by Neta Jackson
Taking a deep breath, she hit the speed-dial number for Bongo Booking Agency. The receptionist put her through …
“Grace! Uh-oh. You caught me sneaking my second cup of coffee—and it’s not coffee break yet. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a new direction for the West Coast tour. All your fault, you know.”
He laughed, but she heard him close a door. “Great. I’m all ears.”
She told him as briefly as she could, making sure to mention that her prayer partner—well, that’s what Estelle was, wasn’t she?—had suggested she meditate on the meaning of her name. “And then it all fell into place—the theme, the songs, a new title.”
Jeff whistled softly on the other end. “‘Just Grace’ … wow. I really love it. Venues have been promoting ‘Grace Meredith in Concert,’ but I think we can ask them to start talking about this new theme. Posters have been up for a while, but we can target radio. It will cost a little money, but if you think it’s worth it, we can cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“I do—think it’s worth it, I mean. I’m willing to pay to make it happen. Could we do new posters? Maybe that’s asking too much for this tour. But could you think about it? Let me know?” Willing to pay … but able? She’d have to trust God for that.
“I’ll make it happen. God’s grace is such a powerful theme. If you don’t mind my asking, I sense there’s more to the story. You care to share it?”
Grace had to blink back sudden tears. “I … there is, but not just now, okay?”
“You bet. I trust you. Sounds like you’ve tapped into that passion we were talking about—which makes me want to tap-dance on my desk.” He chuckled in her ear, and then got all businesslike. “Look, have Sam shoot me the song list you’ve come up with—you said you’ve put together a mix of contemporary songs and hymns? If she has any trouble getting permissions, have her call me. Maybe I can help.”
Relief flowed through her tense muscles. He liked her ideas. “Thanks so much, Jeff. And I just wanted you to know … I’ve written a new song for the tour. I’ve got the words and the tune, but I’ll need the band to fill it out.”
“I’m really glad to hear this, Grace. You have real talent in that area, you know. I had a feeling God might drop a new song into your heart. He has a way of doing that when the time and the theme and the soul passion is right.”
“Thanks, Jeff. I really appreciate the encouragement.” Grace’s doorbell rang. “I better go. I think that’s Sam. I’ll have her send you the song list … Oh, Jeff? One more thing. Just thought you ought to know that my fiancé is asking for us to work on patching up our relationship. I—I haven’t given him an answer, but I thought you’d like to know since we’d sort of talked about that.”
There was a momentary silence on his end. Then he said, “Thanks for letting me know. I’m glad you’re taking some time to think about it.” His voice softened. “Take care, Grace.”
Sam spent most of the day on the phone, chasing down copyrights and agents. “Wish I could talk directly to the artists,” she grumbled at one point, sticking her head into the living room where Grace was at the piano working on a hymn arrangement. “I should think they’d be delighted to have their songs getting more exposure. You always give the original artist credit when you use a song—seems like a win-win to me! It’s these blankety-blank third-party legal eagles who are a pain in the neck. Oh, and those annoying phone menus they make you wade through.” She pinched her nose and got tinny. “‘If you want to speak to the janitor, dial extension 0000 …’”
Grace laughed in spite of the interruption. “Jeff Newman might be able to help with the sticky ones. Now if you don’t mind, I’m trying to work on some music here.” She leaned over the keys, sounding out a new arrangement for the chorus of “He Giveth More Grace” as Sam once again holed herself up in the kitchen.
They’d just decided to wrap it up for the day and take a break before leaving for the studio that evening, when the doorbell rang. Sam got to the door first. “Miss Estelle! Come in!”
With a start, Grace realized she hadn’t talked with her neighbor since their trip to the women’s shelter on Friday—and hadn’t told her the good news.
Estelle hesitated on the doorstep. “Am I interrupting? Just got home from work and thought I’d come by for a few minutes. Wanted to pray with you about your upcoming concert tour. But if you’re busy—”
“No, please, come in!” Grinning, Grace grabbed Estelle by the hand and pulled the woman over to the couch. “We’ve got an answer to one of your prayers!” It all came out in bits and pieces: meditating on her name … the Bible study at Manna House … deciding to open her heart to Sam … the growing realization that “grace” was her theme … the songs that were starting to come together … and the concert title that had dropped into their hearts at the same time.
