Seasoned with Grace (12 page)

Wrapping her arm around his waist, she cooed, “Horace, please take me home.”

Pastor David plopped in the pew beside Ethan and slid down. He looked like a helium balloon running out of air. Ethan was at a loss for words. Generally, he sought out counsel from Pastor David in the confines of the upper room—a conference room on the second floor of the church that Pastor David used for his counseling sessions. Now Pastor David looked like he could use someone to speak comforting words to him.

Ethan walked around the bench and sat next to his pastor. He tried to direct his gaze in the same direction as Pastor David's but could not. Pastor David's eyes were glossy, like cat eyes, and filled to the brim with tears, and though he was staring straight ahead, his gaze was fixed within. Usually, Grace didn't do this much damage that rapidly.

Ethan was out of his comfort zone when it came to dealing with matters of the heart. He was used to preparing contrived speeches that tugged on the heartstrings of an audience or a judge whom he'd handpicked, and wherever possible he had avoided emotional exchanges. He had become a legal shark and could smell any defense attorney's weakness before he or she even entered the room, which meant most of his cases hardly ever went to trial. What could he say now? There really wasn't any legal jargon he knew that would serve as a salve for a broken heart. And there was no eloquent way to say, “Pastor, you really picked the wrong girl.”

Looking away from the pastor, stroking his goatee, Ethan stared out the window and tried to figure out what the next move would be now that Grace had run out of the church with Horace and had left the pastor slumped on the pew. Through the window, he watched a bulldozer move up and down, lifting up loads of earth and discarding them. Wishing that he was a building under construction, the words “I want to be gutted” slipped from his mouth.

“I have been gutted,” Pastor David said, still staring straight ahead. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “She's gotten away from me again.”

“Again?” Ethan said quizzically. “What do you mean, again?” he asked, hoping there was a good explanation for what he had just heard. Ethan wished he had minded his own business, but when he had peered into the sanctuary minutes ago, he had felt good. He'd thought Grace was finally going to get the sermon she needed to set herself on the road to the straight and narrow. Instead, Ethan had discovered that she had been impregnated by the pastor and had had an abortion. He still wasn't sure how Horace factored into the equation.

“Brother Summerville,” he put his hand over his chest. “I wanted to marry her.”

“Marry Grace!” Ethan laughed heartily at the thought. “Grace a first lady? I don't know about that,” he said, shaking his finger. “Your church would definitely be packed, even during football season, if she was sitting on the pulpit.” Ethan bit his top lip as an image of Grace flashed through his mind. Her beauty was unexplainable, and most likely, that was what had brought the pastor to his knees, he thought. “Pastor, in only a matter of two weeks, Grace wound up pregnant and had an abortion, which isn't possible, unless this affair had been going on prior to her placement here. Can you explain what's going on?” Ethan wished he could call the words back. After all, just a few days ago he was all tied up in a kiss that was dripping with desire, when all he wanted to do was comfort Grace.

Pastor David sat up straight in the pew. He cocked his legs open and rested his forearms on his thighs and began his exposition. “I knew Grace King before she was Grace King—when she was just a stick. She was smaller than this when we met.” He held up his pinkie finger. “She was a beauty then and sweet,” he said, inhaling and exhaling deeply. What you caught was the tail end of our conversation. Grace aborted the baby about fifteen years ago. We hadn't seen each other since then. We used to attend the same church, Mount Moriah, over on a hundred twelfth. She was in the choir, and I was being groomed for the ministry. Apparently, our parents got together and bullied her into having an abortion. This is the first time I've seen her since then because . . .”

“Because she ran away from home,” Ethan said, finishing Pastor David's sentence. Now it was his turn to slump down on the hardwood of the pew. If he could, Ethan would have pulled up the burgundy carpet and the creaky floorboards beneath the carpet and hid. He'd been wrong about everything.

“No, she ran away from me. I was supposed to rescue her from her father and his perverse interpretation of the gospel. Instead, they convinced her that I wanted her to have the abortion, and she ran for her life.” Pastor David shook his head, fighting off the tears, and made a hiccuping noise, which he usually made when he didn't want to get too emotional while preaching.

“Now, how are we going to get her back?” Ethan asked, mostly to himself.

“I was hoping you knew the answer to that,” Pastor David said, looking over his shoulder at Ethan.

Grace's hand shook while she twisted the key to the top lock of her condo. She felt like she was sneaking a boy into her parents' house. She looked back at Horace's statuesque frame and licked the corner of her mouth. It had been a long time since she'd had a sip of anything as sweet as him.
Pull it together, Grace.

“You know, I don't have to come in.” Horace wrapped his hand around hers as she struggled to pull the key out.

“Please, Horace, it's no trouble at all,” she replied, pushing the door open. Grace held the door open and let Horace in. “Welcome to my humble abode.” She smiled.

Horace looked around the condo with one raised eyebrow. Grace couldn't tell whether or not he liked the place. For some reason, she wanted to please him desperately. He walked cautiously through the kitchen, running his fingers along the top of the granite island, looking back at Grace for permission to enter the living room.

