Seasoned with Grace (19 page)

“I'm working on it, Horace.”

“Stop working and let Him do it,” he said softly, looking up at the ceiling. “I'll see you at the church for dinner tomorrow. Just know that your chocolate drop is expecting an extra serving of mac 'n' cheese and yams.”

“I'll see what I can do.” Grace swiveled around and led Horace to the door.

By the time Grace escorted Horace out and locked the door, Junell had seated herself on Grace's red leather couch and was noshing on slices of provolone cheese and crackers.

“I see you made yourself at home.”

“You have the strangest stuff in your cabinets, girl. If you're trying to keep Horace, you're going to need some meat in that fridge and some meat on your bones,” she said, taking a sip of almond milk.

“Meat on my bones? Junie, what happened to all that ‘I need to read the holy writ' if I want a man like that?”

“That was before I saw him for myself. He is a little banquet for the eyes. Of course you need to get saved. I still stand by that notion, and I don't think you should be doing it for a man. What I do know, though, is if you're going to keep a brother like that, you're going to need something for him to hold on to.”

“I don't believe you. I think you just want me to walk around, waddling alongside you,” Grace said, laughing as she took a seat beside her friend. “What brings you uptown?”

“We're shooting in Central Park, and I was, like, ‘Forget a trailer. I'm going to crash at my girl's house between takes.' If I knew you were holed up with him, I would have waited awhile.”

“It's not what you think. All he did was sip coffee. See?” Grace pointed to the mug Horace had rested on the table near the window.

Junell slapped Grace on the thigh. “Well, since we're both not getting any, we're in the same boat. Patrick won't touch me with a baby in the belly. What else has been going on?”

“My plan to get Ethan and his girlfriend back together worked out. Javier Roberts wants to sue me blind if I don't do his ridiculous film—”

“Wait. What is the deal between you two? I really don't get why you don't want to do the film. He's supposed to be the next Lee Daniels, and you know what that means. Oscar buzz.”

Grace massaged her face with the palms of both hands. She'd been friends with Junell for a long time now, but it was highly unlikely that Junell would believe Javier had raped her and was now casting her in a movie that depicted said rape. It definitely sounded like a great plotline for a movie, but it didn't sound plausible, Grace reckoned.

“I've run out of good excuses for not filming. I report to the set at the end of the week.” Grace used one of her hands to support her head. “Actually, I've got to read through this script a few times if I'm going to be ready by Friday.”

“Want my help?”

“No, thank you, Junie. I just need some peace and quiet to get into this role.”

“Chamomile tea always helps me transition from Junell Pierce to Detective Agnes Base. I'm going to waddle out of your way. Call me if you need me. I'll be shooting in the park for the next three days. Don't move. I'll let myself out, and I'll tell that doorman to stop playing with me.”

Grace laughed. “Arnie is innocent. Be nice to him.”

Junell let herself out, leaving Grace alone with her thoughts. She walked up the steps to her bedroom and pulled out the fresh copy of the script that Ethan promptly had delivered as soon as Grace agreed to have a sit-down with Javier. He must have done it before he headed out to dinner with Candace. After grabbing the script, Grace sat down with her legs folded on the edge of her queen-size bed. She ran her hand along the cover page a few times. She felt light-headed before she even opened the script. Her mouth began to feel prickly, and the stench of Javier's breath filled the room as she cradled the script. She vaulted off the bed, pelted down the steps, and ran into the kitchen and grabbed the one thing that always drove the bad memories away—whiskey.

Her right hand shook as she poured the first glass. After two sips, she checked her hand, which was still shaking. She refilled her glass tumbler and downed the whole thing. Her right hand was still shaking, and she could feel a twinge in her left hand. She put the bottle on the counter and grabbed her wrist to control the shaking.

“Is that you, God?” she shouted, looking up at the ceiling. “Is it really you? Why don't you reach for me? Where were you when I needed you the most?”

