Grace studied her closet. What does a person wear when you go to dinner at a stranger’s house? Not too dressy—something casual but not grungy. Maybe her black slacks, a turquoise knit top, and some silver-and-turquoise jewelry—the Native American set she’d bought for herself the last time she sang in Tucson. She wouldn’t need a coat—it had actually gotten up to the mid-seventies today! A perfect spring evening.
She should take a hostess gift—flowers? box of chocolates? She’d have to run out and—wait. Mrs. Bentley had said she’d like to hear her songs. Maybe she should take one of her CDs as a gift. Or was that too self-serving? Hey, look at me! Worse, what if they didn’t like her music? Mrs. Bentley said she mostly listened to gospel—probably black gospel. Still, it was the thought that counted, wasn’t it?
In spite of feeling as nervous as the time she’d first met Roger’s parents, Grace showed up on the small porch of the Bentleys’ two-flat and rang the bell. The Bentleys’ two-flat… strange to think of it that way. It’d always been “the old lady’s house” in her thoughts. Even that was wrong. Should’ve been “Mrs. Krakowski’s house.”
She still hadn’t heard if the old woman had survived her ordeal.
The door opened. A boy about twelve or thirteen with close-cropped black hair looked at her curiously. “You Miz Meredith?” When Grace nodded, he pulled the door wider so she could step into the spacious foyer. An open stairway on the right led to the second floor. A door on the left must be to the first-floor apartment. The boy yelled up the stairs, “Yo, Pops! The lady’s here!” He turned back to Grace. “Go on up. They expectin’ you.”
As Grace started up the carpeted stairs to the second floor, she heard the boy open the door on the left and yell, “Hey, Dad! Supper’s ready! An’ we got company!”
Well, at least she knew what the relationship was.
As Grace got to the top of the stairs, a black man about six feet tall with a smooth shaved head met her with a warm smile in the open doorway. “You must be Grace. Estelle’s been telling me all about you.” Up close, she noticed a trim gray beard and moustache framed just his mouth and chin. Shave the head, grow it on the face. But it made him look distinguished.
He shook her hand, introduced himself as “Harry,” and ushered her into a sparse living room facing the street. Nothing fancy—just a couch and a couple chairs, a flatscreen TV, an area rug on the floor, no pictures on the wall, but a couple large plants hung in the bay windows and several more were sitting on floor stands. The bay windows were open, letting in a light breeze.
Grace took a seat on the couch just as Estelle Bentley bustled in, wearing a large white apron and carrying a tray with several small glasses. “There she is! No, no, don’t get up, young lady. Would you like some cranberry juice? It’s nice and cold, feels good on a warm day like this.”
Grace took a glass and smiled her thanks. Her hostess was wearing her hair pulled back from her face and gathered on top of her head in a loose topknot, which seemed to enhance her large eyes and generous mouth.
“Mercy! We’re so glad you came,” Estelle beamed. “Supper will be ready quicker’n water runnin’ downhill … now where did that boy slip off to? DaShawn! Come finish settin’ the table! An’ Harry, call Rodney. Don’t want my food coolin’ its heels on the table while we hunt everybody down.”
Estelle bustled back toward the kitchen, while Harry excused himself and disappeared down the stairs toward the first floor, leaving Grace alone in the living room, sipping her cranberry juice and wondering just what she was doing there.
But the boy came running up the stairs a moment later, threw her a grin, and headed for the kitchen, followed by Harry Bentley at a more moderate pace, and a younger man she presumed was the boy’s father. She stood up as Harry said, “Miss Meredith, this is my son, Rodney … Rodney, Grace Meredith, one of our new neighbors.”
“How ya doin’?” Rodney mumbled, giving her hand a quick shake. He sat down on the edge of one of the chairs, as if not planning to stay long. He was taller than his father, slender, with muscular arms and tattoos peeking out from his short shirtsleeves, hair an inch or so long worn in a short, careless afro, and eyes that didn’t quite look you in the eye. Maybe thirty-five?
“Y’all can come on to the table now,” Estelle called from the other room. Grace followed Harry into the dining room, where a wooden table surrounded by five chairs—only three of which matched—had been set with bamboo placemats and blue-rimmed ceramic dishes. Harry pulled out one of the chairs for Grace and she sat down, eyeing the table, which seemed piled with food—a platter of pungent fried chicken, another with thick slices of ham, a creamy yellow casserole that looked like macaroni and cheese, and a bowl of steaming green beans dripping butter. As the rest of them sat, Estelle came in carrying a basket covered by a red-checked cloth. DaShawn licked his lips and made a grab for the basket, but she slapped his hand away. “That cornbread just came outta th’ oven, young man. Gonna burn your fingers.” She sat down with an oomph. “Now I know this here’s a high-yeller meal”—Grace heard Rodney snicker—“but them green beans an’ ham oughta color up the plate. Harry, ya gonna do the honors?”
