Grounded (37 page)

“Yeah, we're good. She's not happy when I'm gone on tour but … another reason to fly, I guess.” He slapped the roof of her car. “Drive safe. It's kinda foggy.”

Not happy when I'm gone on tour …

Well, that was Roger too. Must be hard on all significant others left behind. Maybe she should call him, show some understanding. Besides, she really should touch base with him before she left town, even though she hadn't promised an answer until she returned. She wanted him to know she was still taking his request seriously.

Snuggling under her blankets an hour later, she hit the familiar speed-dial. What would it be like to resume these nightly “visits”? She'd always looked forward to them, the sweet nothings, sharing his day … her day …

“You've reached Roger Baldwin. I'm not here right now, but I'll return your call as soon as I'm able.”

Figured. Grace hit the End button, plugged the phone into its charger, and turned out the light. She missed Oreo's familiar weight on her feet at the end of the bed.

The phone rang. She groped in the dark till she found it.

“Grace? So sorry! I wasn't expecting your call so I didn't have my phone handy. I'm so glad you called.”

She plumped up her pillows so she was half-sitting in the dark. “Just wanted to call you before I leave for Seattle tomorrow. I'm taking the train so Sam and I have to leave a few days early.”

“That's right. I forgot you were taking the train …” A long, silent moment hung between them. “Wish you weren't. It'll make the time you're gone longer.”

“I know. I'm sorry about that. But … flying isn't an option right now. At least this is only a ten-day tour, not a whole month like last January.”
Stop it, Grace. You're being defensive. You were going to show understanding for those left behind
. “Um, still, I know it feels long, especially since you're waiting for an answer from me. But …” She floundered. “Anyway, how are you? How's your new Sunday school class going?”

They talked for ten minutes. Roger said the class was good, thirty-five people were attending. Grace told about visiting Faith Chapel with her brother and family, also that a neighbor had asked her to sing at his mother's funeral. “They called it a ‘homegoing'—different, but I really enjoyed it.”

“Uh-huh. That's good.”

Their conversation felt forced with The Question still hanging over their heads. “Well, I better get some sleep. Take care, Roger. I'll be in touch, okay? Goodnight.” She clicked Off and scooched down under the quilt, tucking it up around her chin. But she lay awake a long time, wondering what was wrong with her. Why didn't she know how to respond to Roger's apology and willingness to work on their relationship? If they were going to be married, they certainly needed to know how to talk through problems.

She wished they could
really
back up and start all over again, forget the engagement, just date each other for a while, get to know each other by doing things together, having fun, rather than plunging into “issues.” See if they still liked each other enough to tackle the hard stuff.

Maybe that's what she'd suggest when she got back from the tour.

The 2:15 departure time gave Grace the morning to finish packing, call her folks, and tidy up the house before the limo was supposed to arrive. Setting her suitcases by the front door, she noticed the brochures Michelle Jasper had left on the coffee table. She grabbed one and stuffed it in her tote bag.

The black town car pulled up in front of the house at half past noon. Sam had ordered a car from Lincoln Limo, but said she was going early to pick up their tickets and boarding passes, and would meet her at the station. Grace opened the door as the driver hustled up the walk to retrieve her luggage.

“Afternoon, Miss Meredith. Just these two bags?”

Grace laughed when she saw who it was. “Rodney Bentley. You got the job!”

Harry's son grinned. “Yes, ma'am. Thanks to you and your friend. Miss Estelle told me you were the ones who told her the company was hirin'.” He hauled the bags down the walk, set them into the trunk, and opened the back door of the town car for her. Settling into the driver's seat, Rodney did a turnaround in the cul-de-sac and headed south toward the city.

“So you ‘just happened' to pick me up today?”

He grinned at her in the rearview mirror. “Not exactly. I saw your name and address on the dispatcher's list and asked if I could take this run. My way of sayin' thank you.”

They chatted about this and that on the half-hour drive to the Loop—nothing much. Grace realized she'd never actually had a conversation with Rodney before, and thought it wise not to get too personal. It felt a little awkward having her limo driver live right across the street.

But he did everything by the book and seemed to know the city, pulling up at the main entrance to Union Station right at one o'clock. “Can you manage?” he asked, setting her bags on the sidewalk. “I'd take them in for you, but I can't park here.”

“I'm fine. Thanks, Rodney. And please, just call me Grace.”
Tip, Grace, tip!
she reminded herself, finding a ten in her purse.

The man held up his hand. “Thanks, but tips are added to the bill. They told me it's all taken care of. And sorry, I have to call all my customers by last name. Company rule.”

“All right then,
Mr. Bentley
.” She smiled as she tucked the bill back in her purse. “We shall both remain businesslike as long as you're wearing that uniform. By the way, I'm returning on May fourth. I'll tell Sam—my assistant—to request you as our driver. Again.”

Rodney grinned. “Thanks. Have a good trip.”

Inside the station, Grace took the escalator down to ticketing—though it was a bit of a crunch juggling two suitcases, her purse, and a large tote bag—and saw Sam waving a handful of tickets at her by the e-ticket kiosks. “Grace! You should've let me know you were here! I have Red Cap service waiting to help with luggage.” Sam
motioned to an Amtrak employee, who loaded their bags on a cart and headed off. “Follow them. Sleeping car passengers get to use the Metropolitan Lounge.”

