Faking Grace, page 23
“Look at it as a learning experience.” Ben straightens his sapphire blue tie. “The next time—”
“Next time?” I step closer, bringing us eye to eye and shattering the illusion that he’s as tall as he appears on television. “You scooped me, remember? End result—I was fired. F-i-r-e-d.”
Regret flashes in his eyes, and he reaches forward and cups my shoulder. “I did warn you what could happen if you didn’t deliver the story.”
I jerk from beneath his hand. “Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better!”
With a grunt of frustration, he drops his chin but then pops it back up. “Look, let’s talk about this later when you’re thinking more clearly.”
“There is no ‘later.’ This is it.”
He frowns. “What?”
As intelligent as he is, sometimes he can be incredibly dense. “Good-bye, Ben. That’s what it is—g-o-o-d-b-y-e.” As petty as it sounds, it feels good to spell it out for him.
“Ah, come on, Maizy.” He whips a hand up through the air. “You’ll get over it.”
“Yes, I will, but not with you.”
He stares at me, and I neither flinch nor flutter as he searches my face. Finally, with a muttered deprecation, Ben steps past me. Strangely, though, in the next instant I feel his hand on me again.
“Bad memory,” he says with a distinctly British accent.
I blink. I didn’t know he could—no, that last wasn’t Ben. It was Jack.
I catch my breath and look down at his fingers on my forearm. Much nicer fingers than Ben’s…
I shake my head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to go there.”
“My fault. So is it safe to conclude that this guy is the reason you’re passing on me?”
Actually it would be safer—for me—if Jack were the reason I’m passing on him. But not another lie. Feeling as if the “up” muscles of my mouth are on the verge of conceding defeat to the “down” muscles, I try to smile. “It’s not you. And though it does have something to do with Ben, it’s really about me. I’m not at a good place in my life to get involved.” How’s that for honesty?
After a long moment, he says, “All right. I respect that.”
That was surprisingly easy, especially if I don’t allow myself to dwell on the fact that, under different circumstances, what just happened between us would have me head over heels. “Thank you.”
He snags his water bottle from the grass. “Let me know when you are at a good place in your life. Providing I am as well, I’d like to see how we match up.”
Sadly, if and when I arrive at that good place, I will have attained the rank of pariah where those at Steeple Side are concerned. “I’ll do that.” I take a step away. “Thank you for filling me in on Jem.”
“You’re welcome. I hope to see you at church tomorrow … and bowling afterward.”
Did he say the b word? I whip around. “Bowling?”
His eyebrows arch. “Avery said you signed up.”
Me? The thought of hefting a weight-challenged ball is no more appealing than it was the day Porter teasingly invited me to join his bowling league. Grandma! Must have been at the same time she signed me up to work the soup kitchen.
“You didn’t sign up?”
If I told him it wasn’t me, might that raise suspicions about my participation with the soup kitchen? I clap a hand over my face. “Like I said … overload. So what time tomorrow?” Me. Bowling. This can’t be happening. “And where?”
“Two o’clock. Brentwood. I can count on you, can’t I?”
I drop my hand from my face. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Being the matchmaker he is, Avery assigned you to my team.”
Lord, are You trying to tell me something? “Well, you might actually be better off without me as I’m lucky to score ninety with the aid of bumpers.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, and I can’t help but admire the way it further defines his biceps. “Ninety, hmm?”
“Sorry. Holey balls that weigh more than my purse on a bad day don’t do much for me.”
“Then we’ll have to focus on the fun of it.”
That’s his solution? “You still want me on your team?”
“Sure.”
I toss my hands in the air. “They’re your toes.”
“I’ll watch out for them. See you tomorrow.”
As I head across the lawn with Woofer in tow, I feel Jack’s eyes on me but squash the temptation to turn around. After all, Jack and temptation are a bad combination, especially with the remembrance of his kiss on my lips.
“I’m just happy to be back in my own bed.”
Despite the sturdy pitch of Grandma’s voice, I don’t believe her. “It was nice of Mom and Dad to ask you to stay with them.”
A long pause. “Your mother’s little habits and outlook on life were starting to rub my nerves raw, yet it distracted me from my grief.” She harrumphs. “Did you know she refuses to allow red meat in the house?”
So she’s on that kick again. I roll from my back to my stomach and lever onto my elbows to pick at the lint peppering my bedspread.
“Though my son is no longer a growing boy, he needs meat … of the red variety.”
I shrug. “So long as Dad’s fine with it, I wouldn’t worry.”
“Fine with it? Do you know what he ordered when he took me to dinner last night when it was just the two of us?”
“A steak?”
“Medium rare. I tell you, it’s not right that a grown man has to sneak around to get his red meat. You should have seen your mother’s face when he told her that he’d taken me to a steakhouse.”
That changes things a bit. “Then he’s not sneaking around?”
“Your father’s a good man. He may have abandoned his faith, but he’s no liar. God’s commandments are still in there somewhere. In fact, if I can get him to walk me into church tomorrow, he might be convinced to stay for the service.”
I frown. “Dad’s taking you to church?”
“He offered. I accepted.”
