I, Gracie

by Sharon Sala

  She'd eaten her snack and had her bottle of pop, but now she was bored again. Daddy was singing along with a song on the radio, and James was in the back seat fighting with the girls.

  Gracie leaned against her mother and sighed.

  "Are we there yet, Mama?"

  "Not yet, baby girl, but soon," Delia said. "Lay your head in my lap and close your eyes. It's going to be a really long day."

  * * *

  Gracie woke without opening her eyes, and for a few fading moments could still feel the denim fabric of Mama's jeans against her cheek and smell the scent of her perfume.

  "A dream. It was just a dream," Gracie said, and threw back the covers.

  It was a little after 8:00 in the morning as she went into the bathroom to shower. The urge to get back on the road was like an outgoing tide, pulling her further away from what she knew into a vast unknown.

  She dressed quickly, packed, and then sat down with her phone to check her balance at the bank. She couldn't believe what she was seeing.

  The amount had jumped from a little over six thousand dollars, to more than twenty-one thousand. People were still donating? She clutched her phone to her breasts in disbelief, then headed downstairs.

  The free breakfast buffet beckoned, and she ate all she could hold before checking out. After refueling and checking the air in her tires, she got back on I-44 north, sending up every positive prayer and vibe she could muster.

  Gracie didn't want to be scared, but uncertainty had never been her friend. She was, at heart, a mover and a shaker, and for her, living within the status quo was like living with a herd all moving in the same direction, all bawling for someone else to feed them, care for them, and sell them to the highest bidder. Her fear of being lost in the crowd was a valid fear.

  But as the miles passed, she felt easier. She had the same feeling of adventure that she'd had on their trip to the state fair when she was a kid, and an instinctual feeling she wasn't riding alone.

  "Mama. Daddy. If you're here, buckle up. I, Gracie, am not messing around."

  Then she stomped on the accelerator.

  The same south wind in Texas that had dried up the ranch was now pushing her forward. She was barely hanging onto the speed limit, and the geography of Oklahoma was nothing but a blur.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time Gracie crossed the border into Missouri, she was already in love. The Ozark Mountains called to her like a long-lost lover, beckoning her to come close—to move deeper into the ancient secrets hidden within the vast forests of green and the deep trenches of the shadowed valleys.

  The energy around her was as strong as her heartbeat. She didn't know what fate had in store for her here, but it felt safe, and she hadn't felt safe in such a long time.

  After a stop for fuel, and a to-go cup full of ice and Coke, Gracie was off to Springfield, then a slight jog east before heading back south to Branson.

  She arrived just before noon, rolling into what had once been a small, mountain town long-since burst at the seams into the bustling, tourist-filled city it was today.

  Gracie drove with one eye on the traffic, and the other on the sights before her. Signs advertising the daily music shows at their venues were everywhere, along with signs and arrows pointing the way to famous Silver Dollar City.

  From the main roads, the winding streets that led up and down hills into older, quieter, neighborhoods were enticing, but something to see for another time.

  She'd seen advertisements for the newer apartment complexes on the outskirts of downtown, but she would need to stand in the place to know if it was meant for her to be there, and that, too, would come on another day. Right now, she was just taking in the amazing mix of old and new and sensing the vibrancy of so many people coming and going. She would find a way to belong here. And somewhere, there was a job and a place here that would be hers to call home.

  "I'm here, Mama. I made it," Gracie said.

  But as she kept driving and seeing the hotel and motel parking lots full of cars, she realized it might not be as simple to get a room for a couple of days as it had been on the road. She needed a stopping place to reconnoiter. First thing was finding an apartment. It was time to get down to business or she'd be sleeping in her car to keep everything safe.

  Because the name appealed to her, she pulled into Mel's Hard Luck Diner to get something to eat. The place had an old 50s-style vibe, with waiters and waitresses who kept breaking into songs from the era. She smiled. Singing waiters. It all reminded her of Mama and Daddy's music on the porch.

  And the place was busy, which meant the food was likely good. They seated her at a small table against a wall, leaving her with a glass of iced tea and a menu to read.

  When the waiter came back, she ordered a Hard Luck cheeseburger and onion rings, then got her phone and started pulling up hotel websites. After checking prices, she began making calls, and on the second try, she got a reservation for three nights with a 2:00 check-in at one she'd seen near the strip.

  After that, she relaxed and glanced up, absently eyeing the other guests as the waiters and waitresses moved through the dining area serving food and refilling drinks.

  It occurred to her as she sat there that she might wind up waiting tables, although not likely here. She couldn't sing good enough for a job like this, but she'd do whatever it took to pay the bills and be grateful for it. She'd already accepted that she was going to be behind the curve in work experience for someone her age, but it was what it was.

  When her food came, she eyed the burger hungrily, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then picked it up and took a big bite, unaware she had become another diner's point of interest.

  She ate until she was stuffed. She had almost come down from the high of her arrival when someone started singing an old Marty Robbins song.