Checking in at the desk inside the lounge, they were told the Empire Builder would begin loading at 1:45, but in the meantime to help themselves to complimentary coffee and refreshments. Grace sank down into a comfortable padded chair with a hot cup of Starbucks and smirked at Sam. “Ahhh, the airport was never like this.”

An hour later, the Red Cap was stowing their larger bags in a luggage area on the lower level of sleeping car 327 and took their smaller suitcases to the upper level. “Room D … that's us,” Sam chirped, handing the man a tip.

Curious, Grace explored the long, narrow room that took up the width of the train car except for the passageway running along the far side of the car. Besides the long couch seat that made up into a single bed, and an upper berth that got lowered at night, the room had its own toilet, shower—in the same tiny space as the toilet—and separate sink and vanity. “Not exactly a hotel suite, but kinda cute. Like a motor home.” She looked at Sam, who was already curled up in the single padded coach seat beside the window facing the two berths. “Sure you don't mind sleeping on the upper bunk?”

Sam made a face. “I'll let you know after two nights on the train.”

Their sleeping car attendant appeared in the open doorway, a middle-aged man with laugh wrinkles around his gray eyes, his uniform jacket unbuttoned over a white shirt. He introduced himself as Ernie and cracked, “Do you want the good news or bad news first?”

“Uhh, good news.”

“Smart move.” He chuckled. “The dining car steward will be along shortly to get your dinner reservation—all meals are complimentary for sleeping car passengers. Also, hot coffee, bottled water, and juice are available in the middle of the car. Coffee's made fresh at 6:00 a.m. Would either of you like an extra pillow tonight?”

Grace smiled. “Please. Thanks. Now the bad news.”

“We're supposed to leave at 2:15, but one of the trains coming through Ohio and Indiana got delayed—some mechanical problem—and they have connecting passengers. So we'll be waiting for them to arrive before we can leave. Hopefully just fifteen minutes or so.”

It was three o'clock before the Empire Builder pulled out of Union Station. And later, as Grace looked up from the magazine she was reading, she noticed the train was stopped on the tracks with just the Wisconsin countryside stretching into the distance, no station in sight.

“Oh—Ernie?” she called as the attendant passed by. “Why are we stopped?”

Ernie poked his head in. “Waiting for a freight train to pass. Unfortunately, by starting late, we got out of our time slot, so other trains have the right of way. But we can sometimes make up the time on the longer stretches.” He waggled his eyebrows. “The joys of training.”

Grace woke up the next morning to hear Sam slide open their compartment door, slip out, and slide it shut again. Daylight peeked along the edges of the room-darkening curtains. She'd managed to get a fairly decent night's sleep in spite of waking when they pulled into Minneapolis around midnight, and again a few hours later in Fargo, North Dakota, as new passengers got on and got settled. The train whistle during the night had been oddly comforting, lulling her back to sleep again.

Stretching, Grace got up, used the toilet in the cubby, and splashed water on her face.
Mmm
, Ernie had said there'd be fresh coffee just around the corner …

A few minutes later, curled up on the unmade lower berth with a cup of hot coffee, watching fields of winter wheat, grazing lands full of sagebrush, and occasional clusters of farm buildings slide by her window, Grace realized she would've missed all this if she'd flown
to Seattle. Hop on a plane, plug into your iPad or watch the inflight movie, get off in another state … and totally miss the changing landscape rolling across the country.

Grace pulled the journal Estelle had given her out of her tote—and Michelle Jasper's brochure fell out too. She picked it up. Wait … what was this? It said, “Hope and Healing for those suffering from PAS—Post Abortion Syndrome.” This wasn't just a brochure about the services offered by a crisis pregnancy center, but reaching out to women who'd already had an abortion.

Heart beating faster, Grace read through the brochure.
Symptoms of PAS—guilt, depression, sadness, lack of self-worth …
O Lord, so true. At least she hadn't numbed herself with alcohol or drugs, thank God. She'd coped by passionately preaching purity on her tours—covering up her own guilt and shame. But the brochure talked about support groups that could help teens and other women who'd aborted to talk about grief, anger, guilt, and forgiveness … “all in a safe and confidential environment pointing to the hope and healing found in Christ.”

If only she'd known something like this existed when she was sixteen and so alone. Only now had she been given the courage to shine a light on the secrets she'd been carrying for more than a decade. All because Estelle Bentley had encouraged her to think about the meaning of her name.
Grace …

Tucking the brochure back into her bag and opening the journal, Grace looked at the first scripture Estelle had written in the front.
“There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set me free from the law of sin and death …” (Romans 8:1–2)
. Grace stared out the window again.
No condemnation …
She'd been a Christian most of her life. Why had it taken her so long to believe this? She'd gotten so used to being a “good Christian girl,” that when she'd blown it, all she could think of to make things right again was to try even harder to be that girl.

Grace Meredith, the singer with the “purity message.”