Grounded (26 page)

But Jeff just greeted Sam warmly—“About time we met in person!”—and said he'd get Grace back to the hotel in an hour. Sam tossed her twists and looked him over with a critical eye.
“You better. We have to be at the train station in the morning by seven thirty. Bum way to spend Easter Sunday, but had to take what we could get. Anyway, go … go.” She fluttered a hand at Grace. “I'll pack up your stuff in the dressing room. But don't be late!” She scurried off with her clipboard.

Chuckling, Jeff escorted Grace out of the church. “So that firecracker is Samantha Curtis. How old is she?”

“Twenty-five, I think.” Grace pulled her soft pashmina shawl around her shoulders against the cool April air. “Yeah, she's bossy—that's what I pay her for—but she's a jewel. Don't know what I'd do without her. Ethnic food and chocolate are her cure for everything, I think—though I drew the line at the pajama party she tried to cook up a couple weeks ago.”

“Pajama party!” He thought that was pretty funny. Grace didn't mention she kind of wished she'd gone. But a few minutes later they slid into a booth at the coffee bar a block away and ordered two decaf lattes. Grace felt herself relaxing. “So tell me what you thought of the concert.”

Jeff laid an arm along the back of the padded booth and seemed to be studying her. “As I already said, it was a nice concert. And your voice is sounding great.”

Nice
. For the first time, Grace heard a qualification in the word. Not “great,” not “awesome.”

She sighed. “Okay. I need to know. What did you really think? To be honest, I've been struggling with getting my confidence back, so I know I wasn't at a hundred percent.”

He didn't answer right away, again seemed to be studying her. She felt a bit flustered. Was her hair a mess? Had she chewed off all her lipstick?

The lattes came and he leaned forward, wrapping both hands around his tall mug. “What I said was true. It was a nice concert—very nice. Good theme for Easter weekend, some real good song choices. But …”

She winced. “Uh-huh. I knew it.”
Don't cry, you big baby
, she told herself. She took a sip of her latte and realized her hand was shaking.

“Something was missing. Your passion.” Jeff leaned forward. “Grace, I've seen the video from your New Year, New You tour, and you had a
passion
in those concerts. Your songs, your stories, the way you talked to the audience—it all came from your heart. Maybe …” He frowned thoughtfully. “Have you thought about returning to that theme—encouraging young people to stay pure sexually, to believe they're ‘worth waiting for,' as you so often said?”

Grace stared into her mug, slowly shaking her head. She couldn't. Not now. Not yet. She just wasn't ready to be that vulnerable. Not just because of the recent breakup and what that implied. But because she felt like such an imposter …

A lump formed in her throat and she couldn't speak.

Jeff sighed. “I'm sorry, Grace. You asked, and I wanted to be honest with you.” He leaned forward. “Because I believe in you! You have the makings of a star—not the unreachable kind, but the sort of artist that everyone can relate to. And I know that passion for life is still there. It doesn't have to be the purity theme, or whatever you want to call it. You've had a setback, but you still have a lot to give. If the real Grace can crawl out of that hole where you've locked her away, your music will go off the charts.”

Grace still shook her head, the lump in her throat growing larger. Her eyes blurred … but just then she felt Jeff's hand cover hers on the table. His touch sent little shivers up her arm. He spoke again. “Look deep inside, Grace. Tap into that passion, the truth that sets you free. I know it's there. You just have to know it too.”

Sam took one look at Grace in the morning and said, “You okay? Didn't you sleep well last night?”

Grace grimaced. “Not the best. Just thinking about a lot of stuff. I'll be okay.” She stifled a yawn. “But I definitely need coffee. Maybe a bagel. Is the hotel café open yet?”

“Mm-hm.” Sam arched an eyebrow at her knowingly. “You didn't tell me he was so good-looking.”

“Oh, come on! He's my agent. We talked about my voice, the concert, stuff like that.” She colored slightly. But it was true, wasn't it?

They managed to get to the train station by seven thirty, and once on board, Grace got an Amtrak pillow and pretended to be asleep most of the way back to Chicago. But she kept thinking about what Jeff had said about tapping into something she felt passionately about … and knew it was true. Something was missing from her music. “Look deep inside …” he had said.

That was the problem.

She was scared to look too deep. Scared to poke at old wounds. Afraid of what she might find. Afraid of how people would see her. Or maybe afraid of how she would see herself.

Grace dozed on and off as the train whistled its way through the Illinois countryside at every country crossing, her conversation with Jeff weaving in and out of her semiconsciousness, along with the memory of his touch when he laid his hand over hers …

“Grace? Grace … we're pulling into Union Station.” Sam's gentle shaking pulled Grace out of her stupor. She shook the sleep from her head and helped gather their suitcases and various bags.

“I feel sorry for the band,” Sam said, as the train eased to a stop with a slight bump and they made their way to the exit. “They're probably still on the road—and here we are, fresh as a daisy.”

The Amtrak station was full of travelers, even though it was the middle of the day on Easter Sunday. “Oh, forgot to tell you,” Sam said as they threaded their way through the crowd. “Couldn't get a limo for the ride home. Lincoln said all their drivers were booked this weekend—the holiday, I guess. Hopefully we can get a couple of taxis.”

“That's all right. Just sorry you had to miss Easter services.” Grace gave her assistant a hug after Sam hailed two separate taxis. “But thanks for everything. Don't come to work tomorrow—we both need to take a day or two off.”

“You still thinking about taking the train to Seattle?”

Grace nodded. “Thinking about it. I know we have to decide. I'll call you tomorrow, maybe we can talk about it then.”

“Okay. I might go ahead and check train schedules, see what's available. Sleeper car, right?”

Grace grinned as she climbed into the back seat of the Yellow Cab. “Definitely. But not today! Go home. Go to church. Do something besides thinking about that West Coast tour.”

“Somebody has to think about it.”

At least that's what Grace thought Sam said as her assistant shut the back door of the taxi, waving from the curb as the cab driver pulled away.

As Grace was letting herself into the house, she saw the Bentleys' RAV4 pass by and do a turnaround in the cul-de-sac.
Wonder where they go to church …

She waved as the small SUV parked in front of the old lady's two-flat—in front of the
Bentleys'
two-flat, she reminded herself—but went on into the house and closed the door behind her. Grace didn't feel like chatting right now, but maybe later she'd go over and thank Mr. Bentley for suggesting the train. He was right. She hadn't even thought much about security going either way, though she'd seen some Amtrak police here and there, even one officer with a dog strolling among the passengers in the station.

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.

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—