Seasoned with Grace (22 page)

The constant vibration of Grace's phone caused the steel countertop of the island in her kitchen to reverberate. Before the camera crew was done scuffing her floor on the way out, Grace had over a thousand new e-mails, direct messages from Twitter, and Facebook notifications. Just a few years ago, a day or two would go by before the lawyers or public relations team of a celebrity would reach out to him or her, and at least three days to a week would pass before a celebrity started receiving death threats for something said or done.

Grace covered her mouth in horror as she scrolled through her e-mails, just reading the subject lines: “He should have killed you too.” “Waste of time.” “Why would Javier need to or want to rape you?” “Liar, liar, liar.”

Horace, Pastor David, and Ethan had formed a congratulatory circle near the window and were patting each other on the back for each defensive move they'd executed efficiently during the interview. None of them seemed to hear the squeals of agony Grace let out as she read through each bitter and antagonistic message. After admitting to being raped, she had expected to be embraced. Instead, she was vilified and was accused of being a monster. The three men continued to boast, complement each other, and give each other daps, one of them saying, “Yeah, man, you handled Diane that time,” until a jarring cry erupted in the kitchen. They tripped over each other as they leaped toward the kitchen.

Grace tried to control it, but she couldn't stop shaking like a loose shingle on a roof during a storm. Tears streaked her copper skin as she bit down on her bottom lip. She stared at her cell phone, which now lay on the floor.

Ethan stooped down to pick up her phone, Horace massaged her shoulders, trying to soothe her, and Pastor David was the one soul in the room who was brave enough to speak.

“What happened?” he asked.

Burying her head in the slither of space between Horace's arm and chest, Grace pointed at her cell phone, then proceeded to cry..

Ethan tapped the phone's screen and entered her password. After reading the message on the screen, he passed the phone to Pastor David, who read the message and adamantly shouted, “The devil is a liar!”

“What does it say, man?” Horace demanded, slapping Pastor David on the shoulder with his free arm and still cradling Grace with the other.

Pastor David stood perfectly still, with his mouth hanging open so wide, his chin hid his Adam's apple.

“Speak, Pastor! What does it say?” Ethan asked, chiming in.

“I don't know what's more harmful—what the message says or its origin,” Pastor David said.

Breaking from the safety of Horace's arms, Grace ran to the sink. She leaned over and threw cold water on her face. She arose from the sink with splotches on her face, which marked the spots where her foundation, concealer, and blush used to lie. She addressed her support crew. “I am done for the day. I can't handle any more of this. I'll be upstairs. Please let yourselves out.” Pivoting on her heels, Grace turned to make her exit. Horace reached out to grab her arm, but she snatched it away so quickly, he was left clutching the air.

“Solitude isn't what's best in this situation,” Horace said.

She whipped her head around and stared at Horace, hard enough to bore holes into his head. “You think you know when you have no idea,” Grace cried.

“Well then, can someone please tell me what in the world just happened?” Horace said.

“Read it,” Ethan said to Pastor David.

“Read what?” Horace asked, shrugging his shoulders.

“An e-mail,” Pastor David said, finally breaking his silence. “An e-mail from a very disturbed person.”

“Pastor, please just tell me what it says.”

“The subject line of this e-mail reads ‘You deserved it.' It goes, ‘Dear Grace, what a shame it is to see that you have accused someone as talented as Javier Roberts of raping you. I wonder if you understand the magnitude of your accusations. Probably not, or you would not be on national television, trying to play Diane, when really you are the woman at the well, misusing the blessings of God to distract holy men of God from their calling. I was completely shocked to see Pastor David behind you, supporting you as you recited these fables. As I watched that interview, all I could do was pray that Pastor David does not fall from his steadfastness again, after all that we did to protect him. And now my prayer is that you might come to know the Savior before that spirit of Jezebel really takes ahold of you and has you carted off to hell. You should be ashamed of yourself and the acts that you participated in. Sincerely, Thomas King
.'
” Pastor David ground his teeth. “You know that there are a hundred more like this.”

“Who cares what those kooks think?” Horace said. “If you ask me, that's what's wrong with our country today—everyone's too wrapped up in the lives of celebrities, and they don't even know what their own child is doing. Grace, you need to forget about Thomas and his whole crew.”

“She won't,” Ethan said before Grace could muster up a response to Horace. She was grateful they were still in tune like that.

Horace frowned. “Why?”

“Because she can't,” Pastor David added.

“Thomas King is my father,” Grace revealed, putting an end to the mystery for Horace. “Now, if you don't mind letting yourselves out, it would be greatly appreciated,” she said, curtsying.

Ethan and Pastor David gathered their stuff in silence. To Grace, it seemed like they were moving slower than a toddler who'd just taken his first step. Grace strutted to the door and held it open to speed up the process.

