Grounded (11 page)

Jeff seemed so laid-back and friendly, Grace found herself slipping off her ankle boots and curling up on the overstuffed chair, coffee cup in hand. But he suddenly looked stricken. “Here I am, asking all these questions and making you talk, when you're trying to get over a case of laryngitis! Turnabout's fair play. Your turn to ask questions. As I understand it, Bongo is not only doing your booking, but helping with career management. So you deserve to know who's taking on your career if I'm going to be your agent.”

This wasn't what Grace had expected at all. Nothing like her previous conversations with Walter Fowler, which had been cordial, but
all
business. “Um, tell you what, why don't we take a break and have lunch. I'm sure you're hungry by now.” Picking up the coffee tray, she headed for the kitchen. “It won't take long,” she called back over her shoulder.

But to her consternation, he was right behind her. “Let me help. I can set the table. Kitchen table okay?”

Well, okay
. She'd been thinking about using the dining room table, but it was too big for two people. Pointing out where to get plates and silverware, Grace rummaged in the refrigerator for ingredients she'd already prepared for her Thai beef salad and tossed them together with the lime-cilantro vinaigrette. Salad divided between two plates, pita bread halves in the toaster, ice in the water glasses …

Jeff pulled out a chair for her. “That was quick. Looks fantastic too.” He laughed self-consciously as he sat down. “Usually we take our clients out for lunch. I'm afraid I'm imposing on your hospitality.” Before Grace had time to protest that his willingness to meet her at home was a gift, he raised one of those intriguing eyebrows. “May I do the honors and ask the blessing?”

Grace quickly ducked her head, more to hide the sudden flush in her cheeks than reverence. What was with this guy? In one hour he'd completely disarmed her, and now he was giving thanks for their lunch, sitting at the kitchen table like old friends.

“You eat,” he encouraged a moment later, picking up his own fork. “I'll give you the fifty-cent version of Jeff Newman for now, and then we can talk business. I don't want to monopolize your time. Let's see …”

Grace toyed with her salad as she listened. He had grown up on the West Coast, was a preacher's kid, played bass guitar in a garage band in high school, followed all the CCM bands and most of the pop bands too—a major source of tension with his strict parents, his father especially. “‘You call that music? Just noise, son, just noise!'” Jeff furrowed his eyebrows darkly and shook a finger as he mimicked his father. He'd graduated from university with a degree in business—but a secretive minor in music—and shocked his parents no end by marrying a college girl he'd only known six months …

Married … well, of course
. But he had no ring on his finger.

“Unfortunately,” he shrugged, “she'd said yes to me on the rebound from another relationship, and wanted out of the marriage before we even celebrated our first anniversary.” He looked chagrined. “That's when I decided to grow up and take things a
bit slower. My parents and I have met somewhere in the middle, learning to listen to each other and respect our differences. That was five years ago. Finally realized I wasn't performance material, but I could use my head for business in the music world. Got my master's degree in business”—the left corner of his mouth tipped in a grin—“and Bongo hired me two years ago. I've loved getting a chance to personally relate to a lot of the CCM bands and singers. And … here I am.”

Grace absently tucked a strand of layered hair behind her ear. The men she knew weren't usually that honest about their failures, their fits and starts. She hardly knew what to say. She pointed at his salad plate with her fork. “You better eat.”

They finished their meal with small talk, and then she cleared the plates. “I'll make some more coffee. Half decaf okay?”

They took the fresh coffee back to the living room. The ticking schoolhouse clock said two o'clock already. Oreo was meowing and scratching at the guest room door so Grace let him out, and he settled down in her lap.

Jeff peered outside the picture window as he resumed his seat on the couch. “Hmm. Still snowing. I should probably leave in the next hour or so. I've got a four-thirty appointment downtown and an eight o'clock flight to Nashville. Better give myself some extra time.” He reached for his leather messenger bag and pulled out an official-looking red plastic folder. “And we've still got some business to discuss.” He opened the folder and studied it briefly. “The sweetheart banquet aside—which has been canceled because of your doctor's certification—you are currently booked for four fly in, fly out concerts between now and the West Coast tour in late April and May. Let's see … a megachurch in Norfolk, Virginia … another in Houston … and then two college venues—Greenville in downstate Illinois and Cincinnati Christian University.” He looked up. “But you had another doctor's appointment yesterday …” Both eyebrows arched like a question.