“I suppose you would say that, but I don't have any use for a God who says He's always here but hasn't shown up.” She growled at the air, then snatched the bottle of whiskey off the counter and poured it directly into her mouth. “I almost thought I could trust you again. I prayed for you to take away the pain.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Whiskey always dulls the pain of unanswered prayers.”

Grace awoke to a shadowy figure standing over her bed, clapping his hands and shouting, “Lights, Camera. Action. Let's go. Today is the day you become a star.”

Raising her head slightly, Grace looked out the corner of her eye and shooed the figure away. “I don't want to be a star,” she said, burying her head deeply in her pillow. She hated when her dreams were all animated and lifelike. Now was not the time for that. She needed at least three more hours of sleep to shake off her hangover.

“They don't give out stars on the Walk of Fame for sleeping or being tardy,” the figure said, snatching the sheet off Grace and tossing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt at her.

Grace sat up and massaged the corners of her eyes and tried to make out the identity of the blur of brown standing before her. She saw dark brown pants. Her eyes scrolled up, and she noticed that a simple Ferragamo belt accented the waist and kept a freshly dry-cleaned navy blue button-down in place. A matching dark brown blazer covered the frame of the figure standing before her.

“Grace Terisha King, I'm going to need you to get out of bed and move. You skipped anger management yesterday, and I'm not going for your games today.”

Finally it clicked. The brown blob standing before her was Ethan. “Don't ever wear this god-awful color combination again. How'd you get in here?” she said, massaging her aching temples. “I thought I took the spare key from you.”

“Correction. I returned the spare key, and after the last alcohol-induced coma debacle, I took the liberty of securing another spare key once your door was repaired. It was, and clearly still is, in your best interest.”

“I'm not a baby, Ethan.”

“Then dress yourself and make sure you brush your teeth. I'll make you some coffee. I need you ready to roll out. I promised Javier I'd have you on the set by nine thirty.”

 

 

Grace coasted through hair and makeup on autopilot. She didn't blink or speak to a single person on the set; she just stood as still as a mannequin while being prepped to be raped on-screen. It didn't make a bit of sense, but this was what she'd signed up for. It had occurred to her that she could just walk off the set. People already thought she was a basket case; she didn't have a reputation to lose. At the same time, her future and Ethan's rested on the completion of this film. Javier Roberts was promising them fortunes untold and Oscar nominations at a minimum. There was no way she could forfeit the opportunity to be in the same league as Halle, Lupita, and Jennifer Hudson. This would be her chance to show her father and all those people who said she was nothing but a whore that she was more. That line of thinking would have helped her if wounds weren't still raw.

When the stylist tapped her shoulder, the bristles of the brush collided with skin, causing her to cringe. The rough texture of the bristles reminded her of Javier's coarse, dry hands prowling her body. One of the runners handed her a steaming cup of kombucha, while others directed her to the set.

“You can't have the tea on the set with you,” Javier said sternly when she got to the set.

Grace looked at her hand and then placed the cup on the floor, next to the wooden legs of the director's chair. Javier was already in position behind the camera. For this scene he was both the director and the perpetrator.

“Remove the shoes and undo a few buttons on that shirt. Your hair is shouting innocent, and I need your body to sing a siren song on camera. You have to be vulnerable and desirable in this scene.”

Following his commands, Grace stepped out of the slippers she was wearing and opened the first three buttons of the oversize men's button-down shirt she was wearing. She dipped the tip of her toe onto the institutional white tiles on the floor of the set, like she was testing the temperature of the water before jumping into a pool. She snatched her foot back and looked around the set. The walls were pristine white, like they were that night. The noise embargo that Javier had issued gave them the appearance of privacy, but when she looked out the corner of her eye, she saw that the boomer was there, holding the mic, and the cameraman had one eye glued to the camera and was signaling for Grace to hurry up and get on the set.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen. Lights, camera, action,” Javier Roberts commanded.

