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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

BOOK: Falling Into Grace
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This is for the birds.
Camille shuffled all her papers back into the folder and stomped out of the meeting as soon as the ambassadors dismissed the group. She threw the folder in the trash on her way out the church's main doors and caught the first trolley back to parking lot D, row fifteen.
Who knew joining a mega church would be so complicated?
CHAPTER 8
M
edgar Evers to the rescue again. Camille spent Monday afternoon researching churches' membership processes. While none of the churches listed their procedures online, she found plenty of people voicing the good, bad, and ugly about joining area churches in online forums and discussion boards.
Unfortunately, her findings pointed toward Grace Chapel. One could pledge membership immediately there and begin serving in a ministry right away, but they were “encouraged” to attend “Christian Growth” classes. That was the good news.
The bad news, aside from the whole minimum-wage thing, was the church store, which appeared to stock almost exclusively the pastor's books and tapes. Something would have to be done about this nepotism, perhaps by way of response to the church's annual survey, which, according to the head deacon's Web page, weighed heavily in how this “community” church operated. She had already missed her chance for input this year, but it wouldn't happen again.
Ten o'clock service was more Camille's speed. She put on the same dress she'd worn to The King's Table. This time she was smarter about her choice in footwear, however. A wedge sandal did the trick. She arrived in the sanctuary in one comfortable piece, sporting a brand-spankin'-new Bible and a gray knit sweater to take an edge off the cooler temperature inside. She could get the hang of the big-church club.
Grace Chapel had a praise team, too, which opened the morning affair. Seven members. Two sopranos. Just like The King's Table, each one managed a song with the congregation while the words flashed on screens. Both sopranos were, in Camille's estimation, a'ight. They could probably go beast on a song written specifically for them, but they didn't have voices or styles that could adapt to anything set before them. The poor worship team leader probably had to sing their parts for them a few times before they caught on.
And, speaking of the worship leader, he was well within a few years of Camille's age and actually had a cute thing going on. Even from hundreds of feet away, his coffee skin, strong jaw line, and broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist put him around a five plus on a scale of one to ten. The camera close-up gave him another two points for a full hairline, white teeth, and an ensemble of favorable features. The absence of a wedding band brought him all the way up to an eight. Not to mention his vocals, which bolstered him over the top.
Camille could definitely work with this man, assuming he was straight. Well, even if he wasn't, she could work with him, but it wouldn't be as much flirty fun.
After church, Camille finally got her chance to approach the wide-open platform along with twenty others who wanted to join the church, just like she'd imagined. Pastor Collins led them in the prayer of faith, something Camille had done at least a dozen times while growing up, mostly at her mother's direction.
The congregation clapped for the new additions to the flock. One of the ushers handed Camille a folder. Following the benediction, the elders lined up, walked down the aisle of fresh congregants, and shook their hands. Then, hundreds of Grace Chapel members took the time to greet Camille, and the rest of the audience dissipated.
Pastor Collins and his wife made up the last of the official welcoming committee. Camille took note of the sincerity in his eyes when he articulated, “We're so glad to have you. Is there anything I can pray with you about?”
“Oh, no, thank you ... Pastor. I'm just glad to be here.” She didn't want to get on their radar as one of those needy people who had come to the church only looking for a father figure. She was there to roll up her sleeves and help herself. And maybe help them, if they wanted a rockin' praise team.
With Pastor Collins out of view, Camille and the others stepped out of the greeting line. She glanced back at the band pit and gave an innocent smile to the drummer, who happened to be looking her way. Sooner than later, he'd know her name.
“That's it! I'm in!” Camille screamed after locking her car doors. She'd taken the first step to reclaiming her life, her entire reason for being born: to sing.
 
First thing Monday morning, Camille hopped out of bed humming an old Faith Evans song. Hearing her own voice scroll up and down the notes precisely warmed her like a cup of hot cocoa in December. This was her element. She needed her voice, needed to know she could do something better than anyone else.
