Seasoned with Grace (13 page)

Grace scurried out of the coffee shop and across Eighth Avenue as quickly as she could in her wedges. She never looked back. She knew Junell well enough to know she would follow her out of the restaurant and would go to extreme lengths to right every wrong. Grace didn't want any of her apologies right now; she wanted to slap the mess out of her best friend for being more concerned about who was around them than what was going on with Grace.
She done got all Hollywood on me
, Grace thought. She slapped her hand against her thigh at the realization that she might be in danger of losing her friend to her newfound success on television, and then there was the baby on the way.

As she waited for the light to change at the next corner, Grace felt the soft vibration of her cell phone against her thigh. Her heart contracted a bit with the hope that it was Horace calling or texting to check on her. Ignoring the traffic light, Grace broke one of the cardinal sins in New York—do not block traffic. She tuned out the insults flung at her from those who had to walk around her and withdrew her phone from her pocket.

Grace's heart plummeted. Two things were wrong. Ethan was in the office on a Saturday, and he was texting. It was never a good sign when Ethan wanted to see her ASAP or resorted to texting. Ethan was a little old school and still relied on having actual conversations with people to get his point across. One hundred forty characters was just not enough for him to say anything meaningful. Secretly, Grace loved that about him. She dangled her long arm in the air, trying to summon a cab, as she tallied up her recent offenses—kissed Ethan, got into a minor tiff with the pastor of Ethan's church, and ran off with Horace, a member of that church. She left getting slapped by Candace off the list. After all, for once, she hadn't been the antagonist. Grace preferred not to recall that moment and thanked God no one had recorded it.

After several minutes of arm waving and shouting at the cabs that passed her by despite appearing empty, a cab pulled up in front of her. It was one of the more spacious ones for families and the handicapped. As Grace leaned in to open the door, the window in the rear rolled down and Horace poked his head out and warmly asked, “Are you going my way?”

Blushing, Grace pulled back her hand. “That depends on where you're going,” she said flirtatiously. She never flirted; she simply said, “I want you,” and sealed the deal. She looked at Horace's plump lips and his crooked front tooth and wondered what had happened. Grace couldn't believe how flirtatious Horace made her feel.

“Well, hop in, Grace King. I'll take you wherever you want to go.” He flung the door open and scooted over so that Grace could get inside. “Where to, my lady?” Horace asked as soon as she had climbed in and pulled the door shut.

“Fiftieth and Eighth Avenue,” Grace replied.

“Did you hear that, driver?” Horace tapped on the back of the seat in front of him. “Drop the lady off at Fiftieth and Eighth.” Horace reclined in the seat and extended his arms across the back, slightly grazing Grace's arm with his fingertips. “Where are you off to, Ms. Grace?”

“Me? Where are you going in a cab?”

“Listen, us po' folks got to get around too, you know,” he said sarcastically, looking away from her.

“I—I didn't mean it like that.”

“I'm not really sure what you meant, and I don't know if I care to know. What I do know is that you don't know me, so you should think twice before you judge me,” he replied, staring out the window.

“Horace.”

Horace turned to face Grace. His pronounced nose was slightly wrinkled, his mouth was curled into a frown, and yet the exquisiteness of his face took her aback. She wanted to plant kisses all over his warm brown face until a smile resurfaced. Reaching for him, Grace rested her hand on his thigh and began again.

“Horace, I'm sorry, but—”

“There are no buts when you're sorry. Either you are or you aren't,” he said firmly, folding his hands across his chest and cocking his legs open a little wider, knocking her hand from its position on his thigh. “I think this is your stop.”

The cab pulled to a full stop at the corner of Eighth Avenue and Fiftieth Street. Horace opened the door and exited the cab, allowing Grace to exit on his side.

Grace took that to mean she still had a chance—however slim—considering the fact that he hadn't allowed her to open the door and step into oncoming traffic.

“Horace.” She breathed his name slowly, staring into his eyes. She wanted to see what happened when she said his name. Then she would know where she stood with him.

