Grounded (16 page)

“
Mmm
, feels wonderful,” Grace murmured, her eyes closed as Sam followed a thorough facial cleansing with astringent, and then a good face massage with a soothing lotion. So relaxing …

“Ouch!” Her eyes flew open.

“Sorry.” Samantha didn't look sorry. “Those eyebrows need a good tweezing. Hold still.”

Now that was getting a bit personal, Grace thought. But after the facial, she obediently took a hot shower, washed and conditioned her hair, and put on some makeup. Watching herself in the mirror as she used the blow dryer, she smiled, realizing the transformation was having its desired effect. When she came out of the bathroom, Samantha nodded approvingly. “Better. Much better. Still need to get that hair shaped and the split ends cut off tomorrow. But right now”—she steered Grace down the hall toward her bedroom—“we're going to get you out of those sweatpants and into something decent.”

“Why?” Grace protested as she was propelled into her bedroom. “I mean, I appreciate all the TLC, but I'm not going anywhere.”

“Who says?” Samantha slid open the closet door and pulled out a pair of black slacks and a royal-blue brushed sweater, holding them up against Grace. “It's February fourteenth, sweetie, and who wants to sit home on Valentine's Day? Not me. And definitely not you. What we need, girl, is some
chocolate
.”

When Grace woke up the next morning, she felt more rested than she had since she'd come home two weeks ago. It had felt so … so comforting to know Samantha was in the house last night. A slow grin spread over her face remembering their foray into the frozen
wasteland to find chocolate. They'd just come out the front door swaddled in coats, hats, scarves, and boots when Sam had stopped, puzzled. “Can't remember where I parked my car. Couldn't find any parking on your block. All those lawn-chair barricades and homemade signs saying, ‘Don't even
think
about parking here!' are scary.”

“Didn't know you had a car.” Grace had always envied how easily Sam got around the city by public transportation.

Samantha had shrugged. “I didn't, until yesterday. Leased one when I got back. Trying it out for a month, see if I want to buy. It's cold standing on those El platforms.”

They found the little Honda Civic parked two blocks away, drove down Lake Shore Drive to Ghirardelli's Chocolate Shop and Soda Fountain on North Michigan Avenue and ordered two of their signature chocolate brownies with double-rich vanilla-bean ice cream on top, swimming in hot fudge sauce. Ignoring all the couples getting their Valentine's Day chocolate fix, they'd giggled over high school and college antics like a couple of teenagers …

Grace stretched, slid out of the covers, and stuck her feet into her slippers. It had felt good to laugh and just have fun—though a tiny part of her noggin wondered if letting down her hair with her personal assistant was the wisest thing to do for their working relationship.

Sam was all business by the time Grace got out of the shower. “You have an eleven o'clock at Johnny's Beauty Salon and a two o'clock at Curves—”

“Curves!”

Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Didn't you tell me your doctor said to use this sabbatical to get healthy again? Get lots of rest, eat right, exercise—”

Grace rolled her eyes. “All right, I get it.”
Curves
. Sam was getting downright bossy.

Except for the trip to the beauty salon and getting Grace signed up with a trainer at Curves, Samantha worked most of the day on answering the backlog of fan mail—both e-mail and letters. She created a form letter reporting about the New Year, New You tour
they'd just finished, adding “Thanks so much for writing, your comments mean so much,” and then personalized each reply in some way, especially if a fan had a question. But there was one sticking point. “What should I say to these fans who say, ‘Can't wait for your upcoming concert, already have tickets'?”

Grace winced. How would Bongo handle that? “Um, put those into a Hold folder for now. Newman said he'd get back to me after he'd handled the cancellations. Guess we have to let them know something.”

Sam frowned. “How many cancellations are we talking about?”

“Just two. Norfolk and Houston.” For now, anyway. There was that sticky question about how she'd travel—and what to do about her concerts. She wasn't ready to talk about being “worth the wait” yet. Not after Roger's sudden departure. And not after … she stopped herself from going there. She couldn't look at her past. Not now. And now wasn't the time to tell Sam she was toying with giving up the whole shebang.

The e-mail from Newman arrived Tuesday morning, saying he'd negotiated the cancellations by offering to reschedule the Norfolk and Houston venues—they'd work out specific dates later. The two venues agreed to contact ticket holders and say they'd honor them at a later date, still to be determined. Grace sent an e-mail back, asking if those venues would be willing to honor those tickets at another concert or event, in case it didn't work out to reschedule.

Jeff Newman's second e-mail was short and to the point:
They don't want just anyone, Grace. They want you
.

Sam leaned over Grace's shoulder and read the e-mail. “Feels good to be wanted, doesn't it?”

It should—but right now, it felt more like pressure. What did she have to offer?

But she didn't stop Sam from replying to the fans who mentioned having tickets to those two concerts.

Samantha drove Grace to her appointment with the voice therapist and waited as Dr. Erskine put her through the exercises. “Good grief, that was some workout,” Sam said as they got back in the
Honda Civic an hour later. “Are you sure she's helping you? You sound wasted.”

“Thanks a lot,” Grace croaked. But she did feel exhausted, and was grateful Sam was driving, not her.

Back at the house, Sam said, “Look, I'm going to finish up answering the last of the fan-mail backlog and then I'm outta here. Oh, I made up a schedule for you—Curves on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at eight, and Dr. Erskine Tuesdays and Thursdays at two. That'll get you out of the house at least once a day. I'll be back Friday to answer any more e-mails that come in, and we'll go out to dinner or something. Okay with you? Anything else you want me to do before I head home?”

