A text message from Jeff Newman on Friday said he was on his way back to Denver, he’d work on the cancellations first thing Monday and let her know how it went. And thanks again for the hospitality.
Grace stood at the front window, absently watching somebody across the street shoveling out his car, wondering how to reply. Businesslike? Chatty? Ask how his meetings went in Nashville? Tell him to have fun this weekend? Finally she just typed Thanks and hit Send—just as a UPS truck pulled up in front of the house and put on its hazard blinkers. Had to be her brother …
“Can’t stay long, Sis,” Mark said as she opened the door for him. “Just wanted to check on you. You doing okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Mark jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I see you got your walks shoveled. Neighbor kid?”
“Kids plural. Twins from next door. Seems like a nice family.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s twelve thirty. Want some lunch?”
“Nah, can’t. Got a ton of deliveries. Hope your car isn’t one of those buried by the snowplow. Aren’t people supposed to move their cars so the city can plow the whole street?”
Grace shrugged. “Street signs say cars on one side are supposed to move on odd days during a snow emergency, the other side is supposed to move on even days until both sides get plowed.” She shrugged. “But my car is safely tucked in my garage surrounded by snowdrifts and an unplowed alley. Going to have to shovel it out myself, I guess. Or wait till spring when it thaws.”
Mark guffawed, then grinned apologetically. “Sorry. Not funny. Uh, maybe I can come back this weekend and shovel it out. Or tell you what—I’ll call Roger and tell him to get his butt over here and dig you out. The cad owes you that much.”
She gave him a don’t-you-dare look. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, I’m supposed to be taking it easy for the next few weeks till my, you know”—she pointed at her throat—“gets better, not running around.” But she grimaced. “Unless I go stir-crazy first. It’s been a looong week.”
A series of impatient car honks outside sent Mark to the front window. “Uh-oh. I’m blocking somebody. Gotta go.” He pulled open the front door. “You want to come out to the house again for Sunday dinner?”
“Oh, Mark, thanks, but—”
“I mean, if we can get your car out—or I could pick you up.” The car honks got more insistent. Her brother yanked the door open and glared at the big SUV, which was nose to nose with his UPS truck. “Who’s the jerk?” he muttered.
“Uhhh, not sure.” Fancy car. Might be the guy at the end of the block in the McMansion. “But about Sunday … Sam—Samantha Curtis, my assistant—is coming here that afternoon. She’s been in Memphis ever since my last concert, her mom had a heart attack, and—”
“Okay, okay, I get it. Gotta go.” Mark was already down the steps. “Call if you change your mind. See ya!” He hustled down her walk and detoured via a shoveled-out parking space in front of the house next door to reach his truck. Watching from the window, it seemed to Grace like he backed down the street a lot slower than he had to. Probably just to spite the guy in the SUV.
She snickered. Her brother was a nut—lovable, but still a nut.
Standing at the window till the UPS truck disappeared from sight, Grace noticed the shoveled-out parking space next door had lawn chairs set up in it, no doubt to keep anyone else from parking there. She glanced up and down the block and saw three or four other shoveled parking spaces with similar barricades, interspersed between the lumps of snow-covered cars.
Couldn’t really blame folks for claiming parking spots after going to all that work, though she doubted it was legal. At least she’d done her duty this time and had her walks shoveled, like most of the other neighbors up and down the street—except for the two-flat across the street. The walk was still only half-shoveled where Jeff and the lawn service guy and the twins’ father had tried to make a path for the paramedics two days ago.
Grace wondered what had happened to the old lady who’d fallen down the basement stairs. Was she still in the hospital? Sign said her house was in foreclosure … was she coming back? Had she died? Did anybody on the street even know?
Saturday was the pits.
The temperature had fluctuated between ten and twenty degrees the past few days with just enough wind to knife the cold right into her bones the few times she’d ventured outside. No new snow, but the snow from the mini-blizzard was still half frozen—not conducive to going for a walk or getting exercise.
She stayed in, trying not to think about the sweetheart banquet going on without her. Trying not to wonder what Roger was doing instead. Trying not to think about Jeff Newman’s ski weekend.
And failing.
