Grounded (2 page)

Sam woke her up at eight the next morning. “Don't know how you do it,” Sam said, pushing the bus's room-darkening shades up to reveal the parking lot of the Embassy Suites Hotel. “We got in at four, and the band has already unloaded their equipment at the church. How do you sleep through all that?”

Grace didn't answer. It had taken her an hour to fall asleep and she still felt exhausted.

“I checked us in already,” Sam went on, starting to gather articles of clothing tossed here and there. “Thought you'd rather shower and dress in your hotel room instead of here. I ordered breakfast to be
sent up at nine, time to eat before sound checks at ten. Management said we could use the side door, go right up to our suite.” She held up a burgundy velour lounging set—pants and top. “This okay for now?”

“Thanks.” It came out as a croak.

“Uh-oh.” Sam frowned. “We've got to take care of that voice. Two concerts to go before it can take a vacation. I'll fix a hot salt-water gargle …”

By the time the taxi dropped them off at the church, Grace was feeling better after a steamy shower, gargle, and good breakfast. A church staff person met them at the front door and ushered the two women into the large sanctuary, where the band was tuning their instruments on the wide stage and Barry Fox, band manager and all-around sound technician, was standing at the back, hands on hips, hollering, “Move that amp more to the right … no, no, too far! Back six inches … okay!” He glanced at the two women. “Oh, hey, Grace … Sam. Not quite ready for sound checks. Give us fifteen, okay?”

“No hurry.” Grace smiled at the fiftysomething band manager, already sporting a closely cropped salt-and-pepper beard to match his steel-gray hair. “You ever get those guys to sleep last night?”

Barry rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I feel like a glorified nanny to a bunch of twentysomethings. But we got a few hours … you?”

“Not enough,” Samantha butted in. “She's sleeping in the hotel tonight. And only once through both sets this afternoon. Her voice is on the edge, and we don't want to push it over. Can we tell the guys to take the chord down at the end of ‘Pure Heart' during practice instead of going up?”

Barry chuckled. “Be my guest.” He gave Grace a playful poke as Sam hustled down the carpeted aisle toward the stage. “Now
she's
got the nanny thing down pat.”

Grace laughed and dropped into a pew to wait until Barry was satisfied with amps, plugs, wires, lights, and tune-ups—all the
mysterious details that had to be cared for before she stepped out on stage. How serendipitous that her Denver-based booking agency—Bongo Booking—had rounded up this gem of a garage band in Chicago, her hometown, and hired them to tour with her. No, that wasn't serendipity—it was a God-thing. Their sound and her voice had fit like the proverbial hand in glove, and the guys were fun to work with too.

She watched and listened, amused, as Petey, the saxophonist, shaved head glistening, jammed with red-headed Alex and his electric guitar. Hefty Reno, the keyboardist, was still pushing amplifiers around, while Nigel—ponytailed and tattooed—set up his drums, and Zach, the only African American in the band, sporting his “African knots” hairstyle proudly, joined the jammers on his electric bass.

Her fingers itched to take out her cell and try Roger again before things got busy … but she resisted. No, he'd promised they'd talk tonight. Maybe he could still get a flight to Memphis tomorrow and take in her last concert.

“Grace! We're ready!” Barry called from the front.

She smiled to herself as she headed down the aisle. Tomorrow, hopefully, she'd sing for Roger too.

Two nights in Memphis … that was a luxury, especially at the end of a tour. The concert had gone well that night, and Sam said CDs and T-shirts had brisk sales. Only one more concert. Grace slipped into her red-and-black silk pajamas and flopped backward onto the king-size bed in the hotel suite, arms flung out. Ahhh, no more nights on the tour bus. She could even sleep late while the guys moved all their equipment to the next venue—the Orpheum Theater, no less.

How Bongo Booking had managed to snag the Orpheum for this tour, she wasn't sure—though she'd done the Orpheum two years ago when she was on a multi-artist tour organized by her record label. It would be a strong ending for her New Year, New You tour.

Sam's sister and a cousin had come to the concert tonight, and she'd brought them to the meet and greet. Fun girls. Sam had asked for a couple hours off tomorrow to go see her mother and extended family … that should be possible. And if Roger was able to come early in the day, maybe they could have a light dinner together before the concert—

A knock at the bedroom door interrupted her thoughts. “You need anything else?” Sam asked as she peeked in. “Shawnika and Crystal are downstairs in the café—thought I might go down and hang out with them for a while if you don't need me.”

Grace leaned up on her elbows. “I'm good. Go, have fun. I'm glad to get rid of you anyway”—she grinned slyly—“because I'm just about to call Roger.”

Samantha rolled her eyes. “I am so out of here.” The bedroom door started to close, and then pushed open again. “But I've got my cell with me if you—”

“Go!” Grace laughed, grabbing a pillow and throwing it toward the door. A moment later she heard the outer door close as well.
Good grief
. Sam meant well, took her job seriously, but there were times when Grace needed her privacy.

Retrieving the pillow, she propped herself up with several of its mates against the padded backrest of the hotel bed, and reached for her cell phone. Hitting a speed-dial number, she waited for the rings … one
…
two
…

“Hi, Grace.”

Grace smiled at Roger's voice. “Hi, yourself.” She pulled one of the pillows close and hugged it. “You aren't still at work, are you? 'Cause I'm here all by my lonesome in this hotel room, wishing I was there with you.” It was almost a purr.

“No, I'm home. Was expecting your call.”

“I'm glad.” Poor guy sounded a bit stressed. “You okay? Been thinking about you all day … sounds like you could use some time off. Did you have a chance to consider flying down here tomorrow to hear my last concert? It's at the Orpheum Theater. Classy place. I'd so love the band to meet you and—”

“I can't come tomorrow, Grace.”

