Grace stood at her kitchen window Tuesday morning, wondering why she hadn’t heard from Jeff Newman. It had started snowing during the night and was still falling lightly and getting foggy. His plane was probably late.
Why was she so nervous? It wasn’t like she had to convince him to take her on as a client. She was already well established with the agency, and Newman had said the switch was simply a client overload for her agent. But was he experienced? He’d sounded a lot younger than Fowler.
Regardless, he wasn’t going to be happy when she told him the otolaryngologist had strongly recommended a monthlong rest of her voice and treatments by a speech therapist to restrengthen her vocal chords. Besides the viral infection that had inflamed her throat, he’d said overuse, vocal fatigue, and stress were responsible for her loss of voice. The specialist had been very thorough, not only doing a medical workup and vocal history, but performing several tests, including an endoscopy—she hadn’t been able to eat or drink anything for ten hours prior to her appointment—and something called a “nasal fiber-optic laryngoscopy,” both of which required enough twilight anesthesia that they’d advised her not to drive, so she’d taken a taxi both ways.
So much for Monday.
Well, it was what it was. At least she had good medical reasons for a sabbatical. Maybe she’d be ready to resume doing concerts again after a few weeks of rest. And surely Bongo Booking had run into these types of problems before with other clients, since—according to the specialist—voice disorders were as common among singers as tennis elbow and knee injuries were to athletes.
Bongo Booking …
Grace couldn’t help a small grin as she turned from the window and headed into the living room to get an update on the weather. Strange name for an agency that specialized in booking contemporary Christian music artists. Go figure. But at least “Bongo” got attention and a place near the front of the alphabet in listings.
The TV screen leaped to life as she pressed the remote. Oprah. Was she still on? She’d heard rumors the diva was moving her show to LA. Well, whatever the hot topic was, the show would be over soon. It was almost ten. According to the flight schedule Newman had e-mailed her, he was supposed to land at O’Hare around nine thirty, pick up a rental car, and drive to her house. He’d suggested meeting here so she wouldn’t have to go out. Thoughtful of him. His last e-mail said the agency had lined up the rental car and a couple of other business appointments for him as long as he was in Chicago … Wait. What’s this?
A weather warning was running across the bottom of the screen. Heavy snow accumulation possible by evening rush hour. Ugh. Now she was doubly glad she didn’t have to drive anywhere.
But waiting was hard. She’d cleaned the house … had the makings for a simple Thai salad and pita bread lunch … answered a few e-mails … and changed outfits twice. Should she go homey, with jeans and bulky sweater? Business casual pantsuit? Long winter skirt and tall boots? Her phone finally rang at 10:25. It took her a moment to recognize it. She’d reset the ringtone to a simple pleasant guitar strum—for now, anyway. The caller ID said Jeff Newman.
“Grace! So sorry to keep you waiting. Air traffic was backed up because of weather and my plane just landed.”
“That’s okay. I figured as much. Glad you made it down safely.”
“Oh, yeah. God’s got us covered, right? Anyway, no checked baggage so I’m on my way to pick up the rental car. I’ve got GPS on my phone, so I should be able to find you. Let’s see … it’s going to be eleven thirty at the earliest. Still okay for you?”
“Fine.” Not like she was going anywhere. “See you then.”
It was noon before the doorbell rang. She’d changed again, deciding on business casual: black slacks over ankle boots, feminine white blouse, belted corduroy cranberry jacket, and her makeup had a soft-rosy glow. After a week of slopping around in slippers, hair in a ponytail or clip, and no makeup, it felt good to spruce up a bit.
Grace took a deep breath and opened the door. A gust of wind blew a swirl of snow inside. A man stood on her stoop, hatless, his shoulders hunched inside a leather jacket with the collar up, a leather messenger bag hanging from one shoulder. Snowflakes had already layered on his dark hair, but a red scarf was wrapped around his face and ears. “Grace Meredith,” said a muffled voice.