Estelle began to laugh and raised her hands. “Hallelujah! Thank you, Jesus! Ha-ha-ha. ‘Just Grace’ … Oh, Lord, you are such a good God! Mmm-hmmm …” Then with a sudden clap, she said, “Well, now, let’s pray that God will smooth all the rough places—you say you’ve got practices every evening this week? Well then, Lord, we’re asking you to give Grace and Samantha, these two dear sisters, as well as the band, extra strength and grace and good tempers as they prepare to serve you on the concert tour that’s just around the corner …”
Grace eyed Sam with a grin, and then bowed her head. Estelle was already off and praying.
“… and prepare the hearts of young people all up and down the West Coast to receive your message of love and mercy and grace through our sister’s beautiful music and testimony …”
Hmm. Grace wasn’t sure about the testimony part.
“… And, Lord, while we’re at it, I want to pray for dear Mrs. Krakowski, the former owner of our two-flat, who’s lost a box of precious mementos. Lord, you know where that box is, and it would mean so much to her if it could be found. She’s lost so much, Lord—her home, her neighborhood, her familiar friends …”
Grace squirmed. She didn’t think Mrs. Krakowski had had many friends in this neighborhood. Everyone seemed too busy with their own little worlds … Like me, Lord. Her heart wrenched. O God, please forgive me for not reaching out to that lonely old woman. She’d missed her chance, and now it was too late.
Too late for Mrs. Krakowski. But maybe not too late for her other neighbors. Once she was back from this tour, she’d definitely try to reach out more to—
“… And for Harry’s dear mother, Lord, who’s lost her ability to speak with that stroke, but we’re askin’ you, Lord, to bring her home to us, so we can make her comfortable in these last years of her life …”
“Yes, Jesus, yes!” Sam murmured on the other side of Estelle.
“… but you also know we need to get Harry’s boy on up out of that apartment, so, Lord, we’re askin’ you for that job you’re preparin’ for Rodney Bentley right now. He needs the satisfaction of honest work to keep him out of trouble, to help him turn his life around, to help him provide for his own son …”
Somewhere in the middle of her prayer, Estelle had reached for one of Grace’s hands—one of Sam’s too—and was gripping them hard as she prayed. And then suddenly she released their hands, sweaty now, and sat back against the couch cushions with a whoosh. “Amen, thank you, Jesus, mm-hm.” She picked up a magazine from the coffee table and fanned herself.
Sam was looking at her strangely. “Rodney … he’s your husband’s son? And he’s living with you?”
Estelle nodded and kept fanning. “Just came up from Atlanta a while back, been lookin’ for a job. He’s stayin’ in one of the rooms on the first floor, but we need to get that apartment ready for Mother Bentley. And … well, there are other reasons he needs to get his own place. But the good Lord knows.”
Sam started to laugh. “Did you know that the owner of Lincoln Limo lives right on this block? That big house at the end of the street. We’ve used them a bunch of times for trans
port to and from the airport—and I know for a fact that they’re hiring. They need more drivers. Do you think Rodney would be interested?”
Chapter 34
Grace couldn’t help mulling over what had happened in her living room just half an hour ago, even while she tried to keep Sam’s leased Honda Civic in sight as they threaded their way through rush-hour traffic. No sooner had she closed the door behind Estelle Bentley than she’d realized they needed to leave now if they were going to get to the address in time to make the six o’clock practice with the band. No time for supper first—they’d have to eat after. Just as well. Grace knew she didn’t sing as well on a full stomach.
They’d decided to drive their own cars so Sam wouldn’t have to come back to the house later, leaving Grace alone with her thoughts behind the wheel. Estelle Bentley just happened to drop in while Sam was there, just happened to throw out a prayer about Harry’s son needing a job, it just happened that Sam knew Lincoln Limo was hiring and that the owner lived right up the street? It was like some cosmic jigsaw puzzle, where only God had the box cover and knew what the final picture would look like.
“If they hire him,” Grace murmured to herself. From what Estelle said, it sounded as if Rodney Bentley had been in some kind of trouble—which might explain why he’d been having a difficult time getting a job. But Estelle had started thanking God for this answer to prayer even before she’d hustled home to tell Rodney. Well, as Estelle would probably say, “God knows.” It wasn’t her worry.
