Grounded (17 page)

By the time Grace finished cleaning out the guest room closet, she had a whole garbage bag full of clothes, old shoes, two sets of sheets, and a nonfunctioning electric blanket to take to the Salvation Army. And she was motivated to start in on her own closet the next morning since her Thursday appointment with Dr. Erskine wasn't until two. But the tomblike silence of the house was giving her the jitters, so she kept the TV on as she walked back and forth between her bedroom and the front room, making piles on the couch of stuff she no longer wore or used. Or wanted. The blue dress Roger said he liked? Out. Same with the dress she'd been wearing when he'd popped the question.

The weather report confirmed that a high of forty degrees was expected by Friday, and she could almost see the piles of snow steadily shrinking every time she glanced outside.

And the black SUV was back.

Curiosity got the best of her and she stopped what she was doing to stand where she could see but not be seen. The same man got out of the car—one of those Toyota RAV4s—but this time a woman was with him. He helped her out of the passenger side and she held onto his arm as they made their way up the slushy walk to the front porch. A plus-size black woman, but even from a distance she seemed attractive—one of those women who carried her weight well. She too looked the building up and down, giving it a good once-over, as the man—her husband?—pointed at this and that.

A few minutes later another car parked behind the RAV4, and a man in a suit and topcoat joined the couple on the porch. He led them to the front door, unlocked it, and all three disappeared inside.

Grace shook her head. Must be a real estate agent showing the house. Really too bad. She wondered if any of the neighbors knew what had happened to the old woman. Well, guess it was none of her business. If she wanted to finish this closet-cleaning business before
she had to get ready for her second visit to the voice therapist, she'd better keep at it. Probably wouldn't feel like doing much of anything once Dr. Erskine put her through all those vocal paces.

The unplowed alley was such a mess with all the melting snow—rutted ice beneath several inches of water—that Grace called another taxi to make her eight o'clock at Curves Friday morning. Didn't feel much like going, but Samantha had said she'd be back today, and Grace decided she'd rather face the trainer than Sam's disapproval if she missed.

Hopefully she could come early. With Sam's help, maybe they could take all the stuff she'd weeded out to the Salvation Army or Goodwill. And at least she'd have someone to talk to.

The workout at Curves still felt grueling, especially since the trainer added some free-standing exercises with hand weights. But Susan said, “Good job,” at the end of the hour, which perked Grace up a bit. Checking her cell on the way home in the taxi, she realized she'd missed a text message from Sam saying she wouldn't be able to get there until almost noon.
Bummer
. She was about to shut off the cell when a new text message popped onto her screen.
Sent e-mail yesterday. Can you get back to me before the weekend? Jeff N
.

Grace screwed up her face. She'd gotten so involved in her spring-cleaning project she hadn't checked e-mail for two days.

Popping some frozen waffles into the toaster—not like the ones her mom used to make from scratch, but cooking for one called for an easier option—Grace pulled up her e-mail, which took a while to download. Thirty-six new messages in her fan-mail folder. She was tempted to open that folder, but decided to check her regular e-mail first.

Spam
…
spam
… a cute forward from her mom of a skateboard-riding dog … more
spam
… a long e-mail from her brother Tim about the soccer exploits of his oldest girl, Nanci, which he'd sent to his whole e-mail list, of course … oh, there
was the one Jeff Newman sent yesterday. The subject line said,
Concert tour theme?

The waffles popped up. Why was he bugging her about a theme? She was supposed to be taking a break. Plopping the waffles onto a plate, she spooned vanilla yogurt over them, poured on some maple syrup for good measure, and dug in. Maybe she'd read some of her fan mail while she ate. Why ruin a good breakfast doing business?

But once the syrupy plate had been rinsed and put into the dishwasher, Grace sighed, poured another cup of coffee, and opened Jeff's e-mail. She couldn't exactly ignore her agent …

Dear Grace
,

Hope you're feeling much better and that wonderful voice of yours is recovering. The Bongo staff here is still teasing this California kid about getting snowbound in Chicago. I see the weather out there might be helping to clear all that snow away, though. Of course, there's always Farid's Lawn Service if you need a hurry-up job …

Grace had to smile. Walter Fowler would never have started an e-mail this tongue-in-cheek.

Meantime, we're getting requests for final promo material for your upcoming West Coast tour. Are you still planning to continue your purity theme? If so, we could just change the New Year, New You name and you could basically present the same sets. But if you'd like to go a whole new direction, now is the time
.

Same for the two college concerts you have scheduled before the tour: at Greenville College in downstate Illinois on March 19 and Cincinnati Christian University the following week. Could be the same repertoire as the tour, or something totally different. Up to you. We just need to be giving these venues a little direction as they prepare to promote the concert. Otherwise they'll make presumptions or come up with their
own ideas—and believe me, you don't want that to happen. I once worked with a band that called themselves Big Bash and they just said “do whatever you want” to a promoter. When they got to the venue, all the posters said, Dig Hash—and all the potheads for miles around showed up en masse …

Grace couldn't help laughing—for about half a minute. But reading the last couple sentences sobered her up.

Would like to hear from you before the weekend if possible. We should get on this right away
.

Best, Jeff

Before
the weekend? That meant she had to send something today. But what? She had no idea.

Grace closed the laptop and wandered into the living room, but felt too restless to sit. She drifted around the room, winding the schoolhouse clock, absently arranging and rearranging photos and paper clips and notepads on the secretary desk, brushing cat hairs from the couch—and avoiding the piano. Even thinking about the upcoming concerts made her feel panicky. She only had a month—three weeks now—to get her act together so she would feel confident enough to walk out on a stage and sing her heart out. And that had nothing to do with her voice, which hopefully would be back to full strength by then. She'd really believed in her message—“I'm worth the wait”—but it all sounded so hollow now.

