Seasoned with Grace (15 page)

“Has it been so long that you need a menu, Grace?”

“No, but Candace could use one.”

Sercee reached inside his blazer and withdrew two menu cards for BG, the restaurant nestled discreetly on one of the upper floors of Bergdorf Goodman. “You better order a salad. You're wide around the sides, and I don't think you'll fit into the special treat I've been holding on to for you,” he said, tapping her nose. “Let me go and fetch it. Feel free to place your order while I'm gone.”

Grace handed one of the menu cards to Candace. “Order whatever you like.”

“Grace, you still have not answered me. What is this sudden bout of generosity about? I hope this isn't about Ethan.”

“Kind of, sort of.” Grace shook her hand from side to side.

“Listen, I don't want any gifts to look the other way. If you all think you can buy me off—”

“Buy you off?” Grace laughed at the notion.
This chile watches too much TV.
There was no way on earth Grace would waste a dime paying off a court reporter. You paid off only people with juice or with a story to tell. What could Candace say? That she had walked in on Grace kissing Ethan, as if the world didn't already know she had a voracious appetite when it came to the opposite sex? “Please, it's nothing like that. Actually, I was hoping we could be . . .”

Candace jumped into the gap before the
f
in “friends” could even roll off of Grace's tongue. “I hope y'all don't think I'm going to join you in some ménage à trois or something.” Candace rolled her eyes in disgust and continued. “You're crazier than what I thought. Imagine me breaking my covenant with the Lord to experiment with a washed-up model.” Candace stood up and flung the menu card on the floor. “Do me a favor while you're being generous. Please tell your little boy toy that I have lost all respect for him. However, I will keep him in prayer.”

“Ménage à what? With who? Not you, boo.” Grace chuckled.
Reality television had everyone thinking someone wanted to get with them.
“I might be washed up in your eyes, but I'm still a hot commodity to some.” Grace looked in the mirror and ran her fingers through her raven-colored hair, which was now coifed in thick waves. She adjusted a few strands and added a dash of gloss to her lips before turning to face Candace again.

“I just wanted to apologize to you, Candace. I brought you here to apologize to you.” She sighed. “I mean, I meant to take you to lunch, but then I saw you feeding pigeons, wearing a cardigan, with a tight bun in your hair. I mean, I couldn't . . . Ah, never mind. I'm getting ready to start rambling, and that's not going to be good for either of us. Have a sip of champagne, relax, and enjoy a dose of retail therapy.”

“Do you think shopping solves everything?”

Smiling, Grace replied, “It solves most of my problems.” She reached for a glass and the bottle of champagne.

“That won't be necessary.”

“A glass of champagne ain't going to get you into hell, Ms. Holy Roller.”

“If this is how you apologize, it's no wonder you don't have friends,” Candace shot back.

Shaking her head, Grace absorbed the blow. She wanted to be strategic about how she responded to Candace in this situation; she was supposed to be putting out this fire, not pouring gasoline on it. Candace was still hurt, and this was her chance to lash out.
Swallow it, Grace, and make peace.

“I haven't eaten all morning. Let's order lunch and then discuss this.”

“I don't have anything to say to you.”

Grace locked eyes with Candace. A residue of hurt lined Candace's eyes, and it looked like forgiveness was definitely on vacation for an undisclosed amount of time. Grace refilled her glass and then filled the other one for Candace. “A sip is not going to kill you.”

“This may be a foreign concept to you, but I try to glorify God in everything that I do, and consuming alcoholic beverages doesn't fit into that equation for me.”

“To each his own.” Grace downed her glass and followed it up with Candace's. “You know, you Christians crack me up. You claim you serve a loving and forgiving God, but when it comes time for you to love and forgive, those concepts are alien to all of y'all.”

“You know you miss him,” Grace said, chomping down on a scallop.

Candace shrugged her shoulders and turned down the corners of her mouth. “I'm satisfied.”

“With what?” Grace asked, leaning across the table.

“With my Savior,” Candace sang lightly, as if she was leading the Sunday morning devotion at her church.

“Look here . . .” Grace raised her fork and pointed it at Candace. “You might be fooling some people with your ‘Long as I got Jesus' routine, but I know when the nights are cold and that rain is beating against your windowpane, you want a man that's there in the flesh, not in the spirit.”

