Seasoned with Grace (5 page)

By her third night at Mount Carmel, Grace had gotten her emotions in check. She cringed only on the inside when she had to put the hairnet on, and she cut her eyes at Sister Marva without cussing or storming off. And she'd mastered the art of the single-spoon serving.

That night Sister Bryce and Grace filled the plates side by side. The line was rolling along like an assembly line at Ford until some man stood in front of Grace at the counter and just stared at her. His hands were construction worker hard, his body was whittled to Tyrese perfection, and his face was Hill Harper handsome. His deep-set brown eyes felt like lasers against her skin, and his slight stubble enhanced his raised cheekbones. Before the drool actually started running out of her mouth, Grace reminded herself that this was a food ministry program and he wasn't serving. He was receiving. That meant that while he met all her physical requirements for a man, he certainly did not come close to the minimum seven-figure-salary criterion she had set for even her one-night stands.

“What's the holdup?” someone shouted from the back of the line.

“Brother Horace, tell the woman what you want, or keep it moving. This ain't no line at a museum,” Sister Bryce scolded.

“Sister Bryce, the scripture is true. Every good and perfect gift comes from above,” he said, still holding Grace under arrest with his stare.

“Is that the new Christian pickup line?” Grace snapped.

“Leave that girl alone, Horace,” Sister Bryce ordered.

“I don't know what it is about you women that makes you think everything is about you. I was talking about that braised chicken. May I have a breast please?” Horace retorted.

Grace could not ascertain whether he was trying to be fresh or serious with that last remark. Avoiding Horace's eyes, she slapped a breast on his plate. “You're not my type,” she whispered so that only she and Brother Horace could hear what she was saying.

“My Lord can fix that,” he declared, then walked away with his plate full.

Grace tried to fight the desire to watch him walk away.

“If you bite down on your lip any harder, you gon' have a hole in it. Pull it together, girl. This is a church,” Sister Bryce said, popping the side of Grace's leg with a spoon.

“Who is that?” Grace inquired, whispering over her shoulder to Sister Bryce.

“Oh, he's a regular here. I'm shocked he didn't try to hit on you Friday night. That is Brother Horace Brown—Mount Carmel's most eligible bachelor.”

Grace was shocked as well. How could such a large serving of fineness get past her radar? Besides being a fashion connoisseur, Grace liked to consider herself a master appraiser of the male species. She could recognize the finest man in the darkest place, so missing Horace on day one was perplexing to her. The more she thought about him, the larger her interest in the possible uses for him in her life grew. He could serve as a wonderful diversion, one that would make her sentence fly by, or he could become her new favorite pastime, now that drugs and alcohol were off the table.

Grace shook herself and asked Sister Bryce if she could be excused. In the privacy of the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face and slapped herself a few times.
He can't even buy you a meal, Grace. With those lips, who'd be thinking about eating?
She doused herself with cold water again and looked in the mirror. All she could see was Brother Horace's toasty skin. She couldn't shake his hypnotic eyes, his commanding gait, and his wide back.
Get it together. It hasn't been that long since you were with a man.

Her little pep talk didn't work. Brother Horace was still on her mind, so Grace pulled out her phone to call the one person who could always—well, almost always—get her thinking in order.

“Ethan, what took you so long to pick up?” she demanded after the fifth ring.

“I can't talk now, Grace.”

“Ethan, I need you.”

“Grace, I'm sure it can wait. Are you at the church?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can't get into that much trouble.”

“That's what you think. There's this guy here. He looks like—”

“I'm way downtown with Candace. Jesus is closer, so try praying. Don't forget you have anger management tomorrow morning. Bye,” Ethan said hurriedly before hanging up on her.

Grace frowned at her iPhone.
No booze. No boys. No Ethan.
Why on earth would she pray to the Lord, when He insists on torturing her?

With her attention still focused on the screen of her phone, which was now dark, Grace walked out of the bathroom with her head down and bumped right into the chest of Horace. Her phone fell from her hands and hit the floor.

Both Horace and Grace stooped down to retrieve her telephone. Horace's arms were slightly longer than Grace's, so he was able to pick her phone up first. He let it dangle in his open palm. Grace snatched her phone out of his hand and stood up straight.

“Next time you need to watch where you're going,” she barked.

Horace licked his lips and stood up straight as well. “I
was
watching where I was going. I've been meaning to bump into you around here. You were the one so engrossed in your little gadget that you didn't see me.”

Grace tucked her phone into her back pocket. “So, what do you want now? An apology or something?”

“No. Allow me to apologize for interrupting that important exchange. Given the time I just interfered either with the exchange of the most romantic texts or in the late-night negotiations of some major business deal. I'm sorry. I promise I'll do my best to stay out of your way, Ms. King.” Horace raised both of his hands in the air.

Even if either one of those notions of his were true, Grace still would not be able to find fault with those deep-set eyes and those plump lips.

“Grace. You can call me Grace.” She extended her hand to prove to Horace that she bore no hard feelings about what had just gone down.

Horace gathered her hand into his and raised it to his lips. He pressed his lips into the back of her hand and focused his eyes on her. The ardor of his gaze arrested her, and Sister Bryce's high-pitched reprimand set her free.

“Brother Horace, leave that girl alone,” she said, slapping his shoulder with the rag she was carrying in her hand. Horace released Grace's hand and held his head down while Sister Bryce slapped his shoulder blade a few more times with the rag. “Since you're so good with your hands, you get out there and help take out this evening's trash, you rascal.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Horace said, standing at attention.

“Grace, I came to check on you because you were taking so long. I wanted to make sure you were all right. Had I known Brother Horace was over here harassing you, I would have been here sooner.”

“Don't worry, Sister Bryce. I can handle myself,” Grace said, staring directly into Horace's eyes.