His eyes flickered, and his eyebrows arched at the sound of her voice. Yet he did not respond to her. Then, reclaiming his spot in the cab, he called to her through the cracked window. “Top model, meet me at Chocolat at nine.”

Grace headed to Ethan's office and was all smiles as she pushed Ethan's door open. “What's up, Ethan? You said you needed to see me ASAP.”

Ethan looked up from the papers on his desk. Another crease surfaced on his forehead, adding to the other two on his brow. He stuck the cap of his pen in his mouth and sucked on it for a moment.

“Just spit it out, man,” Grace commanded as she approached his desk. She casually rested her bowling bag tote on his desk, taking over his space. Based on the look on his face, nothing good was going to come from this meeting, and she didn't want to waste her time on dramatics. Ethan had a flair for them.

Ethan removed the pen cap from his mouth and held up two fingers. “Two things,” he said, then took a dramatic pause. “One, your time at Mount Carmel is up.” He lowered one of his fingers. “Two, if you don't get your butt on the set of that film, Javier is going to sue you blind.”

“For what?” Grace flung her hands in the air.

“We went over this already. Breach of contract, loss of profits, and some other crap.” Ethan sat up and waited for Grace to concede.

Twisting her mouth to the side, Grace said, “I don't know how we're going to work that out.” Grace did not want to be sued. She couldn't afford any more negative press, nor could she afford any of the checks she'd have to write to the firm and to Javier if he won the lawsuit. She tapped her foot lightly as she moved on to the other issue Ethan had laid out—Mount Carmel. “The last time I checked, I am nowhere near the hours mandated by the judge. One year is three hundred and sixty-five days.”

“You let me worry about the judge. I'll have you at a new placement before the week is out.”

Grace swallowed hard and chewed on a small slice of regret. She had dived headfirst into the industry, and not only had she neglected to finish high school, but she'd also granted the firm power of attorney, and that allowed Ethan to make every decision for her, including where she would do her time. Grace tried to conceive an eloquent speech that would make Ethan aware that she was no longer willing to allow people who didn't clean the toilet after she sat on it to make decisions for her.

“I don't want to go anywhere else. Are you trying to protect David too?” she asked, a rough grimace emerging as she recalled how Ethan had flown down the aisle, prepped to accuse her of bringing about the downfall of the church.

“This isn't about Pastor David. Why do you care, anyway? The last time I checked, you were protesting about setting foot in a church.” He tapped his pen lightly against the desk, shifted his gaze from Grace, and stared at the papers on his desk. A look of fierce concentration consumed his face.

Sensing that an argument was brewing in his head, Grace grabbed the handles of her bag and scooped it up. She was trying to flee the scene while Ethan categorized his thoughts to determine whether there was evidence that this was about Pastor David or an assumption. “I want to stay there, and that's it,” she said matter-of-factly, pivoting on her heels to leave. Her hope was to clear the doorway before Ethan launched into his attack.

Ethan lurched forward before she made it to the door. “This is about your knight in shining armor, isn't it?” he asked loudly.

Grace did an about-face and zoomed back to Ethan's desk. “Are you serious?” she asked, leaning in over the desk. “I don't need anybody to protect me. I know how to put my foot up someone's behind and how to put it down when necessary.” She snickered, looking Ethan up and down. “I know what this is about. This is about that kiss, isn't it?”

Ethan rose from behind his desk, walked around to the front of it, and stood next to Grace. He grabbed her hand and rubbed the back of it while staring deeply into her eyes. “I don't blame you for that, Grace. We crossed all kinds of lines that we shouldn't have a long time ago, and things really just got out of control. I'm sorry,” he said, still caressing her hand. “I shouldn't have let that happen.”

His apology seemed genuine, and the worry painted on his eyes gave away how conflicted he felt. He'd given in to his flesh and lost both Grace and Candace. The thought made even Grace feel sorry for him. For the first time since she'd met Ethan, he had broken from the script and had decided to ad-lib, and it had resulted in disaster. She wished they had acted on the desire and chemistry between them before falling in love with other people.

