As she opened a can of cat food Saturday morning—Oreo heard the electric can opener and came running—Grace realized she was starting to feel better. Amazing what a few days of rest could do. She still didn’t have much voice, but the soreness was mostly gone, as well as the fever and headache. She’d taken Samantha’s advice and let phone calls go to voice mail the past few days, then she’d answered them with a text or e-mail. Except for Roger’s two calls. Those she just left in voice mail.
Her spirit was starting to relax. Jeff Newman had e-mailed on Thursday to confirm he’d gotten the doctor’s certification and canceled her appearance at the sweetheart banquet. The Living Hope folks were naturally disappointed, he said, but they understood and were concerned about her. But we should talk about your other upcoming concerts. I think there are four single events before the West Coast tour. What’s the doc say about your prognosis?
She had e-mailed back: Don’t know yet. I see a laryngologist on Monday. Ha—and spelled it right too. She didn’t add that the medical issue was only a small part of her problem right now. Each day that went by, it got harder to imagine going onstage with her usual program of songs and purity message. New Year, New You? More like, Same Old, Same Old. Besides, most of the single concerts were out of state, but no way was she going to get on a plane, not if it meant having to go through security again!
As Oreo greedily gulped his breakfast, Grace poured another cup of coffee—she was sick of lemon-and-honey tea—and idly turned on her laptop. Another e-mail from Jeff Newman? This one was dated Friday. Grace, I’m coming through Chicago on my way to Nashville next Tuesday. Any chance we could meet? I could arrange to spend the day in Chicago since my meetings in Nashville aren’t until Wednesday. Be glad to rent a car and meet you wherever. Just tell me what works for you.
Grace frowned. A face-to-face meeting with Jeff Newman? Why? Wasn’t this guy just filling in for Mr. Fowler? She typed: When is Walter Fowler getting back? and hit Reply. Not that she really wanted to talk to Fowler either. Her agent wasn’t going to be happy when he got wind that she’d canceled a concert. At least today was Saturday. Newman might not get her reply until Monday.
She scrolled through more of her e-mails … deleted the inspirational Forwards she was supposed to send to ten others within ten minutes to get a blessing and the plea from a total stranger “stranded in England” who needed money … but read the fan mail before moving them to a folder for Samantha to answer when she got back. She was just about to shut down her laptop when a new e-mail popped in. From Newman. Good grief. What was he doing working on the weekend?
Grace, I’m so sorry. I thought you’d gotten an official notice from Fowler. Walter won’t be back till the end of February, but he’s asking me to take over some of his client load permanently. Including you. He thought we’d be a good team. Which is why I’d like to meet you in person. Of course, you have the final say in who your agent is, but I’d be honored to take over your booking. What do you say? Can we meet Tuesday?
Irritation rose like bile in her mouth. No, she hadn’t gotten “an official notice” from her agent. What way was that to treat a client?! First her fiancé, now her agent—
Okay, okay, get a grip, Grace. She leaned her elbows on the kitchen table and pressed the tips of her fingers against her temples. It wasn’t like she and Fowler had ever really clicked. Maybe this would be a good change. But … meet up with Jeff Newman? She’d have to think about that.
Grace closed the lid of her laptop. Maybe she’d know better once she’d seen the specialist on Monday. Fact was, she was going a little stir crazy, stuck in the house for the past week. What she really wanted to do was go for a walk. If she bundled up, why not? Would do her good. They probably kept the walkways well shoveled through the cemetery that bordered their dead-end street. She could walk there.
At times like this, Grace wished she had a dog. Her brothers had had a yellow Lab—okay, a Lab mixed with something else—when she was a kid. Lovable mutt. But a dog definitely wouldn’t fit into her current lifestyle, not with all the travel she did. It was hard enough leaving Oreo so often, but at least it was easier to find care for a cat than for a dog.
Walking through St. Mark’s Memorial Cemetery felt good. The temperature hadn’t even made it above freezing, but there was no wind and the noonday sun was out. Bundled up in a down vest and a hooded parka with a wool scarf wrapped around her face, she’d walked over to Ridge Avenue to enter the main gate. Just as she’d figured, the narrow paved road that wound around the various burial areas had been plowed and provided a good surface to stretch her legs away from traffic and city sidewalks.
A sign on the gate said No Dogs Allowed. Couldn’t take a dog for a walk here even if she had one.
The peace and quiet of the cemetery, however, and the pristine beauty of the snow blanket covering the graves and topping the headstones made Grace smile. Gray-and-black chickadees flitted in and out of pine-tree branches, and in spring the bare maples and elms would come alive with fluttering leaves. She ought to walk here more often—an oasis of nature in the middle of the big city. And she definitely could use the exercise!