She pulled the door open wider, remembering to keep an eye out for her four-legged escape artist. “And you must be Jeff Newman.”
The man stepped in and she shut the door as he stamped snow off his shoes on the wide mat just inside. Unwinding the scarf, he shook his head and ran a hand over dark curly hair to rid it of the wet snowflakes. “Whew. Thanks. It’s getting nasty out there. Again, apologies for being late. But the traffic!”
“I’m sure. May I take your coat?”
He shrugged off the leather jacket and handed it to her along with the scarf and a chuckle. “Not really dressed for this. I was thinking Nashville weather.”
As Grace hung his jacket in the coat closet, she heard him say, “Great little house. I’ve always loved these Chicago bungalows.”
She turned. Jeff Newman stood in the middle of the living room, slightly taller than average height, wearing charcoal slacks and a pale blue dress shirt, open-necked at the collar, no tie. His eyes were dark brown, framed by dark lashes and eyebrows. A dark shadow of a beard—deliberate?—outlined his jaw.
Grace was momentarily flustered. Hadn’t expected him to be so darn good-looking. “Uh … please sit. Would you like coffee? Or … it’s already noon. Are you hungry? I’ve got lunch.” She felt like she was babbling, her voice scratchy.
He grinned, swung the messenger bag off his shoulder, and sat down on the couch, arms spread along the back. “Coffee’s good for now. Black is fine.”
Black is fine. Well, one thing they had in common.
While she set up a tray in the kitchen, she heard, “Hey there, buddy. What’s your name?” A chuckle. “Got some attitude there.”
She hurried back in with the tray. Oreo was up on the couch, giving this strange new person the once-over. “Oreo … scat! Sorry about the cat. I’ll put him away.”
Jeff reached out and let the cat sniff his hand. “Hey, no problem. I like cats. What’d you call him? Oreo? Cute name for a tuxedo cat.”
“He’ll get cat hair all over you. C’mon, you.” She picked up the cat, deposited him in the guest bedroom, and shut the door. Good. He likes cats.
Her guest seemed in no hurry to talk business. He asked how long she’d been in Chicago … did she have family in the area? … where had she grown up? … what did she enjoy doing when she wasn’t touring? … horseback riding—really? He’d never have guessed! …
Jeff seemed so laid-back and friendly, Grace found herself slipping off her ankle boots and curling up on the overstuffed chair, coffee cup in hand. But he suddenly looked stricken. “Here I am, asking all these questions and making you talk, when you’re trying to get over a case of laryngitis! Turnabout’s fair play. Your turn to ask questions. As I understand it, Bongo is not only doing your booking, but helping with career management. So you deserve to know who’s taking on your career if I’m going to be your agent.”
This wasn’t what Grace had expected at all. Nothing like her previous conversations with Walter Fowler, which had been cordial, but all business. “Um, tell you what, why don’t we take a break and have lunch. I’m sure you’re hungry by now.” Picking up the coffee tray, she headed for the kitchen. “It won’t take long,” she called back over her shoulder.
But to her consternation, he was right behind her. “Let me help. I can set the table. Kitchen table okay?”
Well, okay. She’d been thinking about using the dining room table, but it was too big for two people. Pointing out where to get plates and silverware, Grace rummaged in the refrigerator for ingredients she’d already prepared for her Thai beef salad and tossed them together with the lime-cilantro vinaigrette. Salad divided between two plates, pita bread halves in the toaster, ice in the water glasses …
Jeff pulled out a chair for her. “That was quick. Looks fantastic too.” He laughed self-consciously as he sat down. “Usually we take our clients out for lunch. I’m afraid I’m imposing on your hospitality.” Before Grace had time to protest that his willingness to meet her at home was a gift, he raised one of those intriguing eyebrows. “May I do the honors and ask the blessing?”