Some kids kept their noses in books growing up. Camille had been tethered to a headset, listening and singing along to whatever blared through the earpieces. Ballads, solos, jazz, pop, neo soul. Across genres, she imitated her favorite artists, rewinding and replaying the toughest notes until she could hit them exactly the way Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, or even Dolly Parton did. She ran through player batteries like water, costing Bobby Junior a small fortune. He didn't mind, though. He always said his baby girl had simply caught the creative bug from himself and dear, rich singing cousin Lenny Williams.
Camille sang morning, noon, and night. When she wasn't singing, she was learning about music. She spent her weekly English class library time researching lyrics on the Internet, following her favorite groups. Momma trained her in the children's and young-adult choirs. Jerdine didn't let her daughter lead every song. Wouldn't be fair. But at almost every Pastor and Wife's anniversary event or women's fifth Sunday program, someone would request that Camille sing their favorite number, usually “His Eye Is on the Sparrow” or “The Safest Place.” Like so many other vocalists, she had been tried and tested in church first. She had learned to sing whether she felt like it or not, whether she knew all the words or not. The best singers could skip a whole line and the audience would never know.
Over the thousands of hours she'd spent practicing, Camille became one with her voice. She could make it do exactly what she wanted it to do. Hop, dip, twist, stretch, climb, whatever.
People at school knew she had pipes. She performed many a recess concert for her friends. Every now and then, some new student would fall under the mistaken impression they could sing better. This, of course, forced Camille to go slamp off on the poor child. She'd pull out an old song most of her classmates hadn't heard, maybe Shirley Murdock's “As We Lay,” and demonstrate how a
real
diva blew.
She watched videos and learned the choreography and words of every week's top-ten tracks. In short, she was obsessed with music and singing. After studying
Star Search
and
Showtime at the Apollo
, Camille convinced herself that she had what it took to make it big.
Jerdine insisted that Camille finish high school before she started chasing her dreams. “No matter what happens, no one can take your diploma away from you.”
Nowadays, Camille wished her mother had added a college degree to the request, because the value of her high school diploma was shrinking right along with the American dollar.
Nonetheless, Camille had honored her deceased mother's wishes. She completed twelfth grade before she allowed her brother to circulate the cheap demo she'd recorded of a Deborah Cox instrumental. He caught a few tugs on the line and traipsed Camille all over Dallas and Houston until she finally got a meeting with an up-and-coming producer, T-Money, who was trying to start a new record label. He needed a female group to get the ball rolling.
“Cami, this is the most important audition of your life,” Courtney had warned her before they got out of the car. “If you get into this group, your whole life will change forever. You understand?”
He didn't have to tell her that. She knew this must be crucial for him to miss work so he could take her to meet these people in Houston. Not exactly the Mecca for R&B talent, but now that Jermaine Dupri was putting Atlanta on the map, and some guys out of St. Louis, Missouri, of all places, were making a name for their town, reputable, well-connected studios were popping up all over the country.
Though only a few years older than his sister, Courtney had a severity about him that afforded him instant respect with adults. People even called him “little man” growing up because, in some ways, he was never a child. “He's just got an old spirit,” Bobby Junior would say.
The day she auditioned was the day she met Alexis and Tonya for the first time, along with twelve other girls they beat out for the top slots. The fourth spot went to a girl named Ja-niah, who didn't have the good sense to keep the fact that she was pregnant under wraps until she'd signed a contract.
An audition that was supposed to last a day or two turned into a week as the producer called back several of the girls he'd sent home crying. Kyra was one of those girls. Realizing she'd better sing like her life depended on it, Kyra nailed the song the second time around. Camille never really thought this was fair to the other girls, but, hey—she was in no position to speak her mind.
