Grounded (22 page)

“What?” Grace looked up. “What are you going to do?”

“Turn them in. And then rent a car. We still have time to drive to Cincinnati if we get with it. It's only five or six hours.”

“Oh, Sam …”

“Just give me the boarding pass.”

They were on the road an hour later, and driving south through Indiana on Route 65 an hour after that. Grace vacillated between relief and galling disappointment in herself—an emotional cocktail that was hard to swallow. Sam had matter-of-factly canceled their flight and picked up a rental car at Hertz, and didn't seem angry. Frustrated, perhaps, but not angry. But they didn't do much talking, which Grace appreciated. How could she explain herself?

All the confidence she'd sucked up at the Greenville concert seeped out of her spirit like water disappearing into sand. Would she be able to get up on that stage at Cincinnati Christian University and sing from the heart? Tell funny stories and chat with students—she'd decided to repeat the retro concert sets since CCU was also a college with a strong music program—when she felt like such a failure?

As the cornfields flashed by, Sam finally broke the long silence. “You planned for this, didn't you?”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“Telling me to get our tickets through the travel agent, the kind that can be changed or refunded. Bringing only a carry-on bag—you've never done that before. Both of which made it possible to walk away from the airport back there.”

“No, no, I really wanted to—” Grace stopped, her face suddenly hot, her protest sticking in her throat.

Tears squeezed from her eyes. Sam was right. She'd kept a back door open, an escape hatch in case the hoped-for courage from God didn't come through.

What kind of trust was that?

It was over. She'd made it through … somehow.

As the limo driver unloaded their suitcases in front of Grace's house Saturday afternoon, Sam told him, “You don't need to wait—I've got my car here this time. But thanks for rescheduling.” They'd had to return the rental car to the airport anyway, so Sam had called Lincoln Limo and simply rescheduled their pickup time.

The driver, dressed in the usual black suit and tie, shrugged it off. “Happens all the time. Planes are late—you know the drill. As long as Paddock has enough drivers, we can usually handle the delays.”

Grace, already halfway up her front walk, heard Sam say, “Paddock?”

“That's right. Lincoln Paddock, the owner of Lincoln Limo. He's your neighbor—you didn't know that?”

No, why would we know that?
Grace muttered to herself, getting out her key. Oreo greeted her at the front door with a litany of complaints about being left alone for so long. Grace shed her coat and absently picked up the cat as if in a fog.

Sam came in a few minutes later, picking up the mail that had been pushed through the door slot the past few days. “Did you hear that? The owner of Lincoln Limo—the company we've been using for the past year—lives in that big house at the end of your street! Kind of weird.”

No, she hadn't heard that part. The big house on the cul-de-sac? Guess that explained a few things. She'd seen sleek black stretch limos come and go from time to time—had just assumed he was some corporate big shot. But Grace wasn't sure if Sam meant
weird-that-he-lived-on-the-same-street, or weird-that-she-didn't-know-her-neighbors-well-enough-to-know-that.

Sam stuck the mail into the living room secretary and eyed Grace with concern. “You sure you don't want me to stay? Fix supper? Order in?”

“No, no. You've done enough, Sam. Go home and get some rest. You drove both ways.” Grace wondered if she'd ever stop feeling guilty about that.

“Grace, look … it's fine. And as for next week, we're just going to drive to St. Louis. It's no further time-wise than Cincinnati. After that, well, we'll still have a couple weeks before the West Coast tour to decide what to do.”

Grace shrugged. She never should've said okay to the St. Louis invitation. Too late to back out now.

“And Grace, I know I've already said this, but you did good at the concert last night. My Meemaw would've been proud of you.”

Grace allowed a rueful grin. “Yeah, well, but you gotta find another expression besides, ‘Man up, girl!'—even if that's what your Meemaw used to say to you.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “She still does.” She gave Grace a quick hug. “Okay, I'm off. Be back Monday. And hey, I think Barry's idea to focus on a resurrection theme next weekend in St. Louis is spot on. Can't believe it's Palm Sunday tomorrow … say, you wanna come to church with me? I'm going to sing.”

Grace hesitated … but shook her head. “Thanks. Another time. I promise.”

Leaning back against the door after Samantha headed out to her car, Grace shut her eyes wearily. They'd had a brainstorming session with the band that morning before leaving the hotel about the upcoming concert in St. Louis. She was supposed to look through her repertoire and send Barry a list before Monday.

Tomorrow … she'd think about it tomorrow. She was too exhausted to do it now.

Oreo rubbed against her ankles, meowing pitifully. Grace pushed herself away from the door and gathered up the cat. “Okay,
okay, let's go see if you've demolished all that food I left you. You better not have left me any nasty surprises though.”

It was Palm Sunday … but Grace didn't feel like making the effort to go to Faith Chapel. Mark and Denise would probably invite her to lunch, would want to hear about the concert. What if they asked how the flight went? She would feel like a fool trying to explain her actions.

Besides, she still felt exhausted. Probably more emotional than physical, though even a three-day trip sapped her energy. Why not treat this Sunday as a real day of rest—literally.

