Grounded (23 page)

Grace flushed. “Not exactly gospel. Contemporary Christian music, praise and worship, that sort of thing. I, um … that's what I do. Just got back from doing a concert in Cincinnati, and I have another next weekend in St. Louis.” Was she telling too much? Felt like her tongue was flapping.

The woman's mouth dropped and she slapped her leg. “Praise
Jesus
! Another Christian in our new neighborhood! What did you say your name is … Grace—?”

“Grace Meredith.”

Mrs. Bentley shook her head. “My, my. I'm sorry to say I haven't heard of you. But that's my fault—I don't keep up with the new crop of Christian musicians. And, have to admit I listen mostly to gospel—Babbie Mason, CeCe Winans, Fred Hammond—folks like that. But I'd love to hear your songs sometime.”

“That's all right.” Grace smiled, trying to put the woman at ease. Oreo was back and hopped up on the couch, staring with unabashed curiosity at the visitor. “Oreo! Shoo! I'm sorry … are you okay with cats?”

“Oh, no problem. We've got a
dog
now.” Estelle rolled her eyes. “Takes a lot more work than a cat. Now
there's
a story … say! Would you like to come over to our house for supper sometime this week? Harry will be so delighted that we have a Christian sister for a
neighbor! And then you can meet the rest of the family—our grandson, DaShawn, you've probably seen him around, and his daddy, Rodney, who's just here temporary-like … well, long story there. But then we can really get acquainted.” She stood up. “I should go. But please come. What evening would be good for you?”

Grace also stood, swallowing the bite of cinnamon roll she had in her mouth with difficulty. Go to
supper
at their house? She didn't even know these people! “Uh …”

“Now don't say no. As much as you travel, I'm sure you can use a good home-cooked meal. What about Wednesday? I get home from work about four, Harry comes in about six … would six thirty be okay?”

Grace licked her lips, her mind scrambling. She had to send her song list to Barry today … the band would practice the music tomorrow night … then she was supposed to practice with the band Tuesday night and Thursday, leaving for St. Louis on Friday …

Nothing on Wednesday.

“Well … all right. I think I could make it Wednesday night.”

“Praise Jesus! See you at six thirty then.” Estelle Bentley gave Grace a quick hug, pulled her red wool poncho over her head, and headed for the door.

When the new neighbor had left, Grace just stood in the middle of her living room. Had she really agreed to go to supper at the Bentley home that coming Wednesday? She should have excused herself, said she was too busy preparing for the upcoming concert.

Because the truth of the matter was, she had too much on her plate right now to deal with getting to know new people. Estelle Bentley was so eager to “really get acquainted.” But that meant people asking you questions and having to talk about yourself. And right now, she didn't feel very confident—about herself, about her work, about … anything.

Sighing, Grace gathered up the coffee mugs, plate of cinnamon rolls, and her dirty lunch dishes and headed for the kitchen. Cleanup done, she stood by the kitchen window and contemplated the two-flat across the street. Her new neighbors. Okay, this was silly, but …
she'd never had supper with a black family before. Not in their own home. She'd eaten with Samantha, sure, here at her house or in a zillion restaurants, but she'd never been to Sam's apartment. Or her church. Never had to be the minority.

What did that say about her?
Hey, diversity is fine as long as I can stay on my own turf. Just don't take me out of my comfort zone!

How pathetic was that?

Grace turned from the window. She should go. After all, the lady seemed really nice. And they were Christians too. Wait till she told Sam—she'd probably never hear the end of it.

Grace studied her closet. What does a person wear when you go to dinner at a stranger's house? Not too dressy—something casual but not grungy. Maybe her black slacks, a turquoise knit top, and some silver-and-turquoise jewelry—the Native American set she'd bought for herself the last time she sang in Tucson. She wouldn't need a coat—it had actually gotten up to the mid-seventies today! A perfect spring evening.

She should take a hostess gift—flowers? box of chocolates? She'd have to run out and—
wait
. Mrs. Bentley had said she'd like to hear her songs. Maybe she should take one of her CDs as a gift. Or was that too self-serving?
Hey, look at me!
Worse, what if they didn't like her music? Mrs. Bentley said she mostly listened to gospel—probably black gospel. Still, it was the thought that counted, wasn't it?