Maybe she should give up doing concerts, do something else with her life. If she did, would Roger come back?

Would I want him if he did?

She was still pacing when the doorbell rang, interrupting her fruitless spiral of thoughts. Samantha stood grinning on the stoop, but Grace saw the grin fade slightly as her assistant came in, and she was suddenly aware that she was still in her sweatpants and T-shirt, hadn't even showered since her workout. She threw up her hands
defensively. “I can explain. Went to Curves this morning, got distracted when I got back, just haven't—”

Samantha held up a hand to stop her and the smile was back. “It's all right, Grace. You don't have to dress up for me. But if you want to shower or whatever before we start, I can check the fan folder and see what needs to be done today, then we can get to work, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, good. Okay.” Grace escaped to the bathroom. When she came out toweling her hair, Sam was scrolling through e-mails on her laptop in the kitchen.

“Have you read these fan letters yet? Here, let me read you this one—”

“Wait.” Grace sat down across from her assistant at the kitchen table. “There's something I want you to read first. Let me …” She pulled the laptop over, found Jeff's e-mail, and turned the laptop back to Sam. “Read that.”

Sam shrugged. “Okay.” She was silent a few minutes as she read and then looked up. “Sooo … what are you thinking?”

Grace shook her head, picking at a spot of dried food on the table. “I don't
know
. That's the problem. Newman wants to hear from me, like, today, and … Sam, I don't know what to do! I can't do the New Year, New You thing again. And the “worth the wait” theme? I know everyone likes that song, but … I don't know. I need more time … I—I'm all confused, you know, after Roger … after …”

Samantha reached a slim brown hand across the table and laid it on Grace's nervous fingers. “Hey. First things first. Let's pray about it, okay? It's gonna be all right.”

Grace nodded and Sam plunged right in. “Father God, you are the one who gave Grace her talent and her voice and the precious theme she's been sharing with young people all over this country in the first place. You've been using her concerts, working your purpose out in the lives of her fans, so we
know
you haven't brought her this far to leave her now. So we're asking you to make it clear what's next. Put the right theme on Grace's heart so that she can sing
from
her heart, just as she's done before. And we're
thanking you right now for what you're going to do, whatever that is.”

A lump formed in Grace's throat as Sam prayed.
Had
God been using her? Did he still want to use her? But how? Could she really thank him for what he was going to do, even before she knew what that was? She knew the right answers to these questions, of course. She could teach a course on doing the right thing, trusting God. But she was struggling to feel God's presence in any of this. Sam had so much faith! But she didn't know Grace was tempted to just throw in the towel. Didn't know the troubled memories that threatened to undo her confidence in her calling.

God did.

Would he give her a new focus knowing she felt so ambivalent right now?

“Grace?”

Sam's voice pulled Grace out of her inner thoughts. “Um … what?”

“I just had an idea. Why not skip the whole theme thing for a while. Just go with ‘Grace Meredith in Concert' or something. Then you could take more time to decide on the songs you want to do, the direction you want to take. It could lend itself to, oh, I don't know—a lot of possibilities!”

Grace stared at Samantha. A load seemed to slide off her shoulders. “Samantha Curtis, you're a lifesaver. I think maybe I could get used to having you around.”

“Well good. 'Cause I'm not going anywhere. Now, can we talk about how you want to answer this one?” The younger woman pointed to the computer screen. “This fan says she's always dreamed of singing on stage, wants to know if you'll put in a good word for her with your agent.” Samantha rolled her eyes. “Honestly! Some people!”

The weather stayed above freezing all weekend and Grace decided it was time to get her car out of the garage. She grinned when the motor purred with the first turn of the key. So glad she'd bought a new car last year! The sporty red of the Ford Focus cheered her up too. Not to mention making it easier to find in a parking lot, sticking out like Santa's cherry-red nose among all the white, black, silver, and beige look-alike cars and SUVs.

No Curves and no vocal therapy on Saturday! Grace felt liberated as she managed to get out of the slippery alley without dinging the car or anyone's garage. She headed toward the Lincolnwood Mall, first swinging by the Salvation Army store on Devon Avenue to drop off her bags of gently used clothing. She'd never actually been inside the used-clothing store before and was impressed by how organized it was. A lot of shoppers wandered the aisles, including parents outfitting small children with everything from jeans and T-shirts to party dresses and winter coats.

Grace felt a tad guilty heading for the mall with its big department stores like Kohls and the tony Carson Pirie Scott, as well as dozens of specialty shops. But she had to laugh at some of the jeans in the store windows as she moseyed through the mall—hot brand names already pre-ripped and “distressed.” The teenagers snapping them up might as well go to the Salvation Army store—except the jeans at the Salvation Army were probably in better shape.

She came home with a good pair of gym shoes, sport socks, a sports bra, and some decent workout capris and tops. No more
baggy sweat pants and sweatshirt. Almost made her look forward to her next session at Curves on Monday.

Well, almost.

As she dumped her packages on the couch and picked up Oreo, she noticed the black SUV parked in front of the two-flat across the street again. A while later she caught a glimpse from the kitchen of a young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, bounding out of the house, followed by the man helping an elderly woman down the steps. Was that … could that be the Krakowski woman, home again? She scurried into the living room to get a closer look. No … this old woman was black, maybe the boy's grandmother.