Faking Grace, page 7
I couldn’t ask for a better opening to probe Jack and Bette’s relationship. “Or fiancé, fiancée.”
“Fiancé, fiancée.” He grunts. “That’s like Ms., Miss … begging the question of is she or isn’t she married?”
So much for the perfect opening.
“Of course, that’s the bachelor in me talking. I guess the single life is starting to get old—coming home to a silent apartment, dining on microwaved food, watching the news, playing video games, hoping that when the phone rings it’ll be someone other than my mother.”
This must be the incontinence of the mouth Fiala spoke about. “Yeah.”
“Then you’re tired of the single life too?”
Uh-oh. He seems like a nice guy, but I don’t like where this conversation could be heading. “Not yet, but I do have my moments.”
We halt behind Jack and Bette, who are next in line to purchase tickets. I swing my backpack from my shoulder and pull out my wallet. A moment later, I hit on the perfect excuse to bypass the liars contest. “Oh, da—shucks!” Nice save. “Looks like I’ve spent my last dollar.” I open my empty wallet wide for Todd’s inspection. True, I have a twenty tucked behind a credit card, but that’s for emergencies. And watching a liars contest hardly qualifies, even if I did plan on including it in my article. Oh well.
“I’ll cover you.” Todd pulls some bills from his wallet.
“No! I wouldn’t impose.”
“You’re not.”
“But—”
“If it makes you feel better, you can pay me back on Monday.”
I start to protest further, but Jack turns to me. “Careful, Grace, or you’ll leave us with the impression that you don’t want to spend time with your Steeple Side colleagues.”
Should have known he was listening. “That’s not it!” Well, not exactly, as my main concern is the possibility of an awkward run-in with Porter. “I just …”
Bette leans near me. “Let Todd spring for you. It will make his evening.”
What’s the use? I give Todd a smile. “If you insist.”
Okay, Big Guy, here’s the deal. You keep Porter away from me and I’ll crack open my new Bible. Promise.
“Spectator or teller?” drawls the teenage girl who’s collecting for the tickets.
Todd frowns. “Teller?”
She bobs her head. “If you’d like to compete in the contest, you register with the clerk.”
“What does it involve?”
“When the master of ceremonies calls your name, you have five minutes to tell your biggest whopper. If you win, there’s prize money.”
Todd looks around. “What do you think, Jack?”
“Only five minutes? I can’t imagine you telling any story—whopper or otherwise—in under half an hour.”
Todd feigns offense. “Ow.”
“But as for Grace …” Jack eyes me. “I have a feeling she could do it.”
And I have a vision of grabbing him by an ear, hauling him to a Porta Potti, and locking him inside. I open my eyes wide. “Embarrassing as it is to admit, I’m not very good at expressing myself verbally.” But give me a pen and paper and I’m pretty good at leveling the playing field. And how I’d like to level his!
“Stop giving Grace a hard time.” Bette punches Jack’s shoulder. “She’ll start thinking you don’t like her.”
I believe we’re way past “start.”
“So?” The teenage girl comes to my rescue. “Spectator or teller?”
Todd hands her the bills. “We’ll have to content ourselves with being mere spectators.”
Shortly, we step into the auditorium that, though far from capacity, is filling fast. Jack snags four seats a half dozen rows from the front, and I find myself sandwiched between him and Todd with Bette on Jack’s right.
Trying not to appear too obvious, I scope out the room and cringe at the sight of Porter standing to the right of the stage. Hands shrugging up his pants pockets, he rocks toe to heel. Hopefully, he’ll stay pointed in that direction. He doesn’t.
As his head comes around, I slip down in my seat.
Todd leans over to me. “You all right, Grace?”
Ignoring Jack’s probing gaze, I nod. “Just relaxing a little. It’s been a full day.”
“But you can’t see over the guy in front of you.”
True, but neither can Porter see over him to me. “I’ll sit up when the contest starts.”
Todd shrugs and looks forward again.
Great! Why don’t I just stamp “something to hide” on my forehead?
