Grace sat cross-legged on the couch, staring at nothing in particular while Oreo kneaded his paws on her lap and purred up a storm, as if saying, “Finally! Some attention!” But if Oreo was getting any attention, it was by default. Grace’s mind was elsewhere.
Good thing Jeff Newman was gone. Having a houseguest made her talk too much, and the doctor said she was supposed to avoid all “nonessential talking”—a directive she’d basically ignored while he was here. What else did the doc say? … Oh yeah, drink lots of liquids and use a vaporizer at night—which she’d also forgotten after their late-evening battle-of-the-Scrabble-board.
And another thing. She was glad he’d left because … she felt confused. Why did she have such a reaction to him saying he was going skiing with a date this weekend? He was just her agent, for pity’s sake! The guy was single, good-looking, personable—so of course he’d be dating. It was no business of hers.
Except that she’d enjoyed being with him. A lot. Enjoyed being in the company of a guy who seemed to like and respect her, which was no small thing in light of her recent experiences.
“Grow up, Grace!” she muttered aloud. “You’re acting like a fickle teenager.” She knew as well as anybody that when a girl gets rejected, it’s tempting to fall for the first guy who gives her a second glance, trying to prove she’s still desirable. She’d counseled a teen or two on that very subject. The break with Roger was barely a week old. Deep down she hadn’t given up hope that they might find a way back to each other.
Maybe it was a bad idea for Newman to be her agent—except she’d already told him last night the switch was fine with her, and she was looking forward to working with him. To change her mind now would raise awkward questions—like why. So she was stuck with Jeff Newman. It was unlikely she’d see him again anytime soon, and even more unlikely he’d ever get stranded at her house again in a snowstorm. Soon, their unusual, yet entirely enjoyable, experience would sort itself out into a proper businesslike arrangement—
Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong!
The front doorbell rang urgently. For two panicky seconds, Grace’s heart felt as if it stopped altogether. She hadn’t actually gone out to check if his rental car was gone, but Jeff had left at least an hour ago. Surely he wasn’t back again.
Dumping Oreo off her lap, she tiptoed to the door and peeked through the security peephole. A young brown face surrounded by the fake fur of a parka hood bounced on the other side of the door.
Her heart quit racing.
She unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Hey there, Tavis,” came out in a croak. Ugh. She definitely needed to rest her voice. She was supposed to see the voice therapist tomorrow.
“Hi, Miz Meredith. You want your walk shoveled?” The boy pointed to the shovel that Jeff had left leaning beside the front door. “Or is that guy who’s stayin’ with you gonna do it? He an’ my dad were shovelin’ over at the old lady’s house, but just thought I’d ask.”
Grace cringed. What if it got out that a man had stayed overnight at her house? Gossip like that sometimes went viral … her career would be toast! What if—
Calm down, Grace. Nip it in the bud. “Oh, no, he’s gone. My agent was here for a business meeting and got stranded by the storm. But the towing company got his car out and he’s on his way to Nashville.” Stop it, Grace. The kid didn’t need to know all that. She willed a smile. “So, yes, I definitely need my walk shoveled, if you’re up to it.”
The dark brown eyes glittered. “Well, gotta tell ya, I’m gonna have to charge more this time. That’s a lotta snow. Gonna take me a long time.”
“Hey, Tavis!” a girlish voice yelled. “You were s’posed to wait for me!” Another junior high–size figure waded through the deep snow toward her stoop.
Tavis rolled his eyes. “My sister—she wants to help shovel too.”
Now Grace’s smile was genuine. “That is a great idea. Except I only have one shovel. Do you have another one?”
Tavis’s twin popped up beside him on the stoop. “Hiya, Miz Meredith. My mom says she met you. I’m Tabitha.” A mittened hand shot out and Grace shook it, though she was starting to shiver standing in the open doorway with no coat.
“I’m happy to meet you, Tabitha. Tell you kids what—I’ll make it fifteen bucks each if you get the sidewalk out there and my front and back walks shoveled. If you can’t do it all—I know it’s a big job—I’ll adjust accordingly. Deal?”
The twins hooted and high-fived each other as she shut the door.
Yikes. Had she just offered to shell out thirty bucks to get her walks shoveled? What kind of precedent was that? But as she peeked out the window at the mounds of snow—two feet deep in some places because of the wind—she decided it was worth every penny.
The city trucks finally plowed Beecham Street Thursday morning, burying parked cars that hadn’t been shoveled out and moved. Grace was grateful she’d put her car in the garage before the storm—except that now she couldn’t get it out. City trucks didn’t plow alleys and some of the drifts were over two feet deep. What was she going to do? She had an appointment with the voice therapist that afternoon.
She called a taxi.
At least she’d been a good girl and had rested her voice the past twenty-four hours, along with drinking copious amounts of water and hot lemon-honey tea—no coffee—and running the vaporizer all night. Her voice strength was at least back to where it was when Jeff Newman showed up.