“And … Mom?”
“Surprisingly, she’s the one who suggested it.”
Surprising is an understatement, especially as we’re talking two things that rub Mom wrong—Grandma and church.
“Suspicious, hmm?”
I shake my head. “No, let’s stick with surprising and accept it as an olive branch.”
“You think?” Her pitch rises with … hope?
“I do.”
“Well”—she clears her throat—“that would be a nice change.”
As if my mother has never tried to get along with her. “Yes, one I’m sure Dad will appreciate too. So what’s this about you signing me up for bowling?”
“I forgot about that. Since I knew I’d be home by then, I thought you would be lonely and in need of company. And that nice fellow Jack signed up. You are going, aren’t you?”
“It looks that way.”
“Good. Now what is it I wanted to tell you? Oh! William may fly out to see me.”
“Really?”
“Yes, he’s quite taken with me. And though I can’t say I return the intensity of his feelings, I do miss him.”
“That’s great.” I think.
“How’s your article on Steeple Side coming?” She makes no attempt to couch the question in genuine interest. Disapproval is more her style.
“The paper has given me a deadline. I have two weeks to get them the story.”
“Getting impatient then.”
“They are paying me.”
“As is Steeple Side.” She tut-tuts, slathering on another layer of guilt, though I have yet to cash a single Steeple Side paycheck. “Ironic, if you ask me.”
I glance at the clock in search of an excuse to get off the phone. Five thirty. Too early to turn in for the night.
“Did you see what that book of yours has to say about integrity, Maizy Grace?”
I drop my face to the bedspread. “Nuh-uh.”
“Well, you should.”
A knock at the front door brings my head up like a shot. Expelling the mouthful of bedspread, I say, “Grandma, someone’s at the door.”
“Probably that dreadful Halston woman. Don’t answer.”
“I have to. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”
To my surprise, Woofer has his nose to the door when I enter the living room. Meaning it can’t be Tessie, as her visits warrant little more than a crooked ear.
As the knock sounds again, I falter. Who other than Tessie would come knocking on a Saturday? I have my answer a moment later when I peek through the curtains. Jem.
Before I can formulate a reason for her appearance, movement draws my attention to Tessie, who has stepped out her back door. She halts at the sight of Jem and says, “Can I help you?”
Jem turns to her. “I need to talk to Grace. Her car’s here, but she’s not answering the door.”
Oh, yes I am. I throw the door open wide. “What are you doing here, Jem?”
She swivels around. “You’re here.”
A glance at Tessie subjects me to raised eyebrows. “Want to come in?”
Jem nods and steps past me.
Avoiding Tessie’s gaze, I raise a hand to her and close the door.
Awkwardness stretches over the next several moments as Jem and I face each other. Finally I say, “I’m glad to see you.”
She shifts her slight weight. “Really?”
“Yes. I was afraid you weren’t going to talk to me again.”
She makes a face. “I wouldn’t do that. I was just upset.”
“You’re not anymore?”
“No, especially since I figured it out.”
Figured out her problem? Meaning she is going to get help? My heart constricts at the possibility that my time at Steeple Side won’t be entirely defined by deception. “What exactly did you figure out?”
She points a finger at me, closes an eye, and makes the same clicking sound she made my first day at Steeple Side. Only then she was pointing and clicking at Fiala. “I know your secret.”
TWENTY
It has to be a rare (or seriously whacked) person who can be horrified, elated, and relieved all at the same time, but I am. And somehow I make it to the armchair. “How did you find out?”
She lowers to the sofa cushion nearest me. “From Jack.”
I sit upright. “Jack knows?”
Her brow furrows. “Why wouldn’t he? I mean, it is mutual.”
That makes no sense. Unless… “What are you talking about?”
“About you two being attracted to each other, becoming an item. What are you talking about?”
That’s it? That’s my so-called secret? Going limp again, I blow a breath up my face.
“Grace? What secret are you talking about?”
I wave a hand. “Nothing.”
“But all the blood drained from your face. We’re talking the extreme end of white.”
“Must be the dark hair. Loads of contrast.” Time to change the subject. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? The attraction between me and Jack?”
“No, I only brought it up because when Jack took me to coffee yesterday to discuss Steeple Side’s commitment to me, it became obvious that you told him about my problem because the two of you have grown close.”
“How did it become obvious?”
“The way he defended you and assured me you had only my best interests at heart. Of course, then I asked if he had a thing for you, and he said he did.”
While it’s not news to me, hearing that Jack admitted it to Jem makes it hurt even more that a relationship with him is impossible.
She claps her hands. “Anyway, I just want to apologize for hanging up on you the other night and to thank you for caring about me.”
Which is not an act, though she’ll never believe it once my story hits the paper. Remembering the card I purchased for her, I jump up. “I have something for you.” I dig my purse out of the coat closet. “Just a little something to let you know I care.” I hold out the card.
Slowly, as if opening a highly anticipated present, she pulls the card from the envelope, but the chuckle I expect over the plucked, repentant-looking chicken doesn’t happen. Rather, she runs her fingers over it, then looks at me in wonder. “I didn’t tell anyone, so you couldn’t have known.”
