Seasoned with Grace (6 page)

Grace pounded the pavement as she headed up Lenox Avenue, toward 125th Street, to meet Junell for lunch. Since Junell's show,
Bloodshed,
was filmed in New York, they tried to meet for lunch as often as possible. After the eye-opening encounter she'd had at anger management the previous day, she wasn't in the mood for small talk or for the mini-sermons that Junell always seemed to have prepared every time they talked. Nor had she been in the mood for the guilt trip Junell would lay on her if she canceled. Thus, she had decided to head on out, regardless of her mood.

A walk usually made her feel better, although it didn't feel that great in pointed-toe heels. Grace noted all the new construction and the renovation being completed on the brownstones that lined Lenox Avenue. She hoped to one day own one of those brownstones and to have a cute little family to go with it. First, she'd need a husband.

Having a husband was no longer a necessity for most women. There were plenty of women opting to be single parents today.
No, sir, that ain't for me,
Grace decided, watching a woman lug a stroller in one hand and a baby in the other down the steps of a brownstone. She preferred the stability, the help, and the warmth that a man could bring over independence. The only problem Grace had—besides being involved in one too many public brawls—was finding a husband, especially now that Candace had Ethan under what seemed to be some kind of love spell. Being forced to spend all her time serving food at Mount Carmel was not conducive to finding a mate, either.

“Grace! Grace!”

Grace stopped walking and scanned the dust and scaffolding, searching for the one who had called her name. Brother Horace emerged from between some scaffolding, with his bulky arms on display in a sleeveless gray shirt. Most of his clothes were covered in splotches of white paint and a coating of dust.

“Nice jacket,” he said as he ran his fingers down the lapel of her jacket.

No one was allowed to even breathe on her custom-made Balenciaga motorcycle jacket, yet all she could think about was how cute Brother Horace looked in his hard hat.

“What are you doing walking around here with no bodyguards?” he asked.

“Do you think I need someone to guard my body, Brother Horace?” Grace added a little extra arch to her back.

Smiling, Brother Horace removed his hard hat, giving Grace a direct view of his sumptuous brown eyes. “With a body like that, someone should be watching you.”

“Brother Horace.” Grace lightly slapped him on the chest, fabricating a look of innocence. “Are you being fresh?”

“Yes, I am. I'm saved, not dead. I know a good-looking woman when I see one.”

“Wow.”

“Don't act so shocked. I know you know you're one of God's greatest endeavors,” he said, licking his lips. “I'd like to see more of you, Grace.”

“Yeah, I'll see you on Wednesday at the pantry.”

While his directness and confidence aroused the butterflies in Grace's stomach, there were two big warning signs that flashed before her eyes. One, his bank account was way too low, so there'd be no romantic getaways to Golden Bay beach in Malta and no suites at the Mandarin Oriental. And then there was the whole “man of God” thing. She'd already experimented with romance in the church. It was the greatest romance she'd ever known and the worst heartbreak she'd ever felt. If Grace had been allowed to continue dating her then boyfriend, David, if their relationship hadn't ended because he was forced to put his career in the ministry before his feelings for her, she wouldn't be so full of distress right now, she thought. Loving a man of God wasn't a roller-coaster ride that she was about to step willingly onto again.

“I have to go, Horace. I was on my way to meet a friend for lunch before you stopped me.” She walked away without saying good-bye and refused to look back, even though she could feel his eyes locked on her every move.

Grace scuttled her way up the next three blocks to the restaurant, then plopped into the seat across from Junell at their table on the sidewalk.

“Why are you out of breath? Paparazzi or crazed fan?” Junell asked, pushing a glass of water at Grace.

Grace took a gulp of the water and fanned her cheeks a little before she began speaking. “It was neither. I'm so glad to see you, Junie.”

“I'm glad to be seen. I hope you don't mind eating alfresco. It's been a while since I've had a chance to eat alfresco, and with this gorgeous weather, it works out perfectly. Sixty degrees is the perfect temperature for September. I'm so over summer. I ordered you a shrimp po'boy, and I ordered the pulled pork for me. Is that okay?”

“A shrimp po'boy? Do you know how many calories that is? And you ordered pulled pork?”

“You're not working now, so why are you counting calories? You could use a little meat on those bones,” Junell said, reaching over the table and pinching Grace's slender and toned triceps.