She didn't know if there was a scripture that could correct the combination of punches thrown her way today. Hopefully, the Bible app she had downloaded to her phone would lead her to it. Pastor David and Ethan each embraced her before walking out and assured her that she would be okay. She looked over her shoulder at Horace and wondered why he insisted on breaking the rule, since her directive applied to him as well.

Once Grace heard the ding of the elevator and knew Ethan and Pastor David were gone, she turned to Horace and began drilling him. She hadn't wanted to dig into him while everyone else was around. He'd earned that much respect from her.

“Why are you still here?” Grace asked, still holding the door open by the knob.

Horace swiftly stepped up to Grace. He stood in front of her, his chest puffed up from pride or loyalty. She couldn't tell which.

“Because you don't really want to be alone,” he said, tracing her jawbone with the tip of his finger. “And I don't want to leave you, Grace King.” He tipped her chin upward and leaned into her, leading with his lips. First, they grazed her lips.

“What makes you think I don't want to be alone?”

Horace pecked her lips with his. “Everything about you says you don't want to be alone, from the dreamy look in those doe eyes of yours to the way your back is arched while you hold that door open,” he said, subtly slinking his arm around her waist and pulling her to his body. With his other hand, he grasped her jaw tightly and pressed his lips into hers.

In that instant he infused the strength and love that those e-mails had sucked out of her back into her. The kiss was sweet enough to last until forever, and it very well would have if Grace's only neighbor hadn't decided to let her shih tzu run down the hallway without a leash on. The dog came speeding down the hallway and ran right into Grace's unit. Horace let go of Grace and scooped up the brown ball of fur before he had the opportunity to rummage through the place.

“Here you go,” Horace said sweetly to the old lady who owned both the dog and the only other unit on that floor.

Once the woman disappeared down the hallway, he turned back to Grace. “Now that I saved you from that shih tzu, I know I'm entitled to at least a cup of coffee before you send me packing.”

Grace smiled at the warm expression on his face and the radiance that had settled around him. He deserved more than a cup of coffee; he deserved her complete adoration. Horace had poured nothing but love into Grace, even after learning her dirtiest secrets and deeds. She didn't understand why he would even care about someone like her, with so little to offer him. Early on she had thought she was bringing more to the table, because she had a larger bank account, but there was nothing she could give him. Except herself.

Grace shut the door, went to the kitchen, and turned on the Keurig. As it warmed up, she instructed Horace to have a seat on the couch for once, instead of standing by the window.

“But I love the view. From my place I can see only into the alley behind the building and some old lady's apartment.”

“Just take a seat, buster,” she said, inserting the K-Cup into the machine. “Just relax, okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed, exhaling deeply through his nostrils.

Once the coffee had brewed, Grace sauntered across the living room floor to him and handed him his cup. Sinking down onto her knees, she bowed her head before him.

“Grace, what are you doing?”

“I'm lying at your feet.”

“Why?” he asked, holding his head back awkwardly.

“That's what Ruth did when she offered herself to Boaz. Horace, you have proven yourself to be honorable, strong, and loving. I've never had a man like you in my life. I don't think I am deserving of what you have to offer, but I want to walk this walk with you.”

“Grace, as long as you're walking with Christ, I will walk with you anywhere.” Horace placed his cup of coffee on the floor and kneeled down in front of her. He grabbed her hands and covered them with his own. “I can't give you what you're used to, but I can love you.”

“That's what I love about you, Horace. You're not what I'm used to,” she said, kissing his chin.

Cupping the sides of her face, Horace kissed her forehead, her nose, and then her lips. “Before this turns into something more, I'm going to go out that door, but first, let's pray.” He took her hand in his and said, “Father God, we come before your presence with thanksgiving. I thank you for everything that has transpired in our lives, for it has led us to this moment in time. I thank you for sending Grace to Mount Carmel. I thank you for the forgiveness of sins and pray that you will use this woman for all to see how day by day you have seasoned our lives with grace, that good should come out of bad and light out of darkness because of your power, your faithfulness, and your loving-kindness. In Jesus's name, amen.”

“Amen,” Grace said after him, hoping that a prayer was really all she was going to need to get through this.

Junell paced back and forth, biting the tips of her manicured nails.

“Stop walking back and forth, before you wear a hole in my floor,” Grace commanded from beneath the cream microfiber blanket she was using to swaddle herself between sips of kombucha.

“I don't know how you can just sit there,” Junell said, slapping her thigh.

Sitting and waiting was all Grace had done for the past month. She sat and waited for the right time to leave her building. Frankly, she was tired of ducking and dodging the paparazzi. She was over creeping into the building through the service entrance and entering the church through the basement, but it was either that or face the reporters and photogs, who had not stopped hounding her since she'd sat down with Diane Khan and put it all out there.

