Grounded (10 page)

It took a false start or two to get the conversation going again, but the chatter finally picked up about jobs and politics and weather, until Marcus announced he wanted to quit piano lessons and play drums in the elementary school band next year.

“Like heck,” Mark muttered under his breath and everyone laughed. “You boys go play video games or something until it's time for dessert. We'll call you.” It took only two seconds for them to disappear toward the den.

With the boys gone, all eyes turned back on Grace. “Okay.” She laid her cloth napkin on the table. “I need to keep this short, though. Still trying to get over this virus.” As simply as she could, she told them about Roger's phone call the night before her last concert, Samantha's mother's heart attack, and coming home sick. She didn't
say anything about the humiliating “pat down” at the Memphis airport, not in front of her parents. She'd never been able to talk to them about sexual stuff. And … some things were better left buried. “Then he showed up yesterday and took his ring back.”

Mark threw up his hands. “Of all the nerve! He's nuts!”

She shrugged. “He said he couldn't handle the long separations when I'm on tour, and he didn't like our relationship being so public. Not what he wants in a wife.”

Her mother reached across the table and touched her hand. “But, honey, it's not like you'd be doing that forever. I mean, you're almost thirty. Once you're married, you'll want to start a family, stay at home with the babies—”

“Now, Margaret …” Her father gave a warning shake of his head.

Her mother looked surprised. “Well, wouldn't she?”

Grace shook her head. “I don't know, Mom. We never talked about it. That's what's so weird. This seemed to come out of the blue. But then, late-night long-distance phone calls when I'm on tour aren't exactly ideal for keeping up with each other. Somehow I missed the clues. But … Roger was quite clear. The engagement's off.”

Her brother's face was a thundercloud. “Probably has his eye on some other bimbo at that matchmaking factory out at County Line.”

Grace made a wry face. “What do you mean, some
other
bimbo, dear brother?”

Mark turned red. “Oh, you know what I mean. How old is Roger … thirty-two? And doesn't he teach some college-age Sunday school class? Mature single guy … college girls on a manhunt … recipe for disaster.”

Denise poked her husband. “I think you need to shut up, Mark.”

Grace felt the tears start. She picked up her napkin and dabbed her eyes. “Yes, please. Don't start any gossip about Roger. I don't know what happened. Right now, you guys just need to understand that it's over. And I'm so glad you're my family. I—” It was no use. The tears spilled over. Her shoulders shook.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Her father moved over to the seat vacated by Luke and wrapped his arms around her. She sobbed on his shoulder.
“It's okay, it's going to be all right. You'll always be our Golden Girl. Go ahead and cry.”

Golden Girl …
Her father's words made her cry even harder. Not so golden. Not if they knew. But held against her father's chest, Grace's sobs gradually eased as the others quietly started to clear the table. Grace heard her mother's plaintive voice from the kitchen. “I just don't understand!”

And her brother's still angry voice: “Jerk has no idea he just lost the best fish in the sea.”

As hard as it'd been to tell them she'd been dumped, the Sunday afternoon with family felt like a soothing balm for Grace's wounds. They built a fire in the family room fireplace, and Denise served hot cider with cinnamon sticks and peppermint ice cream as they played a cutthroat game of Scrabble—a Meredith tradition. But her parents had to leave around five, heading back to Indianapolis—a four-hour drive—and Grace said she'd better get going too. Mark followed her out to the car.

“If you want me to go punch his lights out, just say the word, Sis.”

She shook her head with a sad smile. “Thanks, Mark. I'll let you know.”

“Hey, sorry I didn't get over to shovel your walks. Maybe I can drop by tomorrow. I'll look at my—”

“It's okay. I paid a neighbor kid to shovel. Did a pretty good job.”

Her brother looked surprised. “Really? Thought you didn't know anybody.”

“Well, I don't really. But I met the family next door, some of them anyway, and they seem real nice. Tavis shoveled the walks. He's a twin. Cute kid. Thirteen.”

“Thirteen. Hmm, never did think of thirteen as a cute age. All that angst. Kind of dreading it.”

She leaned over and kissed her brother on the cheek. “Marcus and Luke are going to be
fine
. But good luck with the drums.”

She got in her car, waved good-bye, and backed out of the driveway.

Daylight was fading fast and traffic was still heavy going back toward Chicago, but she felt relieved. She'd dreaded telling her parents about the breakup. Her mom had been so excited about getting to be mother of the bride—a whole different role than the mother of the groom she'd been at Tim's and Mark's weddings. And she knew her parents were a little anxious that she was almost thirty and not yet married. Tim had gotten married right out of college and he and Nellie had pre-teens already as well as a surprise baby, who was now three—all girls. They lived in Colorado Springs and she didn't get to see her nieces very often. At least she had Mark and Denise and the boys nearby. Family. What a gift.

But … there was a lot she hadn't told them. She just felt so weary. There'd be time to tell them about canceling the sweetheart banquet in Milwaukee next weekend—surely they'd understand
that
. She did tell them she had an appointment with a throat specialist tomorrow. After that, maybe she'd need their counsel—and surely their prayers—about what to do about her upcoming bookings and the West Coast tour this spring. And the switch in her booking agent …

Oh. She still hadn't called Jeff Newman back about him stopping over in Chicago to see her on Tuesday! Guess she couldn't put that off any longer. Why not meet the guy … she'd give him a tentative okay, and let him know for sure after her doctor's appointment tomorrow.

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! …