His abrupt turndown of her invitation caught her off guard. She waited for the explanation …
“Have to work all weekend”
or
“Not feeling so good”
or
“I broke my leg.”
But nothing.

“That's it? Just ‘I can't come'? Roger, it would mean a lot to me! If it's the expense, I'd be willing to buy the ticket. I'm really missing you and … and this has been my best tour yet. I'd love to share it with you. It's … it's an important part of me that I want you to know.”

“I know. That's just it …” It sounded as if he blew out a long breath. “Look, Grace. I didn't want to do this by phone. But this touring business isn't working for me. You're gone so much. I know, it's what concert artists do. It's your dream come true. But … it's not my dream. What kind of life is that for me? If we got married, I mean …”

Grace stopped breathing.
If
they got married? “Wha … what are you saying?”

She heard him clear his throat. “I've been doing a lot of thinking while you've been gone, and I … I just don't think we should keep up the pretense anymore. It's not working. We're living in two separate worlds. I need a woman who's
there
for me.” He paused, but when she didn't respond, said, “I'm sorry, Grace. I know this is hard. It's hard for me too. But I think we should step back, call off the engagement for now …”

Roger's voice continued in her ear, but Grace had grown numb.
Pretense? … Call it off?
The words echoed in her head, but at the same time seemed unreal, mangled, like so much gobbledygook.

“… talk about it more when you get home,” Roger was saying. “I'll let you get settled for a few days, and then maybe we can—”

But her hand had dropped to the bed. Her thumb pressed the Off button. She lay there, numb, for a long time, staring at the abstract painting on the wall. But then the tears came. Rolling over, she buried her face in the mound of pillows as painful sobs erupted from deep in her belly.
No … no … no …

How long she lay there crying, Grace had no idea. Much later she heard the outer door to their suite open and close and the muffled sounds of her assistant moving around the other half of the suite, pulling out the daybed, water running in the bathroom. She tried to stifle the sobs, but soon she heard a quiet tap at her door and Sam's concerned whisper. “Grace? Are you okay?”

She didn't answer. But as sounds quieted in the other room, voices seemed to scream in her head …

You're worth the wait?! Ha-ha-ha-ha
.

What are you going to say to those starry-eyed fans now?

You fool … you stupid fool … you plastered your engagement all over this tour and now … now he's left you hanging to flap in the wind …

Grace stared at her reflection in the lighted mirror. Samantha had just spritzed the finishing touch to her artfully arranged long shag. Arched eyebrows. Thick, dark lashes. Just enough blush. Creamy peach lipstick. All complementing her smooth skin.

But beneath the perfect makeup, she felt frozen.

“I can't do it,” she whispered.

Behind her in the mirror, Grace saw Samantha react. “
You can't? …
Grace! The opening band is doing their last number. You're on in five!”

“Sam, I … I just can't.” Throwing down the powder brush she'd been using to take the shine off her nose, Grace buried her face in her hands.

Samantha pulled up a stool beside the swivel makeup chair and, hesitating only a nanosecond, put her arm around the other woman's shoulders. “Grace, what's wrong?”

Grace just shook her head, face hidden in her hands. How could she go out on stage after Roger's phone call last night?

She hadn't gotten much sleep, but when room service brought their breakfast at ten, she'd pulled herself together, said nothing about the phone call, and Samantha hadn't asked. By the light of day, it all seemed unreal. Roger had
dumped
her—just like that? This couldn't be happening.

She'd pushed it out of her head and coped by keeping busy—sending Sam out to get her outfits steam pressed for tonight, making sure her laptop was locked in the hotel safe, double-checking that
her concert bag had all the things she usually needed. Sam had seemed a little miffed at that—she never forgot the two bottles of Evian, the Slippery Elm Lozenges, spritz, coconut hand cream, mouthwash, deodorant, Grace's favorite perfume, makeup kit, hairbrush and dryer, hand mirror, safety pins, Band-Aids … everything Grace might need.

Sam had seen her to the theater after lunch for the usual sound check and run-through, before taking off for a few hours to see family. Things had been a little rough between Grace and the band. She'd felt tense, irritable, and had taken more than the usual number of breaks. But she wasn't the only one who was exhausted, and everyone had chalked it up to this being the last concert on the tour. Barry Fox had said graciously, “No worries. You always pull through, Grace.” He'd even kissed her on the cheek. “Go get 'em, girl.”

Grace heard a voice crackle in the headset her assistant was wearing and Sam responded, “Okay.” Half a second later Sam turned the swivel chair away from the mirror, took Grace's hands down from her face, and held them firmly in her own hands.

“Grace Meredith, look at me …
look
at me!”

Grace shook her head, staring down at their hands, fingers interlocked, brown and white. She wanted to hang on for dear life.

“Grace, I know you must be exhausted. But there are a thousand fans out there who came to hear their sweetheart sing tonight. A lot of them are teenagers confused about sex, wondering ‘why wait?' when all they hear from every direction is ‘why not do it?' They came tonight because you've taken a strong stand about the value of waiting until marriage. You're their role model … and if that's the message God's given you, he'll give you the strength to get out there and sing, no matter what you're goin' through right now.”

Grace was startled. Sam sounded more like her mother than her assistant.

She looked up and locked on Sam's face. The firm grip on her hands and the steady gaze of Sam's dark brown eyes were having an effect. “You're … you're right, Sam. I've got to go out there for my fans …” She let herself be helped to her feet. “Do I look all right?
My hair … finger-comb it again, would you? And water—I need some water.”