Seasoned with Grace (9 page)

“It sure smells good over there,” he said in a polished tone, his voice brimming with appreciation, which contrasted with his jaded look.

This must be his courtroom voice,
she thought while she minced garlic. “Ethan, can you get me a pot cover from the cupboard, please?”

Hopping to his feet, Ethan shuffled into the kitchen. After vigorously scrubbing his hands like he was an extra on
Grey's Anatomy,
he rummaged through the cabinets and pulled out a lid.

He lingered by the cabinets for a moment. Candace could feel him appraising her body with his eyes. His observation and silent admiration began at the nape of her neck, then twisted and turned with every dip and curve. Candace felt slightly awkward and aroused at the same time. She wanted to turn around and accost him with kisses, but she was still a little nervous about touching and kissing him.

Even though they had seen each other every day since they'd met, and had confirmed that they were officially dating during brunch on Sunday, they had not discussed how to handle physical affection. Candace didn't want to come off as one of those counterfeit Christians who were decked out in modest apparel and toted a Bible, but were willing to strip out of those clothes as quickly as they quoted scripture. Twisting her head slightly, she peered at Ethan over her shoulder. This moment was a slippery slope they were about to slide down.

She could tell by the way that Ethan's shoulders slouched that his spirits were down and that he could use a little physical comfort right now, as he was possibly thinking about all the negative publicity this situation with Grace was going to bring. Then he'd have to deal with the impact it would have on Grace's current probation violation. Even a small touch seemed like it would help make this situation positive. Getting physical under distress could also lead to some spiritual unrest, and Candace was done dancing with the devil when it came to lust in her flesh.

As she contemplated the spiritual ramifications that could come from being in such close quarters, Ethan groaned behind her.

“It smells good, right?” she asked purposefully to snap him out of his trance. Not only had his desires carried his mind and eyes away, but they had also somehow transported him to a spot only a few inches away from her. “It smells good, right?” she repeated.

Ethan inhaled deeply. Candace smiled. Her mom was right, as usual. The scent of jasmine and wild berries was a delicate and powerful combination that could bring any man to his knees.

“I don't think that's the soup. I think that's you,” he said softly.

“Mr. Summerville, I do believe you're being a little fresh.”

“I believe you're correct.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her away from the stove. “Are there any objections?”

Candace giggled and leaned back just enough so that their bodies collided.

The aroma of bacon, potatoes, and tomatoes demanded that Grace come downstairs. She applied some BB cream to cover up the cracks on her splotchy skin and dabbed on a cranberry lip stain.
How sweet of Ethan to send someone to cook for me.

Grace dashed from her bedroom to the staircase just in time to catch what had to be by far the most passionate kiss Candace and Ethan had exchanged yet. Their bodies curved into each other, and Candace's back was pressed against the granite countertop. The ladle for the soup dangled from the tips of her fingers. She clutched Ethan as if he were the last man on earth. The heat that emanated from their kiss was greater than the crackle and hiss of the burner beneath the soup, which was now boiling over. Grace's stomach filled with a churning sensation. The contents of her stomach had already been emptied twice, so all that came out was a hacking sound, coupled by a dry heave. It was still dramatic enough to produce the effect that she wanted.

Out of either embarrassment or shame—Grace couldn't tell from her position on the steps—Candace broke from Ethan's firm grip and went back to stirring the soup. Ethan met Grace at the bottom of the stairs.

“Are you okay?” Ethan asked softly as his eyes scanned her face, assessing her well-being.

Grace turned her lips down to form a sultry pout. “No. I think I need to rest,” she whimpered, shifting her gaze toward the kitchen.

“Candace, can I speak to you for a moment?” Ethan calmly requested, walking toward Candace. He'd picked up on the hint that Grace had dropped with her eyes. Ethan whispered into Candace's ear, offering her praise and thanks and promises of alone time soon to come before dismissing her.

“Thank you for everything,” Grace called out, waving at Candace from the steps as she prepared to leave. A tinge of remorse plucked at Grace's heart as Candace exited, but she refused to give up the one good thing she had going in her life.