Grace nodded and hit the button on the remote sensors so that as Horace walked into the living room, the window treatments slid open. Horace shook his fingers rapidly before snapping them.

“Dang, Ms. King, you really got it going on.”

Horace stood, his legs spread apart, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows with his hands crossed in front of his chest, observing the Harlem night. Grace tossed her keys and purse onto the island and strode to Horace's side. She slipped her arm through the gap made by his arm and clasped his bicep. It was curved and pronounced, just like the half-moon that hung over the park, illuminating the entrance and pond. Cars and bikes whirred through the intersection below them.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, still staring out the window.

“For what?”

“I'm sorry about what happened back at the church.” He didn't flinch, and he didn't blink. He just stared. “I didn't mean for things to go that way.”

“Horace, it's not your fault. How could you have known what was going to happen?” Grace shrugged her shoulders and rested her head on his solid bicep. She felt his eyes on her now. “What you did was actually helpful. I've been carrying that pain for fifteen years, and now that's one less thing I have to be angry about.”

“Angry?” he puffed, as if she had just cussed. “What do you have to be angry about? You're sitting on top of the world.” He pointed to the crowd below.

There were police cars and ambulances parked on the corner, and had it not been for the view, Grace would have never known. They were so high up in the air, she could barely hear any of the sounds traditionally associated with city living—sirens, loud music, and street fights.

“No,
you're
on top of the world, church boy,” she retorted. “You've got Jesus and the rest of that Kool-Aid y'all be sipping after the service to make you feel good.” She withdrew her arm and backed away from him a bit.

Horace turned to face her. His glare scorched her skin like sun on a summer day. Grace spotted a hint of displeasure; however, he was too poised to let that trickle out. He licked his lips and asked, “What do you do when you want to feel good?”

He stepped closer to her. Even through his sweatshirt Grace could make out the ripples in his chest. If she stared any harder, she was sure she'd be able to determine whether he had an eight-pack or a six-pack. Grace inched forward so that their bodies collided. Her smooth, soft flesh juxtaposed against his warm, hot chocolate body sent a rippling sensation through her body. Her thigh trembled slightly against his as she inhaled fragments of his day—a crisp, clean linen scent mingled with the scent of plaster, no doubt from a job he'd worked on earlier.

Horace looked down at her and stroked her cheekbones slowly. Grace curved her body slightly, giving him permission to take her. Horace pecked at her lips gently, then rolled his tongue along the line of her neck.

“Uhhh,” she moaned into his ear.

“Grace. What are we doing?” Horace asked. Her moan had broken the trance she'd put him in.

She flung her arms around his neck and nibbled at the bottom of his earlobe. “What I do when I want to feel good.”

Wedging his arms between hers, Horace broke her grip like a kung fu master. He wiped his lips and cleared his throat into his hand. “As much as I want you, Grace, I don't want you like this.”

“How
do
you want me?” She pressed her chest against his and wrapped her slender arms around his waist, biting down on her bottom lip, awaiting his reply.

“I want you whole,” he said, slowly resting his arms around her neck. “Grace King . . . I want you whole.”

“Whole?” Grace guffawed, slamming her kombucha on the table. “Junie, what type of Holy Ghost rap was that?”

Grace stared intently at her best friend, hoping she had a better understanding of Horace's last words to her before he walked out of her condo last night. She'd spent most of the night on her iPad, combing through commentary on BibleStudyTools.com, trying to find a biblical reference that matched Horace's statement. All her clicking had only led Grace back to the same statement.
Thy faith hath made thee whole.

Junell remained silent.

“Well?” Grace nudged Junell, whose gaze was fixed on the amalgamation of dry leaves that had gathered in the gutter across the street from the Chelsea coffee shop they were sitting in.

“I'm sorry.” Junell shook her freshly colored chestnut-brown bangs out of her eyes. “I totally spaced out on you. Blame it on the baby.” Junell rubbed her stomach and smiled widely, reminding Grace of the announcement she'd made just a few weeks ago. “He said he wants you whole?” Junell asked, making sure she understood the matter being examined.

Grace bobbed her head up and down.

“Have you read Ruth yet?”

Grace turned down her lips and arched her eyebrows. The Bible had become like kryptonite to Grace over the years.

“I'll take that as a no.” Junell raised her finger and pointed at Grace's face. She leaned back in her chair, took a deep breath as she raised her leg to cross it, and exhaled once, positioning herself comfortably. “Grace, he wants a whole woman, a woman who is not broken. I love you, but until you let Jesus in, you're not whole. You gotta surrender.”

“I like your bangs,” Grace stated effortlessly, diverting the conversation away from her conversion. “Who cut your bangs? Maybe I should get some. What do you think?” Grace ran her fingers through the front of her hair, which was now parted to the side.

Junell looked at the people seated beside them, leaned in, and whispered, “It's a wig. My hair is starting to fall out, and my mother says I can't cut it while I'm pregnant, or the baby will be bald, or some nonsense like that.” She chuckled. “Now back to the subject matter at hand.” Junell clapped her hands together and drew her closed palms to her face. “Any good Christian man worth his weight in salt would not accept you in your condition. Grace, you're like a half-baked potato. Serving a few meals in a church doesn't make you Mother Theresa, and the man wants substance.”