Nothing like a pity party when it’s just you and the cat, who doesn’t care that you haven’t done your hair or put on makeup as long as you’re there to open a can of cat food and provide a lap for a nap or two during the day.
At least she had Sunday to look forward to. Sam had said she’d drive up from the South Side right after church and bring some takeout for lunch.
Church …
Grace had a sudden craving to go to church Sunday morning. It’d been too long—way too long—since she’d been to church just to worship. On tour, she mostly went to church when she was invited to sing. On her off Sundays, she was usually too beat and justified not going anywhere by taking a much-needed day of rest. That was scriptural, wasn’t it?
But when she woke up Sunday she felt restless. Tired of being cooped up in the house. And hungry too—hungry for something to soothe her soul.
She could call a cab. But not way out to County Line. Roger would be there—though a tiny part of her was tempted to show up and show him. But it would be too awkward, and it was just too far, way out in the western ’burbs. Surely she could find a church closer by.
She thought of the little storefront churches along Touhy Avenue or Clark Street with names like God’s Battle Axe Prayer Ministries or Triumphant Saints Holiness. Ethnic churches she supposed—African American or Jamaican or Ethiopian. Most within walking distance. Ha. What would they think if she walked in, this strange white lady?
More to the point, would she have the nerve? Probably not. Not alone, anyway. Too far out of her comfort zone. She laughed at the irony. Here she was, a Christian artist boldly proclaiming God’s message of love to strangers far and wide, and she couldn’t gather the nerve to be the stranger two blocks from home.
She should have asked Sam if she was going to church. Perhaps she still had time to get a taxi and meet Sam there. Sam attended one of the large black churches on the South Side, but at least she’d be with Sam to help her navigate. Might be interesting.
Grace tried Sam’s cell phone, but it went right to voice mail. So much for that idea. She wasn’t going to just show up at a strange church on the South Side if Sam didn’t know she was coming.
“Well, Oreo, guess we’ll have to have our own church,” she said, pushing the cat over to make room on the couch and picking up the TV remote. A quick scan through the channels turned up a couple of talking heads with thick Southern accents—she with big hair and he with fleshy jowls and a pink tie—inviting viewers to support their ministry and receive a ten-fold blessing … the Crystal Cathedral with its big organ pipes and sea of a thousand-plus faces … a black pastor pacing a red-carpeted platform whose every phrase brought forth shouts of “Amen!” and “Say it!” and “Hallelujah!” from the televised congregation.
She turned off the electric church and tossed the remote, then wandered into her bedroom looking for her Bible. Where had she put it? Had she really not read her Bible since she’d come home from her New Year, New You tour? It was still in her suitcase, which she hadn’t yet completely emptied.
She flopped onto her bed with the Bible her parents had given her for high school graduation. On tour it was hard to find time for personal prayer and Bible reading, though she didn’t hesitate to encourage the young people who came to her concerts to have a “quiet time with the Lord.” She often quoted favorite scriptures between songs—promises like, “Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added unto you” and “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and don’t lean on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him and he will direct your paths.”
Grace flipped to the familiar verses she’d marked with tiny Post-its. “All these things will be added unto you …” Did she really believe that? Seemed like a lot of things had been taken away from her lately. And “he will direct your paths …” Really? Felt more like she’d been pushed out of the boat and was treading water.
What was happening to her life? Had God abandoned her too?
She lay propped on the bed pillows, flipping to the verses she used during her concerts, trying to read some of the psalms. It all felt like so many words …
She must’ve dozed off, because the next thing she knew the doorbell was ringing and Oreo streaked out of the bedroom to check out who dared interrupt their nap. Grace followed, wishing she’d gargled or drunk some water or something so she didn’t feel so groggy.
Turning the lock and sliding off the security chain, she opened the door. Her assistant stood on the stoop, swaddled in a black winter coat, matching brown-and-gold knit beret and neck scarf, holding a bulging plastic bag in one hand and the handle of a small suitcase-on-wheels in the other. The large dark eyes peering out from beneath the beret were looking her up and down, lips parted in consternation as if not sure she was at the right house.
“Grace? What in the world … Girl, what is the matter with you?!”