Once the contest starts, I straighten, though only enough to see the stage in the gap between the man and woman in front of me. Surprisingly, the contest is entertaining, and I find myself laughing with the audience. And wishing I could pull out my notebook and jot down impressions of it for the article I’ll be writing this evening. Jack Prentiss is really cramping my style!
When Porter finally withdraws—likely to get pictures of the clogging event—I can barely contain my relief. Summoning the energy to sit upright, I slide up in my seat to enjoy the show. And I do enjoy it, especially the performance of a thirteen-year-old boy sporting a cap of brown hair and a smile that contorts time and again as he tells his tale of “the mule that got away.”
“That was funny!” Bette says as the four of us step into the crisp night air.
I nod. “That thirteen-year-old boy …” Remembering his parting shot, I laugh. Laughter, which trails off into a giggle, which trails off into a…
I press my lips. Too late, according to the eyes that spotlight me.
Bette tilts her head to the side. “Did you just … purr?”
Haven’t done that in a long time. Of course, I haven’t had much to laugh about. “I’ve been told it sounds like that—what comes out at the end of my laugh when I’m excited … er, happy.” And which I try to keep under control as much as possible, especially as it was another “laughing point” for my girlhood nemesis, Cynthia Sircy.
Todd nods. “Definitely a purr. Have you ever heard anything like it, Jack, outside of a cat?”
“Can’t say I have. Grace is a very interesting person.”
Though I’m growling on the inside, I’m smiling on the outside. “Why, thank you. And thank you for inviting me to join all of you. I’d better get going.”
“Oh,” Bette groans, “I thought you might catch some of my show.”
And dodge Porter again should he decide to stop by the main stage? And subject myself to more of Jack’s derisive comments and scrutiny? “I appreciate the invite. Unfortunately I have a date.” With a deadline, so not a lie. Exactly.
Jack narrows his eyes. “Unfortunately?”
Cannot believe I said that. “You know how dates are—some good, some bad. We’ll just have to see how this one goes.” I’m hoping that, with a pot of black coffee at my side, it will be productive.
“Wow, unless your date is in Columbia, that’s going to be some late date.” Todd consults his watch. “It’s going on eight.”
Bette gasps. “I’ve got to get to the stage!”
I couldn’t be more grateful for the diversion, as otherwise I might have had to pull a “night-shift” boyfriend out of my hat—a.k.a. a lie.
Bette gives Jack’s cheek a peck, Todd’s shoulder a squeeze, and me a smile. “Nice meeting you, Grace. See you at the show, guys.” She hurries across the park, leaving me with Jack and Todd.
I shift my backpack. “I guess I’ll see you at work on Monday.” I step past them, holding my breath, fiercely hoping they don’t call me back. They don’t.
Thank You, God. And thank You for keeping Porter away. I’ll definitely crack open my new Bible. If not tonight, then tomorrow night, or the next. Regardless, You can count on me.
It is done. And, if I say so myself, I did the article justice. Of course, it helps that, with the exception of spending nearly an hour in the company of Jack Prentiss, I actually enjoyed myself. As dull as lifestyle writing is compared to investigative reporting, I really am good at this.
With Woofer tucked under an arm, nostrils flaring as he attempts to inhale the peanut-butter sandwich I’m carrying in the opposite hand, I cross the living room and plop down on the sofa.
Woofer whimpers. Woofer wiggles. Woofer waddles out from beneath my arm and onto my lap to stick his nose inches from my sandwich. As usual, I share—a bite for me, a pinch for him—until all that’s left are crumbs.
As he settles alongside my thigh, I retrieve my Bible from the lamp table. “And now for some light reading.” See, God, I’m keeping my promise—even though I’m really tired.
I spread the tortoiseshell handles of the tapestry cover, unzip, and am pleased to immediately translate the KJV initials stamped on the cover into “King James Version.” Despite the tongue-in-cheek title, The Dumb Blonde’s Guide to Christianity—or DBGC as I’ve begun to think of it—is a wealth of information.