  "A white sport coat...and a pink carnation..."

  She glanced up, and for a heartbeat, she was looking at her daddy. Then she blinked, and realized it was a waiter. The ache in her chest bloomed, rolling up her throat and blinding her with sudden tears. She was about to make a fool of herself and needed to get out of here.

  John Gatlin had been eating lunch at the Hard Luck at least once a week for a good ten years—ever since he'd first come to Branson. He'd seen all kinds of travelers through the years, but not a one of them he could remember.

  So, when he noticed the tall, dark-haired woman walk in leading with her chin, he thought, Someone got lucky with that one. She's stunning. But when no one joined her, his interest moved from appreciation to curiosity.

  He kept eating his food while keeping an eye on the clock. Even though he had a landscaping company and was his own boss, he had been running all over town getting parts to repair equipment that was down and couldn't be late getting back to the shop to get it all fixed.

  A group at a nearby table was celebrating a birthday. The singing waiters had gathered around it, and the birthday girl giggled as they began to sing. Before long, everyone in the dining room was singing "Happy Birthday."

  John noticed the woman glance up as the singing started, but he could tell by the look on her face that her heart was somewhere else. Then her food came, and when she picked that burger up with both hands and took a big healthy bite, he grinned.

  No dainty pretense there, girl. Way to go!

  Two other things about her struck him. She ate without looking at the phone beside her plate, and she was leaning against the wall as she ate—like she was trying to withdraw from all the noise around her.

  He glanced at the time again. He needed to leave now, but she was still here, and he wanted to know her name. Was she just passing through, or was she a resident? He couldn't just walk up to a total stranger and ask her stuff like that without coming across as a creep. And so he stayed, hoping for something that would give him an opportunity to at least make eye contact.

  One of the waiters started singing another song, and within seconds, it was like she'd been catapul
ted out of her seat. He watched as she began throwing money on the table, then as she turned to leave, she ran into a waiter, who knocked her purse out of her hands, and at that point, shit went flying.

  John came out of his chair and began grabbing at coins rolling across the floor, then a tube of lipstick, and finally, he chased down the phone sliding across the floor. When he turned around to look for her, she was on her knees, frantically stuffing items back in her purse.

  "Miss? Are you all right?" John asked.

  When she looked up, he saw her face was wet with tears.

  "Not yet, but I will be," she said, and stood.

  "You dropped these," he said.

  She took a deep breath. "Thank you," she said, put the items back in her purse, and headed for the door.

  "Wait," John said, but she kept walking. He ran back to his table to pay for his food, and as he did, saw a small silver angel charm that he'd missed picking up. He ran to catch up with her, but by the time he got outside, she was gone.

  Without knowing what she was driving, he could only stare at the myriad assortment of vehicles coming and going around him in dismay. He shoved his hand through his hair in frustration and groaned. It made no sense, but he felt like he'd just lost something important.

  "Well, hell," he muttered, then strode over to his work truck, chiding himself for getting locked into a fantasy, and then he realized he was still holding the charm. He put it in his pocket with his change.

  He had mower parts to buy and a two new weed-eaters to pick up before he went back to the office. He made a quick call to check on his other crews and to make sure there weren't any more breakdowns today to throw them off schedule. But even as he drove away, he found himself looking for her in every car he passed.

  Maybe it was the sadness about her. Maybe it had been the tears. But he was going to be a long time forgetting that face.

  Gracie was still rattled when she checked into the hotel. She had all her suitcases brought into the room, and then she transferred the quilt and the other boxes from the backseat to the trunk.

  The urge to lie down and sleep the day away was huge, but sleep would come later. Gracie was a nester. She needed a place to be, but she needed to let Darlene know she'd arrived. So, she sent her a text.

  I'm in Branson. Just checked into a hotel for a few days. I'm going to start looking for a job and a place to live. Send all the good vibes you can spare.

  Then she crawled onto the bed with her new laptop, set up an email account, and began searching for apartments.

  Logically, she needed one that was furnished, but it soon became obvious that wasn't going to be an easy task. So, she began pulling up Realtor sites and making calls. She didn't need a fancy apartment with access to a fitness center and a pool. She just needed it to have functioning air and heat and to be clean and safe.

  The next two hours were frustrating and depressing. She would have to be approved before anyone would rent to her, which meant filling out an application without having a place of work to reference her monthly wages. Nobody wanted to rent property to someone who had no job, and she had no idea what her credit rating was, or if she still had one.

  "I didn't expect this to be easy, but this is ridiculous," Gracie muttered, then set aside the housing issue for now and began searching online for jobs.

  John Gatlin finally had all of his equipment back up and running, and tomorrow's schedules posted, when the crews began coming in for the evening. With no complaints to deal with and no more equipment out of service, he closed up shop for the day and headed home.

  There was always traffic in Branson, and at different times of day, it was worse than others. Going home from work traffic for locals coincided with going out to dinner traffic for tourists, and then there was the traffic for the music shows that began later.