A “high-yeller meal”? Must be all the yellow food dishes, but what was so funny? Grace realized the Bentleys were reaching out their hands to make a circle around the table, so she held the hands of Estelle and DaShawn, who were sitting on either side of her, and bowed her head as Harry began his prayer.
“Lord God”—he cleared his throat—“for food in a world where many walk in hunger, for faith in a world where many walk in fear, and for friends in a world where many walk alone, we give you thanks …”
Goosebumps prickled on Grace’s skin as Harry said, “Amen.” What a beautiful prayer. She blinked rapidly before looking up, hoping she wouldn’t get all teary in front of these people. But she wasn’t the only one who was touched. Estelle said, “Harry Bentley, where’d you get that prayer? Never heard you pray like that!”
Harry just grunted as he reached for the platter of fried chicken. “Don’t you remember? Last Thanksgiving, at the Manna House dinner, that Canadian pastor prayed it. When I looked around at all those women at the shelter, I thought, That says it all. Been bouncin’ around in my head ever since. But maybe you were still back in the kitchen, might not’ve heard it … Rodney, pass this on down to our guest. DaShawn, you wait.”
The Bentleys made sure Grace got served first, and soon her plate was full. “This all tastes wonderful,” she said to Estelle, after spending several minutes sampling everything. “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble on my account. I’m used to cooking for one, so it’s usually pretty simple.”
“Trouble?” Estelle’s husband chuckled, waving a forkful of ham and green beans. “My wife lives to cook! She cooks for the Manna House Women’s Shelter, you know.”
“Is that why you married Miz Estelle, Grandpa?” DaShawn piped up. “So’s you could eat good?”
“Now there’s a smart young man.” Harry pointed the fork at his grandson and grinned before popping the food into his mouth.
Miz Estelle? Odd thing to call his grandmother … unless she wasn’t. Grace smiled at their teasing, but turned back to Estelle. “You cook for a women’s shelter? I’d like to hear more about that.” This gave her a chance to eat more of the yummy macaroni and cheese on her plate. It was nothing like the box kind!
Estelle shrugged. “Not much to tell. Stayed there myself for a time, till it burned down. Bunch of good sisters at SouledOut Community Church helped me get back on my feet, so I decided one way to give back was volunteer at the shelter when it got up an’ runnin’ again, which turned into a job—”
“’Cause they liked her cookin’.” Harry winked at his wife.
“You … just eat,” Estelle scolded. “What I want to hear about is Grace’s singin’. I’m just sorry we don’t have a piano, ’cause I sure would love to hear you sing.”
Grace flushed. “Well, I did bring one of my CDs as a gift for you. Mostly songs I’ve written. Contemporary praise and worship music.”
DaShawn’s eyes got big. “You got a CD? Can I listen to it? I got my own CD player. An’ I already got fifteen CDs. But Grandpa won’t let me listen to—”
“DaShawn! You’re interrupting.” Harry gave his grandson a warning eye. “That’s real nice of you, Miss Meredith. We’d love to hear it. My wife tells me you travel ’round the country givin’ concerts, said you just got back from someplace and got another trip comin’ up this weekend … Now, you go ahead an’ eat that chicken with your fingers,” he added, picking up his own piece. “We got plenty napkins.”
Grace gratefully picked up her chicken and took a bite. Ohhh, so crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside. But Estelle asked, “Do you travel every weekend?”
Grace took a moment to chew and swallow. She felt flattered by their interest in her concerts. “Well,” she said, wiping her mouth and fingers with a paper napkin, “when I’m on tour, it’s several weeks at a time, actually.” She briefly described her New Year, New You tour in January, and told about the ten-day West Coast tour coming up. “But the last few weekends I’ve had a couple college concerts, and I’ll be going to St. Louis on Friday. Some of these large churches have wonderful auditoriums with state-of-the-art sound systems, everything.” She paused for a breath, suddenly feeling as if she’d said too much.
“All those concerts … Lord, have mercy! You must be flyin’ here, there, an’ everywhere.” Estelle shook her head, her topknot flopping loosely. “Don’t think I’d like that—but if that’s how the Lord’s usin’ you to bless others, why, I just say praise the Lord!”
Estelle’s comment seemed to stick in Grace’s throat. She coughed, reached for her glass, and took a sip of water. “Sorry … I’ve been doing all the talking. Think I better eat before my food gets cold. It’s all so good.” She lifted a bite of macaroni and cheese. “Uh, what about you, Mr. Bentley? What kind of work do you do?”
Harry Bentley chuckled self-consciously. “Well, believe it or not, I’m supposed to be retired. Used to be a Chicago cop—but I just got pulled back workin’ for Amtrak police. Only been on the job a week.”
“Yeah, an’ now we got a dog—ow!” DaShawn glared at his father and grandfather, as if one of them had kicked him under the table. Well, Grace thought, at least they were training him not to interrupt—though she hadn’t seen any sign of a dog.