I start to open the Bible, only to feel the tug of DBGC. Surely it will tell me the best place to embark on my journey. I grab it. And—lookie there!—a chapter titled “So You Want to Attempt to Read the Bible: Sixty-Six Books in Sixty-Six Minutes or Less.” Attempt? That doesn’t sound promising.
I turn to the chapter that explains the structure of the Bible. Two divisions—Old Testament and New Testament.
I know that.
Thirty-nine books in the Old Testament, twenty-seven books in the New Testament, for a total of sixty-six.
Simple addition, but what’s with the number sixty-six?
A list of the Old Testament books, from Genesis to Malachi, with all kinds of strange names like Leviticus and Ecclesiastes.
Sure hope I won’t be expected to know their pronunciation. I stifle a yawn.
A list of the New Testament books, from Matthew to Revelation.
More strange names, though sprinkled with some nice, solid “100 Most Popular Baby Names” like Matthew, John, James, and Peter.
Three types of books in the Old Testament: historical, poetical, and prophetical, each book placed under one of the three headings.
“Oo … kay.”
Shortly, I give myself a pat on the back when the author explains how to find something in the Bible using its standard reference system—the book of the Bible, a chapter in that book, followed by a colon, followed by the verse. Easy, especially since I figured it out years ago when I was saved at the Christian summer camp. What won’t be easy is memorizing the order of the books to avoid fumbling through nearly fifteen hundred pages should that become necessary.
The thought of memorizing all sixty-six names makes me yawn again. Don’t worry, Tessie will come through. And if she doesn’t? Fortunately, throughout the DBGC are sidebars titled Very Blonde Tips for the extra-challenged (or, in my case, busy).
VERY BLONDE TIP #16
Navigating the Bible Without Wearing Out the Contents Page
You’re either very blonde, very busy, very lazy, or memory impaired. Regardless, the alternative to memorization of the sixty-six books of the Bible is the use of color-coded self-adhesive tabs printed with the name of each book (see appendix for a detailed explanation of how to apply these handy-dandy tabs). Sets are available at your local Christian bookstore for around five dollars.
Another yawn prompts me to “rest” my eyes for a second…
“Mmm.” With every intention of cracking open my Bible, I shift sideways, then a little more. Oh, why not? I stretch out across the sofa cushions (just need to recharge my batteries), causing Woofer to reposition himself alongside my tummy.
As for my Bible … I eye it where it lies beside Woofer.
You promised.
But I didn’t say tonight—or is it morning now? Regardless—
Stop being so cultural!
I poke a finger between the covers of the Bible and crank it open to Psalm 25:4–5. “Shew me thy …”
“Shew? Thy?” Now I remember why the Bible I received at summer camp ended up in a garage sale. “Shew me thy ways, O LORD; teach me thy paths. Lead me in thy truth, and teach me: for thou art the God of my salvation; on thee do I wait all the day.”
I drop the cover. There. Not only did I take the time to research how to begin my journey through the Bible, but I cracked it open and read a verse. All good.
SIX
I’m beaming. Not because Linda Stillwater, senior editor and my immediate supervisor, is back from a two-week absence (though she seems nice enough). Not because I’ve nearly made it through my workday without running into Jack. And not because I splurged on Tony the Tiger cereal and gourmet dog food yesterday. I’m beaming because I overheard two junior staff writers talking about my Mule Day article that ran on Sunday. One said she loved the witty tone and style; the other added that Maizy Stewart never disappoints. And if my beam wasn’t bright enough, it cranked up when Fiala added, “Nice that they finally hired someone with talent.”
“Me!” I wanted to shout. Not bad for someone who’d rather make a difference with her writing by tackling the dregs of life—the good stuff, like embezzlement, drugs, and illegal political contributions.
My beam falters in direct proportion to the bitterness that oozes through the cracks in my memories, and I’m forced to admit that “good stuff” isn’t an apt description, especially if the reporter is “faint of heart.” Which, according to my last editor, I am.