Grace already knew the church rhetoric that went along with the single life. Her mother had fed it to her when she was a teen and to many of the women at the church who came to see her mother after service to discuss itches that they just couldn't resist scratching.

It was always about waiting, abstaining, and being content with the things that they had, and maybe one day the Lord would invite someone into a relationship. There was no help for the woman who wanted to invite a man into a relationship herself. She was the jezebel and the adulterous woman that Proverbs warned about. Nobody wanted to be her, and Candace was trying to dodge that bullet by running away from Ethan and rejecting his love.

“I hear you, Grace, but I'm not about to chase a man that I caught all invested in you.” Candace took a sip of her water and raised her eyebrows, soliciting a response from Grace.

“Candace, how many times do you want me to say I'm sorry? I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. That was an accident.”

“Didn't look accidental to me. It looked like the woman whom I had admired for a long time was kissing the man whose rib I thought God had plucked me from.”

Grace inhaled deeply and clutched her chest at Candace's revelation. She knew the two of them cared for each other, but she had had no idea that their relationship had gotten all biblical already. Scratching her temple, Grace recalled the time she'd thought she was a rib. The one time in her life when she'd thought that she had been made for a purpose, and when nothing but love had coursed through her veins and into her heart. In her mind she'd been made for Pastor David, and she had actually envisioned herself seated behind him while he preached. She'd rehearsed responding to the title of first lady, and she'd compiled a file full of all his favorite foods, which she would prepare every Sunday. But those dreams had been snatched away from her before they were even close to coming to fruition, and now she was responsible for robbing another woman of her chance to be with her Adam.

“Listen, I'm sorry, and I'm not just saying that. I've been where you are right now,” Grace revealed, rocking from side to side. She hadn't told this story to anyone else besides Junell, and she didn't know if she'd be able to share it now. Swallowing hard, she braced herself and prepared to spill out as much of the story as she could. “I once loved a man, a good man, a man like Ethan. Gentle and upstanding. He was full of God, and all that jazz, and I lost him because of people meddling in our relationship. I don't want to be responsible for coming between you two. Please allow me to help put this puzzle back together.”

Candace flung her freshly streaked honey blond tresses out of her eyes and replied, “Grace, I can go on without him. I have a replacement.”

“A replacement—” Grace choked on a scallop while getting the words out. There was no way Candace was going to dump Ethan after all Grace had just done to get them back together. Between the new Valentino dress that was hugging every inch of Candace's body, including the petite waistline she'd been hiding, the pantsuit in the bag, the new pumps, and the hair and makeup, this transformation would have Grace in the red for months. She'd charged seven thousand dollars to her shopping account at Bergdorf today, and then there was the price she was paying not only to swallow her pride, but also to have some for dessert.

“I know you believe that every woman needs a man, but I'm not going to wind up like you, wandering to and fro, trying to fill some empty space or burning desire. That hole in my heart belongs to the Lord, and if you would allow Him to reign in you, the life that you now live wouldn't be so painful.” Candace paused and sopped up some sauce with her roasted cauliflower and took a bite. “On another note, while I appreciate your little ‘what not to wear' party and lunch, that's not enough to get me to run back to Ethan. So, whichever one of you came up with this idea, it is my prayer that you have a backup plan in case you have to abort the mission.”

Oh God, I really messed this up. Help me fix this, Lord,
Grace prayed in her heart and then looked around a bit, wondering where that voice had come from.
I have got to stop hanging out with all these saints. They're really messing me up.
She was completely shocked that she was now praying to God, whom she didn't even want to claim as her own. That was when her help came.

“You know, you need to stop acting like you are so tough and to just lie at his feet.”

Candace's eyes widened. She seemed to be just as shocked as Grace was that she was ministering.

“Don't look at me like that,” Grace told her. “Just accept the Word. As my mother would say when she was alive, ‘God will use a jackass to preach to you if necessary.'”

Grace's self-deprecating remark was enough to change the tone of their heated conversation. Both Grace and Candace doubled over in laughter.

“No, seriously, Candace. If you think that's the man for you, just cut the nonsense and lie at his feet, like Ruth did to Boaz, and see what the result is.”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but when did you become a Bible scholar?”