But she shouldn’t stay out too long. Still fighting that virus. Turning back, Grace walked around the bottom of the cemetery till she got to Beecham. Her house was almost at the end of the dead-end street, two houses away from the “McMansion” that had been built last year facing the cul-de-sac at the far end, backed up against the cemetery. It was a pretty house, stone exterior with lots of beveled windows, but totally out of character—and size—for the rest of the neighborhood. And as far as she could tell—though admittedly she wasn’t around much to know for sure—seemed like only one guy lived there. Why did a guy without a family need such a big house? Probably partied a lot. That would explain the extra cars that filled the cul-de-sac on weekends.
As Grace approached her brick bungalow, a small gray SUV pulled up and a black woman she recognized as her next-door neighbor got out, opened the back, and started to unload plastic bags. “Tavis! Tabitha!” she yelled. “Get out here and help with these groceries!”
The front door opened and a boy about twelve or thirteen hustled down the steps.
“Where’s Tabitha?” The mother handed two bags to the boy, clad in a sweatshirt, unzipped, hood down. “And where’s your gloves and your hat?”
“I’m goin’ right back in,” he protested and hustled inside with the bags.
Grace cleared her throat as she walked toward the SUV. “Hello!” Good grief, she could barely hear herself. Grace got closer and tried again. “Hello?”
The woman looked up. “Uh, hello.”
“I’m Grace Meredith.” Grace pointed at her house. “I live next door.” Her voice was still raspy, but better than she expected.
“Oh!” The woman gave a laugh. “Didn’t recognize you all bundled up like that. Haven’t seen you around lately. You been gone?” Without waiting for an answer, the woman again called toward the house. “Tavis! Tabitha! Get your sorry selves back out here!” She turned back to Grace. “Like pullin’ teeth gettin’ those kids to stick with somethin’ longer than ten seconds.”
“Yes … yes, I was away most of January. As you can tell from my unshoveled sidewalk. But that’s what I wanted to—”
“Tavis! Tabitha! Don’t make me come in there!” the mother yelled again. This time the boy appeared with a girl who looked to be about the same age. Grace stepped aside as the two young teens grabbed several bags each and hustled up the walk into the house.
The woman slammed the back of the SUV. “I’m sorry … you were saying? Oh, by the way, I’m Michelle Jasper.” She held out a mittened hand.
Grace pulled her own gloved hand out of her parka pocket and shook the offered mitten. She was starting to shiver. “As you can see, I didn’t get the sidewalk in front of my house shoveled while I was gone, and I’ve been sick this week. So I was wondering—”
“Uh-huh. Sounds like you still oughta be in the bed.” The woman picked up the last two bags of groceries from where she’d set them on the snow.
“I know … But I was wondering if one of your kids wanted to earn some money shoveling my walk. I’m way overdue getting it done.”
Michelle Jasper paused and looked at her a moment. “Well, guess I could ask. Do you want Tavis—he’s thirteen—or my older boy, Destin?”
“Uh, either one would be fine. Thanks.” Grace smiled. “Well, guess I’ll go back in. Tell them I’ll pay twenty dollars.”
The woman scoffed. “Good heavens! Don’t do that! Make it ten at the most or they’ll be spoiled, wanting more when other folks need a favor.”
“Oh. Well, I had no idea what to pay. I just know it won’t be easy. Some of it’s packed down from people walking on it. But I have some rock salt for the icy patches.”
“Fine. I’ll send somebody over. Probably Tavis. Destin will probably say he doesn’t have time. Basketball and all that, you know. Junior year. That boy keeps busier than both his father an’ me put together!” The woman nodded at Grace and headed up her own walk. “Well, better get inside …”
Yeah, me too.
But as Grace turned back toward her house, something caught her eye across the street. A For Sale sign in front of the old lady’s two-flat. How long had that been there? And what did the bright yellow strip on top of the sign say? She wandered past her bungalow until she was directly across the street from the two-flat … Foreclosure. Oh, now, that was really too bad.
She was really shivering now. Once inside, Grace peeled off her layers, pulled off her boots, and turned on the teakettle, blowing on her numb fingers as it heated. The walk had felt good, but maybe wasn’t the wisest thing. She hadn’t felt really cold until she stood still to talk to the woman next door … Michelle. Michelle Jasper. And the kids were Tavis and Tabitha. Could be twins. And the older one … Dustin? Something like that.
The doorbell ding-donged. That was quick. She hoped the boy had brought his own shovel. If he didn’t, she’d have to go out to the garage.
Oreo had run to the front door at the bell, curious as always. “Scoot,” she said, moving the cat out of the way with her foot so she could open the front door.
But it wasn’t Tavis.
A tall man stood on her stoop, shoulders hunched against the cold inside a long gray topcoat, red wool scarf tucked into the neck, wraparound sunglasses, no hat.
Roger.
“Hello, Grace.”
Grace stared. Swallowed. “What are you doing here?”
Just then a black-and-white fur-ball darted out the door, around the man’s shoes, and down the steps.
“Oreo! Catch the cat! He’ll freeze out there!”