“Nothing else occupies my mind except clearing your tarnished name,” Junell continued. “I can't believe that doing the right thing actually got you into more mess than when you do wrong. Grace, we have to do something.”

“If my own father doesn't believe me, how am I going to change the minds of the American people?”

Grace locked eyes with Junell, and her chest swelled with fear when she saw that one raised eyebrow. She had read Junell's mind and already knew what Junell was twisting her red lips up to say.

Flinging back the blanket, Grace jumped up and stood toe-to-toe with Junell.

“I will not do it. It's out of the question.”

“Grace . . .” Junell had turned on her “Come, let's be reasonable” tone of voice.

“No,” Grace replied adamantly, with her hands folded across her chest.

Junell cuffed Grace's wrists. “Stop thinking about yourself. What about his other victims?”

Twisting her arms until she was free from Junell's grip, Grace shouted, “I'm no martyr! Please allow me to keep what little dignity I have left.” Grace stomped her way back to her spot on the couch.

“You should think about it. Or at least pray on it, now that you're a praying woman.”

Grace rolled her eyes and folded her hands across her chest. “You know, I'm in no mood for nonsense,” she said as her doorbell rang. “Junie, did you let anyone up?”

Junell shook her head. “Maybe it's Horace. That's the only person I could see Arnie letting up here. But you stay there. I'll deal with whoever it is.”

Grace moved her legs back and forth while she waited for the sparks to come flying. She felt sorry for the schmuck who thought he'd outsmarted the doorman. Arnie looked like a rottweiler but had the personality of a bulldog, while Junell, on the other hand, had proven that when it came to Grace, she was a Doberman pinscher ready to attack.

After a few nail-biting minutes on the couch, Grace couldn't take the wait; she needed to know who was at her door. She hustled to the door, snatched the knob from Junell, and opened the door wider to get a good look at the person standing there.

She was a rail-thin girl the color of eggshells, with high cheekbones coated in a dewy orange blush. Her septum was pierced, and one side of her hair had been shaved off.

“You're a little too edgy to be a reporter, you're not a member of my church, and you don't have a camera, so you're not a paparazzo. Who are you, and what do you want?” Grace said.

The girl looked down. “Grace . . . I mean . . . Ms. King, I . . . I . . .”

Snapping her fingers, Grace said, “Let's go, girl. I haven't even said my prayers yet.”

“Chill,” Junell said over her shoulder to Grace. “You're going to want to hear what this girl has to say.”

“Javier Roberts raped me too,” the girl blurted. “He took pictures of it and said that he would send them to the press if I told anyone.” She pulled a manila envelope out of her messenger bag. Her hands shook as she handed it to Grace. “I was scared and didn't know what to do. I don't want this to continue. Ms. King, how do I make it stop?” she asked, her face now covered in tears, her whole body trembling.

Junell wrapped her arm around the unnamed girl and ushered her inside, while Grace remained at the door.

Grace was frozen in time. He'd done this to another girl, and now she was looking to Grace for leadership. “I can't help nobody. I can't even help myself,” she mumbled.

“Now, this time I know it is you, Lord, speaking to me. I am not built for this,” she whispered to God.

Grace ran her fingers through her short hair, massaging her scalp, until the feeling returned to her legs. With her feelings collected and in order, Grace joined Junell and Javier's most recent victim in the living room.

“What's your name?” she asked the girl after inviting her to take a seat on the couch.

“Carol Jasper, better known as the Egyptian Silk girl,” she said, bowing her head, folding her hands in the center of her chest, then raising her cat eyes a few inches to meet Grace's.

“I knew I recognized you from somewhere, but I couldn't place it when Grace opened the door,” Junell said, jumping up and clapping. “You know, I bought that shampoo just because of how shiny your hair looks on the bottle,” she added and then turned to Grace. “Now what?”

“Let's see what Carol wants.” Grace turned to Carol and kneeled down in front of her. “Carol, I know what you're feeling right now—disgust, shame, embarrassment, horror, depression, fear, and loneliness all at once. I was just seventeen years old when Javier got ahold of me. How old are you?”

“Seventeen. I was fifteen when I started working with Javier.” Carol lowered her head, and a few droplets of tears fell on the manila envelope in Grace's hand. She brushed them away.

“I don't have to open this envelope to know what's in here,” Grace said, squeezing Carol's hand. “Javier sent me a package just like that ten years ago. The question that we both have to answer today is, what do we want to do about it?”

Carol turned her arms over and rolled up the sleeves of her chambray top, revealing the insides of her forearms. They looked like a prisoner had been using them to count the days of a two-year bid.

“I haven't taken a job in ten months.” Carol began to cry again, sucking up the mucus that was dripping out of her nose. She continued. “I've been cutting myself, and I don't want to hide anymore.”