“Girl, who am I fooling? I'm not working right now, or anytime soon. I suppose I can indulge a little.” Grace smiled widely at Junell's round face. There was a certain warmth that Junell emanated. “Now, I have an excuse. Unemployment will make you consume carbs in mass quantities, but when did you start eating pork? Or are you still in character?”

“Since I found out I was pregnant. We tried to keep it under wraps until I hit the three-month mark, which is today. Grace, can you believe it? I'm pregnant!” Junell raised her arms in the air, doing a double fist pump.

Grace didn't move. Her heart prompted her to celebrate, to get ready to throw a baby shower that rivaled Kim Kardashian's baby shower. Meanwhile, her mind told her,
Don't you move! Don't you even crack a smile for her. You have no reason to be happy. She's having a baby not you.

“Aw . . . G, I'm sorry.” Junell rubbed the back of Grace's hand. “It's not too late for you to have children. Just because you had an abortion doesn't mean the Lord won't bless you with a baby someday.”

“Well, what is He waiting for? It wasn't my choice to have an abortion. My mother and father convinced me that it would be best for me and for the father.”

“What did the father think?”

Grace paused as the waiter arrived with their food. Right now she did not need someone looking for a come up to overhear this story and leak it to the press. The waiter took his time placing their plates gently in front of them. Then he snapped open their cloth napkins and poured them each a fresh glass of water. Grace knew he must have recognized her or Junell and was delivering the best service he could in order to walk out with a handful of cash.

“What would you ladies like to drink?”

“I need something strong,” Grace said, peeling off her leather jacket. She looked at the list of cocktails, skipping over all the ones that ended with
ini
or had some type of fruit as an ingredient. “Gimme the Down in the Delta.”

Junell looked at her over her drink menu with both of her eyebrows raised.

“Don't look at me like that, Junie. The strongest thing in it is gin. We both know I can handle a little bit of gin. She'll stick with the water,” Grace said, turning back to the waiter. Grace snatched the drink menu from Junell and shoved it and her own menu in the waiter's hands. “Thanks, love.” She patted him on the rear end, sending him away.

“You're not off the hook, Grace. What did the father think?” Junell said, pressing, as she propped her elbows up on the table and rested her head on her hands—a sure sign that she wasn't going to let this conversation go.

“We never really discussed it. He was being prepped to go into the ministry. We'd talked about getting married once I graduated from high school, but then I got pregnant, and his parents and my parents came down on me like a sledgehammer. The way they explained it, I would be responsible for ruining three lives.” Grace held up her thin fingers and counted off. “His, mine, and the baby's. I didn't want that.”

“What do you want now?”

“A drink.” Just as Grace made her declaration, the waiter arrived with her drink. Grace stirred the ice in the glass. “I mean, you know the rest of that story. I went from the clinic to being on my own, and that wasn't the wisest choice. I was a sheep available for any wolf to devour.”

Grace's statement was incorrect. Junell didn't know everything. She didn't know the things that happened on a set to young girls with no chaperone. Mama June had always been there for her.

“So, what's next? You usually follow up a drink with a man. You know, you can't keep running around with every Tom, Rick, and Larry and expect to have a family.”

“Wait a minute. Who the heck is Rick? It's Tom—”

“Sssh . . .” Junell put her fingers up to Grace's lips like she was a five-year-old. “These lips are holy, and I'm not about to fix them to say some nonsense. You do know that the Bible says we're going to have to give an account for every idle word we speak, right?”

Grace twisted her mouth up to the side and sipped her Down in the Delta through a skinny red straw. There was no way a God who was supposed to be so complex would waste time counting her words.

“Listen, Grace, it says it right in Matthew twelve, thirty-six. Furthermore, He knows what you're thinking anyhow. So, you better just get it together, girl. How are things going at the church?”

Reclining farther in the square-backed chair, Grace took a long sip of her drink and let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Who is he? That sigh is most often followed by a ‘Girl, you just don't know' story.”

Horace's eyes and sly grin penetrated Grace's mind. The church was no longer just synonymous with pain in her head; it was now synonymous with a feeling that she could not yet name. Her attraction to Horace felt more magnetic than just a sexual response, and that was unusual.