“My best friend, Junell, encouraged me to read the book of Ruth to figure out how to deal with my relationship with Horace, this guy I met while doing community service. I finally got around to reading it this weekend, so I guess it's still fresh in my mind.” Grace shrugged and signaled the waiter for a refill of the champagne she was drinking.

“You know, Grace, that story is not just a story, and it is not just about the love between a woman and a man. What Boaz does for Ruth is what Christ has done for us. Out of love, he willingly received a woman who was not his own, and paid the dowry that was necessary to have her. That was exactly what Christ has done for us.”

Grace sat up straight as goose pimples rose up and down her arms. Their waiter began fiddling with the empty plates. Frustrated by the distraction, Grace scooped up the plates and shoved them into the waiter's hands. “Go on,” Grace said to Candace, folding her dainty fingers into a coaster for her chin.

“Jesus's blood speaks for us, and He paid the price for our lives, just as Boaz spoke for Ruth. So . . . the one who really needs to lie at someone's feet is you.” Candace pointed at Grace.

Grace didn't think she liked the new, saucy version of Candace. “Whose feet am I supposed to be lying at? Shoot.” Contorting her peachy lips into an exaggerated pout, Grace folded her arms over her chest, crossed her legs, and bounced her long leg up and down in tune with the smooth jazz filtering through the restaurant.

“You're supposed to lie down at Jesus's feet, just like Ruth did with Boaz. That is, if you accept what He's offering.”

What is it with these people?
Grace wondered.
Why does every single conversation turn into an attempt at conversion?

Switching the subject, Grace reminded Candace of the reason they'd met. “I'm supposed to be helping you get your man back, not planning my baptism.”

As Candace rattled off more reasons for Grace to give in to the higher power, Grace watched a woman seated at the bar, her back bent like the branches of a weeping willow. She drummed her fingers and shook her empty glass of alcohol in the air like a maraca, summoning the bow-tied bartender back to her. Either she sensed Grace's gaze or had great peripheral vision, because she twisted slightly and sent a smirk in Grace's direction. Her dark eyes were heavy and laden with dissipated desires, and they were surrounded by a gathering of crow's-feet. She was once someone important, Grace gathered, but as beauty fled, so did the crowd.

“Grace, you don't want that to be you, alone and hunched over somewhere.”

“She looks fabulous, though,” Grace mused, admiring how the black Givenchy one-piece framed the woman's aged silhouette. But then she noticed how the draped neckline revealed a few rivers of blue spider veins. Old age scared Grace; she'd never seen anyone grow old gracefully, as the adage went. She'd watched the few women in her family become bitter and dreadfully unfashionable as they entered their senior years. Especially her mother, who'd allowed her constant bouts of anemia to suck the life out of her before she passed away.

“Fabulous and alone, nonetheless,” Candace noted.

Gulping the last bit of champagne that remained in her glass, Grace retorted, “Well, you don't want to wind up like that, either, so let's go get your man back.”

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Candace asked, her fingers shaking as she ran them through her new tresses.

“Just as sure as I was that you'd look snatched in Valentino.” Grace snapped her fingers and then ran one of them across her teeth after getting a glimpse of herself in the elevator. “Listen, between that waistline, those hips, and those smoky eyes, Ethan is going to die. He'll be asking for your hand in marriage by this evening.”

The elevator opened on the fifth floor, where Ethan's office was located. The floor was unusually empty. The clacking of their heels was the only sound that filled the air.

“Grace, are you really sure this is going to work?”

“This is going to work. You and those heels, however, I'm not that sure about.” Grace looked over her shoulder at Candace, whose ankles were rolling like dice in a craps game as she attempted to match Grace's effortless stride in her six-inch sling-back, peep-toe Giuseppes. “Just follow and let me lead. I'm going to go in first, and you wait outside the door until I tell you to come in.” That was about all the planning Grace had done. With her relationship with Ethan still in shambles, Grace hadn't put much thought into what she'd say to him, either. Counting on charm and Ethan's loneliness, she hoped that she wouldn't have to say more than “I'm sorry” and “I've brought your beloved to you, so please accept her as a peace offering.” It was slightly selfish, but it was good selfish, since everyone would benefit.