Greenville … the little college with the big CCM program. Her alma mater. Grace realized the hand that held her coffee cup
was shaking. She set the cup down on the coffee table, took a deep breath, and tried to keep her voice steady. The otolaryngologist was recommending at least a month of total voice rest—no singing, no concerts—with treatments by a voice therapist. She tried to explain the medical reasons as succinctly as possible.

“A
month
.” Jeff Newman frowned and glanced again at the red plastic folder. “That would mean canceling Norfolk and Houston.” His eyes lifted and looked at her soberly. “You're sure? Those two are the biggest venues of the four. I'm sure the promoters will understand, considering the health concerns, but this could be a bump in your career, right at a time when your popularity is on the rise. These concerts have been on the books for a year.”

To her dismay, Grace's eyes filled with tears and she had to grope in her jacket pocket for a tissue. She pressed the tissue to her eyes, hoping she wasn't smudging her mascara, and then blew her nose.

“Hey. I'm sorry. That was thoughtless.” Jeff's voice was contrite. “Of course you need to follow doctor's orders! Yes, it's a bump in the road, but these things happen. Family emergencies, illness, death in the family—life isn't predictable. Just leave it to me.” She heard a soft chuckle. “My mother used to tell me I could sweet-talk my way out of anything. One of my hidden gifts as a music agent.”

They talked a while more. Jeff promised to keep in touch with her about his contacts with her bookings. Said how much he appreciated getting to meet her in person, getting to know her a little bit in her own “habitat.” He also assured her she still had the option of saying yea or nay to his reassignment as her agent.

But he finally rose. “I better get going. Since moving to Denver two years ago, I've gotten indoctrinated in the science of driving in snow. Can't say it comes naturally, though.” He waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “Better say a prayer for me.”

Grace got his leather jacket and scarf and saw him to the door. Their good-bye was brief and cordial, and Jeff ducked down the steps, plowing his way through at least eight or ten inches of snow covering her once-shoveled walks.

Shutting the door and locking it, she went to the window and peered out. He must've parked down the block a way, because between falling snow and fog, she couldn't see him. She breathed that prayer he'd asked for, then just stood there, watching the falling snow.

The meeting wasn't what she'd expected, but she had to admit Newman seemed like a really nice guy. It'd certainly be a change from dealing with Fowler. More personable. She liked that. And it'd gone better than she'd expected. She'd been able to focus on the medical and physical reasons for taking a sabbatical and didn't have to get into her nightmare with the TSA or her broken engagement as the critical reasons she
really
needed some time to recoup: to rethink what she was doing with her career, and to evaluate what was next for her sans Roger.

Roger
. Strange that Jeff hadn't said anything about her engagement. It was public knowledge, had even become part of her testimony. Surely Fowler had told his assistant.

But not a word. Odd.

Oreo was pacing on the back of the couch, meowing at her. “It's not time for you to eat, silly cat,” she scolded, coming away from the window and heading for the kitchen. “But if you want to supervise the dishwashing, come on.”

Grace put on some hot water for tea—coffee didn't have quite the same soothing effect on her throat as honey-lemon tea—and drew a sink full of hot sudsy water. Could've put the lunch dishes in the dishwasher, but she felt like doing the few dishes by hand. The hot soapy water was relaxing, made her feel domestic—after all, she had a whole month ahead of her to be
home
. Didn't have to travel, didn't have to put on her public persona. She could just be Grace. Wear her flannel shirt. Get some things done around the house she'd always wanted to do. She'd have time to think, time to pray.

