Grounded (5 page)

“Hello, Grace? This is Samantha. Just wanted to know if you got home all right on yesterday. Again, I'm so sorry I had to leave, but my mother … you know. She's stable now but still in the hospital, and I'm
going to stay here in Memphis until I know more. I'll keep you posted. Talk to you soon.”

Well, that was good news. She'd call Sam later, maybe tomorrow. There were two other voice mails—both from her parents. Her brother would expect a call too. Mark usually checked on her house once a week when she was gone, and he knew she was coming home yesterday. But Grace clicked the phone off and sank into the padded rocking chair in the bedroom. She didn't feel like talking to her assistant or anybody else. Her parents and Mark would probably ask about Roger … No, all she wanted to do was drink her coffee, get dressed, and go get Oreo. Everything else could wait. She didn't have another concert until—

Another concert?
Nausea cramped her stomach. She couldn't face another concert. Her voice was shot anyway. When was it? Sometime in February, she remembered that much. Where was her Day-Timer?

Grace found her purse in the living room under the coat she'd thrown on the piano bench, dug out the Day-Timer, and paged through it. Was today really the first day of February? There it was—a concert for a sweetheart banquet at a large church in Milwaukee, just two weeks away.

Grace groaned. Roger had planned to go with her since it was only two hours away. They were going to drive and stay the weekend to celebrate Valentine's Day together with a winter walk along the lakefront and dinner at a romantic restaurant. It had seemed like a fun invitation at the time, but …

Not going to happen. She'd have to cancel.

Tomorrow. She'd call her booking agent tomorrow. Right now she needed to get dressed and go get her cat. The house was too empty.

A loud rumble in Grace's ear roused her from a deep sleep. Opening one eye, she squinted at Oreo, cuddled up next to her head on the pillow. “Hey, you,” she murmured, reaching out a finger and touching the cat's wet nose. Oreo was definitely taking advantage of the fact that she'd carried him around like a stuffed toy ever since she brought him home yesterday afternoon. And he hadn't seemed to mind the Fancy Feast Flaked Fish & Shrimp she'd picked up at the grocery store on the way home either. Scarfed it down and begged for more.

But daylight was peeking in through the venetian blinds. At least she'd slept through the night. Stretching, she pushed Oreo out of her face and yawned …
uhhh
, that hurt. Her throat was still sore. Maybe she should see a doctor. Better make that call—and a few others she needed to make—before her voice totally went kaput.

Sliding out of the warm bed, Grace shivered as she pulled on her robe and stuffed her feet into her slippers. The heat should've come on by now. She shuffled out to the thermostat in the living room … what? Only fifty-nine degrees?

“Please don't tell me the furnace went out,” she muttered as Oreo did impatient figure eights around her ankles. She'd have to call her brother—who no doubt would remind her how often he'd told her the thing needed replacing. But it might be evening before he'd be free—and by then the house would be freezing!

Ignoring the mail still on the rug beneath the slot in the front door, she pulled back the living room drapes from the large picture window at the front of the house. A curtain of swirling snowflakes
filled her view. Oh dear … was this going to be a major storm? Grabbing the TV remote, Grace clicked Power and was relieved to see the screen leap to life. At least the electricity was on. She tried the Weather Channel … no, they were doing New York. She clicked through to Channel 9, Chicago's local station, and stood in the middle of the living room watching the morning news. Sports, interrupted by two minutes of commercials. She glanced at the schoolhouse clock … almost seven thirty. Tom Skilling should be doing weather any minute now … ah, there he was.

Whew
. Only two inches expected today.

Oreo meowed pitifully. “Sorry, baby, gotta make a call first. Then I'll feed you.” Grace hustled into her bedroom and found her phone … dead. She'd forgotten to charge it. She plugged in the phone and tapped her brother's speed-dial number.

“Hey, you're back.” Mark's voice boomed in her ear.

“Yes, and my furnace is out,” she croaked. “Sorry to ask but—”

“What? Can hardly understand you. What's wrong with your voice?”

“I have a sore throat! And the house is cold. Can you come check the furnace?”

“Uhhh …” There was a long pause. “Isn't there somebody on your block who could come over? I'm on the job already doing deliveries.”

“I don't really know anybody on my block,” she said a little too sharply. “I mean, not very well. Most of them have probably already left for work, anyway.”

“Hang on a minute, Sis …” Grace heard traffic noises, loud honking, and Mark snarling, “What's your problem, buddy?” He finally came back on the phone. “What about Roger? Maybe he—”

“Can't call Roger. He's … traveling. Business.” The lie came out a little too easily.

“Hmm. Do you have electricity? Gas?”

“Electricity, yes. I'll check the gas.” Unplugging the charger, Grace scurried into the kitchen with the cord trailing, re-plugged the phone, and turned on a stove burner. Bright blue flames leaped into a perfect wreath. “Gas is on too.”

“Okay, look … Maybe the pilot light on your furnace went out. You should check that first.”

“Can you—?”

“No, Sis, I can't. But I'll walk you through it, okay? … Hey, I gotta drop off a package. Hold on. I'll be back in two shakes …”

It took Grace thirty minutes lying on the chilly concrete floor in the basement laundry room, reaching beneath the furnace with a lighted match taped to the end of a kitchen skewer—it actually took seven matches—but she finally got the pilot relit. With Mark's help on the phone—still plugged in with an extension cord—she held down the button that let gas flow to the pilot light until it would burn on its own, and then turned everything back on.

The furnace purred.

She felt proud of herself. Next time she'd know what to do.