Grace opened the doors of the vestibule that led directly to Ethan's office, and focused her mind on the benefits of her master plan rather than on the screwed-up expression painted on Alice's face. One good slug would've shut her up a long time ago, but out of respect for Ethan, Grace restrained herself by stuffing her fists in her pockets whenever possible. That didn't stop her from throwing any verbal daggers, but this situation was too good for Grace to allow Alice's foolishness and funky attitude to hinder her. Gaining Candace's forgiveness would get Grace in good with God, which in turn would get her in good with Horace.
Real good,
she thought, imagining herself swaddled in his arms, feeling safe and protected by those sculpted biceps and triceps. And her attempt at matchmaker would get Ethan off her back. He'd let her stay at Mount Carmel, and maybe he'd let her off the hook about this Javier Roberts movie thing.

“You cannot walk in there unannounced.” Alice held up her hand. “He's busy.”

“Doing what?” Grace asked, without breaking her stride or taking her eyes off her destination. “His premier client is out here. He can't be that busy in there.”

Before Alice could skirt her desk, Grace opened Ethan's door, shut it behind her, and leaned on it to suppress any attempt at entry Alice might make. Just as she'd thought, Ethan wasn't busy doing a thing except preparing to take a swing at a golf ball. He was so deep in concentration, her presence went undetected. From what she could tell, Ethan wasn't any good. His knees were bent too much, and his feet were too far apart—his stance was awkward and amateurish. Steadying the club in his hands, Ethan twisted to the side and set up a shot that would crack the window to the left of his desk at best but wouldn't make it into the hole in the green felt square in the center of his office.

“What is this? The ninth hole at the Masters?” Her words cracked the air.

Ethan lowered his driver, pivoting slightly in the direction of the voice.

“Alice told me that you were busy. Is this what I have to pay a retainer fee for?” Grace said lightheartedly. It was as she had expected: if she wasn't in some stuff, then Ethan had absolutely nothing to do.

“I am busy, for your information. I'm trying to figure out how to straighten things out with Javier and resuscitate two careers that are about to flatline. If you go down, I'm going down as well. Do you know what he said about you this morning on the
Today Show?
Never mind.” Ethan waved his hand in the air, dismissing his own remarks. “I'm just trying to clear my head.”

“I thought you were supposed to pray when you needed to do that,” Grace returned, stabbing Ethan with his own knife.

“Well, now that you're here, I don't need a miracle from God,” he said, raising the driver and pointing it at Grace. “I just need you to take your butt down to Javier's office and tell him you're ready to begin filming. That's all that I need.” He lowered his club and prepared to swing again. The slim fit of his trousers was stifling his stance.

“Your knees are bent too low, and your feet are too far apart.”

Ethan made the adjustments and took a swing, and the ball rolled into the fake hole.

“Thank you.” He teed up again. “When should I tell Javier you're coming?” He stared up at her innocently as he set the ball on the tee.

“I didn't come here to discuss that. I already told you I'm not interested, and I don't care what that nut is going around saying about me. I don't want to do the film, and you're not going to bully me into doing the film.”

After standing up straight, Ethan stared into her eyes. His brown eyes were full of the power to cut right through Grace's anger and touch her heart. Grace was sure he knew that, which was why he'd decided to begin a staring contest before responding to her statement. Ethan was using his stare like a mallet to tenderize the meat of her heart before squeezing what he wanted out of it.

“Well, what
did
you come here for?” He put the driver aside and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his forest-green slacks, awaiting her response.

“I didn't come to argue with you. I didn't even come to discuss business with you. I come bearing gifts. I got something for you. I got you something that will put you and me in a better head space, and then we can move forward.”

“Move forward?” he huffed. “Grace King, you have a lot of nerve. You don't want to discuss business. I'm your lawyer and your manager. What else do we have to discuss?”

“At one point we were friends,” she wanted to say, but as his countenance had become marred from the pain of what he'd lost after kissing her, she knew it was best not to remind him of what once was.

“Fine. We can talk a little business, but first may I present my gift to you?” Grace said, trying to speed things up.