“I'm sorry too, Ethan.” She withdrew her hand from his palms and straightened the knot on his lavender and gray silk blend tie. Grace was sorry she wasn't the simple client who just booked jobs and didn't start bar fights. She wanted to be better but didn't know where to begin. “I'm going to fix this—for you.” She laid the tie back down against Ethan's chest and stroked it softly, then looked up at him. “For us.”

Showing up early wasn't typical behavior for Grace, but she wanted to make a great impression on Horace. Grace asked the hostess to seat her while she waited for Horace to arrive. After slathering on a dollop of matte fuchsia lipstick, Grace used the camera on her iPhone to check her face. She dabbed some stray mascara away with her finger and covered the spot with a pinch of concealer. She tousled the front of her spiked-up hair a bit. Her face was beat, her hair was laid, and thanks to the courtesy waist trainer she'd received in the mail, her body was looking snatched in the formfitting orange body-con dress she was wearing.

She adjusted the neckline a bit to obscure some of her cleavage, which was popping out. Grace bit her lip and stared at her image on the camera screen for a moment as worry set in.
Maybe this is a bit much for an evening with Horace,
she thought.
After all, he is a church boy and he hasn't said this is a date. On the other hand, it is Saturday.
According to Grace's fashion philosophy, stepping out on a Saturday evening was a prescription for wearing anything that fit like a glove. She ran her finger along the rim of her teeth to remove a stray lipstick mark.

“Leave the lipstick there. That'll level the playing field for the average women in here,” Horace whispered into her ear, leaning over her shoulder.

Grace turned around and stood up to greet him. She was going to ask for a drink, but his clear cognac skin quenched her thirst. Breathing deeply, she inhaled the scent of sandalwood about him and was ready to collapse as he drew her close to him for an embrace.

“I thought you were angry with me,” she whispered.

Horace held Grace by her waist and stepped back, taking in her whole frame. His eyes softened, and his lips curled into a smile.

Body-con does it every time,
Grace thought. Returning the flirtatious smile, she placed her hand on his chest.

“Offended, yes, but angry? How could I be angry with you, Grace King?” he said, releasing her waist to pull out her chair. He walked around the table and took a seat directly across from her. “Have you thought about what you want to order?” Horace opened his menu and began to scan it.

She cleared her throat, thinking about the most diplomatic way to broach the topic of the cost of the food at Chocolat. It wasn't for the ultrarich, but the menu certainly wasn't for someone who ate meals at the church pantry. Grace considered herself to be a modern woman. She didn't mind paying for a meal or two, as long as that was established before the date, but since she still didn't know if they were on a date or not, Grace had no idea what to say.

“Ummm . . . I was thinking I'd order two appetizers instead of an entrée. What do you think?”

“I think I need more light to make a decision.” He laid the menu on the table, picked up the candle, and used it to illuminate the menu. “I didn't think that whole ‘not eating' thing was true, but if you're not going to get a full meal at Chocolat, something is wrong with you. If you're worried about the price, don't be. I have a job,
remember?
”

Grace wanted to rebut his response with the facts of the matter. If his job was so good, why was he eating at the church? It didn't make an ounce of sense for him to be this fine and foolish enough to blow his whole check on wining and dining Grace. Heck, she'd slept with many a strange man for less than a meal at Chocolat. When she considered it, she had never got much in return out of the deal except for dirty linens.

“Grace,” Horace called out to her gently, snagging her out of her surmising. “Does it bother you that I work construction?”

“No,” she replied, smiling.

Horace put his menu down, folded his arms on the table, and leaned in closer. “Then what is the problem?” he asked, licking his ripe lips.

Giving him the once-over again, Grace couldn't find a fault. He looked pretty relaxed in a forest-green plaid button-down shirt. His freshly shaved bald head was glowing, despite the muted lighting, and the small triangular tuft of hair beneath his bottom lip was neatly trimmed. “I don't have a problem.”

“Yes, you do,” he insisted.