Substance. Whole. Salt.
The words sucked Grace's power from her. Everyone around her was speaking in metaphors and measurements, and she could not match those words. She rested her cheek on the palm of her hand and gazed out the window of the Chelsea coffee shop.

“When are you going to begin filming with Javier?” Junell asked.

Grace raised one eyebrow and glared at Junell.

“It's no secret that you're holding up production, Grace. You've got to give me something. Everyone is asking me questions, and I have no idea what to tell them.”

Grace smacked the ceramic countertop. “Why don't you tell them to mind their f—”

“Grace! Have you taken to cursing again?”

“I need a drink.” Grace swiveled around on the metal stool and hopped off it. She was grateful for this new coffee spot. Only in Chelsea could you find a place that served coffee, kombucha, and wine. For this conversation, Grace would have preferred a glass of whiskey; however, wine was enough to take some of the edge off. “You want something?” she asked Junell dryly.

Junell pointed down at her baby bump. It was barely noticeable now. It looked more like Junell had skipped some of her SoulCycle classes and was bloated rather than pregnant.

“Well, I'll drink yours,” Grace said, strolling toward the wine counter behind them. Cracking half a smile at the guy behind the counter, Grace ordered two glasses of red wine and biscotti. Grace slid her credit card across the counter and watched intently as he prepared her order.

Slowly, he drew the biscotti out of the white ceramic canisters that cradled them, but poured her wine quickly. Grace took a sip out of one glass and cradled the second glass and the biscotti in her other hand as she took long, pointed steps back to their window seats, channeling her early runway-walking lessons to maintain her balance.

She set the glasses on the countertop and caught Junell staring at them and then at her. Grace shrugged her shoulders. “What? I told you I'd drink yours for you.” She reclaimed her seat in the window of the coffee shop and bit into a biscotto, letting the crumbs gather at the sides of her mouth. Between bites, she grumbled, “You want to know why I'm not filming with Javier?”

“If you're going to get crazy and all worked up about it, then no.” Junell folded her hands over her slight belly. “I have to be back on the set in another hour, and I don't need you freaking me out.”

Grace blinked her eyes multiple times and looked her friend up and down. She'd never once cared more about filming a scene than what Grace was going through. Grace wondered if that was because of the baby or because Junell had just simply grown tired of the multitude of issues that seemed to follow Grace everywhere she went.

“Must be a difficult scene,” Grace said offhandedly. She looked into her glass of wine, trying to hide her disappointment in the burgundy liquid in her glass.

“It's beyond difficult.” Junell rubbed the center of her forehead, as if thinking about it was exhausting. “You know, getting pregnant while filming is difficult, and the writers have decided to write my pregnancy into the story, rather than write me off or have me go on a hiatus. So, I'm going to sleep with the captain of the squad this evening.”

“Oh, yeah!” Grace perked up a bit. “Isn't the captain married?”

“Yes. Apparently, my character has been secretly in love with him since he was her teacher at the academy, and they finally have the opportunity to do the deed.”

“All the Christian sisters that support you are going to be up in arms.”

“I know.” Junell tsk-tsked. “I had to repent so many times while reading the script. I don't think I'm going to make it through this scene.”

Grace looked up from her wineglass and stared at Junell. A wet film covered her eyes. Junell was so worked up about this scene, she was oblivious to Grace's pain. She let the tears run down her cheeks. They rolled slowly over her cheekbones, creating streaks on her flawless face. Grace bent over and rested her head on the countertop they were seated at.

Junell rubbed Grace's back. “G, are you all right?” she whispered, bending over Grace.

Raising her head slightly, Grace turned in the opposite direction of Junell's coos of comfort. She let the sobs and nose sniffing flow freely.

“Come on. Talk to me, Grace. People are starting to look at us.”

“Let them look,” Grace spat. She sat up, picked up a napkin, and blew her nose. Her chest tightened so much, she could feel her heart rattling around inside of her. She wanted to jump through the picture window they were seated in front of to escape Junell. She'd expected more from her than this. Closing her eyes, Grace let her head fall to her chest and buried her chin in the layers of her gray wraparound scarf.

“People have been looking at us for a long time,” Grace said. “Isn't that the business we're in? You're a model turned actress. Aren't you used to being looked at already? Or are you suddenly bothered because this is your real life that people are looking at?” Her voice dropped. “This is your friend breaking down, not some character on one of your little episodes.”

Grace slid off the stool and turned toward the door. Junell reached for Grace's arm and caught the elbow of her oversize tribal-print cardigan. Grace had meant to move faster than that, but the heaviness of her wounded heart had slowed her down.

“Grace, what's going on?”

Their eyes met. Junell's large brown eyes zigzagged from side to side, as if she possessed the power to scan Grace's brain.

Breaking eye contact, Grace looked down at the raw, untiled floor of the coffee shop. She cupped her own arm and slowly pulled her cardigan out of Junell's grasp. “Now's not a good time to discuss it. People are looking,” she whispered, backing out of the coffee shop.