Grace felt that the longer they spent rehashing their disagreements, the more opportunity Candace had to rethink why she was sitting out there. With each passing minute her newly cultivated confidence might be slowly ebbing away—especially since she was seated out there with Alice, who was probably whispering poison about Grace into Candace's ear. By now she'd probably already slipped her heels out of the backs of the pumps and begun massaging them, and she'd probably entered into a healthy gabfest with Alice that included commentary on Grace's disposition and insatiable appetite for men. Alice had once been quoted in the newspaper as saying that Nelly Furtado's song “Maneater” was inspired by Grace. Grace had to get Candace into this office—and into Ethan's arms—now.

“Business first,” Ethan said, picking up his driver. “I want you at Javier's studio tomorrow morning, before the crack of dawn. I want you there apologizing profusely and claiming that he is nothing short of the next Spielberg. A visionary. Please tell him that he is a visionary and that his debut film is sure to be legendary.” Ethan hit the ball. “Today I want you to set up your next appointment for anger management.”

Grace sucked her teeth.

Ethan looked back at her with his eyebrows huddled together. “Court's orders, or else you can march yourself right on down to jail. Dr. Sternberg is pretty flexible. We may be able to get him to come and make another house call. And then I need you to focus on completing these community service hours.”

Grace drew in both of her cheeks, displeased with Ethan's commands. She tried to conjure up a proposition that would get the movie off the table and her back at Mount Carmel. Candace might not be a big enough bargaining chip. Anger management was doable. Grace had actually experienced some benefit from attending the session the first time, and she wasn't about to give up Horace. He was harder to get into than the White House, but worth the trip.

An electrifying voice was echoing inside of her, yet it was outside of her. Grace looked at Ethan, who had redirected his focus to his miniature green and was taking serious swipes at the ball. Maybe it was Candace who'd asked the question.

Cracking the door slightly, Grace stuck her head through the opening to check on Candace. The scene was completely as she had imagined. Candace's feet were out of those heels, and she was using the carpeting to massage her soles, and Alice was assaulting her eardrums with useless cackling about Grace. She tucked her head back into the confines of Ethan's office and rested against the door. Now more than ever, she wanted to get back to Mount Carmel, lie down on the altar, and perform an exorcism on herself. She was going crazy.

“What about you?” she retorted aloud, hoping that Ethan would engage in a conversation with her and that the voice truly wasn't in her head.

“What?” he asked, squinting at her like she was peering through fog.

Scratching her head, Grace tried to dig her way out of this. “I can't do the movie. I'll go back to anger management, and I'll go back to Mount Carmel, tonight even.”

“You're doing the movie, and you're not going back to Mount Carmel to turn Pastor David into the next preacher scandal. Is that clear?” Ethan commanded, walking over to Grace.

“I'm not doing that movie. I cannot work with Javier. He . . . he . . .” Her chest began to heave as her confession climbed its way up from the dregs of her belly and from the recesses of her mind, and she met head-on the anguish that she'd tried to camouflage with alcohol and drugs.

“He's an idiot. He's a buffoon. A self-absorbed moron whose work is highly overrated,” Ethan said. “However, he has the Midas touch, and every model he works with turns to gold.” He lovingly caressed her cheek. “Grace, we're running out of options, and you've already signed on. I'll be there every step of the way.”

Looking up at the ceiling, avoiding Ethan's powerful gaze, Grace tried to accept his decision without breaking down. “Can I still go to Mount Carmel?”

“No, that's my church, and I won't let you ruin that for me. You already slept with the pastor.”

“Has it occurred to you that he slept with me too? He's not perfect. He's just the servant of a perfect God.”

“Yes, it has,” he said, dropping his voice and turning his back to Grace. “That's why I can't let you go back there. You make him weak, and I can't be the intermediary in this relationship.”

“It's not a relationship. We haven't seen each other in a long time, and our emotions got the best of us both. I won't start anything with him. I promise, Ethan. Let me give you my gift as evidence of my commitment to you.”

“No movie, no gift,” he said.

“Ethan . . . I'll do it.”

He spun around quickly and looked at her.

“Call him and tell him I'll be there with bells on . . .” she said reluctantly. “However”—she stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the telephone—“I'm going back to Mount Carmel, and you have to accept my gift first.”