Grace quickly ducked her head, more to hide the sudden flush in her cheeks than reverence. What was with this guy? In one hour he’d completely disarmed her, and now he was giving thanks for their lunch, sitting at the kitchen table like old friends.
“You eat,” he encouraged a moment later, picking up his own fork. “I’ll give you the fifty-cent version of Jeff Newman for now, and then we can talk business. I don’t want to monopolize your time. Let’s see …”
Grace toyed with her salad as she listened. He had grown up on the West Coast, was a preacher’s kid, played bass guitar in a garage band in high school, followed all the CCM bands and most of the pop bands too—a major source of tension with his strict parents, his father especially. “‘You call that music? Just noise, son, just noise!’” Jeff furrowed his eyebrows darkly and shook a finger as he mimicked his father. He’d graduated from university with a degree in business—but a secretive minor in music—and shocked his parents no end by marrying a college girl he’d only known six months …
Married … well, of course. But he had no ring on his finger.
“Unfortunately,” he shrugged, “she’d said yes to me on the rebound from another relationship, and wanted out of the marriage before we even celebrated our first anniversary.” He looked chagrined. “That’s when I decided to grow up and take things a bit slower. My parents and I have met somewhere in the middle, learning to listen to each other and respect our differences. That was five years ago. Finally realized I wasn’t performance material, but I could use my head for business in the music world. Got my master’s degree in business”—the left corner of his mouth tipped in a grin—“and Bongo hired me two years ago. I’ve loved getting a chance to personally relate to a lot of the CCM bands and singers. And … here I am.”
Grace absently tucked a strand of layered hair behind her ear. The men she knew weren’t usually that honest about their failures, their fits and starts. She hardly knew what to say. She pointed at his salad plate with her fork. “You better eat.”
They finished their meal with small talk, and then she cleared the plates. “I’ll make some more coffee. Half decaf okay?”
They took the fresh coffee back to the living room. The ticking schoolhouse clock said two o’clock already. Oreo was meowing and scratching at the guest room door so Grace let him out, and he settled down in her lap.
Jeff peered outside the picture window as he resumed his seat on the couch. “Hmm. Still snowing. I should probably leave in the next hour or so. I’ve got a four-thirty appointment downtown and an eight o’clock flight to Nashville. Better give myself some extra time.” He reached for his leather messenger bag and pulled out an official-looking red plastic folder. “And we’ve still got some business to discuss.” He opened the folder and studied it briefly. “The sweetheart banquet aside—which has been canceled because of your doctor’s certification—you are currently booked for four fly in, fly out concerts between now and the West Coast tour in late April and May. Let’s see … a megachurch in Norfolk, Virginia … another in Houston … and then two college venues—Greenville in downstate Illinois and Cincinnati Christian University.” He looked up. “But you had another doctor’s appointment yesterday …” Both eyebrows arched like a question.
Greenville … the little college with the big CCM program. Her alma mater. Grace realized the hand that held her coffee cup was shaking. She set the cup down on the coffee table, took a deep breath, and tried to keep her voice steady. The otolaryngologist was recommending at least a month of total voice rest—no singing, no concerts—with treatments by a voice therapist. She tried to explain the medical reasons as succinctly as possible.
“A month.” Jeff Newman frowned and glanced again at the red plastic folder. “That would mean canceling Norfolk and Houston.” His eyes lifted and looked at her soberly. “You’re sure? Those two are the biggest venues of the four. I’m sure the promoters will understand, considering the health concerns, but this could be a bump in your career, right at a time when your popularity is on the rise. These concerts have been on the books for a year.”
To her dismay, Grace’s eyes filled with tears and she had to grope in her jacket pocket for a tissue. She pressed the tissue to her eyes, hoping she wasn’t smudging her mascara, and then blew her nose.
“Hey. I’m sorry. That was thoughtless.” Jeff’s voice was contrite. “Of course you need to follow doctor’s orders! Yes, it’s a bump in the road, but these things happen. Family emergencies, illness, death in the family—life isn’t predictable. Just leave it to me.” She heard a soft chuckle. “My mother used to tell me I could sweet-talk my way out of anything. One of my hidden gifts as a music agent.”