Courtney hadn't expected to be in negotiations with T-Money's business associates most of that week, but he was more than ready for the challenge. Camille left all the paperwork and money talk to her big brother while she and the rest of what would later be known as Sweet Treats sang their throats raw in the adjacent recording room.
When it was all said and done, Courtney's bargaining skills landed him the job as the group's manager and some kind of limited rights that Camille didn't quite understand at the time. She trusted Courtney to handle the legal mumbo-jumbo. He said he'd bet on the group with T-Money, and he hoped that one day, he'd be a rich man. Camille hoped so, too, because staying in Houston had cost Courtney his management trainee job and put him in a rough spot, financially, since he had to pay for a hotel room for the week.
Bobby Junior wired them some money halfway through their stay, which came with thick ropes attached. Though she wasn't actually on the phone, she'd heard her father's words to Courtney, “This is coming from your momma's insurance money. Y'all better make it count, 'cause it's all we have left of her.”
Courtney's skinny face never looked so heavy. “Don't worry, Dad. I'm gonna make it happen.”
And that's exactly what Courtney did. Up until the day he got replaced.
Camille couldn't think about that now. “Life is too short to look back,” she told herself.
CHAPTER 9
N
ow that Camille believed her days at Aquapoint Systems were numbered, she had a much better attitude about going to work. Bringing her lunch actually morphed into a pleasurable part of her plan to eat healthier and lose weight.
Even Fluffy seemed to benefit from her new attitude. “The doctor says she's never seen such a remarkable recovery,” Camille remarked to Sheryl. Actually, she needed to do something to stop this woman after she'd inquired about the feline for two days in a row. The way Sheryl carried on, Camille wondered if her boss had lost sleep behind Fluffy.
“Oh, wow! You've got to give me your vet's name!”
“Okay, I'll have to remember to pick up a card the next time we're there.” Camille nodded with a straight face.
Sheryl whipped out her cell phone. “Wait. Before you go back to your desk, let me show you the pictures I took of Lillie last weekend.”
Camille oohed and aahed over a shot of Sheryl's purebred cocker spaniel, then quickly darted back to her office before Sheryl could ask to see a photo of the invisible Fluffy.
Good humor translated into a genuinely cheerful tone, which meant mega leads for Camille. Already, she was at twenty-nine appointments, and it was only Wednesday morning. All this, of course, meant she'd bought herself some time to handle church investigation while on the company's clock. The more she accomplished at Aquapoint, the less stuff on her plate after hours. Good thing, too, because after her last two workouts on Medgar's treadmills, Camille was too pooped to do much else.
She figured it would take a few days for the church secretary—or whoever input new members' information—to put her name on the church roll. Since she'd already received a postcard from The King's Table, she hoped Grace Temple wouldn't be too far behind with processing.
Now for the
real
business. Camille skipped on over to her church's homepage and found the link to church staff. She recognized the praise team leader's photo. His name was Ronald Shepherd. According to his biography, he'd earned a bachelor of music degree from the University of North Texas and some kind of theological degree from a Dallas seminary. There were no graduation years posted, but Camille guessed he was probably a few years older than her.
His e-mail address and phone extension popped up when she hovered over his handsome face. She took note, glanced at her watch, and decided she'd better wait until a more casual hour, say ten o'clock, so she wouldn't appear as though her entire existence depended on this call. Besides, she needed some time to get her verbiage together.
She struggled to find an appropriate angle on this one. How could she introduce herself and ask to be on the praise team in the same breath? She needed some history, a real reason for Ronald to thrust her into the limelight. She needed what saints at the old church would have called a “blazing-hot testimony,” one where God had picked her up, turned her around, and placed her feet on solid ground. Or did he take her feet out of the “miry clay” first? Was “miry” even a word?
Hmmm.
What could she say that was maybe at least partially true. She didn't mind lying about an animal, but she didn't want to jinx herself.
Think! Think!