The voice therapist was a lot younger than the otolaryngologist, maybe just a few years older than herself, Grace decided. The woman had wavy light-brown hair worn shoulder-length and reading glasses perched on her nose. Looked like a librarian. She introduced herself as Dr. Erskine and seemed genuinely interested in Grace’s career history. What kind of music did she sing? How many tours did she do a year? Did Grace have a CD? She’d love to hear her sing …
“But not today!” the therapist laughed. “Today I want to do a few more tests. I’ve gone over your test results from Monday, and of course the first thing to take care of is that viral infection, which you say is doing much better. But I’d like to do a fiber-optic test today to assess your larynx function, as well as do a telescopic examination, which will feel awkward, but will help identify any lesions on the vocal folds—nodules, polyps, cysts, hematomas—that kind of thing.”
Grace swallowed. “You think there’s a problem like that?”
Dr. Erskine smiled. “Don’t worry. Most of what we do is to rule things out so we can treat you most effectively. Now, you might be more comfortable if you removed your earrings …”
By the time Grace got home, she felt exhausted. She’d had to make all kinds of sounds and even try to sing scales up and down her pitch range with the doctor’s scopes in her mouth. The good news was no lesions on the vocal folds, but, according to the therapist, she was suffering from acute vocal fatigue and abnormal muscle tension of the larynx, resulting in the ongoing dysphonia. “Hoarseness,” Erskine translated.
So now she had biweekly appointments for the next month, with exercises to strengthen her vocal chords, build better breath support, and … Grace wasn’t sure what all. “But even if you start to feel better,” the therapist had warned, “use this sabbatical to slow down, get extra rest, pay attention to your diet and exercise, do some reevaluation of the emotional stressors in your life—in short, take care of yourself. It’s all related, you know.”
It was almost as if the doctor knew about the emotional stress-ors in her life. But she couldn’t … no. Probably just her regular spiel to all her patients. Still, Grace knew it was good advice. But how to get all that extra rest and healthy diet and exercise and de-stress her life—that was something else altogether. For the past week she’d just been plodding her way through each day. Only the family Sunday dinner and Jeff Newman’s extended visit had broken up the monotony.
Grace tossed her coat on a chair and flopped down on the couch, which Oreo took for a personal invitation to jump into her lap. What in the world was she going to do with a whole month at home—in the dead of winter? She needed a plan … except she was too tired to make a plan. She’d figure that out tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep. Right now she needed food.
She pulled out her phone, typed in the appointment reminders on her calendar, and was in the middle of a call to Siam Pasta ordering pad thai and jasmine rice, when a notice flashed on her cell screen that she had a new text message—
“Yes, yes, Beecham has been plowed … did you say forty minutes? … All right, thank you.” Ending the phone call, she quickly switched to Messages. Oh. From Samantha Curtis. Had it been a whole week since she’d communicated with her assistant? Feeling a pang of guilt, she clicked on the message …
Grace! Sorry for not staying in touch better. Busy helping mom. But coming home Sat. Your voice OK? Is Roger still going 2 Sweetheart concert with U? If U need me, I could come 2. Otherwise, when do U want me to catch up fan mail & stuff? Best! Sam
Grace tossed the phone on the couch with a groan. She still hadn’t told Sam she’d canceled the sweetheart gig plus the next couple concerts as well. Or that Roger was out of the picture. Or that her trip home from Memphis had been hell. Or that she had a new agent. Knowing Sam, once she had the whole story she’d be all over her like a mother hen, cluck-clucking, giving her opinion of Roger’s desertion, checking on her every day, making sure she was taking care of herself, offering her a shoulder to cry on … though, to be honest, she wouldn’t mind a little of Sam’s motherly TLC, even if the girl was her junior by five years.
Oreo jumped off her lap and wandered off. Grace, sprawled listlessly on the couch, watched him go. Somewhere outside, she heard kids calling, laughing. Probably on the way home from school, throwing snowballs. Inside, she sat in a pocket of silence … except for the ticking of the schoolhouse clock, which seemed to grow louder as the minutes passed.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …
Saturday … the day Sam was coming home. Two days away. But for some reason, it felt like forever. Just her and Oreo and that darn ticking clock, stuck in this house like house arrest.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …
Saturday … the day she and Roger had been scheduled to show up at the sweetheart banquet in Milwaukee as the sweetheart poster couple.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …
Saturday … the day Jeff Newman would be on the slopes skiing with his blind date.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …
Suddenly grabbing for her phone, she found Sam’s text and hit Reply:
Sam! Glad Ur mom doing OK. Sweetheart was canceled. Can you come to the house on Sunday? She hesitated a moment, then typed, Really want to see you. She signed it Grace, and hit Send.
And then she grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it tight.