She spent the morning in her robe and slippers, drinking coffee, playing praise and worship CDs, and idly sorting through her mail—gas bill, credit card bill, a couple of catalogs, Goodman Theater ad, more junk mail … She put the bills in a slot in the secretary to pay on Monday and sat down on the floor with her file box of song sheets. Was her voice strong enough to hit the high notes of “Hear the Bells Ringing”? She had permission to sing the popular Second Chapter of Acts number in concerts, though not record it on any of her CDs. She also liked “A New Hallelujah” by Michael W. Smith—and what about some of the beautiful Easter hymns?

None of her own songs had a clear resurrection theme. But maybe she could use a few of her songs that focused on Jesus as Savior. Then there was the matter of her most popular song—the song everyone would want to hear, no matter what theme she chose. She just didn't want to sing that song right now …

By the time noon rolled around, Grace felt encouraged by her song list. And was getting hungry. After a quick shower, she pulled on a pair of jeans and her old, comfy flannel shirt, fixed herself a large green salad with tuna fish for lunch, and let Oreo clean out the tuna can. Taking the salad into the living room, she flopped on the couch and pointed the remote to see if she could find an old movie
on TV. Ha!
The African Queen
—perfect. Nobody like Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn …

Standing in the bathroom, trying to scrub dirt off her face … a bell ringing … she'd be late for school! No, no, she couldn't be late, they'd ask why! …

The bell rang again. Grace opened her eyes. Oreo was standing on her chest licking her mouth and chin. “Oreo! Stop it!” She pushed the cat away. Yuck! She must've fallen asleep with tuna fish on her chin—

The doorbell rang again.
The doorbell!
Swinging her feet off the couch and punching the Off button on the TV remote, Grace shook the sleep out of her head and peeked through the security peephole. A pleasant brown face … a woman, not a kid … who in the world?

She opened the door. A middle-aged black woman wearing a red wool poncho stood on her doorstep. Straightened black hair with streaks of silver hung to her shoulders, and she held something enveloped in clear plastic wrap and tied with a red ribbon. The woman looked familiar … “Yes?”

“Hope I'm not botherin' you,” the woman said, all smiles. “I'm your new neighbor, across the street. Name's Estelle Bentley.”

Of course
. She'd only seen the woman from a distance, but now recognized her full figure and attractive features. Mrs. Bentley held out the package. “Just wanted to meet my new neighbors—brought you some of my homemade cinnamon rolls.”

Grace grabbed Oreo just before he tried to slip out the front door. “Oh! That's … that's very nice of you.” She stood there awkwardly, momentarily unsure what to do. If she put Oreo down, he might run outside. But she couldn't hold the cat and take the package too—oh, this was stupid. “Uh, won't you come in a moment?”

Grace stepped back and the woman stepped in. “Oh, what a lovely home,” Mrs. Bentley said, looking around as the door closed behind her. “Love that antique clock you've got … oh, here.” She held out the package again as Grace put Oreo down and shooed him toward the basement.

“Thank you. That's very kind.” Grace examined the package of plastic wrap and ribbon. “You made these cinnamon rolls? They look delicious.”

Mrs. Bentley's dark eyes sparkled. “My specialty. Uh, you are …?”

“I'm sorry … I'm Grace Meredith. I fell asleep on the couch and I'm still foggy.” She held out a hand. “And you said your name is Bentley?”

The woman shook her hand with a firm clasp. “Estelle Bentley. Just Estelle is fine. Harry an' I—that's my husband—came by yesterday deliverin' rolls to our new neighbors, but you weren't home. So glad I caught you today. Wanted you to have these while they're still fresh.”

“Yes, well, I was out of town. Just got back late yesterday.”

“Really?” Estelle Bentley's eyebrows lifted with interest. “You travel for business? What do you do?”

Grace really hadn't planned on getting into a conversation, but it seemed rude to keep the woman standing in the middle of her living room. “Please, sit down. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”

“Oh, I can't stay but a moment, but … thank you. Coffee if it's not too much trouble. With sugar.” The woman slipped off her poncho and lowered herself onto the couch.

Grace took the plate of cinnamon rolls into the kitchen and started a fresh pot of coffee. She felt embarrassed by the woman's generosity. Wasn't this sort of backwards? She remembered her mother taking a casserole or a pie to new neighbors, but this new couple had been out delivering homemade cinnamon rolls to the
old
neighbors.

Well, she deserved to be embarrassed. They'd moved in a week ago, and she, for one, hadn't even gone over to say, “Welcome to the neighborhood.” Had anyone? Probably not. It wasn't exactly that kind of neighborhood.

As soon as the coffee was ready, Grace poured two mugs, added the sugar bowl, napkins, and a couple of the gooey cinnamon rolls on a plate, and took the tray back into the living room. The woman had gotten up and was standing at her piano, looking at the music
she'd been practicing earlier that morning. Grace set the tray on the coffee table. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Had to make a fresh pot. But cinnamon rolls definitely call for a cup of coffee!”

Estelle laughed and turned from the piano. “My sentiments exactly! But those are for you. I've had too many as it is.” She chuckled as she returned to the couch and stirred two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into her cup of coffee. “I noticed your piano. Do you play? Oh … silly question. Of course you do.”

Grace had just taken a bite of the soft, sweet cinnamon roll—
ohhh, so good
—so it was several moments before she could answer. “Well, not really. Some. Mostly I sing.”

Estelle's mouth widened in a delighted smile. “You sing! Gospel music?”