Saving Grace (Madison Falls)

by Lesley Ann McDaniel

  Sophia’s eyes remained fixed on Grace as she spoke. “Hello Sam.”

  Grace looked away, flinching at the attempted superiority in Sophia’s tone.

  Sam sounded tired. “I’ll be right with you, Sophia.”

  She shouldered around Grace, stepping between her and Sam. “I’m afraid I need your help. Now.”

  Who exactly did she think she was, the Queen?

  Grace caught the door before it shut, edging her way out. “I have to just…”

  Sam reached around Sophia to grab the door, holding it open. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  She cautioned a glance. What was he talking about? “I don’t…”

  He raised an arm toward the wall. “Your guillotine. Would you like it gift wrapped?”

  She shot him an incredulous glare. What kind of guy would joke around after she’d all but walked in on him fighting with his courtesan? She turned on her heel and stormed out.

  She didn’t get him, and she never would.

  Chapter 34

  Craning her neck, Grace searched the throng of people exiting the rehearsal. Seeing no sign of Devon, she leaned back, disappointment heaving in her chest.

  She forced an attitude check. Pirates would finally open tomorrow, and that meant one thing—soon, she and Devon would be going home. Sophia was not going to win.

  The auditorium doors swung open one more time and an excited buzz escorted a group of cast members across the lobby. Grace smiled in encouragement. Despite her previous surrender to the inevitability of the casino, a fresh hope had blossomed over the past few weeks. Since Wait Until Dark had closed and Pirates rehearsals had moved into the auditorium, the show had actually gotten really good. Sam might not know quality theatre from a hole in the ground, but his dad would have to see things differently.

  Glancing at her watch, she startled at the lateness of the hour. She’d been so caught up in preparing for opening, she’d ignored the onset of fatigue. Just as she turned to survey her cookie inventory, a noise from the lobby forced her back around. Sophia stepped up to the stand and glowered at her.

  Grace’s nerves suddenly jolted to attention. Why was she allowing herself to be intimidated by that little minx when she’d been so careful about not letting her see her with Devon? Was there no pleasing her?

  “Sophia.” She injected the word with a forced pleasantness. “How are you this evening?”

  Sophia’s upper lip curled in a way that failed to flatter her. “Oh, I’m just fine.”

  She reached into the sky blue Capezio bag she had flung over her shoulder and Grace leaned back, entertaining a Godfather-like image of Sophia riddling her stand with machinegun fire.

  “I thought you might enjoy this.” Sophia brought out not a gun but a newspaper, which Grace quickly recognized as the arts and entertainment section from the New York Daily News. Sophia jabbed it at her. “Hot off the presses.”

  “What’s this?” Wanting to appear cooperative, Grace took the paper.

  “Just a little reminder.” Sophia readjusted the strap of her bag on her boney shoulder, aiming her body toward the door before bringing her spiteful glare around to join it. She marched out.

  Perplexed, Grace slowly opened the paper, half expecting a dead fish or a horse’s head to fall out. Relieved at Sophia’s apparent lack of carcass creativity, she scanned each page for clues. Suddenly, there it was in front of her. A half-page spread on Kirk and his art collection complete with color photos.

  She turned away, acid gurgling in her throat. So he’d been featured in the paper. That was nothing new, really. He craved the limelight, and he had friends in the press. Sophia just wanted Grace to think she was clever for spotting it. Let her have her ego boost.

  Steadying herself, she snagged her sweatshirt off the counter and folded the paper inside it. No point in leaving it lying around here for everybody to see when she could so easily dispose of it at home. She tossed her purse strap over her shoulder exited the stand, eager to get some rest. All she needed to do was make it through tomorrow and she’d be home free.

  Halfway across the lobby, her ear strained toward a faint hint of music. Was a band member staying late to rehearse?

  Curious, she veered toward the house. She pulled open the door and peeked into the mostly-darkened auditorium.

  Shrinking back into the shadows, she held in her breath. It was Sam, sitting on the edge of the stage strumming his guitar. Good sense told her to sneak back out before he saw her, but his soft playing seemed to cement her feet in place. She paused as the gentle wave of music coated her emotions.

  Her stomach clenched. In spite of her desire to flee, her eyes stayed glued to him. She eased back a step, as he played a complicated combination then tried again, making an adjustment. He scribbled on a piece of paper and returned to playing. She watched in awe, grateful for the darkness that concealed her.

  As he began to sing, a whisper of excitement stirred in her. Even though she’d seen him play at church, this was a side of him she hadn’t expected. He was actually a singer.

  She leaned on the door’s edge and pictured him charming an audience with his talent and good looks. As she watched and listened, her predominant impressions of him tried to crowd their way in. Outside the bar and that time at Carson’s place. The woman he kept above his store. Her stomach churned at the thought. It was as if he was a different person here, creating music under the soft glow of the work lights.

  Without realizing it, she started to sway with the rhythm of the music, causing the aged floorboard under her feet to let out a discordant squeal. Sam’s head jolted up and a prickle charged down her neck.

  “Hey.” He squinted, his slight smile testing the waters. “You trying to get me back for sneaking up on you?”