Okay, there was one time, during her grade school days, when she got lost in J.C. Penney and a little old lady with almost transparent skin led her to the gift-wrapping department, where a lady paged Jerdine to claim Camille. When she and Jerdine searched for the good Samaritan in order to thank her, she was gone. Momma had remarked, “Must have been an angel in disguise.”
That story actually brought goose bumps to Camille's arms every time she recalled the incident, but it had nothing to do with her singing. Other than maybe a song about lost souls, she couldn't find an inroad.
What else?
Her mind blank, she opened up a Word file and brainstormed all the potentially life-threatening events in her life that God might have delivered her from:
1.
Cut leg on Slip 'n Slide
2.
Got whole bunch of water in mouth @ Wet 'n' Wild water park
3.
Swallowed penny
4.
Walking pneumonia
Hold up.
Pneumonia was serious. People died from it. She
could
have died from it or maybe lost a lung if her parents hadn't taken her to see a doctor, which they did—but whatever. Point was, it
could
have happened, and that's what mattered.
She thought through her testimony: As a child, she'd suffered from a bronchial problem. Clearly, the devil had been trying to steal her voice. But her mother, a prayer warrior, prayed her through so that God could use this instrument of praise for His glory. And once the Lord healed her from all those breathing-related issues that threatened to swipe her off the earth, she opened her mouth and the most beautiful sound on earth came through loud and clear. She'd been singing ever since!
By midmorning, Camille had rehearsed the narrative so many times she almost believed it. Confident of her ability to garner support, she dialed the church's main number and waited for the prompt to enter Ronald's extension.
2286.
“Hello. You have reached the office of Ronald Shepherd, director of music at Grace Chapel Community Church ...” Blah, blah, blah.
What on earth could he be doing at ten o'clock? She imagined Ronald behind his desk surfing the Internet, browsing Facebook profiles, basically doing what she did at work. So why couldn't he take her call?
“Hi, Mr. Shepherd, my name is Camille Robertson. I joined church Sunday and I'm anxious to get busy ministering through song. Could you please return my call at your earliest convenience?” She left her number and tacked on, “Have a blessed day,” for good measure.
Dang!
Now she'd have to write down her story so she could remember it whenever Mr. I'm-too-busy-Web-surfing got back with her.
Camille activated the “vibrate” option on her phone and placed it right next to her keyboard so she wouldn't miss his call. At lunch, she checked again to make sure she hadn't accidentally enabled some feature that might have blocked her phone's reception. She asked Janice to dial her number.
The signal came through, no problems.
By quitting time, Camille was furious. How dare he not return her phone call by the end of the business day? Even if he wasn't in the office, didn't he check voice mail remotely? Even if he wanted to call her today, he couldn't now because of midweek service.
Anger at Ronald's brush-off fueled her workout. She probably burned an extra hundred calories because of him.
Drenched and sore, Camille returned home from the recreation center to find a yellow note taped to her door.
Am I being evicted?
Couldn't be. She'd paid her rent and the late charges. Plus it wasn't pink.
She snatched the note from the door, inadvertently ripping off a smidgen of the underlying paint.
Not my fault.
The paper read, YOU HAVE A UPS
PACKAGE AT LEASING OFFICE
. C
LAIM BY 7 OR COME BACK AT 9 TOMORROW
.
She checked her phone. Six fifty-four. She could make it. With gym bag still in hand, Camille cut across the center courtyard where a cluster of unsupervised elementary-age kids were flinging empty swings so high the seats wrapped around the top bar, elevating the swings to a height that none of them would be able to reach if they kept it up.
She shook her head.
Kids today are so destructive
.
Up ahead, the main office parking lot was mighty desolate. Camille glanced at her phone again. Six fifty-seven. Twenty feet later, it was pretty clear that these people had vacated the premises.
Are you kidding me?
Nope. Lights out, doors locked, curtains closed.