“Hi. I'm Juliana, and I'll be your server this evening. Would you care for an appetizer or drinks to start out your night?” the waitress offered, switching her gaze from Grace to Horace.

Grace was relieved by the diversion from the present conversation that the waitress's presence created, and smiled at her. Biting her tongue was like swallowing stones for Grace—unnatural and unhealthy. The truth was, it did bother her that Horace was a construction worker who was eating meals at the church. It bothered her that he looked like Prince Charming and had the pockets of a pauper. It bothered her that she couldn't discern whether the glint she saw in his eyes came from him searching for her name on CelebrityNetWorth.com or from him being genuinely captivated by her. Shifting her focus from Horace's pockets back to the waitress, Grace began her order.

“I'll take a lime-infused water and . . .” Grace paused, trying to think of something conservative to pair with her glass of water. By now she ordinarily would have asked the waitress for two scotches and inquired if she knew where she could get any good weed, but Grace was trying to play the reserved role to impress Horace. It was still not really clear why the opinion of a man who most likely had taken one of those purity vows and wouldn't be giving up the goods anytime soon mattered. But it did. “May I have the grilled Caesar salad with French dressing?” she finally said.

“A Caesar salad?” Horace questioned. “We did not come all this way for you to order no Caesar salad. Juliana, she can have the salad as an appetizer and give her this.” He pointed at the menu, then looked Grace squarely in the eye with a raised eyebrow, muting any protest that was stirring inside of her. “And I'll have the shrimp quesadilla and the grilled Scottish salmon with a glass of rosé.” He folded his menu, scooped up Grace's menu, and handed them both to the waitress. “Thank you, Juliana.”

“Rosé, huh? You don't have to try to impress me, Horace,” Grace said after the waitress had disappeared. She delicately stroked the spot on the small of his arm that was exposed by the eyelet on the sleeve of his shirt.

“I suppose the same could be said of you, or have you started attending AA meetings? Lime-infused water, my foot.” Horace stomped his foot. “You want to drink that about as much as I want a colonoscopy right now.”

Breaking out into a small fit of laughter, Grace clutched her side and slapped the table. His deadpan was good, and she was thrown completely off the mark. She didn't know where to take the conversation now.

“Seriously, I want to get to know you.” Horace pointed at her. “I want to know Grace King.”

“You want to get to know me or my money, Horace?” she asked, questioning his motives. “Since you want to talk, let's talk about why you seem to be so fond of me without actually knowing anything about me besides what's on MediaTakeout.com.” Grace leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and folded her arms across her chest.

Horace pinched his nostrils together before speaking, as if he was preparing to give a dissertation. “Grace, I am not fond of you,” he announced.

Grace's eyebrows met in the center of her forehead, creating a scowl on her face, at that proclamation.

“I am not fond of
you.
I am fond of who you have the potential to be. I can see why your parents named you Grace, because you are seasoned with a great measure of it, and when you tap into it and figure out how to be victorious in your trials, instead of the victim”—he clapped his hands together—“that grace is going to shine right through. I am not fond of you.” He leaned in close to the table and whispered, “I want you, but I want you whole. Trust and believe me, every man is searching for his rib, and at the bare minimum, for a woman who can make ribs like his mama, but I need a whole woman to stand by my side.”

Unsure of how to respond to that statement, Grace turned her eyes to the silverware lined up in front of her, hoping that the fervor going on inside of her wasn't evident to Horace.
Is something wrong with me? Allusions to the Bible shouldn't arouse me this much.
Grace had never known that a man who served God could be so sexy. She thought back to her early romance with David. Was that love or some strange preacher man fetish? Whatever it was, she was hoping it wouldn't be reenacted between her and Horace. If they were going to have something, then it had to be real and honorable. She had to know what his intentions were before she proceeded any further.

She cleared her throat, ready to respond to Horace's remarks. “Horace, obviously, you've been given the gift of oration, and I thank you for the compliments, but it appears as though you're evading my question. Are you digging me or digging for gold?”

