Faking Grace, page 15
He had—or partly so, due to my forbidden attraction to him. The other reason for my absence was due to my present circumstances. As an investigative reporter attempting to root out hypocrisy among Christians, it didn’t seem right to sit in a pew or Sunday school chair and soak up God.
“Also, I want to tell you that I enjoyed meeting your grandmother.” Jack smiles, which causes my stomach to engage in activities unrelated to the production of acid. “She’s quite a character.”
My lips begin to tug. “Should I pass that on?”
He chuckles. “Not in so few words, perhaps.”
How do the British do that—turn something as unsensual as a chuckle into something spine tingling? “You’d like me to embellish?”
“Please.”
Oh boy. I really am attracted to this man who would be the first to string me up if he knew what I’m doing at Steeple Side. And that grounds me. “Thank you for sharing.” I start to rise, but he lays a hand on my forearm.
“There’s more.”
I look to his hand on me, and there’s that thrill I was bemoaning the lack of earlier. Though not your ordinary unearthing-the-truth thrill. This one is better. And dangerous. I lower to my chair again. “Oh?”
He removes his hand. “I was pleased to see that you and your grandmother signed up to serve in the soup kitchen next Sunday.”
While I already know the answer, I ask, “Did you sign up as well?”
“I did.”
“Then we’ll be working together.”
“Yes, and that’s the primary reason I wanted to talk to you. Would you be interested in writing a piece about your experience helping to feed the homeless?”
He’s asking me to write a piece? The part-time editorial assistant? The Middle Tennessee Review mole?
“I’ll be writing one for the men’s June issue, and I think it would be beneficial to do the same for the women’s issue—to run jointly.”
“You’re serious? You want me to write it?”
His brow creases. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t serious. Now the question is: are you serious about moving up at Steeple Side? If so, this could be the first step to realizing your dream of writing for publication.”
Not the first step. I’m many steps from being fresh out of college. And there’s my party-pooping conscience again. My former nemesis is trying to help me, completely unaware that it’s the last thing he should be doing.
“Are you all right, Grace?”
Only then do I realize my eyes are puddling.
“I hope those are happy tears.”
A better excuse than the truth. “Of course.” I wipe my eyes.
He considers me with that glint in his eyes again, and I hold my breath until it passes. “Then the next step is for me to get Linda’s approval and input.”
“You didn’t run this by her first?”
“I wanted to be sure you were receptive so you wouldn’t feel pressured to do something you’re not ready for.”
I’m not ready for this, but only because the emotions churning through me are reminiscent of what got me into trouble in Seattle. Jack’s belief in my ability will only make it harder to sleep at night.
“You are ready, aren’t you?”
If a smile could light up a room, mine would—regardless of how fake it feels. “You bet!”
He reaches across the table and once more lays a hand on my forearm. “I know you won’t disappoint us.”
Jack Prentiss is a fool.
“You did what?”
Grandma sighs. “I invited Jem for dinner.”
Cupping a hand over the mouthpiece of my cell phone, I dart my gaze around the Lifestyle department, then swivel around to give my back to those who don’t appear the least interested in the events unfolding at my desk. “Grandma, Tessie is my landlord. I can’t risk having my life at Steeple Side overlap my life at the paper.”
“But you’ve been worrying yourself over this Jem, and when she called and said she wanted to speak with you, what could I do?”
“Say I’d call her back?”
“Well, it’s too late now as I’ve given her your address, so pack it up and head home.”
“I can’t just walk out. I’m in the middle of editing—”
“Jem and I will visit until you get here.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Even if it means doing a second-rate job on editing this article for tomorrow’s edition.
“So are you in the mood for spaghetti or baked chicken?”
Meaning she must have gone grocery shopping. “Neither.”
“Then spaghetti it is. Drive safely.”
“Grandma!”
“Yes?”
“Do me a favor. From now on, let the answering machine take my calls.”
She sighs gruffly. “But what if your father or mother calls?”
I didn’t think she cared. “Then if you’re moved to do so, pick up.”
“All right. I’ll see you in a little while.”
I flip the cell phone closed and look to the ceiling. “You’re not going to make this easy, are You?”
“Talking to God now, are you?”
I swivel around, and there stands Tessie, arms crossed over her chest. “I do that sometimes.”
“And I suppose He talks back?”
Curling my fingers into my palms, I’m struck with regret at the rift opening between me and this woman I want to continue looking up to. I don’t want to feel resentful or question our friendship. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to tell you ‘good work’ on the porn guy.”
Porn guy? Is that all he is to her? She didn’t see his sorrow, his struggle…
“Of course, we’ll want to develop this angle further, so keep an eye out for other opportunities to sit in on his lunchtime confessionals.”
Bitterness rolls through me. “I’ll do that.” Maybe.
She turns on her heel.
Should I warn her that Jem’s coming to dinner? Wouldn’t want her dropping by, as she’s fairly visible in the Nashville area with her picture appearing alongside her columns. I teeter before deciding against it. Tessie will probably be here several more hours, and if she does get home early, I can’t imagine there’s anything that would bring her to my door.