In spite of feeling as nervous as the time she'd first met Roger's parents, Grace showed up on the small porch of the Bentleys' two-flat and rang the bell.
The Bentleys' two-flat
… strange to think of it that way. It'd always been “the old lady's house” in her thoughts. Even that was wrong. Should've been “Mrs. Krakowski's house.”

She still hadn't heard if the old woman had survived her ordeal.

The door opened. A boy about twelve or thirteen with close-cropped black hair looked at her curiously. “You Miz Meredith?” When Grace nodded, he pulled the door wider so she could step into the spacious foyer. An open stairway on the right led to the second floor. A door on the left must be to the first-floor apartment. The boy yelled up the stairs, “Yo, Pops! The lady's here!” He turned back to Grace. “Go on up. They expectin' you.”

As Grace started up the carpeted stairs to the second floor, she heard the boy open the door on the left and yell, “Hey, Dad! Supper's ready! An' we got company!”

Well, at least she knew what the relationship was.

As Grace got to the top of the stairs, a black man about six feet tall with a smooth shaved head met her with a warm smile in the open doorway. “You must be Grace. Estelle's been telling me all about you.” Up close, she noticed a trim gray beard and moustache framed just his mouth and chin. Shave the head, grow it on the face. But it made him look distinguished.

He shook her hand, introduced himself as “Harry,” and ushered her into a sparse living room facing the street. Nothing fancy—just a couch and a couple chairs, a flatscreen TV, an area rug on the floor, no pictures on the wall, but a couple large plants hung in the bay windows and several more were sitting on floor stands. The bay windows were open, letting in a light breeze.

Grace took a seat on the couch just as Estelle Bentley bustled in, wearing a large white apron and carrying a tray with several small glasses. “There she is! No, no, don't get up, young lady. Would you like some cranberry juice? It's nice and cold, feels good on a warm day like this.”

Grace took a glass and smiled her thanks. Her hostess was wearing her hair pulled back from her face and gathered on top of her head in a loose topknot, which seemed to enhance her large eyes and generous mouth.

“Mercy! We're so glad you came,” Estelle beamed. “Supper will be ready quicker'n water runnin' downhill … now where did that boy slip off to?
DaShawn!
Come finish settin' the table! An' Harry, call Rodney. Don't want my food coolin' its heels on the table while we hunt everybody down.”

Estelle bustled back toward the kitchen, while Harry excused himself and disappeared down the stairs toward the first floor, leaving Grace alone in the living room, sipping her cranberry juice and wondering just what she was doing there.

But the boy came running up the stairs a moment later, threw her a grin, and headed for the kitchen, followed by Harry Bentley at a more moderate pace, and a younger man she presumed was the boy's father. She stood up as Harry said, “Miss Meredith, this is my son, Rodney … Rodney, Grace Meredith, one of our new neighbors.”

“How ya doin'?” Rodney mumbled, giving her hand a quick shake. He sat down on the edge of one of the chairs, as if not planning to stay long. He was taller than his father, slender, with muscular arms and tattoos peeking out from his short shirtsleeves, hair an inch or so long worn in a short, careless afro, and eyes that didn't quite look you in the eye. Maybe thirty-five?

“Y'all can come on to the table now,” Estelle called from the other room. Grace followed Harry into the dining room, where a wooden table surrounded by five chairs—only three of which matched—had been set with bamboo placemats and blue-rimmed ceramic dishes. Harry pulled out one of the chairs for Grace and she sat down, eyeing the table, which seemed piled with food—a platter of pungent fried chicken, another with thick slices of ham, a creamy yellow casserole that looked like macaroni and cheese, and a bowl of steaming green beans dripping butter. As the rest of them sat, Estelle came in carrying a basket covered by a red-checked cloth. DaShawn licked his lips and made a grab for the basket, but she slapped his hand away. “That cornbread just came outta th' oven, young man. Gonna burn your fingers.” She sat down with an
oomph
. “Now I know this here's a high-yeller meal”—Grace heard Rodney snicker—“but them green beans an' ham oughta color up the plate. Harry, ya gonna do the honors?”