In a trancelike state Grace stepped onto the set, then took long, lethargic steps toward the couch in the center of the room. She slowly sat down. Arching her back, she rested on an elbow and let her legs, which were wrapped around each other like twisted tree branches, dangle off the couch. She rattled off her lines as quickly as she could and took short, quick breaths between lines, trying to keep her breakfast down. It worked until Javier touched her. He placed his fingertips on her wrists, and his coarse fingers scorched her skin. The pain of his touch coursed through her veins, and memories of the past mixed with the present.

Grace shouted, “Please. Please don't do this to me. Please. I don't want to go through this.”

“Cut!” Javier screamed over the pleas and dribble-filled cries.

The room spun dangerously out of control for Grace. Before she could contain them, her coffee, bran muffin, and a spot of kombucha were on the floor. Javier let go of her wrists and helped her to her feet.

“I'm sorry,” Grace said, wiping the corner of her mouth with the collar of the shirt.

“You need to take five?” Javier reached for her arm, and Grace stepped back on her wobbly legs.

“Don't you dare touch me,” she muttered under her breath.

Grace headed back to her trailer, which was parked just outside the studio, on Tenth Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street. Once she arrived at her trailer and stepped inside, the first thing Grace saw was her reflection in the mirror over the vanity table. When she looked at herself, she saw beneath the M•A•C foundation and concealer and noticed the soft sparkle that the orange button-down created against her skin. The image in the mirror was a fractured and fatal version of herself. She was hollow and dry. The prickles of a cactus were softer than Grace right now.

Picking up the vase that decorated the table beside her, she heaved it at the mirror in an attempt to stop the hollowing-out process unfolding before her eyes. This film was sucking the life out of her. She dragged herself to the vanity and took a seat in front of the mirror. She rubbed the palms of her hands together and pushed back her face and looked in the mirror. Javier's sharp eyes met hers in one of the distorted pieces of the cracked glass in the mirror. She hadn't noticed when he walked in.

He closed the door of her trailer behind him and rested his palm on the frame of the door for a moment. He walked over to her in silence and stood behind her seat at the vanity. He placed his hands on her shoulders, and she squirmed beneath his heavy hands like a fish out of water. A sharp and vicious look clouded his eyes.

“Why are you doing this, Javier?” Grace asked.

“I came to check on you, dear. I've already told hair, makeup, and wardrobe that you'll need to be touched up and to change your clothes.”

Grace twisted partially in her chair and faced Javier. “You know what I mean. Why are you making this film?”

“America loves these kinds of stories. They love the embattled hero who defeats the villain. They long for the moment when the pigs outsmart the wolf. Danger and redemption mixed together is so classic. It's a pity you were never able to outsmart the wolf or slay the dragon, but this picture will change that.” Javier cupped Grace's rounded chin. “You should be grateful I threw you this bone. My work has laid the foundation for you, and now I'm setting the stage for you.” Releasing her chin, he twisted Grace's body so that she faced straight ahead.

Grace's cheeks expanded as she held back another round of vomit, induced by being in close proximity with Javier.

Working from the center part of Grace's fluffy jet-black wig, Javier ran the palms of his hands down the sides of her head. “What I want you to do now is gather yourself. I knew this scene might be a tad bit difficult for you, so I've got something to take the edge off.” Javier dug his fingers into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small key. Bending over slightly, he unlocked the cabinet in the vanity to reveal a drawer stocked with some of Grace's favorites—whiskey, Jägermeister, and marijuana. The urge to pour a drink seized her, and she reached around him and pulled out the Jägermeister.

“Now, you take a few sips and smoke a couple of joints and relax,” Javier said, patting her lap before walking out.

 

 

“Grace King, open this door,” Ethan commanded, jiggling the knob on the door of her trailer. “The knob is twisting, but the door isn't opening,” he said over his shoulder to Javier. “Why don't you get a crowbar or something and pop this door open, instead of standing over my shoulder, yapping about lost time and money wasted?”

