Grace stood in the middle of her bedroom clutching the cell phone in one hand and the towel in the other. She didn’t want to talk to Roger.
But what if he was sorry? Didn’t mean what he’d said. Wanted to make up.
“I’ve got laryngitis.” It was the only thing she could think of to say in the moment.
“I can hear that. I … was just calling to see if you made it home all right from Memphis. And, well, it’s been a few days. I thought we should talk some more about, you know, ending the engagement. But if your voice isn’t—”
“No, I didn’t.”
A silent blip hung between them. She could just see the sudden frown on his handsome face—square jaw, strong chin, gray-blue eyes, dark-blond hair he wore in an Ivy League style, short on the sides, a bit longer and slightly spiked on top. Probably dressed in gray slacks, white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, a silk necktie loosened at the collar—proper, conservative, just a tad casual. No doubt calling between meetings at the financial consulting firm in downtown Chicago where he was climbing the corporate ladder. The firm didn’t take coffee breaks.
Roger finally spoke. “Uh, you didn’t … what?”
“Didn’t make it home all right.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You asked if I made it home all right from Memphis.”
“Oh.” Another silent blip. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“I can’t … can’t t-talk about it right now.” She was shivering now, still wet from the shower and only partially covered by the wrapped towel. “My furnace went out. House is c-c-cold. I was in the shower. This isn’t a g-g-good time.”
“Okay. Sure. Maybe we—”
She clicked Off and threw the phone on the bed. Why did she do that? She’d whined like a four-year-old. But it made her mad that he assumed everything was hunky-dory just because she’d answered the phone. And then he’d gone straight to wanting to talk more about ending the engagement.
Probably wanted his ring back.
She’d make him beg first.
Grace got back in the hot shower until her teeth stopped chattering, finally dried off, blow-dried her long hair, dressed in a pair of slim jeans and a clean turtleneck—and on impulse dug out the old flannel shirt she used to wear horseback riding back when she was a horse-crazy teenager. She’d taken a gazillion lessons at a riding stable just outside Indianapolis where she’d grown up and fantasized about owning her own horse one day. The horse never materialized, but the flannel shirt had survived high school, university, the move to Nashville, then back to Chicago, concerts and tours, and numerous wardrobe upgrades, even though it mostly hung in the closet. One flannel tie to the girl she used to be …
She felt rattled by Roger’s phone call. Part of her had longed to hear from him, hoping he’d apologize for the late-night phone call last weekend, surprise her by meeting her at the airport, kiss and make up. After all, his main complaint was how often she was on the road. But … why now? It was the end of her New Year, New You tour and she didn’t have another long tour until April. Just a few fly in, fly out dates, be gone three days max.
The other part of her wanted to scream and slap his face. How could he dump her the night before her last concert, making a fool out of her “I’m worth waiting for” testimony? Couldn’t he at least have waited till she got home, told her face-to-face?
The coward.
Argh! She needed to do something physical, let off some steam. She couldn’t go for a walk. It was still snowing. Besides, her sore throat might be a virus. Better stay inside. She’d vacuum. The house needed a good cleaning.
Striding into the second bedroom where she stashed the vacuum cleaner, she slid open the closet doors—and froze.
Her wedding dress hung in the closet, encased in a zippered plastic bag, white, full, and delicate. She stared at it for a full minute, and then slowly lifted the padded hanger off the bar. It was her dream dress, the dress she’d gone shopping for a week after Roger had slipped the diamond-and-ruby ring on her finger, even though they hadn’t set a wedding date yet. Hanging it on the hook on the back of the bedroom door, she slowly zipped open the protective bag and slid the brocade dress off its hanger.
The silver threads woven into the fabric shimmered in the natural light coming from the snowy world outside.
Holding the dress up to her body, Grace looked in the mirrored sliding doors of the closet. The first time she’d put on the dress, she’d felt like Cinderella in her magic ball gown. The dress had a curved sweetheart neckline, plunging just enough to look feminine and luscious, but not so low it wouldn’t be appropriate for a church wedding … short, capped sleeves with lace trim … and an empire waistline outlined with a white silk ribbon, below which the dress fell in soft folds in front and gathered in back into a train that would trail several feet.
Grace stared at the reflection in the mirror.
More like Cinderella than she’d figured. The clock had struck midnight and the magic was gone. Poof.
With swift determination, she hung the dress back on its padded hanger, zipped up the plastic bag, and stuffed the dress back into the closet. Yanking out the vacuum cleaner, she jerked it into the carpeted hallway, plugged the cord into a socket, and when the power head roared to life, pushed it vigorously back and forth.
Why am I still in this tiny house? Two bedrooms. One bath. She’d bought it two years ago with some help from her parents when she’d decided to move back to the Midwest after ending her run with the record label in Nashville. A classic brick bungalow in a decent urban neighborhood. Quiet. On a dead-end street bounded by St. Mark’s Memorial Cemetery. Closer to family.