“I can't believe this.” She grunted. She walked around the building to a side entrance. A sign listing the maintenance man's number was her only hope. Camille called, tried to explain the urgency of her situation, but the complex's answering service informed her that an unclaimed package from UPS did not fall under the category of “emergency.”
“But I
need
that delivery.” Camille added a tearful twang.
The responder wavered. “Is there medication in the box?”
“Yes.”
Why didn't I think of that?
“Hold on a second.”
Camille waited, happy that her precious parcel, whatever it was, would soon be in her hands.
“Ma'am, I've talked to the manager. She says she's willing to page the maintenance man and have him come to the office, but you have to open the package in his presence and show him that the content is medically necessary or else she'll charge you for his overtime.”
Camille went off. “What? How she gon' charge me for him to do his job?”
“Because, ma'am, the office
is
closed.”
“What time you got?” she baited the operator.
“Three minutes after seven.”
“Yeah, now that you and I have been talking for five minutes. What time did I call you?”
“My monitor shows seven.”
Camille reasoned, “That's what I'm saying! If I called you at seven, they must have been gone
before
then.”
“Okay, ma'am, do you want me to call the maintenance man or not?” the operator asked point-blank.
“What about security?”
“For your location, you need to hang up and dial nine-one-one if this is a life-or-death situation.”
“Oooh! You wait until I see them tomorrow,” Camille hissed as she concluded the conversation improperly through the push of a button. She marched back to her unit and slammed the cheap, hollow door behind her. These people were worse than Ronald Shepherd!
Good old Fluffy's dialysis would have to come through the next morning. Camille couldn't be at her job on time because she had to be at her complex's office at nine o'clock to deal with whoever found it acceptable to discard posted work hours. Though she recognized the irony in her situation, she rationalized that
her
case was different. No one depended on her to be anywhere at any particular time. A leasing agent, however, needed to be in place for a plethora of dire reasons. It all boiled down to customer service.
 
Eight fifty-eight a.m. Camille took the “future residents” parking spot nearest the door. What could they do—tow her? She sauntered into complex headquarters wearing a dark paisley-print halter dress with a black half cardigan. She had thought about wearing the too tall heels again so she could appear slightly intimidating and overly professional, but patent leather heels wouldn't give her any clout here. Judging from times she'd had to come to the front desk to explain why she needed a few more days to pay rent, tattoos were king with this crew.
Camille immediately recognized LaNetra, the manager who'd actually signed the dotted line on her leasing agreement. For the most part, LaNetra was cordial, which dampened all hopes of a vigorous debate followed by
this
angry tenant's threat to call the home office and a manager's subsequent offer of reduced rent in order to keep Camille quiet.
She approached LaNetra at the circular reception desk. “Hi. I live in A-fifteen. Yesterday, I got a note on my door saying I had a package that I could pick up before seven—”
“Yes!” LaNetra remarked as she stood to shake Camille's hand. “I remember you. Mrs. Robertson, right?”
Attitude still intact. “
Miss
Robertson.”
LaNetra shifted her weight to one side as she slipped her hip into classic girlfriend stance. “You know what? Somebody told me you used to sing with the group that sang that song ‘Meet Me in the Hot Tub.' Is that right?”
A smile escaped. “Yes, I was the lead singer.”
“Oh my God! I can't believe it's you. My sister used to play that song like it was going out of style! Why didn't you tell me who you were when you first moved in?”
Camille recognized the star-struck look in LaNetra's eyes. People, particularly Americans, were suckers for anyone they had seen on television or heard on the radio.
“I didn't want
everybody
to know.” Camille lowered her lashes. “People try to charge you more when they think you have money.”
LaNetra rolled her eyes. “Girl, tell me about it. The other week, my baby daddy took me to a car dealership in his Escalade. Next thing you know, they tried to tell me my car note was gonna be seven hundred and sixty-two dollars a month. For a Honda
Accord
!
Camille tried to register her complaint during the brief lull. “Well, I'm not—”

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