  She wavered. It was too late to back away, and she did want to hear more of his music. Almost against her will, her feet moved her fully into the room and the door eased shut behind her. What now? She took another small step. “That song. You’re writing it?”

  His smile grew a bit more certain as he stood. “The spirit moved me to get this one down.” He braced a foot on the edge of the stage and began strumming again. “It’s a little thing I do when I’m not busy selling plungers.”

  “It’s nice.” Taking a few more steps down the aisle, she twisted her fingers together nervously. Something—gravity, maybe?—necessitated her continued movement toward him. Since the auditorium was no bigger than the ladies’ lounge at Saks, she soon found herself standing just a few feet away from him. He looked down, strumming lightly and shifting in a way that indicated he felt as ill-at-ease as she did.

  She glanced at the lyrics he’d written on the paper. It didn’t take a genius to see that this was a love song. Her pulse spiked. Did he write it for both of his women? She sterned her look. “So, whoever you’re writing it for must be very flattered.”

  He slid her a sideways glance. “I hope He is.”

  Her head snapped involuntarily. “You hope he is?” He had a complicated love life, but this unforeseen twist totally sideswiped her.

  His face slid into a mischievous grin as his hand stilled the strings. “It’s a song of praise. I’m writing it for Him.” He pointed upward.

  She pulled her eyes away with a measured blink. “Oh. Of course.” Her face warmed. “You’re really into this God thing, aren’t you? I mean, the lyrics are so passionate.” Setting her sweatshirt down on the stage, she reached for the paper with a may-I? look.

  He tipped his head in consent. “It’s worship music. That’s my thing.” Lowering his foot, he lifted his guitar case from behind the piano and set it on the stage.

  She studied the page, noting how easily this could be misconstrued as an ode to a woman. She’d never really paid attention to the lyrics of the hymns she’d sung in choir beyond the basics of proper phrasing. “It’s very soulful.”

  “That’s a nice thing to say.” He placed the instrument in the case.

  She flip
ped over the paper and saw that he’d utilized the back of a flyer for his notes. “Heritage Songwriting Competition.” Her eyes lifted. “So you’re a songwriter?”

  He took the flyer, a sad smile crossing his face. “Yeah, in my dreams.” He put the paper on top of his guitar and closed the case.

  Confused, she tipped her head, coaxing him to meet her gaze. “But you’re really good. Are you entering the competition?”

  He clicked the case shut. “I thought about it.” His face grew suddenly somber. “It takes a lot more than talent to make it as a singer.” He held a beat, finally looking at her. “But I’m assuming you already know that.”

  Alarm jolted through her. “Why would you assume that?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I heard you in church, remember? Obviously you’re no stranger to performing. You don’t develop a voice like yours just singing in the shower.”

  She wrapped her arms around her middle, pressing back her nerves. “So I sing a little. That doesn’t make me a singer.”

  “Maybe not. But with a gift like that, it’s a shame to just bring it out once a week at church.”

  His eyes bored into her like he was seeing her for who she really was. For a split second, she wanted to tell him, but caught herself.

  “But, why not at least enter the competition? You never know.”

  “Look, I’m just a small town guy who writes music for fun.” He waved his hand past his cheek. “I don’t want to talk about me.” Suddenly, he had her gaze. “Can I ask you a question?”

  She braced herself. Was he about to confront her about the appraisal? “Go ahead.”

  “The other day at your house…” His words were slow, considered. “Why did you get so upset?”

  Her jaw clenched. She didn’t want to talk about this again. “You startled me.”

  “I get that, but you freaked before you knew I was there. You weren’t reacting to me. You were reacting to a few of drops of blood.”

  How could she answer that? She contemplated. “It’s just that…I had something really bad happen to me a few years back.” She reined in her words. “And I’m still paying for it.”

  “Oh.” Concern welled in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “My life has been such a struggle.” A slow breath steadied her nerves. “I just want it to be easy like it used to be.” She perched on the rim of the stage, surprised at her ease with him.

  “Life is supposed to be hard.” He sat, keeping his guitar case between them. “God made it that way to build our character for eternity.”

  She looked up, puzzled. “If that’s true, I must have enough character for six eternities.”

  He chuckled. “I know what you mean.” He searched the dark expanse of the empty house as if a new subject might appear in the rafters. “I’m sure going to miss this old place.”

  She jolted. “What?”

  He looked at her with questioning eyes. “You know. When they tear it down.”

  “But…” Her tongue felt like it had been tied in a knot. “This show is going to be really good.”

  “I know that—”

  “And this theatre means so much to the town. Don’t you think you could convince your dad to reconsider?”

  “Grace, nothing has changed.” He stiffened his shoulders. “It’s not about how good the show is. It’s not about the theatre or the community.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  “It’s about the money.” His face turned hard. “I’m sorry Grace, but that’s the bottom line.” He stood, picking up his guitar case with an end-of-conversation finality.

  Stunned, she rose to her feet. “So I guess that makes you a hypocrite.”

  He lobbed her a look that said he was ready to accept her challenge. “Meaning?”