Ethan made his way back to Grace and sat down beside her at the foot of the staircase. She rested her head on his shoulder. Voluminous clouds floated past her window. Grace wished she could just jump out her window and ride the wave of clouds until the end of time.

“I know you told Candace that you didn't want to go to the hospital, but I think you should,” Ethan insisted, breaching the calm that was slowly taking over Grace.

She shook her head sheepishly, like a coy little girl. “Ethan, do you know how many times I've had alcohol poisoning or ingested too many pills?”

Ethan shrugged his shoulders. “I lost count after my first two years of working with you.”

“All they're going to do is pump my stomach, hook me up to an IV, and get on my nerves. I've already thrown up multiple times. I'm good.”

Ethan brushed one of her stray strands of hair out her eyes and turned Grace's face toward his by gently nudging her chin.

Staring directly into his eyes, Grace felt naked. She squirmed on the edge of the step, prepping herself for the sermon that was bound to follow his direct stare and his gentle stroking of her hair.

“What in the world happened here?” Ethan asked in an accusatory tone, pointing to the mess that was still on her living room floor.

“I've got a little history with Javier Roberts—”

“I know that story already, Grace. He discovered you and photographed you exclusively for about five years, more or less.”

“There are things about our relationship that neither you nor anyone else in this world knows about.”

Ethan sighed and clutched his forehead. “Is this going to be a problem when it comes to filming? I hope not. I can call Javier and smooth things over, hopefully.” Ethan walked to the window and planted his feet shoulder width apart and continued speaking to Grace with his back to her. “This is a big deal, Grace. Javier fought for you to have this role. Right now he's the only person in the western hemisphere who is willing to take a risk on you. He said that only you could portray the soul of this character. Do you think you can do it?”

Grace rocked back and forth on the steps. Of course she could bring this character to life—this character was her—but she didn't want to. She'd lived enough of her pain in the public's eye on Front Street, Broad Street, and Main Street. This film was where she drew the line.

“Did you hear me?”

“No. I cannot do this role. I can't.” She rose to her feet, using the banister to support her still weak legs.

“You can.” Ethan turned to face her. “You can.” He repeated these words until they were face-to-face again. “Javier believes in you, and so do I. Let me get back to the office and try to smooth things out, since you missed an important preproduction meeting and screen test.”

Grace grabbed Ethan's arms. “Please don't leave me here alone, Ethan.”

“One of us has to do damage control. Stay here. Get yourself together, and I'll see you in the morning.” He kissed her on the cheek and patted her hand softly before departing, leaving Grace alone with her guts on the floor.

“Arnie, I did not call for a doctor. Don't let him up here,” Grace said, holding her forehead.

“He says his name is Dr. Sternberg, and Mr. Summerville sent him here.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “You know, I'm not in the mood for this,” she grumbled half to herself.

“Listen, Ms. King,” Arnie said in a whisper as he leaned in close to the intercom's camera. His forehead glistened like a full moon in the camera shot, and his earnest emerald-green eyes demanded Grace's full attention. “I don't know what the deal is with this doctor, but he's on his cell, telling his secretary to get Summerville on the phone, because he's getting paid regardless. Just let him up. What's the worst that could happen?”

“Go ahead and send him up.”

Grace changed out of her pink cotton nightgown and into a pair of turquoise yoga pants and a black racerback tank in an attempt to make it look like she was returning to normalcy. Her fridge was still pretty naked, except for the leftovers of the magical soup Candace had whipped up the night before. Grace was pretty sure it was a homemade hangover cure, but she put it on top of the burner, anyway. By the time Dr. Sternberg reached Grace's unit, the air was filled with the robust aroma of bacon and potato soup, and Grace had managed to paint a little happiness on her face. She jerked the door open and drew it back until the hinges halted her.

“Hello,” Dr. Sternberg said. “I heard that you had an episode.”

“You've got some good sources, Doc. However, I'd rather not make it public knowledge. You can come inside if you'd like.”

Doctor Sternberg took small, measured steps through Grace's doorway and into her condo. He looked at the couch, the stools in the kitchen, and then back at Grace.