“What?”
She turns the card toward me. “This is mine.”
I frown over her a long moment before dropping down beside her. “You drew the chicken?”
“Last year I submitted a dozen card concepts to a Christian greeting card company, and they bought eight of them. And you liked this one well enough to buy it.”
I laugh. “It grabbed me immediately.”
She bounces on the sofa in a way that reminds me of Tigger. “Thanks. What did you think of the wording?”
“Yours too?”
“Yep.”
“Well, it was the sorry-looking chicken that caught my eye, but the ‘My bad. Your grace. Puh-leeease forgive me’ made me open my wallet. It’s a great card.”
She gives another bounce. “This is so exciting—must be how an author feels when she sees someone reading her book.”
I give her a hug that she returns with bony arms. When I pull back, I jut my chin at the card. “Open it.”
She turns the cover and reads aloud, “I truly care about you and want you to get well. I’m sorry for any hurt I caused. Your friend, Grace.”
A moment later, another hug, at the end of which I ask, “Are you going to get help?”
As she draws back, her face passes from light into shadow. “Despite Jack’s assurances, I’m afraid.”
I squeeze her forearm. “Of what?”
She lays her other hand atop mine. “That the others at Steeple Side will find out about my secret.”
She’s not alone in worrying about that, but in my case it’s only a matter of when.
“I’m afraid they’ll think I’m weak and … disturbed.” She gives a sad laugh. “Not that they’ll be obvious about it—they’re nice people—but they’ll be uncomfortable around me.”
“I believe most of them will understand. After all, you’re not the only one at Steeple Side dealing with a life-changing problem. Take the situation with Linda and her son.”
Jem’s face lightens, but only briefly. “Yeah, but she’s not the one doing drugs.”
“You don’t think her son’s addiction is a reflection on her? Nice people or not, some will judge her by what he got himself into … even blame her.”
Jem lowers her gaze to our stacked hands.
As silence stretches, I scoot to the edge of my chair. “I haven’t been at Steeple Side long, but I’ve learned that even though its employees have accepted Christ, they face the same obstacles as everyone else. They make mistakes and mess up, whether it’s with drugs or gossip or gambling or porn or whatever you want to dig up. But what sets them apart is that they’re tied together by faith. Yes, there will be some who don’t get it and back off, but I believe there are more who will support you.” I lean closer. “You won’t be alone.”
“I’m still scared.”
I smile encouragingly. “What about God? And prayer?”
“I know. And I’m grateful for both.”
“But?”
Her hand trembles on mine. “Have you ever been where I am, hating the place you’re at, but afraid to move in case the next place is worse? Even if it’s where God wants you?”
One moment I’m nodding, the next I’m playing her words back, then mine. And they’re running together and through me like an icy wind. I am where she’s at. I do hate it. And I’m just as afraid of venturing too far out and drowning. Again.
“What is it?”
I startle to find her staring at me. “I …”
“Are you all right?”
Get back to her problem. Deal with yours later. “No.” Don’t do it. You’ll blow it. Then what will you have to show for it? Big difference between starving oneself and full-frontal deception. “No, I’m not all right.” There’s always indigestion … good old menstrual cramps…
Jem squeezes my shoulder. “Can I help?”
This is your life. “I don’t know.” I rub my forehead. “I’m into something up to my eyeballs, and I don’t know how to get out. But I want to.” I meet her concerned gaze. “Like you.” Fine. Kiss your career and dreams good-bye, and while you’re at it, say hello to bankruptcy.
“What kind of trouble are you in?”
Will she hate me? Nose tingling, eyes threatening to spring a leak, I lift my chin. “I guess you could call it fraud. And the name’s Maizy.”
The voice of dissent stomps off with a snort of disgust.
Jem looks up from the pages of notes that began with the day I put together my 5-Step Program to Authentic Christian Faith. She knows most of the story, including Seattle, and though she has winced, flinched, gasped, shaken her head, and shrugged her shoulders up to her ears, she has yet to turn tail and run.
She sighs. “So that’s how Jack found out about my problem.”
“Yeah.” I stare at her as she sits cross-legged on the floor with my incriminating notebook in her lap. “It went flying, and he got to it before me.”
She whistles, and once more I’m struck by how well she’s taking this. “I’ll bet that about gave you a heart attack.”
“Fortunately I snatched the notebook from him before he could thumb through the other entries.”
“How did you explain what he did see?”
I’m beyond the blush of shame. “I lied. Told him I was considering writing an article on anorexia. Since he’d asked me to write about my soup kitchen experience, it seemed like it would fly.”
Jem fingers the page. “So how many employees were part of the investigation?”
“About two dozen.”
She gives a short laugh that borders on bitter. “So this ‘freelance editing’ you’ve been doing is how you know that Steeple Side employees face the same problems as everyone else?”
“Yeah.”
She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. “Grace, er, Maizy, is this why you hung out with me … because of my big mouth?”
A conclusion I knew she would reach. “I really do enjoy spending time with you. However, it’s true that once the paper put me on the story, you turned out to be a good source of information. I’m sorry.”