  She fired back a glare. “It’s just that you talk big about this God thing, but doesn’t the Bible call money ‘the root of all evil’?”

  Anger rose in his face. “It says ‘the love of money’. That’s what God has a problem with. When people put money before Him.”

  “But aren’t you doing exactly that, putting the money first? I mean, you could sell to someone who understands how to run a theatre, even if it meant less money for you. At least you could feel good about the deal.”

  Emotion pooled in his eyes as he leaned his case against the stage. “I admit that the moral part of this whole thing has me on edge.”

  She spurted out a terse laugh. “The ‘moral’ part? You don’t seem to be letting that get in the way of your other business.”

  His forehead creased. “You’ve got a moral issue with hardware?”

  Indignation swelled in her throat. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.” Though her gut warned her to stop, the dam had already burst. “I saw you, Sam. I know what you’ve been doing.”

  His mouth formed a question that remained unvoiced as she pinned him with an accusatory stare. She knew about it all—the abuse, the woman on the side—but now was the time to hit him where it would really hurt. “Everybody needs money, but there are limits to what a person should do. What could you be thinking?”

  His look of confusion grew. “Well, right now I’m thinking ‘Huh?’”

  She folded her arms. How could he play dumb? “I saw you at Carson’s house…or shack…or whatever you want to call it.”

  He looked around as if trying to make sense of her words. “How could you have seen me? It’s clear out on the old highway.”

  “On the way to the falls. I have eyes.” She pointed to them for effect.

  He shrugged his brow. “Okay, so you saw me.”

  “And since Lucy had told me about Carson—”

  “She did?”

  “And about her friend who’s going into ‘business’ with that creep.”

  “Her friend…” His look registered realization. “You thought she meant me?”

  She ignored his feigned innocence. “I know you need money. Everybody does. But there are limits to what a person should be willing to do.”

  “Grace…” He chuckled, fueling her anger.

  “This isn’t funny, Sam.”

  “You’re right, it isn’t.” He curbed his amusement. “What Carson does is evil. He has to be stopped.”

  Chapter 35

  It took all of Grace’s resolve not to slap Sam. He knew Carson was evil, yet he’d been doing business with him.

  She frowned. “Then why—”

  “When you saw me at his place, I was talking to him about my buddy Caleb.”

  “Oh.” She paused to process. “Who’s he?”

  “My best friend since we were kids.” His voice softened. “He’s been going down the wrong road lately. I’ve been doing my best to bring him back.”

  “You mean, you’re not—”

  “Dealing drugs?” He said the words as if the suggestion was ridiculous. “Absolutely not. Lucy was talking about Caleb.”

  “Oh…”

  “Forgive me for laughing, but…drugs…me? I don’t even drink.”

  She plunked a fist on her hip. “Oh, come on. I saw you stumbling out of the town bar with my own eyes.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “I’m not saying you’re lying. I just think you’re mistaken.”

  She had him now. “It was as plain as day. I saw a woman run out onto the sidewalk, then you stumbled after her and grabbed her. You were yelling at her too. Explain that, Mother Teresa.”

  Comprehension covered his face. “I know exactly what you’re talking about, because I remember seeing you watching us. That was the night Caleb didn’t come home and we went out looking for him. Jill was certain that he was off somewhere with Carson, and she wanted to find him. I had to convince her to go back home and let me deal with it.”

  “That’s why you grabbed her like that, to stop her?” Righteous anger eased out of her argument like air from a pricked balloon. “So, did you find Caleb?”


  “Did I ever.” His face pinched, as if the memory was painful. “Remember that shiner I had awhile back?”

  “Carson hit you?”

  “Not Carson. Caleb. He punched me right in the face. I got him to go home, though.”

  “Your best friend hit you? What did you do?”

  He raised a shoulder. “Anger doesn’t solve anything.”

  “No…” Determined to justify her diminishing outrage, she flipped through her mental file labeled ‘Sam’s indiscretions’. Her eyebrows shot up. “What about that day you were on your cell phone in my backyard?”

  “You mean that day I yelled at Caleb to get his act together? You’re right—I kind of lost my temper that day. Sometimes he just doesn’t hear me unless I yell at him. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s…it’s okay. I didn’t realize the situation.”

  He closed his eyes, a slow smile glazing his mouth. “You know, it all makes sense now.”

  “What does?”

  “Why you’ve been so cold to me.”

  Chagrin rattled her to her core. He was right. “I thought you were being selfish and greedy.”

  Anticipation twinkled in his eyes. “So has your opinion of me changed, now that you know the truth?”

  She studied him. “No. I still think you’re selfish.”

  His eyes turned narrow. “How so?”

  Did the guy really want an inventory of his shortcomings? She clasped her lower arms in front of her. “For starters, I still think it’s greedy to sell out to Langley.”

  “Grace—”

  “I mean you said yourself that there’s a moral issue—”

  “Yes, and—”

  “You’re just thinking about yourself.”

  “This isn’t about me.”

  “Then who is it about?”

  “It’s about my dad.” The shift in his tone was abrupt. “He has cancer.”

  Silence settled as her face froze in a stare. Cancer. Emotion welled in her throat.