She’s wrong. I was just green. And gullible. But that has changed, and once Ray gives me a chance, I’ll prove it. Maizy Stewart is going to expose the gritty underside of Nashville … is going to bring justice to the downtrodden … is going to make a name for herself and prove her detractors wrong.
I wince at that last statement, which is obviously self-serving, but there has to be some gratification to keep a good reporter going. Right? Right. In fact, I can see it now: “And this year’s recipient of the award for best investigative reporting …”
I fantasize, yet not for much longer, I hope. Er, pray. Please, God. Now back to this pile of unopened mail.
“Grace.”
That’s my name, and I haven’t forgotten it once today. I look over my shoulder at the middle-aged Linda Stillwater as she pokes her head around her office door. “Yes ma’am?”
“Can you come in? I have an assignment for you.”
Assignment. How sweet the word! Too bad it’s not being used in its purest form. Expecting to be given a task along the lines of labeling folders, I push back from my desk and step into her office.
“Having been out these past weeks, I’ve fallen behind.” She lowers to her chair. “I don’t know how I’m going to write this article for the upcoming issue and at the same time keep my writers on track.”
“I’d love to help however I can.” Which is far more than you realize.
She gazes at me through the same red-rimmed eyes she sported this morning when I introduced myself. If she hadn’t just returned from vacation, I’d say she’s been crying. Probably allergies.
“I’m assuming you know how to research.”
Do I ever! “Of course. Just tell me what you want.”
She gives what seems a halfhearted smile. “I like your enthusiasm. It’ll get you far in this company.”
Not in my plans, but if it makes her feel better. “Thank you.”
She pushes a folder toward me. “Teenage drug use. I need current statistics among Christians and non-Christians.”
Serious research. And interesting. This should make the day go by faster.
As I open the folder, she continues, “Frequency, duration, drug of choice, who with, where, why—” Her voice breaks, and when I look up, her eyes have reddened further and the tip of her nose is flushed.
Maybe not allergies. Might she be going through a rough time?
“Also, I’d like to know how our churches are dealing with teen drug use. Big and small congregations. Make a few calls, talk to a few youth pastors.”
“Should I stick with local churches?”
“Sure. In fact, start with your church.”
Gulp.
“By the way, which church do you attend?”
Why am I not surprised? Which begs the question: why am I not prepared? I had every intention of scoping out a church yesterday, maybe even peeking inside a couple. But no, just had to sleep in. Had to indulge in a long shower. Had to take Woofer for a walk at Percy Warner Park.
I clear my throat. “Unfortunately, I’m still fairly new to the area, so I haven’t yet found a church I’d call my church home. But I’m getting close.” Close to making the drive down West End. Today. After work. No excuses.
“Which church are you leaning toward? Maybe I can offer some insight.”
“Uh, this one on West End … big, brick, nice landscaping.” On West End, they all have nice landscaping. At her frown, I scrunch up my nose. “Embarrassing as it is to admit, the name escapes me.”
Her frown eases. “Is it—?”
“The right or the left side of the road as you head west?”
It’s him. My own personal plague rolled up in a British accent, always appearing at the most inopportune time. That pharaoh guy who thought he had it bad when Moses descended on Egypt? He had nothing on me. Not that I’ve been reading my Bible, though I had every intention of doing so this weekend. It’s just that one of Grandma Grace’s favorite Bible stories is the one about Moses and the plagues visited on that stubborn pharaoh.
Drawing a breath to avoid appearing rattled, I turn to where Jack stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s on the right side of the street.”
“Big … brick …” His brow furrows as if he’s truly deep in thought, but I know better. He’s trying to catch me. “Brown brick?”
Was it brown? “I believe it’s some shade of brown and not far off the interstate.”
His eyebrows rise. “You don’t mean the one with the Star of David out front?”
Uh-oh. Does it have a Star of David? I don’t remember seeing one. And even I know what that signifies. Wrong religion. “Of course not. It’s past the synagogue. Actually, probably farther from the park than I’m thinking. Maybe a mile? Really big”—the better to get lost in—“with a tall steeple.” Very Christian.