“It's not you I'm worried about. Come on and let's get the tables cleaned and the chairs put away. This ain't no social club.” Sister Bryce pointed at Horace. “And, you, don't you mess with this girl. She's here for a reason, and she doesn't need to get involved in any trouble.”

“Sister Bryce, I don't want to tell any lies in the house of God. I don't know if I can stay away from her.”

Grace's eyes darted from wall to wall and from corner to corner in Dr. Sternberg's office. His degrees from Hofstra and Yale hung neatly in matte black frames on the wall behind his desk. Every paper and folder was meticulously stacked one on top of the other—not a thing was out of place. “They think I'm the one who needs professional help,” she mumbled, counting the number of pens in ajar that read
SMILE—IT COULD BE WORSE
on the table, which was equivalent to the number of notepads beside them. After an uneventful weekend, Monday had rolled around again and had led her here.

“You must be the remarkable Grace King,” Dr. Sternberg said from behind her.

Grace took a few steps farther into the room, allowing Dr. Sternberg some space to enter his own office. He stood beside her, jammed his hands into his pockets, and surveyed his office along with her.

“No one has ever referred to me as remarkable, but I certainly am the one and only Grace King.” She waved her hand above her head, as if she were presenting herself to an audience as a prize on a game show.

“Please take a seat, Ms. King. You're paying me by the hour.” Dr. Sternberg motioned toward the sofa.

“By the hour? I'm going to have to speak to someone about this. I didn't sign up for this. Why should I pay for it? You see, stuff like this gets me so—”

“Angry?” Dr. Sternberg said, completing her sentence.

Grace nodded, then slid into a cucumber-green leather chair with an angled back, crossed one leg over the other, and rested her arms on the armrests.

Dr. Sternberg took a seat in an identical chair just a few feet away from her.

“Would you like to hang up your coat?” He pointed toward a wooden coatrack just over her shoulder.

Grace opened the top button of her camel hair coat. “I don't think I'll be here that long. Who's your interior designer?” Grace's eyes scanned the room. The cool green color palette and the art deco furniture were a great fusion of soft and hard. “I really like the way you have this place decorated. I was thinking about having my condo redecorated while I have all this downtime.”

“I'm completely booked until December.” Dr. Sternberg smiled.

“You did this?” Grace asked, wiggling her finger in a circular motion.

“I most certainly did. I selected a color palette based on the colors that are least likely to induce rage, studied a little feng shui, and tried to select the most beautiful items I possibly could.”

“So, you basically trick your patients into not being angry. Check please.” Grace held her hand in the air.

“No. I just try to create a safe and serene place for my patients to feel comfortable sharing intimate details about their life with me, a total stranger. Then, gradually, they enter into group therapy, and if their mind isn't right, this just won't work. There's something about being surrounded by beauty that lulls you into a state of calmness,” Dr. Sternberg explained.

Grace doubted that he was usually this forthcoming with his patients. Clearly, this little talk was nothing more than a ruse to gain her trust and confidence.

“Is it working, Grace?” he asked eagerly.

Grace looked around the office once more before putting her stamp of approval on the place. “You did good, Doc.”

“Thank you. Now let's get down to business. We both know why you're here.”

“You think you can cure me?”

Doctor Sternberg rubbed the bald spot in the center of his head. “There is no cure for anger. However, it can be curbed. Stand up.” He stood and waited for Grace to join him. He walked her over to a closet and opened it. A large, round, ornately decorated mirror hung on the inside of the door.

“Look at yourself.”

“Doc, did you read the file? I'm a model. I look at myself all the time.”

“Do you ever get an opportunity to look at yourself, or do you look only at a stylized version of yourself, all primped and posed the way that some curator of style has positioned you, like you're an artifact in a museum? Do you ever get a chance to look Grace King in the eye? Have you ever—”

Grace held her hands up in the air, forming a T, in front of Dr. Sternberg's face, signaling a time-out.

“Dr. Sternberg, I appreciate your concern, but don't you think that you're jumping in the deep end of the pool a little early? You don't even know if I know how to swim. May I at least take off my coat?”

Bowing in concession, Dr. Sternberg backed up a bit, providing Grace enough room to remove her coat and stretch her long limbs.

“Are you ready now?” he asked after she had set down her coat. “I promise to take it easy on you. I'll ask you just one more question.”

Grace ran her hands along the sides of her one-piece floral jumpsuit, then adjusted the red leather belt she wore midwaist to emphasize her waist. The sweat on her palms made the jumpsuit's pants stick to her legs.
All you have to do is look in the mirror. Lift your chin and straighten your back,
she reminded herself after tucking her hands into her pockets. Slowly, she raised her head, leading with her eyes.

“What do you see?” Dr. Sternberg asked in a whisper.

She took a quick inventory of her face. Her pores appeared to be growing, and she'd put on a few pounds. They hadn't caused her to lose the contour in her cheeks yet. All the nights she had spent staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what her next move should be, had prompted some bags to collect under her eyes.

“What do you see?” Dr. Sternberg asked again.

“A tired model.”

“Not what do you do, but what do you see?” Dr. Sternberg stepped behind her, disappearing behind her tall frame. He squeezed her arms and jerked her body a bit. “Look at yourself, Grace. What do you see when you look at yourself?”

The word seemed to be spray painted across the mirror—
mistake. Mistake
was all she could see. Closing her eyes was no help. The word
mistake
reverberated in her ears like a gong. Cold shoulders and hushed whispers were imprinted upon the backs of her eyelids, along with the word
mistake.

“What do you see, Grace?”

When she opened her eyes, the word was still there on the mirror.

“A mistake,” she said dryly. “When I look in the mirror, I see a mistake.”