When Grace Sings (44 page)

The man was certainly considerate. Was he as generous with all the people who hired his help? Seeing him through Danny’s eyes, she wished she could feel more comfortable around him.

Danny trotted out to the truck and carried back fuzzy rollers on bent handles which he attached to long poles. He made her shake the can of primer until she thought her arms would fall off, and then he poured paint into low metal trays with slanting bottoms. With great patience he explained how to dip the roller in the puddle of paint and glide it over the slope to remove the excess before applying the paint-drenched roller to the wall. “If we drip, we’ll want to wipe it up real quick so it doesn’t ruin your nice wood floors. Dad didn’t have paint cloths in the truck.” He frowned at her. “Will you be careful?”

She feigned great seriousness although laughter threatened. “I will. I promise.”

“All right, then. Watch me for a minute, then you try.”

She stood aside, linked her hands behind her back, and watched.

He held his tongue in the corner of his mouth, his brow puckering in concentration. With smooth, even sweeps he painted an up-and-down path on the wall. Then he looked at her and smiled. “See? It’s not hard at all. Go ahead—you can do it.”

Releasing a nervous giggle, she picked up the second pole and imitated his movements. When she managed to cover a small patch of wall with cream-colored primer without dripping on the floor or her clothes, Danny let out a whoop.

“Woohoo, Anna—Grace! You’re doin’ great!”

His compliment warmed her to the center of her soul. She turned to give him a smile and caught a glimpse of the boy’s father peeking around the corner at them. The expression on his face—a mix of deep pain and intense longing—melted her pleasure in one heartbeat. His gaze locked with hers. For long seconds they stared at each other while Danny whistled and went on painting, oblivious. Red mottled the man’s cheeks, and he finally ducked out of sight.

A prickle of unease traveled across Anna—Grace’s scalp. If every person in Arborville made her as comfortable as Danny did, she’d choose this town as her home without a moment’s pause. But how could she stay in this town when Paul Aldrich lived here, too?

Briley

By noon Briley had everything packed and stacked beside the door of the cottage for transport to his car. He checked his wallet to make sure his corporate credit card was in its slot, and then he headed across the yard to the back door. Clete’s tractor—one that looked like it should have been retired twenty years ago—was parked under the elm tree at the edge of the stubbly field. Briley’s steps slowed and then stopped.

Even though he’d walked this pathway countless times over the past weeks, the difference between Arborville and the city that had always been his home still startled him. He let his gaze drift over the dark, stubble-dotted soil stretching toward the horizon to the windbreak of scrubby trees in the north and finally settle on the tractor. Sunshine through empty tree limbs formed slashes of darkest russet across the implement’s red-painted body. The scene before him seemed surreal, almost like a painting.

Although he’d been here long enough to know it was true, a disbelieving question still formed in his mind:
Do people really live like this?
He automatically reached for his camera to capture the image, but he’d already packed it. He allowed himself a few more minutes of absorption before forcing his feet to carry him to the house.

The porch door hinges squeaked, just like the one on the back door at Aunt Myrt’s place. Had he ever remembered to oil them, the way she’d asked
each time one of the kids slammed in or out? He didn’t think so. Back then he hadn’t cared much about pleasing anybody but himself. He gave a start. He hadn’t changed much. Shaking his head to dispel the thought, he entered the kitchen.

Apparently Alexa had prepared a simple lunch today, because sandwich fixings—a few slices of bread wrapped in plastic, a package of slivered ham, and an open mayonnaise jar with a knife sticking out of it—and a rumpled potato chip bag were still sitting on the counter. A smile tickled his cheek as he remembered their teasing exchanges via his lunch box. He’d had fun. He’d miss it.

Voices carried from the dining room, and he remembered why he’d come in.
Pay your bill and move on, Forrester
. He headed through the little passageway, and as he entered the dining room, laughter erupted around the table. An unexpected wave of jealousy struck. He wanted to be part of their circle. But hadn’t he made his choice? When he got back to Chicago, the other reporters would be jealous of him for landing such a controversial story.
Pay your bill and move on
.

“Hey.” The laughter faded, and everyone turned to look at him. He aimed his attention at Alexa. “I need you to—”

“Briley, did you hear the news?” Mrs. Z flapped her hand toward Nicole, beaming as proudly as if her goose had just laid a golden egg. “Nicole won the contest in Missouri, and an agent wants to take her down!”

“Take me
on
, Mrs. Zimmerman,” Nicole corrected, and the group gathered around the table laughed again. All except Alexa, who pinned Briley with a sad, disappointed expression.

He’d seen that same look on Aunt Myrt’s face too many times. It pierced him as much now as it had back then. He shifted to clear her from his line of vision. “Yeah, I heard. She told me out in the yard.” She’d almost squeezed his head off with her hug.

“But I didn’t tell you everything.” Nicole turned backward in the chair and cupped her fingers over the top. She peered at him with wide, sparkling
eyes, resembling the cartoon drawing of Kilroy. “The agent who wants to sign me on? He lives in Nashville, and he works with some of the biggest recording studios in the business. He said he can get me on the radio and singing at rodeos and doing fund-raising concerts. He said he heard a rumor about a new talent-search program for television, kind of like
American Idol
, to discover the next big country-western star, and he said he’ll put my name in for the first season.” The girl bounced in the chair, her voice rising into a near squeal. “And if I win it or even make it to the finals, I could get a contract with a record company!”