“There's no ‘Girl, you just don't know' to go with this story. His name is Horace, and if I had to guess what the name Horace means, I'd say it means hot, handsome, and flirtatious.”

“Horace means timekeeper.”

“How do you know that?”

Junell pointed at her tummy. “I've already begun the hunt for a great baby name. I'm not doing any of the out-of-this-world celebrity baby names, and I'm not doing the ghetto throw together of any combination of letters to make up a unique-sounding name, like Junell. Enough about me. We'll have plenty of time to talk about the baby. We have another six months to discuss all that, God mommy. What I want to know is, why am I just now hearing about him?”

Trying to drag this out for as long as she possibly could, Grace took a heaping bite of her po'boy and stuffed into her mouth a little shrimp that had fallen onto her plate. She had not mentioned meeting Horace, because she didn't feel like there was anything to tell about the six-four hulk of a man whom she'd met on a food pantry line. She would not have mentioned his name if she hadn't bumped into him during her walk over here. Or would she?

“Stop holding out.” Junell tapped the tabletop, demanding more info. “You already know how simple Michael likes to keep things, not to mention he's away on business again. In the beginning it seemed like a wise choice to get married to an international real-estate magnate, but now . . .” She tsk-tsked, shaking her head from side to side. “Now I have to live vicariously through you. Spill the beans on this brother. Is he a minister? A deacon? Be careful. Those deacons are a little shady sometimes.”

“Thanks for the info, but I don't have to worry, and you shouldn't get too worked up about Horace. It's a dead-end relationship.”

“What happened?”

“First of all, he's no minister. I met him at the food ministry program.”

“Oh, my gosh, that's so sweet,” Junell said between bites of her sandwich. “He likes to help out.”

“No. He was there for the help. I served him dinner the night we met. I must be getting desperate.” Grace shook her head in disbelief at her own words. She was attracted to a man who could not afford to feed himself.

“So, what's the problem?” Junell asked, smiling innocently.

“What's the problem? Those hormones must be in flux already and messing with your good sense. He came on to me while I was serving him food. He can't afford to feed himself. Where would our first date be? The pantry?”

Junell gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh . . . this is so cool. It's a role reversal. You absolutely have to go out with him. You two are like Ruth and Boaz. Only you're Boaz. You have the ability to provide for him. To take care of him, encourage him, make sure he gets what he needs.”

“Are you telling me to be a sugar mama?”

“No, just go home and read the Book of Ruth. And you'll see. Maybe God will work this thing out for you sooner than you think.”

“Why can't I just get a man who has it together already and is established? A man like . . .”

“Like Ethan,” Junell said, finishing Grace's sentence. “Honey, I think that ship may have sailed already. Why don't you give Horace a chance to dock his boat? You've been with worse.”

The bobbing treetops and wind-driven leaves helped Grace relax into her stance. Yoga was her first line of defense when she felt like things were getting out of control. Unfortunately, this time it had taken her too long to recognize that things were out of control. After lunch with Junell, Grace had opted for a yoga session, instead of the Bible study Junell had recommended.

“I shall not be moved. I shall not be moved,” she repeated, standing in a warrior pose in front of her floor-to-ceiling living-room windows.

Grace shook her head.
No thee, thou, or shall.
It had taken only two days at Mount Carmel Community Church for her to revert to what she knew—the Bible. When she was a young girl, her mother would wake her up by singing “Bless the Lord, O My Soul.” She placed her in every religious class, from vacation Bible school to the various youth ministries that convened at her church.
Honour thy mother and thy father . . . that it may go well with thee,
was how her mother had chastised her. It seemed as though the only words ever spoken in the King household were from the Bible, until Grace found herself two months pregnant. The blessings stopped, and the cursing began.

Braking the warrior pose to clutch her belly, where her baby once lived, Grace sighed. Filling the emptiness of her womb had once been her only goal in life, but as the pool of men who were not neurotic or narcissistic and were not on narcotics had grown slimmer than Kate Moss in her heyday, Grace had given up on finding Mr. Right. That longing had been replaced with the need for retribution, which burned in her like a wildfire.

“I've heard you're not in the getting business, so you probably won't ever answer this prayer, but I want those a—” Grace paused, staring up at the ceiling. “I don't have to tell you what they are, because you know what they are and where they are, and I pray that the same emptiness that haunts my life consumes them. I pray that they come to know loss and suffering the same way I know them—like the back of my hand. Amen.” Having concluded her prayer, Grace returned to the warrior pose. With her arms outstretched toward the ceiling, she chanted, “I am a warrior. I am a warrior.”