Grace tried not to show her disappointment. Of course Sam had to go home. She had barely been back from Memphis for twenty-four hours before she'd shown up at Grace's house. She'd been a big help—more than she knew.

Grace shook her head. “No. You've done enough for now. Thanks for staying over. I really appreciate it. And Friday's good—oh, wait. There is one thing you can do.”

She headed for the guest room, Sam on her heels, and jerked the wedding dress from the closet. “Take this with you. Just get it out of here.”

The house felt really empty after Sam left. But at least her voice got more rest with no one to talk to except Oreo, who yawned to show his lack of interest. Grace couldn't believe Sam had signed her up for an eight o'clock with the fitness trainer, though. Eight
a.m
.! She had to leave the house the next morning by seven thirty. At least her shower and breakfast could wait till she got home, so all she had to do was pull on her sweats and make coffee before the taxi came.

The trainer was at least ten years older than Grace, a slender woman with long legs, short sporty hair, and an easy grin. Could probably run the Chicago Marathon. “I'm Susan,” she said, shaking Grace's hand firmly. They sat while Susan had her fill out a Fitness Goals Assessment sheet. Grace didn't really know what to put down, so the trainer set some modest goals—aerobic exercise and strength training—and then proceeded to show her the various pieces of equipment. She had Grace warm up on the treadmill, do five minutes on the elliptical—which felt like a combination of skiing, skating, and rowing, so confusing!—and then showed her how to use a multi-station contraption with various sitting positions and graduated weights she was supposed to pull with her arms or push with her feet to work various muscles.

At the end of the hour session, Grace felt so pooped she was tempted to go home and crawl back in bed. But by the time she got home, she felt more ravenous than tired. While making hot oatmeal and toast, she heard water dripping off the bushes outside the kitchen window. Turning on the TV to the Weather Channel,
she saw the forecast called for temperatures above freezing the rest of the week, and in the low forties by Friday.

“Hey, Oreo, hear that?” she said to the cat, who was begging for more breakfast. “I might be able to get my car out of the garage after all!”

Grace turned off the TV and opened the living room drapes before returning to the kitchen—which is when she noticed a small black-and-silver SUV drive slowly up the block, turn around in the cul-de-sac by the big house at the end of the block, and then park in the shoveled-out space across the street where the
Farid's Total Lawn Service
truck usually parked. Didn't think she'd seen the car before—though it could be somebody from the other end of the block. Whoever it was better hope Farid didn't show up, or he might push that car right on down the street with that big plow of his.

An older black man wearing a Chicago Bears jacket got out of the car—sixtyish, no hat, bald, like somebody's grandpa—and stood for several minutes in front of the two-flat with the For Sale sign, looking it over. She watched as he went up onto the front porch and peered into the glass door, then came back down the steps and picked his way through the snow along the walk that went around the side of the house and disappeared toward the back.

The house was in foreclosure—at least that's what the yellow sign tacked onto the For Sale sign said. Was the bank moving ahead to sell the house already? It'd only been a week since the ambulance took the old woman to the hospital. If she had to have surgery, she'd be in the hospital for a week or so, maybe have to go to rehab, but then what? Surely they wouldn't sell the house right out from under her, leaving her with no place to come home to—

A burning smell wafted from the kitchen. Ack! The oatmeal! Grace ran to the kitchen, but it was too late. She had to scrape the mess into the garbage and start over. But once the oatmeal was bubbling again and the timer set, she drifted to the kitchen window to see if she could get another glimpse of the man. Nobody. But the car was still there.

Her conscience pricked her.
Like I have a right to get all concerned now
. It wasn't as if she'd made any effort to get to know the woman, other than a wave or “Nice day!” on the rare occasions when they both happened outside at the same time. Even in good weather Grace usually went out the back door, since she kept her car in the garage and came and went through the alley.

Still. She felt bad. If that kid hadn't broken the old woman's window with the snowball, she might've died without anybody knowing about it for days. Maybe weeks. Unless she had family somewhere in the city who checked on her. Must be hard to get old and live alone.

An involuntary shudder almost made Grace spill her coffee. She was pushing thirty and not married. Her engagement to Roger had seemed like a sure thing. Wedding dress. Wedding plans. They'd buy a house. Hopefully have babies and go to PTA meetings, show up for graduations, cry at their weddings, proudly show off pictures of the grandchildren, and grow old together …

Pfffft
. Gone overnight, just like that.

The timer dinged. Grace turned off the oatmeal, but now it didn't look that appetizing. Oreo seemed to sense her mood and rubbed against her ankles. Grace picked up the cat and hugged him close, listening to his happy motor start up. But even her beloved cat wouldn't live long enough to keep her company when she got old—

No, no, no! She was not going to mope around about growing old. Grace dumped the cat and dished up the oatmeal. The session at Curves had energized her and she wasn't going to waste it.

She'd wanted to clean out some of her closets for months. A little spring cleaning wouldn't hurt in February. While chowing down the oatmeal and toast—she really was hungry!—she made a list of chores. Number one on the list: guest room closet, especially now that the wedding dress was gone. But just before heading down the hall with a box of garbage bags, she glanced once more out the front window.

The little black SUV was gone.