Ethan didn't usually snap on sets, but something about this film wasn't right. Lately Grace had been acting more erratic than she usually did. He couldn't believe he'd fallen for Javier's fortune and fame speech. Now his client and closest friend was unresponsive on the other side of a locked door. The Bible verse of the day came to mind.
For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

The events of the past few weeks unfolded before him. Each nasty word and threatening tone was magnified before his eyes one blink at a time, like he was viewing his life through a child's viewfinder. Frame by frame, he saw his own growing obsession with the successful career he envisioned for himself, which had caused him to dismantle his greatest career achievement—his work for the Kingdom. A whiny client wasn't on the other side of the door; a soul precious in the sight of God was locked in the trailer. Ignoring the commotion surrounding him, Ethan called on his Father for help.

“Father God, please forgive my absentmindedness. Please forgive me for neglecting the call and not acknowledging my true profession. As a lawyer, you have positioned me in the same place as your dear Son. I am supposed to serve as an advocate and mediator, and to help those who need to reconcile their relationship with you. Please, God, restore my faith, and focus and order my steps, Lord, in Jesus's name. Amen.”

Ethan stood in front of the door with his hand on the knob, waiting for specific instructions from God. He turned the knob slightly and pushed the door.

He pushed it again and could see strands of black hair caught beneath the door.

“Grace.”

She moaned in response to his call. He pushed the door again, this time using his body weight. As he pushed, Grace's skin squeaked as she skidded across the tiles of her trailer. Once the opening was large enough for Ethan to wiggle through, he eased into the trailer. He checked her vitals. Her breath was flat. Then he checked the surrounding area for the culprit in this escapade. An empty bottle of Jägermeister was at her feet, and an overturned bottle of whiskey was near her right hand and quickly spilling. He detected a hint of marijuana in the air.

Ethan swallowed hard and rammed his fist into the wall of the trailer to suppress the anger welling up in him. He could feel a good lecture mounting in him, but the grace of God was greater than all the words he could speak to her right now.

“What's going on in there?” Javier asked, poking his head in the cracked door.

“My client is leaving this set,” Ethan told Javier while swooping down to pick Grace up.

“For how long?”

“Do you see the condition she's in?” he snarled. “She's leaving this set indefinitely—until I get to the bottom of what is really going on here, Mr. Roberts.”

Ethan kicked the door back with his foot and charged down the steps.

“What do you mean, indefinitely?”

“I mean I don't care more about you or all the riches in the world than I do about Grace's well-being, and I will not compromise her to fulfill your lust and my thirst for success. Believe me, Mr. Javier Roberts, I will get to the bottom of this. I'm going to find out why your film has Grace over the edge, and when I do, you better have an excellent lawyer sitting next to you when I call you on the phone.”

Ethan didn't wait for Javier's response. He bumped Javier out of the way, using Grace's legs to bat him back. He dived into the car he'd rented for her, and took her back home. On the drive back uptown, he texted Candace for some more hangover soup and Junell for moral support for Grace.

“Driver, please pull into the garage. I don't want anyone to see her like this.”

“Understood, Mr. Summerville.”

As planned, they coasted into the garage, while the paparazzi waited in two separate huddles. One group stood near the subway station, because Grace was notorious for taking public transportation, and the other group was perched a few feet away from the glass and gold doorway of Grace's high-rise building. Just in case there was a paparazzo lurking in the garage, Ethan removed the dark chocolate brown blazer that Grace had ripped into him for wearing and used it as a shield for her face.

He carried her through the garage and took the service elevator up to her unit. Grace moaned and mumbled gibberish in Ethan's arms. He responded to the statements he understood. Ethan was at a loss for words as she mumbled over and over about the Big Bad Wolf being after her.

“There's no wolf here,” he said, once they were safely inside her condo. He removed the blazer from her head. “We're in your condo, Grace.” Ethan laid her on the couch. “Look, Grace, you're home. Everything is going to be fine.”