At the time, it seemed a good investment, a good first home—modest, gave her time to take her career in a new direction with the independent tours and her purity message. CD sales had been better than expected, maybe enough to afford a newer house in one of the suburbs. But, she’d figured, why move when she was going to get married? She and Roger would choose a house together …
Grace pulled the vacuum into her bedroom. She still hadn’t unpacked. The damp bath towel lay on the floor. She threw everything onto the unmade bed and tackled the rug.
Roger had certainly seemed like “The One” when she first met him two years ago at County Line Christian Fellowship, a large suburban church straddling the line between Cook and Dupage Counties. He had All-American college-football good looks, was a leader of the singles group and one of County Line’s many up-and-coming professionals. She’d participated in many of the church’s musical presentations, and he’d seemed mesmerized by her soprano voice, even pleased as her career picked up. Everyone said what a great couple they made, so well suited. No one was surprised when they’d announced their engagement last year.
Should I have seen it coming? Roger usually called me every night when I was on tour … but on this last tour, the calls have been more irregular …
Pulling the vacuum cleaner out of the bedroom and down the hall into the living room, she plugged it into another socket and set to work again.
… and now that I think about it, when we did talk, he seemed kind of distant when I tried to tell him about that night’s concert, as if he was bored, or distracted. Something …
As she stooped to pick up the mail on the floor by the front door, the framed photo on the lamp table beside the couch caught her eye. A picture of her and Roger, cheek to cheek, smiling happily at their engagement party. Turning off the machine, she picked up the photo and stared at it wistfully for a long moment. Surely it couldn’t be over. They had so much going for them! Both were mature adults with solid careers, a shared faith, mutual attraction. They were equally active in ministry, though in different spheres. She’d considered herself blessed to be engaged to one of County Line’s most eligible single guys—something she didn’t take for granted at the age of twenty-nine.
Who’d just dumped her.
Pressing her lips into a thin line, she stuck the photo out of sight in the walnut drop-front secretary desk, along with all the letters, junk mail, bank statements, and magazines her brother had picked up each time he’d come by to check on the house. She could’ve asked the post office to hold her mail, but with a mail slot, no one could see the mail piling up inside and she didn’t have to go get it when she got home. The bank paid most of her regular bills automatically. Still. She should go through the mail soon to check her statements and make sure everything was up to date … and read her fan mail—the mail that Samantha usually answered so artfully. Precious letters. Letters that encouraged her and kept her going.
Well … tomorrow. She’d take care of the mail tomorrow.
Grace resumed vacuuming, but for some reason the glut of mail lured her. Maybe just one letter, something reassuring. Turning the vacuum cleaner off and dropping the wand, she opened the secretary and picked out a letter, one with the familiar Forward from the box she rented at Mail Boxes Etc. just for fan mail. Slitting the envelope with a letter opener from the walnut desk, she curled up on the velvety sectional couch and pulled out a sheet of thin-ruled notebook paper. Immediately Oreo appeared and hopped into her lap as she started reading …
Dear Miss Grace,
I love your CD! I was so excited when you came to Florida this month. My parents got tickets for me and a girlfriend for my birthday, which is January 5. It was my Sweet 16. They didn’t know it, but it was God who told them to get those tickets. Because you see, my boyfriend has been asking me to have sex with him. Big time. Told me if I really loved him, I’d prove it by having sex. Well, I do love him. He is so cute! Like, he plays basketball and is really popular, and might even play for the NBA someday. He buys me all kinds of gifts, like a watch and the cutest stuffed tiger and for my birthday got me some really cool perfume. All the girls are jealous of me, and I don’t want to lose him. So I’ve been thinking about the sex.
But when you talked about how you decided to wait till marriage to have sex, because “I’m worth it”—it really made me think. How if a boy really loves you, he won’t want to put you at risk for getting pregnant or getting a disease or needing an abortion, stuff like that.
Grace flinched. She forced her eyes back to the letter.
Like, that’s so true! One of my girlfriends got pregnant and had a baby, and she can’t do fun stuff anymore or anything. And her boyfriend didn’t hang around after that either. So when you told us you’re engaged to a wonderful man who respects you, and it was “worth the wait”—well, I just want you to know I want to be like you! I’m going to—
With sudden fury, Grace balled up the letter and threw it across the room. Startled, Oreo jumped off her lap and crawled under the couch. Snatching a throw pillow, Grace sent it flying after the crumpled-up letter. Then she grabbed another one and hugged it tight against her chest as sobs shook her body and pent-up tears came fast and furious.
“O God, O God,” she wailed, “I don’t understand why all this is happening!” Roger’s devastating phone call … Samantha’s mother having a heart attack … the horrible TSA people violating her … her throat on fire … her career up for grabs …
Was God punishing her? She’d thought she’d earned his blessing with her passionate message about purity! Look at that letter! She took being a role model seriously. So why—
Rocking back and forth, crying, her throat raw, Grace almost missed the familiar ringtone of her cell phone. But pulling it out of her jeans pocket, she saw it was the doctor’s callback and hastily reached for some tissues to mop her face.
Five minutes later, she wrote on her Day-Timer page for Wednesday, 2:00 Dr. Stacey, then looked around and called out hoarsely, “Oreo? Kitty, kitty … you can come out now.”