Horace took his time responding to Grace. The waitress arrived with his rosé. He sipped it casually and even offered Grace a sip. Finally, he wiped the corners of his mouth and said, “Money ain't a thing to me, Grace. At one point in my life I threw it out like rice at a wedding. I used to run these streets.” He laughed. “Man, I had at least twenty blocks of Harlem on lock, and I was pushing those designer drugs to people just like you on the weekends at spots like Lunar, Greenhouse, and Limelight, before it got shut down.”

Grace's eyes widened as she took in his testimony. Maybe that was why he felt so familiar with her. He had probably sold her some drugs and was trying to make amends now. “Are you serious, Horace?” she asked, squeezing a lime into her water.

“I was running drugs heavy up until about five years ago, when I met Pastor David at a funeral. His words really changed me.”

“How did his words change you?” Her question slipped off her tongue rapidly. Her wondering was really meant for her and her alone. She'd always been fascinated by people who converted to Christianity and declared that they'd been liberated, when all that she had experienced was how restrictive Christianity was.

“Really, they weren't
his
words. They were the Lord's words.” He tapped the back of his hand against hers, summoning her full attention. “You see, the funeral was for a friend of mine who'd been shot during a robbery gone way wrong. Near the end of Pastor David's sermon, he began telling the story of a rich young ruler who'd been asked to give everything he had to the poor and follow Jesus. The rich young ruler walked away, full of sadness, and Jesus declared to his disciples that it was harder for a rich man to get into heaven than it was for a camel to get through the eye of a needle.”

“And that changed your heart?” Grace balked. She'd heard some sappy stories about deliverance before—people trapped by the fangs of death, unsure of their next move, and then they surrendered everything—but one little Bible verse melting Horace's heart was incomprehensible to her and hardly worth sharing.

“Then he went on to give an excerpt from the scripture. He asked us if we knew what happened to that rich young ruler. Some of the boys laughed and shouted, ‘He kept getting that money,' and Pastor David said, ‘No, he's in the coffin lying before your eyes. Rather than give up his riches, the young ruler tried to hoard everything he had and let the devil rob him of eternal life.'” Horace wiped the corners of his mouth, as if he'd just bitten into a succulent piece of steak. “From there I was open. I ran to Pastor David and begged him to tell me what I had to do to inherit eternal life. He turned to me and said, ‘Rich young ruler, sell all that you have, give it to the poor, and follow Jesus.' And I did. I don't buy more than I need, and I live modestly, all to His honor and glory,” he said, pointing his index finger at the ceiling.

After Horace finished telling Grace the story of his conversion, the waitress arrived with their appetizers. “Bon appétit,” she said, setting their plates before them.

Grace pushed her food around, trying to avoid how foolish Horace's story had made her look. Here she was, obsessing over money, when in fact he'd given all his money away. There weren't many Christians who could make that their boast. It seemed that the gospel being preached today was all about greed and gain to Grace.

“So, are you no longer speaking to me?”

“I . . . I feel kind of like an idiot,” Grace confessed.

“That's fine. We all make mistakes. Now, stop thinking evil thoughts, and think good thoughts.”

“Is that possible?” she asked, scrunching her face up.

“With God all things are possible.”

I need to see something good first to believe that's possible.
Stirring her ice, Grace recalled some of her encounters with men. Every single one of them had melted like the ice in the water right before her eyes. They had all appeared to have a solid frame that she could rest on, but when the heat was on, they were long gone. The only love she'd felt was between her and David, and it had felt like this—electric.

Horace signaled for the waitress to pour him another glass of rosé and then stroked the back of Grace's hand. “Where are you?”

Waving her hand, she replied, “I was lost for a moment, but I'm back, and I want to be wherever you are.” She arched her back and let all the sensuality in her drip onto the table.

“You know, Adam never knew Eve was naked.”

“What?” She scrunched her nose up, disapproving of his biblical commentary at the moment.

“Adam didn't know he was in a garden, buck naked, with that woman. All he knew was that she was for him and he loved her. That's what I want. Actually, that's all I want.”