Her new therapist, Dr. Sternberg, had said that she internalized everything, especially the things that were negative about her, and then reproduced them in the form of rage-driven outbursts. Today Grace tried to internalize the warrior chant. “If I put in positivity, then positivity will flow right out of me.” She elongated her arms and stiffened her neck, taking deep breaths between each chant and awaiting her metamorphosis.

 

 

Ethan stood in front of the cranberry-tinged metal door to Grace's unit. He fished through his pocket for the spare keys the firm had coerced Grace into giving him after her third arrest, in case of an emergency. Initially, he had resisted the idea as much as she had, since an emergency to the firm consisted of hiding any drug paraphernalia and pills before the cops came and fetching her makeup bag so that she could paint on remorse during her arraignment and sentencing. She had never gone to trial, thanks to Ethan. He was an expert when it came to poking holes in the defense's argument, and he was cunning enough to get witnesses to recant or incriminate themselves before even taking the stand.

A smile swept across his face once he finally discovered her keys. This visit was set to be a more cordial and delightful one. He was beyond elated to finally add some sunshine to what seemed like a case of torrential rainstorms in Grace's life.

Grace's plumb, arched backside greeted him. His eyes took on a life of their own and traced her silhouette, from the big toe that her left leg rested on, up her muscular calf, and to her meaty thigh. Blinking hard to fight back his former desires, Ethan tried to conjure up the image of Candace's round face. He swallowed hard and loosened the knot on his navy blue–and white-striped tie.

“Grace,” he called out, his voice cracking under the pressure of desire.

He got no response.

“Grace,” he called out again, noticeably breaking her concentration the second time around.

She lowered her arms to her sides and peered over her shoulder to see who it was that had breached every level of security she trusted in. The voice sounded like it had the distinct baroque quality that Ethan's voice contained. Since she'd seen so little of him in the past week, she really didn't believe that it was him.

Her eyes lit up upon making contact with his smooth brown eyes. It seemed as if she floated across the eighty square feet that stood between them.

“What did I do to have this honor bestowed on me?” Grace asked, placing her hand on her chest to add a bit of dramatic flair to her question.

“I came to check on you and—”

“Check on me? What happened? Is Candace busy today?”

“What does Candace have to do with this?” Ethan asked, slightly perturbed by Grace's line of questioning. “Do you think that I'd allow my relationship with Candace to interfere with my relationship with you?”

Grace took one more step, completely demolishing the imaginary line that existed between them. Her chest grazed Ethan's, arousing a feeling that he thought he'd laid to rest after the last bar fight Grace had gotten into.

“My hope is that nothing could come between us, Ethan.” The tips of her fingers grazed the buttons on his indigo plaid J.Crew button-down. “But the reality of the situation is that I can't reach you when I need you, and I know it's because this woman has been monopolizing your time.”

Ethan knew what she was fishing for and wishing for—the days when his entire life revolved around her, the days when he didn't offer just legal advice, the days when he assumed a more personal role in her unpredictable life.

Ethan took a step back, trying to ignore the pleading look in her eyes and her near nakedness, which would make this an opportune moment for him to get what every man in America fantasized about.

“Here.” He dangled her spare set of keys in her direction. “We've both crossed boundaries we shouldn't have, and I apologize for that. I will not apologize for having a girlfriend or not being at your bedside the moment you wake up. You've been living for a long time, Grace, and now it's time for me to do my thing. I'd like to see my career grow, and I'd definitely like to have a friend of the opposite sex.”

Instead of extending her hand to retrieve her keys, Grace stood there, her mouth agape, in shock. Ethan flung her keys to the right, aiming for the island in her kitchen. The keys skidded off the granite surface and hit the floor at the same time as her wounded heart.

“Ethan.” She grabbed at his arm, preventing a quick departure. “You never told me why you really came here.”

In silence Ethan flipped the flap of his leather, satchel and withdrew a script. “This came for you by courier today.” He tossed it onto the kitchen counter to avoid having any physical contact with her. As much as he valued the companionship, comfort, and solace Candace offered him, his flesh was still weak when it came to Grace King.