Despite my attempt to wrap up the editing assignment, it’s nearly an hour before I head home to what I hope isn’t a disaster.
“There’s my girl!” Grandma rises from the kitchen table, crosses the living room, and embraces me. “I’ve been discreet,” she rasps into my ear.
How I wish our definitions of discreet matched. Returning her embrace, I smile at Jem, where she looks up from a plate of spaghetti. “Hi, Jem.”
With an apologetic smile, she adjusts the lacy, long-sleeved top she wears over a burgundy scoop neck. “Hi, Grace.”
Grandma leads me forward. “I believe Jem and I have pretty much had our fill, but we’ll sit with you. Maybe have a cup of tea. Would you like that, Jem?”
“Yes, thank you.”
I take a seat across from Jem, and we stare at each other until I look away from eyes that evidence the strain of tears. “Grandma, where’s Woofer?”
She holds the teapot under the tap. “I stuck him in the bathroom. All that dander was making my nose crawl.”
At that moment, Woofer gives a pitiful woo-oof from the other side of the bathroom door.
“How long has he been in there?”
“Since I got back from my tour of downtown Nashville.”
Meaning several hours. And since she probably didn’t let him out before locking him away, I start to rise.
“Don’t worry, I took the mutt out to do his business—nasty business, that—before putting him away.”
Putting him away? Like an old pair of shoes? Poor Woofer. Considering how mopey he’s been since Grandma’s arrival, it may take a while for him to recover from her visit. I hope he doesn’t require therapy.
I spread my napkin on my lap, then spoon spaghetti from the bowl at the center of the table. “Looks good, Grandma.”
“It is. Ask Jem.”
I glance at her plate, which appears to have been picked at. “Did you like it?”
She nods. “Your grandmother’s a good cook.”
“Thank you.” Grandma sets the teapot on the stove.
I add a breadstick and a scoop of salad—neither of which was in my refrigerator this morning—to my meal.
Grandma comes up behind me and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t forget to say grace.”
Lord, get me through this evening and I’ll … well, I’d appreciate it. Also, while You’re at it, would You help Jem with her anorexia? Amen.
Grandma lowers to the chair between Jem and me. “Before you got home, we were talking about anorexia.”
What was it she said about being discreet? Lord, tell me she didn’t come right out and say something like, “So, Grace tells me you’re anorexic.”
“You do know she’s anorexic, don’t you?” Feigned surprise jumps off Grandma’s face. “Of course, you know. Jem told me she talked to you about it.”
I dig my fork into the spaghetti and look to Jem. “How are you doing?”
“Okay.” She grimaces. “I’m sorry I cut you off. It was just awkward—not only the anorexia part but the mess up with your hair.” She takes a deep breath. “I was embarrassed and sure you regretted our friendship. And you’re so nice that I figured you’d feel obligated to keep it up.”
I set my fork down. “You were letting me off the hook?”
“That’s what I thought, but”—she laughs nervously—“you keep calling. And when I saw you today, I thought you were going to chase me down.”
“I considered it but had visions of being arrested for stalking.”
This time her laugh is smooth. “I appreciate your friendship. You’re a good person, Grace.”
I open my mouth to give back the compliment, but the sound of Tessie’s car in the driveway reminds me of the reason for my continuing relationship with Jem. Me, a good person? At the moment the best I can say is that I’m a good investigative reporter. And that pinches. I lower my untouched fork.
I glance at Grandma, whose wrinkle-framed eyes speak volumes, then look back at Jem. “I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome.” She picks up her fork and spools a bite of sauce-drenched spaghetti. “So your grandmother and I were talking about my … eating disorder.” She inserts the fork in her mouth, removes it, then chews, and I’m thrilled at the demonstration of her willingness to eat. But it’s not that easy. Nothing’s that easy.
“We prayed,” Grandma says.
They did? My grandmother and a stranger? She’s never prayed with me. Sure, when I was young and spent the night with her, she made sure I said a prayer before bed. And of course there’s always grace before meals, but she’s never prayed with me.
Jem smiles sheepishly. “I asked your grandmother to pray with me.”
That might be why. “That’s great.” I wait for her to elaborate on what they talked about regarding her eating disorder, but she returns her attention to her plate. Though the reporter in me itches, I take command of my own fork, and this time the spaghetti makes it to my mouth. The sauce isn’t canned, as evidenced by fresh oregano and garlic that send my taste buds into sigh city. “This is good, Grandma. Thank you.”
“No trouble.” Her smile slips. “Actually, it was some trouble. I had to walk to the grocery store, and my word! The traffic, the humidity, and the cost! I know those health-food grocery stores are pricey, but this was ridiculous.”
“I would have been happy to drive, and I’ll certainly repay you.”
“I’m not complaining, Maizy Grace—”
She catches her breath, I catch mine, and we look to Jem. However, she doesn’t appear to have caught Grandma’s use of my first name, as her attention is fixed on drawing the tines of her fork through her noodles.
Grandma clears her throat. “The good of it is that you now have a full refrigerator and pantry.”
Full? But she walked—
“The better of it is that I didn’t have to catch a cab back and throw more good money after bad.”
