid flat hat and dark glasses … wait. Could it be—?
“Mr. Bentley?” Grace called out. “Mr. Bentley, is that you?”
But the man just kept moving down the middle aisle. And then she saw he was holding the handle of a black guide dog pressed close to his leg. Duh. The man was blind.
“Someone you know?” Tim Crawford asked, twisting his head to look after the man and his dog as they made their way to the door at the end and disappeared into the lounge car.
Grace shook her head, embarrassed. “No. He looked like one of my neighbors back home, but I was obviously mistaken.”
Sam gave her a teasing poke. “I guess so. Not all black people look alike, you know.”
Grace ignored her and flagged one of the wait staff. “What do you have for dessert?” After all, it was the end of the tour and she was ready to celebrate.
As they got ready to leave the diner, Sam said, “Think I’ll go to the lounge car—should be nice watching the sunset over the desert. Wanna come?”
Grace shook her head. “No, think I’ll go back. But you go on. I’ll be fine.” She really needed some time alone to think about what she would tell Roger when she got home.
Back in their compartment, Grace drew the curtain over the glass in the door, and curled up in the corner by the window. The backyards of Los Angeles had disappeared into the twilight and they were out in the desert. A waning full moon cast an eerie glow over the landscape.
Grace leaned her cheek against the cool window. O God … I truly did love Roger. I was so happy, so looking forward to being married. But I felt so burned, so rejected when he broke our engagement, I just don’t know how to trust him again. And yet … he really seems to be sorry for how abruptly he ended things, seems to want to give our relationship another chance. Shouldn’t I at least give us a chance? See if we can learn how to work out problems in a healthy way?
All couples had problems. She’d obviously been too starry-eyed to see them creep up. How immature was that? She needed to grow up. Be willing to face her faults like an adult, make changes if need be.
But exactly what changes did Roger want to make in their relationship? Changes for their good as a couple—or changes because she wasn’t the person he imagined her to be?
Grace sighed as the darkness outside deepened. They definitely needed to work on their communication. Learn how to be open and honest with each other. Which meant she had to be honest with Roger about her past—
A tapping on the glass door of the compartment broke into her thoughts. “Yes, who is it?” A few more light taps on the door. Grace got up, slid back the curtain—and had a start. The blind man she’d seen in the dining car stood at her door. What—?
As she slid open the door, the man removed his glasses and said in a low voice, “May I come in, Miss Meredith?”
There stood Estelle Bentley’s husband, big as life. “It was you!” she gasped.
Harry Bentley put a finger to his lips and raised his eyebrows as if repeating his request.
She lowered her own voice. “Of course! Come in. What in the world are you doing here?”
Her neighbor stepped in, the sweet-faced black Lab with its handle and leather harness that said “Guide Dog” right at his
side, and slid the door closed behind him. “May I?” He pointed to the long couch.
“Yes, yes. Take a seat.” Grace could hardly get over her surprise.
“Sorry I had to ignore you in the dining car, Miss Grace, but you almost gave away my cover.” Harry sat. “You know I do security for Amtrak. I’m riding some of the trains as an Amtrak detective, and—I know this get-up may seem silly—but I needed a cover so I could bring the dog. I need to ask you not to speak to me or acknowledge me in any way. Or your friend either. She … doesn’t know who I am, does she?”
Grace shook her head. “She knows your wife, but I don’t think she’s ever seen you. And she thinks I was totally off thinking you were on the train.”
Harry nodded. “Good. Keep it that way. Wish I could stay and talk, but I should move on. I’m two cars ahead in the handicapped compartment.”
His dog had been sniffing around the compartment and now came over to Grace. “Do you mind?” Harry said.
“Not at all. Such a sweet dog.” Grace reached out her hand and the black dog licked it.
“Yeah. Corky’s my partner. But please don’t interact with her out in the train.”
The man rose and replaced his dark glasses once more. “Well, I’ll be seeing you around.” He emphasized the word seeing with a grin. “Just don’t be offended if I ignore you the rest of the trip.”
“Of course.”
“C’mon, Corky.” He slipped out, sliding the heavy door shut behind him.
Of all things! Harry Bentley working undercover on the trains as a blind man with a guide dog! Wait till she told—oh, no. She couldn’t tell Sam. That would have been so fun.
Had they had undercover detectives on the Empire Builder too? Ordinary-looking passengers just riding the rails to keep the other passengers safe?