“Wow.” Briley injected as much enthusiasm as he could into his voice. “That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

Nicole’s father smiled at his daughter. “Kathy and I always thought Nicole had talent, but most parents think their kids are special. Even when they aren’t. Hearing that agent go on and on about her natural ability and unique vocal tone, well …” The man gulped, his face staining with pink. “It makes a father proud. Makes me want to break out in song.”

Nicole giggled. “Please don’t, Daddy. I didn’t inherit my talent from you.”

More laughter spilled, but Briley didn’t join in. He found no humor in squelching the father’s desire to sing for joy for his child. Alexa’s teary statement about the Father God wanting to sing over him with rejoicing roared through his memory. A lump filled his throat. Without conscious thought he glanced in her direction and found her gazing at him. Something in her eyes—sadness, yes, but something more—held him captive. He finally recognized the emotion. Compassion.

She slowly stood, her gaze never wavering from his, and opened her mouth to speak. Instinctively he drew back, derisive voices from the past rising up in a chorus of criticism. “Briley, have you had lunch? I can make you a sandwich.”

His chest tightened, his lungs refusing to draw air. How could she reach out to him in kindness when he’d openly stated his intention to broadcast her mother’s sins? He knew why. She possessed a merciful heart. She offered mercy even though he didn’t deserve so much as a shred of it.

He found his voice. “I’m not hungry. I just came in to pay my bill. So I can check out.”

“Check out? Today?” The dismay in Mrs. Z’s face was a knife in his stomach. “But I thought you would go to service with us one more time before you left.”

Mr. and Mrs. Kirkley pushed away from the table, and Mrs. Kirkley gestured for Nicole to rise, too. The woman flashed a smiled at Briley. “Alexa has work to do, so we’ll get out of the way.”

Mrs. Z rolled her chair toward the family. “You don’t have to hurry off, either. Why don’t all of you—Briley, you, too—stay the night and go to service with us in the morning.”

Mrs. Kirkley shook her head. “Oh, we couldn’t impose. Nicole just wanted to stop by on the way home and share her good news since you were all so kind to her when we were here before.”

“Besides,” Nicole added, “we hafta get back. The agent said he’d be calling to set up some gigs, and I need to clear my calendar.”

“Mm-hm, your calendar.” Mr. Kirkley hooked his elbow around Nicole’s neck and tugged her close. “It’s so cluttered, it will be a challenge to find an open day for performances.”

The girl grinned sheepishly and shrugged out of her father’s hold. Still smiling, the trio headed for the door. Mrs. Z accompanied them, but Alexa held back. She moved to the fold-down desk tucked in the corner of the room.

“It’ll only take me a minute to total your bill. Do you want to pay it now, or do you want me to mail the newspaper an invoice?”

The civil, professional way she addressed him took him back to his first day, when she’d instructed him to call her Miss Zimmerman and calmly deflected his flirting. If he’d known then how he’d come to admire her, respect her, consider her a friend, he would have insisted on a different place to stay. But it was too late now. The damage was done.

He whipped out his wallet and slipped the credit card free. “Put it on here.”

She grimaced. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a credit card machine yet. I can only take cash or checks.”

He didn’t carry a checkbook—who did anymore?—but there was an ATM at the convenience store. He could draw cash off his card. He put it away. “All right. I’ll get you cash. How much?”

She bent over the desk, wrote some figures on a small preprinted invoice, then tore it from the booklet and handed it to him.

He glanced at the amount. Something didn’t look right. “Is this for a week or for my whole stay?”

“Your stay.”

Briley shook his head in disgust. He’d paid more for a three-day weekend at a four-star hotel. “Are you sure that’s enough?”

“It’s what your boss and I settled on.”

Len had obviously taken advantage of her youth and inexperience. He jammed the invoice in his pocket and silently vowed to double it. Maybe triple it. Len could afford it, and she deserved a decent payment for the story … and the grace she’d shown him.
And just how much is grace worth? The life of one Son
. Cringing against a stab of remorse, he turned toward the passageway. He’d get cash, pay her in full, then take himself back to Chicago, where he could write his story and then forget about the people he’d met in Arborville.

Steven

Steven pulled into the convenience store parking lot and parked alongside the brick building, next to a fire-engine-red sports car. He hopped out and glanced at the familiar vehicle as he strode up the sidewalk. Briley must be picking up lunch, too. He’d laughingly confessed to developing a taste for the double-pepperoni pizza baked in the store’s oven.

The smell of pizza and fried chicken wafting on the breeze enticed Steven
to hurry his pace. He hoped there’d be a couple of whole pies ready to go so he wouldn’t have to stand around and wait. He, Paul, Danny, and Anna—Grace were all hungry after their busy morning.

Inside, other customers crowded up to the pizza counter, and Steven stifled a groan. Obviously he’d be here for a while. He grabbed a Styrofoam cup and filled it with cola. He might as well sip while he waited his turn at the counter. As he secured a lid on the cup, Briley stepped up beside him.

“Steven, hi. I’m glad I ran into you.”

He didn’t sound glad, and he didn’t look it, either. In fact, he seemed haggard. Steven frowned. “Are you okay?”

“What?” Briley’s brows descended briefly, and then he laughed. One short blast of mirthless sound. “Sure. Sure, I’m fine. Just have a lot on my mind. But like I said, I’m glad I spotted you so I can tell you good-bye.”