“Then …”
“A nice gentleman offered me a ride. Loaded up the groceries and, when we got here, helped me carry them up the stairs.”
I set my fork down with a clatter. “A stranger?”
“We met over melons. He has this interesting way of determining which ones are at their peak. He uses the knuckle of his middle finger. Like this.” She knocks on air.
“Grandma! Cantaloupes or not, you don’t take rides from strangers.”
“Not normally, but I had a good vibe about this William. He’s only three years older than me, widowed, and a transplant to the Nashville area. Like me.”
I feel lightheaded. “You’re not a transplant. You’re visiting. For two weeks.”
“One never knows.” The teapot begins to whistle, and she jumps up. “Anyway, seeing as you’re working two jobs now and hardly around—”
I glance at Jem, whose placid face gives me hope that the nugget Grandma just dropped didn’t make it through the sieve.
“—William will give me something to do.” She pours boiling water into two cups.
That made it through my sieve. “You made plans with this William?”
“He promised to show me the sights. No telling how much money I’ll save on the tours I was going to take all by my lonesome.”
“That’s so nice of him,” Jem croons.
I sit straighter. “Am I the only sane one here?”
“If so”—Grandma sets her cups on the table—“we’re in trouble.”
I swallow my humph as Jem pushes her plate aside and pulls her tea close. That’s all she’s going to eat? Of course, I don’t know how much she started with, so maybe she ate more than an infant’s portion. Deciding to put aside my concern over the Casanova who swept Grandma off her feet, I ask, “Are you sure you ate enough?”
“Oh yes.” Jem nods as she lifts her cup. “If I don’t ease back into eating, I’ll be sick.”
I guess that makes sense. “I’ve been praying for you.”
“Thank you.” She glances at Grandma, who glances at me. “The more prayers, the better.”
“I agree, but …” Here goes. “I’ve been reading up on eating disorders.”
She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. “I’m handling it. Really.”
Stomach protesting as I push away my spaghetti, I assure it that I haven’t gone over to the other side and that occasions like this are what microwaves are for. “Jem, I know some people are able to face down a problem like yours without intervention and that prayer can be powerful, but this isn’t the first time you’ve gone through it. Maybe you should give counseling a try.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
She puts the cup to her lips and sips through a struggle, which I sense is between hotfooting it out of here and dumping her messy burden at my feet.
A look at Grandma yields raised eyebrows and a staying hand discreetly lifted alongside her cup.
Finally Jem sits back. “Counseling is out. Number one, I can do this without help. Number two, I can’t afford it. Although I’m making it on my own, there isn’t a lot left over at the end of the week.”
I can certainly sympathize. “But you have insurance.”
“Yeah, and deductibles and noncovered portions. I simply don’t have it.” She raises her eyebrows. “And number three, I need my job. If Steeple Side found out …”
A chill goes through me. Then Tessie was right? Steeple Side has brainwashed her? Expects prayer alone to get her through? “You think they’d fire you over this?”
“Look, I cause them enough trouble without adding another reason for them to throw their hands up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Gossiping. Remember I told you my boss asked me to work on it? What I didn’t tell you is that she’s asked me a half-dozen times and wrote me up the last two times.”
“But this is different.”
Grandma nods. “Grace is right.”
“Maybe, but then there’s the matter of my work.”
I lean forward. “What about it?”
“I’m slow, can’t keep up with my assignments. I try, but …” She shrugs her thin shoulders. “It’s the perfectionist in me. And when my fiancé broke up with me last year, it was even worse.”
“You were engaged?”
Her eyes moisten. “For a month. I really loved him and he said he loved me, but when his mother refused to accept me, he wouldn’t go against her.”
“Well!” Grandma puffs up. “Obviously he doesn’t have a backbone, so good riddance. Imagine being tied down to a mama’s boy. A man is what you want. A man who, though he respects his mother, doesn’t allow her to set the tone for his marriage.”
I cannot believe I’m hearing this. Cannot believe Jem’s not hearing this. However, it does hit her, as evidenced by her startled expression. I long to say, “Listen to her, Jem. She raised such a man who didn’t allow his mother to run roughshod over him and the woman he loved,” but I can’t.
“Did your boss write you up for being unable to keep up with your assignments?” I ask.
“No, she’s nice about it, but I can tell she’s frustrated.”
“So you’re afraid that if you asked for help—”
“The final straw.”
Would Steeple Side decide she’s more trouble than she’s worth? While I know how Tessie would answer that, I don’t believe it, but maybe I’m just naive. Again.
“I think you’re wrong. Those are good Christian people.” Grandma flicks her gaze to me so I’ll know she’s not just talking to Jem. “Not perfect, but good. After all, if they didn’t care about you, do you think you would have received so many warnings? They’re trying to shape you. Trying to bring out your full potential.”
Jem’s eyes widen. “You think so?”
“I do. As for your eating problem, you’re not the only one at Steeple Side who has burdens and”—she regards me again—“secrets.”
If she thinks reminding me of my deception is going to shut me up about her diatribe on mama’s boys, then she … may be right.