But it would still take another hour for the house to warm up, so Grace pulled on tights, sweatpants, a turtleneck, and a hooded sweatshirt before making some hot tea and scrambling two eggs for breakfast.
Ha
. If her fans could see her now …

Fans
. She needed to call her agent and cancel that sweetheart banquet date. She eyed the cat, who was begging at her feet. “He's not going to be happy, Oreo,” she said between bites of eggs and toast, “but I've got a good excuse, don't you think?” Her voice was starting to sound like fingernails dragging down a chalkboard.

Setting her plate down on the floor so Oreo could finish off the last tidbits of scrambled eggs, Grace picked up her phone, which had finally charged, scrolled down through her contact list, clicked on Bongo Booking Agency, and sipped her tea while the phone rang.

“Bongo Booking Agency, how may I direct your call?”

“Um, I need to speak with Walter Fowler.” Walter was good at his job, very professional, and had been working the music scene for twenty years, ten of those with the Bongo Booking Agency in Denver, but he wasn't exactly the warm cozy sort.

“I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that. Can you repeat?”

Grace took another sip of the hot tea to help clear her throat. “Wal-ter Fow-ler, please.” She enunciated each syllable.

“Oh. Mr. Fowler is out of the office for the next few weeks. Jeff Newman is taking his calls. Who should I say is calling?”

Out? Argh!
She vaguely remembered Fowler had said he'd be gone in February. An anniversary trip or something. But what was she going to do now? Tell a perfect stranger she wanted to cancel a concert? For all she knew, Jeff Somebody-or-other might be one of Bongo's bigwig agents who booked the really top CCM stars and had never heard of her.

“Um … Jeff who?” she stalled.

“Jeff Newman. Mr. Fowler's assistant. He's handling his calls.”

Assistant
. She didn't know Walter had an assistant. At least he didn't sound like a bigwig. But she was
not
going to do that concert, so … might as well face the music. She almost snickered at the pun. “Yes, thank you. Tell him Grace Meredith is calling.”

A wall of sound suddenly poured into her ear, a Christian rock group she probably should recognize, but couldn't quite place. She was just about to lower the volume when the wall of sound cut out and she heard, “Jeff Newman speaking. Is this Miss Meredith?”

Grace was startled. The voice was lighthearted. Friendly. Young. “Uh, yes. Grace Meredith. Mr. Fowler is my booking agent and …” She had to stop and clear her throat. “Please forgive me. I'm on the verge of losing my voice … can you hear me?”

“It's fine, Miss Meredith. But you don't sound so good. Are you all right?”

For some reason, the obvious concern in the voice on the other end of the line made her feel like crying. How stupid was that! But she might as well use the opening …

“Well, that's why I'm calling. I just returned from my New Year, New You tour, and—”

“Oh, sure! I heard about that tour. Sounded like a winner. But guess it was tough on your voice. Nasty time of year. Don't know how you do it.”

He'd heard about her tour? “Uh, right. I wanted to talk to Mr. Fowler, because I need to cancel my next concert—”

“Hold on, give me a sec … right, I've got your schedule right here. That would be the sweetheart banquet booked by Living Hope, that megachurch in Milwaukee, week from next Saturday. That the one?”

This guy was really on the ball. “Yes.” She knew she sounded raspy but she didn't try to clear it. “But my voice … I can't do it.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then … “Miss Meredith, I understand. You sound like you could use a long rest. But that
is
almost two weeks away. Are you sure your voice won't have recovered by then? Our contracts require a doctor's certification if we have to cancel a concert. Otherwise, the agency—and ultimately you—will have to repay the advance
with
a penalty. And, I hate to say it, it's not so good for your rep.”

Grace's shoulders sagged. She hadn't thought about the cost of canceling. Hadn't really had time to think it through—hadn't thought through much of anything the past few days, for that matter. Or prayed. Or asked God what to do. All she knew was that she couldn't do that sweetheart banquet, even if her voice did recover. “I'm … I'll be seeing a doctor. I'll send you certification.”

She ended the call—and then felt bad that she hadn't even said good-bye or thanked him for his concern. But she was so close to tears again, she was afraid she'd end up blubbering if she didn't get off the phone.

Picking up her plate from the floor, Grace dumped the dishes in the sink and checked the thermostat. Sixty-four degrees and climbing. At least the furnace was working. She should call Mark back, let him know everything was okay … then she should call Samantha … no, first she better make that call to her doctor and get an appointment.

She left a message with the doctor's receptionist for a callback and had just stepped into the shower when she heard “All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name” from the bedroom. Wrapping a towel
around her wet body, she hurried into the bedroom and snatched up the phone. “Hello? This is Grace Meredith.”

“Grace? Good grief, you sound awful.”

Roger
.

Grace stood in the middle of her bedroom clutching the cell phone in one hand and the towel in the other. She didn't want to talk to Roger.

But what if he was sorry? Didn't mean what he'd said. Wanted to make up.

“I've got laryngitis.” It was the only thing she could think of to say in the moment.

“I can hear that. I … was just calling to see if you made it home all right from Memphis. And, well, it's been a few days. I thought we should talk some more about, you know, ending the engagement. But if your voice isn't—”

“No, I didn't.”

A silent blip hung between them. She could just see the sudden frown on his handsome face—square jaw, strong chin, gray-blue eyes, dark-blond hair he wore in an Ivy League style, short on the sides, a bit longer and slightly spiked on top. Probably dressed in gray slacks, white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, a silk necktie loosened at the collar—proper, conservative, just a tad casual. No doubt calling between meetings at the financial consulting firm in downtown Chicago where he was climbing the corporate ladder. The firm didn't take coffee breaks.

Roger finally spoke. “Uh, you didn't … what?”