  All he wanted was to get home. He was too tired to stop and pick up food, so leftovers were calling his name.

  As he drove, he caught himself looking at the drivers he met, and the ones that he passed, giving any female with long, dark hair a second look. Finally, he made himself stop.

  Chances were, she was long gone from Branson and on her way to somewhere else.

  But he'd seen her face and her tears.

  And he'd heard her voice, "Not yet, but I will be."

  He didn't know what had happened, but he'd seen the pain it had caused, and it had made his heart hurt.

  If only he knew her name.

  By the time Gracie went to bed, she had applied for jobs online at more than a dozen places. Now, she had to wait for them to respond.

  It was a maddening way to job hunt. But she was at her destination, and while the shine had come off a little on her expectations, she was, by no means, defeated. She would find work, and she would find a home, and she would find a way to be happy again. All she had to do now was just rest and be grateful for air conditioning and the lack of blowing dust.

  James Dunham didn't get to go home when everyone else had. He was still in Sweetwater, at the La Quinta Inn, floating in the pool, and feeling sorry for himself.

  Tomorrow, he had to go talk to his mama's lawyer. The will had to go into probate, and he had to get a change of address for her mail to be sent to him in Houston so he would be able to pay the utility bills and every other fucking deal that came with being a long-distance heir.

  But the longer he floated, the worse he felt. Bottom line—he didn't deserve the inheritance, and selling the ranch was just selling out his daddy's dream that he would be the fourth generation Dunham to run it.

  James knew his limitations. He wasn't a rancher. He was an accountant who lived about as far away from Sweetwater as a man could live and still be in Texas. He was mad at himself for being an ass all these years, and mad at the first Dunham to own that the land, who had decided it would be just fine with other generations of his family to give everything to the oldest son. Thus, he'd set up a trust that held his future heirs’ feet to the fire in the process.

  James had some thinking to do, and maybe the lawyer could help him fix this mess. Joel and Mamie had already refused a share. Darlene had called it "blood money" and walked out on all of them. And Gracie was in the wind. The only person who likely knew where she'd gone would be his ex-wife, and the thought of having to deal with her in any way made him anxious.

  But, by the time he'd floated himself into a sunburn, he knew what he had to do. He just wasn't sure how to make it happen.

  Gracie had been in Branson three days with not even one response on job searches or any responses from leasing companies about apartments that fell into her price range.

  She'd given up on getting anything furnished, because they simply weren't to be had, and had made peace with buying a bed and a chair if she could just find a place to live.

  She was by no means defeated, but reality was setting in. She'd already extended her stay at the motel another couple of nights and was trying not to worry.

  And then she woke up to a text from one of the realtors she'd contacted days earlier, asking her to call him back at her earliest convenience. It was just after 9:00. She hadn't meant to sleep so long, but the last two days of job hunting had been exhausting. So, she sat up on the side of the bed, made the call, then waited for him to pick up.

  "Wainwright Leasing Company. Sam speaking."

  "This is Gracie Dunham. I got a text from you to call."

  "Oh, yes! Gracie! We just had a new listing that made me think of you. It's a furnished, garage apartment in the historic district. The garage below the apartment is the parking space for the listing. I've seen the property before. It's old style—eclectic, but charming, clean, and well-taken care of. I've already spoken to the owner about your recent arrival and the need for a furnished apartment. She's willing to waive some of the restrictions if you're interested in renting her property."

  "What's the rent?" Gracie asked.

  "A thousand dollars a month. Can you swing that?"

  Gracie
didn't hesitate. "Yes. When can I see it?"

  "It's being cleaned and will be available for viewing by 1:00 today. Since you're new to Branson, if you want to come by the office around one, it won't take but about fifteen minutes to get there."

  "Then yes, I want to see it," Gracie said. "Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure," Sam said.

  "Does the landlord live on the property?"

  "Yes, but in the big house on the property. The garage apartment is behind it. She's a bit eccentric, but in an adorable way."

  "Okay, good. Then thank you for thinking of me because it sounds like the answer to a prayer. I'll see you at one."

  "Yes, ma'am," Sam said. "One it is."

  Gracie disconnected, then jumped up, tossed the phone on the bed, and did a little dance in the middle of the room.

  After living in a house that had been set on fire and walking on floors soaked with the remnants of her own blood, she wasn't picky about ambiance and style. She was all about cleaning and lemon oil. If it was cool in the summer, warm in the winter, and she felt safe, she would take it.

  And with that good news, she got dressed and went down to breakfast.

  Lucy Bedford was having breakfast outside on the back veranda when her phone rang. She swallowed her bite of toast, and then picked up.

  "Hello. This is Lucy."

  "Lucy. Sam Wainwright here. I'm bringing a potential renter out to your property a little after one today. Is that okay?"

  "Yes. Is it that same woman you mentioned...the one who just got into town?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Good job," Lucy said. "You know I don't like for that place to sit empty. This is a swift turnaround. Oh...one other thing. What's her name?"