Grounded (3 page)

“We've got one minute. You look great. Here's your water. Go … go!”

Yanking open the door, Samantha hustled Grace through the cavernous hallway, up the stairs, through the backstage area around props, stage sets, instrument cases, and snaking electrical cords—“Watch your step!”—and into the wings of the stage, the two of them hidden by the rich folds of the heavy curtains falling from the pulleys above.

Doug What's-his-name, the concert host, glanced their way from center stage and a relieved smile lit up his face. “… and here she is, all the way from the Windy City to the Home of the Blues … Grace Meredith!”

A roar of cheers, whistles, stomps, and claps erupted from the unseen audience beyond the stage lights. Grace sucked in a quick breath.

“You can do this!” Sam hissed, gently pushing the small of Grace's back. Grace nodded, took another deep breath, and swept onto the stage.

On cue, the five-man band broke into the familiar swing of her opening number, an old favorite from her first CD. The black silk dress she was wearing—its hundreds of rhinestones up and down the sleeves and around the neck flashing and sparkling under the lights—made Grace feel as if she were floating across the stage. As she took the hand mike, everything else—the long tour, the exhaustion, her tender throat, the upsetting phone call—disappeared. Closing her eyes, she crooned the first words of her opening song as the audience erupted in another roar.

But it didn't last.

As Grace moved through her first set, she knew her voice sounded ragged at the edges. To compensate, she began avoiding
the high notes, filling in with a muddy middle range. With Roger's phone call nibbling at the edges of her consciousness, she skipped several of her homey talks between songs, which were usually lighthearted and personal anecdotes during the first set. She always saved the more serious reflections about life and love and relationships for the final segment.

The break and intermission couldn't come soon enough.

“It's all right, gonna be all right,” Sam encouraged, as Grace collapsed into the padded chair in her dressing room. “Here …” Sam handed her a steaming cup of the honey-lemon tea. “You'll make it. Just give your voice a rest. Last concert, remember?”

Yes, last concert. And Roger wasn't here. Wouldn't come. Didn't want to come.
O God, I can't do this!

But she had to do it. She couldn't just not show up for her last set. The blogging community—a community so easily tempted by rumor—would be all over it before morning. She couldn't afford that kind of hit to her reputation.

After finishing her tea, Grace changed into the gray-and-lavender dress with the fluttering handkerchief hem, freshened her makeup … then got the two-minute warning. The break was over all too soon. Sam kept whispering encouragement as they stood just offstage behind the heavy red curtain. “I'm prayin' for you, girl. Remember, ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me'—”

“Miss Curtis?”

A male voice behind them caused both Grace and Samantha to turn. One of the stagehands, wearing a headphone over a Redbirds baseball cap, stood awkwardly in the wings, looking at Sam. He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “Main office says you've got a phone call. Said you might want to take it in Miss Meredith's dressing room.”

Sam shook her head. “I'm sorry, I can't take it now. Just get a message, okay?”

“Uh, office said it was urgent.”

Sam looked distressed. “Grace, I'm sorry …”

Grace always felt more secure when she could look offstage and see her assistant standing there, smiling, sending an encouraging thumbs-up. Something she especially needed tonight. But taking a deep breath, she murmured, “You better take it. I'll be all right. Just keep those prayers going.”

“Okay.” Sam rolled her eyes. “Better not be my cousin Keisha, though. If it is, I'm gonna kill her. She's been raggin' on me 'cause I didn't get her free tickets to tonight's concert. The nerve of that girl!”

Grace watched her disappear behind the jumble of stage sets, feeling slightly abandoned. But the concert host was saying, “Welcome back, Grace Meredith!” accompanied by waves of applause, hoots, and whistles from the audience.

“I can do all things …”

She pasted on a smile. The show must go on.

The crowd rose to their feet as she sang the final line of her last number, “Others can see … you are special to me.” Acknowledging the enthusiastic applause with a final wave and a smile, Grace left the stage. It was over. She'd made it. Hopefully most of the audience hadn't noticed the strain in her voice, though Barry and the band would've, for sure. But she'd even given her usual pep talks, about the importance of purity, of saving the gift of sex for marriage, telling her mostly young audience they were “worth the wait.”

But she felt like a phony.

Worth the wait? Obviously Roger didn't think so. But why? Why? Had he somehow found out … no, impossible. They just needed time. Once she got home, they'd work it out … wouldn't they?

Once hidden behind the heavy red curtain, she stopped. Her assistant was nowhere to be seen.

“Miss Meredith?” The stagehand in the Redbirds hat hustled over. “Miss Curtis asked me to tell you that she has a family emergency. Said she left you a note in your dressing room.”

An emergency? That sounded ominous. Fighting disappointment that the woman she counted on to pick up the pieces after an exhausting concert had disappeared, Grace managed to make her way to her dressing room. There on the dressing table was a folded sheet of tablet paper, with something paper-clipped to it.

A copy of their e-ticket back to Chicago. Dated tomorrow. Passengers Grace Meredith and Samantha Curtis.

Grace unfolded the note.
Dear Grace
, she read.
Mama had a heart attack late this afternoon—and I just saw her a few hours ago! But they've taken her to the ER and my aunt begged me to come right away. I'm so sorry to leave you in the lurch, but I don't have a choice. I'll probably need to stay here in Memphis for a while. Here's the e-ticket. I'll call you as soon as I know anything. Take care. I know you did great tonight because God is good … all the time. Sam
.