“Doc, what were you expecting? The presidential welcome? This is my home. When I worked, I was barely here between gigs, and after each gig I went to the party to celebrate the gig, and then to the party after the party. I told you I need to redecorate.” Grace smiled, recalling their first meeting.
It's not that bad
, she thought. Still, she wasn't about to divulge all her business to some stranger. “You've got two choices, the couch or the stools. What's it going to be?” she asked, walking to the kitchen to check on the soup, which was now bubbling on the burner.

Doctor Sternberg chose the stool. He arranged himself on top, removed his tablet from his satchel, and unbuttoned his moss-colored topcoat. “Is there some place I can hang this?”

“Give it here.” Grace extended her arm across the top of the island. “You want some soup, Doc?”

“Sure. Why not?” Dr. Sternberg handed her his coat. “This story will be great to tell my grandkids. Supermodel Grace King served me soup in her condo.”

Grace tossed Dr. Sternberg's coat in the skinny closet near her front door and returned to the kitchen. She scooped up a serving of soup for herself and Dr. Sternberg into two Aztec-themed bowls. Grace slid the doctor's bowl and a spoon over to him and then left the kitchen and trekked across the expansive living room floor. She took a seat on the couch and folded her legs beneath her. She blew into the bowl and peered up and down at Dr. Sternberg. They both ate their soup in silence for a few minutes.

“Are these red potatoes or russet? They really hold the flavor well.”

Grace shrugged. “I don't know. I don't cook. Let's cut to the chase, Doc. Ethan called you and told you what happened, and now you're here to give me something to keep me calm. I'm not a fan of antidepressants, but I could really go for a little Prozac right about now.”

“I'm not that kind of doctor,” he said and took another spoonful of soup. “I don't medicate my patients. I use psychotherapy to treat my patients.”

“Psychotherapy? I ain't crazy.”

Grace stood up and walked over to the island. She placed her bowl on the counter, stood beside him, and stared at him. This might have been only their second meeting, but she hoped that he could tell that she wasn't crazy.
Injured. Bruised. Disgruntled.
Those were a few of the adjectives that Grace would openly admit were applicable to her, but she didn't believe she was psycho. His silence made Grace tremble a little.

“Can you really label me as crazy after meeting with me formally only once and having a bowl of soup?”

Dr. Sternberg's eyes traveled from his soup bowl to Grace's face. His eggshell-colored skin warmed up a bit as his lips formed a smile. “Grace, undergoing psychotherapy doesn't mean you're crazy. I think you should start cooking. It is said to be very relaxing.”

“So is Prozac.” She chuckled.

“I don't believe in slapping a fresh coat of paint on a dirty wall to hide the dirt. That's what medication does. It masks the wound and clouds the mind. I try to treat the mind by getting to the root of the problem and providing you with techniques to deal with the issue.”

“What would you like to drink? Coffee, water, or wine?”

The doctor's eyebrows met in the center of his forehead.

“I know there's not a lot of variety there, but I'm all out of whiskey,” she added.

“Water is fine,” the doctor replied, swiping the screen of his tablet.

Grace filled a wine goblet to the brim with purified water and handed it to the doctor. She remained on the opposite side of the island. “What kind of treatment are we talking about? I'm not checking into any facility or rehab center. I'm telling you that now, and you can tell Ethan I said that. He thinks he's pretty smart, sending you here, but I'm not going to allow you all to manipulate me and control my life.”

“You'd rather alcohol and drugs control your life.”

Grace bent over and rested her elbows on the island. “They don't control me. When I need a break from things, then I have a drink or two. They don't control me,” she said, pointing at Dr. Sternberg. “Whoever your source is got that part screwed up.”

“Close your eyes.”

“I'm not in the mood for your little games.”

“Close your eyes.”

Grace gave in to the doctor's command. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back.

“I'm going to tell you what I heard, and I want you to tell me what the controlling agent was in each situation. A model slugged a reality television star in a nightclub. It was reported that at the time of her arrest, the model's blood alcohol level was point-forty-nine, and the legal limit is point-zero-eight. Who was in control?”

“Doc, I was angry. She was in my date's face, and I had just finished working a photo shoot where all the shoes were a full size too small. When was the last time you posed for six hours in six-inch heels that were too small?”