A “high-yeller meal”?
Must be all the yellow food dishes, but what was so funny? Grace realized the Bentleys were reaching out their hands to make a circle around the table, so she held the hands of Estelle and DaShawn, who were sitting on either side of her, and bowed her head as Harry began his prayer.

“Lord God”—he cleared his throat—“for food in a world where many walk in hunger, for faith in a world where many walk in fear, and for friends in a world where many walk alone, we give you thanks …”

Goosebumps prickled on Grace's skin as Harry said, “Amen.”
What a beautiful prayer
. She blinked rapidly before looking up, hoping she wouldn't get all teary in front of these people. But she wasn't the only one who was touched. Estelle said, “Harry Bentley, where'd you get that prayer? Never heard you pray like that!”

Harry just grunted as he reached for the platter of fried chicken. “Don't you remember? Last Thanksgiving, at the Manna House dinner, that Canadian pastor prayed it. When I looked around at all those women at the shelter, I thought,
That says it all
. Been bouncin' around in my head ever since. But maybe you were still back in the kitchen, might not've heard it … Rodney, pass this on down to our guest. DaShawn, you wait.”

The Bentleys made sure Grace got served first, and soon her plate was full. “This all tastes wonderful,” she said to Estelle, after spending several minutes sampling everything. “You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble on my account. I'm used to cooking for one, so it's usually pretty simple.”

“Trouble?” Estelle's husband chuckled, waving a forkful of ham and green beans. “My wife lives to cook! She cooks for the Manna House Women's Shelter, you know.”

“Is that why you married Miz Estelle, Grandpa?” DaShawn piped up. “So's you could eat good?”

“Now there's a smart young man.” Harry pointed the fork at his grandson and grinned before popping the food into his mouth.

Miz Estelle?
Odd thing to call his grandmother … unless she wasn't. Grace smiled at their teasing, but turned back to Estelle. “You cook for a women's shelter? I'd like to hear more about that.” This gave her a chance to eat more of the yummy macaroni and cheese on her plate. It was nothing like the box kind!

Estelle shrugged. “Not much to tell. Stayed there myself for a time, till it burned down. Bunch of good sisters at SouledOut Community Church helped me get back on my feet, so I decided one way to give back was volunteer at the shelter when it got up an' runnin' again, which turned into a job—”

“'Cause they liked her cookin'.” Harry winked at his wife.

“You … just eat,” Estelle scolded. “What I want to hear about is Grace's singin'. I'm just sorry we don't have a piano, 'cause I sure would love to hear you sing.”

Grace flushed. “Well, I did bring one of my CDs as a gift for you. Mostly songs I've written. Contemporary praise and worship music.”

DaShawn's eyes got big. “You got a CD? Can I listen to it? I got my own CD player. An' I already got fifteen CDs. But Grandpa won't let me listen to—”

“DaShawn! You're interrupting.” Harry gave his grandson a warning eye. “That's real nice of you, Miss Meredith. We'd love to hear it. My wife tells me you travel 'round the country givin' concerts, said you just got back from someplace and got another trip comin' up this weekend … Now, you go ahead an' eat that chicken with your fingers,” he added, picking up his own piece. “We got plenty napkins.”

Grace gratefully picked up her chicken and took a bite. Ohhh, so crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside. But Estelle asked, “Do you travel every weekend?”

Grace took a moment to chew and swallow. She felt flattered by their interest in her concerts. “Well,” she said, wiping her mouth and fingers with a paper napkin, “when I'm on tour, it's several weeks at a time, actually.” She briefly described her New Year, New You tour in January, and told about the ten-day West Coast tour coming up. “But the last few weekends I've had a couple college concerts, and I'll be going to St. Louis on Friday. Some of these large churches have wonderful auditoriums with state-of-the-art sound systems, everything.” She paused for a breath, suddenly feeling as if she'd said too much.

“All those concerts … Lord, have mercy! You must be flyin' here, there, an' everywhere.” Estelle shook her head, her topknot flopping loosely. “Don't think I'd like that—but if that's how the Lord's usin' you to bless others, why, I just say praise the Lord!”