The next day, as the limo driver piled the teal-blue suitcases on the curb in front of Delta Airlines, Grace Meredith squinted at the sheet of paper she was holding—just as a gust of wind tore it out of her gloved hands. “Oh, no! That's my e-ticket! Catch it! Catch it!”

The uniformed driver shoved the last suitcase on top of the pile and darted after the paper as it skittered across the three slushy lanes of traffic trying to unload at Memphis International Airport. Tires skidded as the driver stiff-armed a taxi, which managed to stop just inches from running him down. It happened so fast, Grace hardly had time to cry out—but by the time she realized the man was safe and looked back to see where the wind had taken her flight itinerary … it was gone.

Just then the pile of suitcases on the curb toppled over, splaying over the sidewalk and earning her nasty looks from other passengers heading for the sliding doors into the terminal.

Grace stood rigid on the curb, clutching her wool coat tightly around her neck. Could anything else go wrong this horrible weekend? First, Roger's devastating phone call. Then Samantha had suddenly disappeared, right in the middle of the concert. Her assistant had to know she was a wreck, especially at the end of a grueling concert tour. She—

Good grief, what's the matter with you, Grace? You've let yourself get mighty spoiled, that's what
. The note said the girl's mother had a heart attack, for pity's sake! But it didn't help that her throat was sore, her head ached, she'd slept badly again—if at all—and having
to do everything herself this morning had made her late. She had less than an hour to get through security and make her plane!

“I'm sorry, miss. Couldn't catch it.” The limo driver had reappeared and was snatching the wayward bags out of harm's way. “You want me to get a cart”—he glanced nervously at the limo, motor running at the curb—“or do you want to do curbside check-in?” He gestured hopefully toward the Delta employees in the small enclosure nearby. “It's faster.”

“Yes, yes, curbside, please. I'm late as it is. But my e-ticket …” Anxiety threatened to bring the tears to the surface again.

“Don't worry, miss. They can pull it up on the computer. Just give them your name and destination.”

Scurrying back and forth, the limo driver managed to get the two large and two smaller bags to the curbside check-in. “That's it. They'll take care of you.”

“Thank you.” Grace pulled her carry-on out of the line of bags. It had her medicines, toiletries, jewelry … had to keep that with her. She glanced at her watch—only fifty minutes till her plane was supposed to leave! But just that simple glance made her wince. The delicate silver watch with the tiny ruby birthstone had been a birthday gift from Roger, matching the silver engagement ring on her finger …

She suddenly realized the limo driver was still standing there.

Oh, for heaven's sake. The tip
. Samantha always took care of that too.
You've become a spoiled brat, you know that, Grace Meredith?
Fumbling in her large leather purse, she opened her wallet. Nothing smaller than a twenty. She handed one of the bills to him.

“Thank you, miss! Have a good trip.” Touching his hat briefly, the man hurried back to the limo, got in, and pulled away.

Grace watched him go.

Now she had nobody.

“Miss? Miss? Do you have your ticket?” The curbside agent beckoned to her. And just like the driver had said, when she explained about the lost e-ticket, he simply looked her up on the computer, and in five minutes had all three of the checked bags on a cart tagged
for Chicago. He handed her a boarding pass. Another tip. At least she didn't have to pay extra for the bags—first-class passengers were allowed three checked bags free. Thank God for small favors, like free upgrades thanks to frequent flyer miles. And once she got on the plane, maybe she could sleep a little. She might even drink a glass of complimentary wine to help her relax—one benefit of traveling without Sam, who no doubt would give her a disapproving look.

Grace headed through the doors, welcoming the blast of heated air as she came into the terminal. Was January always this cold in Memphis? She'd been there two days and it felt no different than Chicago. Glancing at her boarding pass—Concourse B, Gate 12—she surveyed the bewildering array of signs. There … that way.

A disembodied voice announced over the PA,
“The security level today is Orange.”
It was always Orange. Pulling the carry-on, Grace followed the line snaking its way back and forth toward security. Why was it going so slow? Her anxiety mounted again. Forty minutes now … thirty-five … thirty … finally! She hefted her carry-on bag onto the conveyer belt, shrugged off her heavy winter coat and loaded it into a plastic bin along with her purse, zipped off her knee-high leather boots and threw them into another bin. Ugh! She hated walking on dirty airport floors in just her stocking feet. But she lined up the bins on the conveyer belt and watched the first one follow her carry-on into the scanner.

“Next!”

A Transportation Security Administration agent was waving impatiently at her. That's when Grace noticed that it wasn't the usual walk-through metal detector, but one of those new body-scan machines. She'd seen pictures—it was like you were stark naked! Grace froze.

“Lady? You going through or not?” said the passenger in line behind her.

Grace gave her head a quick shake and stepped back, letting the man pass. No, no … she didn't want to have her picture taken stark naked. That was … so invasive! She glanced up and down the other security lines. They were even longer than the one she'd been in. If
she went to the back of the line, she'd surely miss her plane! And her bag and personal belongings had already disappeared behind the rubber flaps of the conveyer belt.