“A model was found semiconscious in her condo, lying in a pile of her vomit and surrounded by empty bottles of liquor.”

The stiffness Grace felt in her backbone and the remnants of her recollection of those events gathered together and propelled Grace's head forward. With her eyes wide open, she said, “You think you know so much just because of those two little letters in front of your name.” She covered her mouth and nose with one of her hands and inhaled and exhaled into her palm. “But you don't know me, and you don't know my story. Yeah, I get a little upset from time to time and like to deal with it by getting inebriated. Sometimes my plan doesn't work and people get hurt, and sometimes my plan works and I am able to forget what happened.”

“Temporary amnesia induced by alcohol is not the answer for anger and whatever else you are holding on to.” Dr. Sternberg took a sip of water from his goblet. “Forgetting your problems is not the solution to your problems.”

“What do you propose?” Grace stood up straight, with her hands on her hips. “Ethan wants me to pray about everything, but I know Jesus ain't checking for me, and I'm not all that interested in Him, either. Haven't you ever been so angry that you just wanted to forget it all?”

“Yes, I have.” Dr. Sternberg took a long gulp from his goblet. “After I published my first book,
What the You Inside of You Wants to Do,
my wife left me. She took everything. My money, my children, and my Rolling Stones record collection.”

Grace stomped her feet. “Not the Rolling Stones. You sure you don't want any wine to go with this story? I know I have a little Moscato around here somewhere,” she said, smiling.

Dr. Sternberg wiped the tip of his nose a couple of times and looked around the room before answering Grace. “No thank you. I once lived there in that fight, drink, forget zone. I fought everyone and everything I knew, including my home. At the end of my first month without her, every wall in my apartment had a hole in it, and I couldn't even recall how that had happened. At that point I began to meditate. I fasted for an entire week. By the end of the week I was able to see my role in the situation. I didn't want to forget anymore. I needed to remember so that it would never happen again.”

Grace could feel her fine features drawing together to form a fierce scowl. “Fasting is a part of psychotherapy? I can't.” She waved her hands in the air. “I can't do it.”

Dr. Sternberg rose to his feet and walked over to Grace's side of the island. “I am going to touch you, Grace. Do I have your permission to do so?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Sternberg gathered Grace's hands and pressed her palms together. “You don't have to fast. That was a part of my personal process. The process toward healing and wholeness is different for each one of us, but let's start with something simple that you can do with or without me.”

“The last time you said we were going to do a simple exercise, I was dang near ready to jump out the window, Doc.”

“I promise this is going to be simple. I want you to look down at your hands and explain to me how you feel physically when you get angry.”

Grace followed Dr. Sternberg's instructions and shifted her gaze from his stark blue eyes to her hands. “My chest begins to tighten.” Grace began to separate her palms. Dr. Sternberg pressed them back together.

“Continue,” he said.

“My chest begins to tighten. I begin to sweat, and it becomes very difficult for me to hear. It's like I'm not . . .” She attempted to separate her hands again, and Dr. Sternberg held them together. “I am not a part of myself. I am a whole other entity when I get angry.”

“I want you to focus on not allowing the anger to separate Grace from Grace. If it's possible at that moment to change your environment, do so immediately, and return when you come back to yourself.”

“I'm supposed to just up and walk away while I'm arguing with someone?” Grace asked, attempting to separate her hands again.

“Your hands are getting warm and moist,” Dr. Sternberg said. “That means you're beginning to get angry or frustrated, because you can't do what you want right now. Right now that loss of power is frustrating you, and you're ready to reclaim your power. Walking away is how you reclaim it. Every question doesn't have to be answered, and every point doesn't have to be countered, and when it's impossible for you to walk away, I want you to bring your hands together just like this.” Dr. Sternberg held her hands up. “Your palms are you. When you feel that separation process beginning, I want you to force your hands to remain joined together, even if you have to interlock your fingers. Take deep cleansing breaths in through your nostrils and out through your mouth, and expel the anger. Refocus your energy on maintaining Grace, not lashing out.”

“Do you know what you're asking me to do?”

“Yes, I know what I'm asking you to do. Do you?”