Pray …
Grace absently rinsed the last dish and put it in the drainer. Not sure she and God were on the best speaking terms right now. Was she mad at God for things falling apart in her life? Well, yeah. Or … maybe God was mad at
her
. Felt like it. Maybe God had
a long memory and now it was pay-up time. That wasn't what she'd been taught, of course. Confession resulted in forgiveness. She knew that. Believed it. Not that she'd actually ever confessed to anyone. But she'd confessed to God, one-on-one … surely that mattered.

She'd been having a hard time praying since she got home. Even though she definitely had some things she needed to decide in the next few weeks. Stuff that needed a lot of prayer. Canceling the next few bookings only gave her breathing room. What then? Go back on the concert circuit? Doing what? She needed a new program, a new—

Ding-dong. Ding-dong
.

The doorbell cut into her thoughts. Oreo leaped off the kitchen stool and streaked toward the living room. Quickly drying her hands, Grace followed. She glanced at the wall clock. Three thirty. Kids would be coming home from school. Maybe it was the boy, Tavis, wanting to know if she wanted her walks shoveled. Well, yes, once the snow stopped.

Unlocking the door, she pulled it open, ready to tell him to come back tomorrow.

Jeff Newman stood on the stoop, shoulders hunched inside his leather jacket, the red scarf wrapped around his face and ears, snow layering on his curly hair.

“Uh, I'm stuck.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “And there must've been a fender bender at the end of the block, 'cause there are a bunch of cars every which way blocking the intersection. Can I, uh, come in?”

Grace swallowed her shock. “Of course!” She stepped back and then shut the door behind him.

The Bongo agent stomped the snow off his shoes and unwrapped the red scarf before shedding his jacket. “I'm sorry about this, Grace. I should've realized the weather would be a problem. Uh, I need to make some calls … and do you have a phone directory? I might need a tow truck to pull me out.”

She nodded, found the Yellow Pages, and then took his leather jacket and red scarf into the kitchen to drip. His shoes and pant legs—they must be soaked too.

Still in the kitchen, Grace braced herself against the kitchen counter and took several deep breaths. She'd prepared herself for their meeting, and it had gone well—but it was supposed to be over. She'd been looking forward to some quiet time to process what they'd talked about, make her decision about switching agents from Fowler to Newman—a no-brainer, really—and start thinking about the implications of taking a monthlong sabbatical.

But now Jeff Newman was back in her house—stuck, he said.

She could hear him on his phone in the living room, probably calling his next appointment or the rental-car people. Or calling for a tow—that'd be the best. If a tow truck could come out, it could move those other cars, then get him unstuck, and he'd be on his way. Might be an hour or two at the most.

But she felt awkward. She didn't want to go back to the living room and eavesdrop. Didn't want to be stuck in the kitchen either. But she could busy herself drying the dishes and putting them away,
reheating the tea water, and making her tea. She'd make him a cup too. Something hot to drink. He had to be chilled after his foray into the snow outside.

Jeff was sitting on the edge of the couch, phone to his ear, phone-book splayed open on the coffee table when she came in with the tea. He acknowledged her with a brief smile as she placed the mug on the coffee table in front of him. “… All right, all right … yes, put my name on the list … you got the address? … Yeah, I'll let you know if I get it out.” He flipped his cell phone closed and threw out his hands. “I can't believe this! I've called three tow companies, and all three said all their trucks are out on calls already and it might be tomorrow before they can get to me!”

Grace stared.
Tomorrow?

Jeff shook his head in resignation. “Well, it's obvious I'm not going to make that four-thirty appointment. I'd better call …” He flipped his phone open again and punched a few buttons.

That's when Grace noticed his bare feet. He'd taken his wet shoes and socks off and put them on the mat by the door. Well, she could do something about cold feet. Heading down the hall to her bedroom, she rummaged in her dresser drawer for a pair of thick athletic socks. Might be a tad small, but at least they were dry.

Grabbing a small towel from the bathroom, she took her offerings back into the living room. He was still on the phone. She put the towel and socks on the coffee table and pointed to his feet. He gave her a nod of thanks as he explained his situation to someone on the other end.