They talked a while more. Jeff promised to keep in touch with her about his contacts with her bookings. Said how much he appreciated getting to meet her in person, getting to know her a little bit in her own “habitat.” He also assured her she still had the option of saying yea or nay to his reassignment as her agent.
But he finally rose. “I better get going. Since moving to Denver two years ago, I’ve gotten indoctrinated in the science of driving in snow. Can’t say it comes naturally, though.” He waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “Better say a prayer for me.”
Grace got his leather jacket and scarf and saw him to the door. Their good-bye was brief and cordial, and Jeff ducked down the steps, plowing his way through at least eight or ten inches of snow covering her once-shoveled walks.
Shutting the door and locking it, she went to the window and peered out. He must’ve parked down the block a way, because between falling snow and fog, she couldn’t see him. She breathed that prayer he’d asked for, then just stood there, watching the falling snow.
The meeting wasn’t what she’d expected, but she had to admit Newman seemed like a really nice guy. It’d certainly be a change from dealing with Fowler. More personable. She liked that. And it’d gone better than she’d expected. She’d been able to focus on the medical and physical reasons for taking a sabbatical and didn’t have to get into her nightmare with the TSA or her broken engagement as the critical reasons she really needed some time to recoup: to rethink what she was doing with her career, and to evaluate what was next for her sans Roger.
Roger. Strange that Jeff hadn’t said anything about her engagement. It was public knowledge, had even become part of her testimony. Surely Fowler had told his assistant.
But not a word. Odd.
Oreo was pacing on the back of the couch, meowing at her. “It’s not time for you to eat, silly cat,” she scolded, coming away from the window and heading for the kitchen. “But if you want to supervise the dishwashing, come on.”
Grace put on some hot water for tea—coffee didn’t have quite the same soothing effect on her throat as honey-lemon tea—and drew a sink full of hot sudsy water. Could’ve put the lunch dishes in the dishwasher, but she felt like doing the few dishes by hand. The hot soapy water was relaxing, made her feel domestic—after all, she had a whole month ahead of her to be home. Didn’t have to travel, didn’t have to put on her public persona. She could just be Grace. Wear her flannel shirt. Get some things done around the house she’d always wanted to do. She’d have time to think, time to pray.
Pray … Grace absently rinsed the last dish and put it in the drainer. Not sure she and God were on the best speaking terms right now. Was she mad at God for things falling apart in her life? Well, yeah. Or … maybe God was mad at her. Felt like it. Maybe God had a long memory and now it was pay-up time. That wasn’t what she’d been taught, of course. Confession resulted in forgiveness. She knew that. Believed it. Not that she’d actually ever confessed to anyone. But she’d confessed to God, one-on-one … surely that mattered.
She’d been having a hard time praying since she got home. Even though she definitely had some things she needed to decide in the next few weeks. Stuff that needed a lot of prayer. Canceling the next few bookings only gave her breathing room. What then? Go back on the concert circuit? Doing what? She needed a new program, a new—
Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
The doorbell cut into her thoughts. Oreo leaped off the kitchen stool and streaked toward the living room. Quickly drying her hands, Grace followed. She glanced at the wall clock. Three thirty. Kids would be coming home from school. Maybe it was the boy, Tavis, wanting to know if she wanted her walks shoveled. Well, yes, once the snow stopped.
Unlocking the door, she pulled it open, ready to tell him to come back tomorrow.
Jeff Newman stood on the stoop, shoulders hunched inside his leather jacket, the red scarf wrapped around his face and ears, snow layering on his curly hair.
“Uh, I’m stuck.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “And there must’ve been a fender bender at the end of the block, ’cause there are a bunch of cars every which way blocking the intersection. Can I, uh, come in?”