“Rodney, you and DaShawn done?” Estelle said. “Why don’t you two go in the living room and watch some TV. I’ll call you back when it’s time for dessert.”
Rodney hadn’t said a word during the meal, and he and the boy had indeed polished off their plates. The two disappeared into the next room, and a moment later she heard the TV leap to life.
“Keep it down!” Estelle called after them. The TV sound was muffled.
“Must be nice having a two-flat so your son and grandson can live so close to you,” Grace said, returning to her meal. But out of the corner of her eye she saw Estelle and her husband exchange a quick glance.
Harry cleared his throat. “Actually, DaShawn lives with us. And we’re lookin’ to rent out the first-floor apartment. Rodney’s just stayin’ down there temporary-like, helpin’ with the renovations. Been a big help … but he’s lookin’ for a job.”
“That’s right,” Estelle nodded. “Something you can help us pray for. Also the poor woman who used to live here needs our prayers. Did you know Mattie Krakowski?”
Grace shook her head. “Not really.” Not at all, really. So that was her full name—Mattie Krakowski. “I know she had an accident, but I haven’t heard—”
“Poor soul.” Estelle wagged her head. “Guess she broke her hip, had to have surgery, and her son put her into a nursin’ home. My heart just goes out to her.”
So. Mrs. Krakowski hadn’t died after all. But then why had her house been sold right out from under her? Had these people taken advantage of her bad fortune? No, no, she shouldn’t think like that. There’d been that foreclosure sign out front even before the old lady fell. She must’ve been losing the house already. And there was just something about the Bentleys. Something solid, something real.
Grace laid down her fork and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Wonderful dinner, Mrs. Bentley. Can I help clear the table?”
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Estelle chuckled as she got up. “Somebody trained you right, young lady. I’m still trainin’ the young men in this family, though this ol’ man”—she gave Harry a playful poke as he passed her on the way to the kitchen carrying a couple dishes—“he came already trained, ’cause he’d been bachin’ for so long.”
Grace smiled to herself. It was fun to see a couple their age still joking with each other. Sounded like they hadn’t been married long. For the next few minutes, Grace helped Harry clear dishes from the table and load the dishwasher as Estelle put away leftovers.
“So … tell us about this upcoming concert,” Estelle said, starting a pot of coffee. “Somethin’ like that must take a lot of preparation. How can we pray for you?”
Grace was startled. The gentle request brought tears to her eyes and she had to grab a paper napkin. “I—I’m sorry … thank you,” she whispered. “I do need some prayer.” Why did she feel as if these people, whom she’d barely met, were people who might actually understand?
“Now, now,” Estelle clucked, “nothin’ to be sorry about. You sit down there at the kitchen table, honey … that’s it. Harry, hand me that tissue box. Now, tell us what needs some prayer.”
Grace traded the paper napkin for a tissue. “Well, I—I haven’t had much time to prepare for this one …” Grace found herself telling the Bentleys about coming home from her last tour with a virus, dealing with a lot of stress, losing her voice, and having to cancel some concerts. “My agent added the St. Louis concert kind of last minute as a way to make up for the ones I had to cancel. But I’m having a hard time getting my confidence back. Was supposed to fly last weekend, but …” Darn! The tears welled up again. How could she explain her panic attack?
“It’s all right, baby, it’s all right.” Estelle patted her hand and handed her another tissue.
Grace shook her head, frustrated at herself. Baby was right. But she felt like she needed to justify herself. “Okay, see, I … I had a pretty awful experience with airport security back in January coming home from the tour, and last weekend … well, guess the memory of my last experience was too fresh. I backed out at the last minute. So my assistant had to rent a car and drive us to Ohio. We’re going to drive to St. Louis too.”
“Well, now, that seems wise,” Estelle said kindly.
Grace just stared down at the tissue she was twisting into a little ball in her hands, afraid to look up at the two faces listening to her spill her guts. “Except the West Coast tour is coming up. Once the tour starts in Seattle, I’ll have a tour bus. But I’ve got to get there first. I just”—she spit out the words more fiercely than she intended—“just don’t want to deal with airports anymore.” She rolled her eyes apologetically and blew out a long breath. “So guess I could really use some prayer about that.”
Estelle patted her hand again. “Well, we can sure pray about—”
“Why don’t you take the train?” Harry said.
Now Grace did look up. “What?”
“The train. They handle security a lot different on the trains. You hardly know they’re there. Like I said, I just started workin’ for Amtrak, and they’ve got trains goin’ everywhere. Yeah, yeah, we think everybody flies these days, but that ain’t the only way to get from here to there. In fact, they got trains runnin’ several times a day to St. Louis. You could try it this weekend, see if you like it.”
Grace just stared at her host. She had never considered traveling by train.
“Well, now. That’s somethin’ to think about,” Estelle said. “So how ’bout we pray about it, and then top it off with that banana cream pie I made that’s just beggin’ to be eaten!”