Her worry reared its face as Grace pulled into the small parking lot alongside Sam’s car at the rehearsal space Barry had found. It was little more than a warehouse, really. Barry’s van and cars belonging to other band members were already there. Barry had grudgingly forgiven her for changing half the song list for the West Coast tour—but what about the guys in the band? Were they mad at her for canceling Saturday’s practice and changing the song list on them? After all, it meant extra practices for all of them. She’d have to make it up to them somehow. Show them how much she appreciated them. She definitely didn’t want them to feel taken advantage of.
Then there was the matter of the brand-new song, one that would take some work on the band’s part to come up with an arrangement. At least she’d written out the words and the melody and faxed them to Barry to give him a heads-up.
She locked the car and met her assistant at the front door of the building. “We’re only two minutes late,” Sam assured her as they made their way up a flight of stairs to the second floor. Grace wished they’d been ten minutes early. She hesitated as they came into the room full of mikes, amps, and other sound equipment, being careful not to trip over long wires snaking here and there. All five members of the band were busy setting up their instruments. Barry was standing at the soundboard, doing sound checks with first one, then another.
Reno was the first one to notice them, stopping mid-chord at the keyboard. Then Nigel looked up and put down his drumsticks. Petey, saxophone strapped around his neck and shaved head glistening under the fluorescent lights, stared in her direction. Like synchronized swimmers, the two guitarists—freckle-faced, redheaded Alex and Zach, still sporting his African knots—turned toward them, instruments gone silent.
Grace’s mouth went dry. Oh, God … It was worse than she thought. She needed to say something, apologize, do something—
And then Reno began to clap his hands together—thwop, thwop, thwop—as a slow grin spread over his face. One by one the others joined in. Clapping. Grinning. Laughing.
“Good on ya, Grace!” Petey called out in his fake Australian accent.
Alex did a loud wah-wah-wah trill on his guitar. “Yeah! Gonna be the best tour yet.”
“All ya need now is a good black gospel song!” Zach’s skilled fingers added a rhythmic beat on his bass guitar, picked up in an instant by Nigel’s snare drums, and a moment later all five musicians were jamming something that sounded vaguely like “Amazing Grace” as Grace just stood there, not sure whether to laugh or cry.
Barry walked over to them, a big grin plastered on his bearded face. “Grace … Sam … good to see you.” He handed a pair of large, padded earphones to Grace. “You ready?”
They only got through three songs Monday night, including “Blessing upon Blessing,” and then they all went out for Giordano’s pizza afterward—the first time Grace had actually just hung out with the guys. Why hadn’t she ever done this before? She sat back in the large padded booth and just listened as they laughed and joshed each other, making wisecracks about Nigel’s tattoos and Barry’s latest gray hairs. Grace felt overwhelmed by the support of Barry and the band—one more “gift of grace,” she thought, knowing they’d had every reason to be upset with the last-minute changes.
A black gospel song, Zach had said … could she do it? That would show respect for the band—for Zach in particular. And add a nice variety to the theme.
By the time they got together again Tuesday night, she’d found the song: “Your Grace and Mercy” by the Mississippi Mass Choir. Zach was so happy he gave her a big kiss. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, sister!”
“I might need some help,” she admitted. Black gospel wasn’t really her style. The only other gospel song she’d done was an old spiritual she’d recorded for her CD.
Zach shook his head. “Just think about the words and sing ’em like you mean it, nice an’ slow.”
Your grace and mercy brought me through … Yes, she could sing that song and mean it.
Sam was at the house every day, still working on getting permissions while Grace practiced her songs, but it was Wednesday before Grace realized they hadn’t heard anything from Estelle Bentley about whether she still planned to drop in again to pray that afternoon. Grace was curious—had Rodney followed up with the job possibility at Lincoln Limo? Probably too soon to know anything. They’d find out in good time.
But when they stopped for lunch, Sam went to the front window and pulled back the thin curtains that let in light but kept out prying eyes. “Doesn’t Miss Estelle cook for the women’s shelter every day?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Just asking. I noticed her car is still sitting in front of the house, been there all morning. Hope she’s okay.”
Grace peeked out the window. The little black SUV was there all right. “Maybe she just had the day off.”
“I think we oughta call.”
“Call? Whatever for?”
Sam turned. “Duh. Because that’s what neighbors do when they notice something might not be right.”
“Sounds like being nosy to me.”
“Just … call, Grace. Miss Estelle won’t mind. If everything’s okay, she’ll still appreciate that you cared. Or if you won’t, I will.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll call.” Besides, it would be nice to know if Estelle planned to drop over again to pray, and if so, what time. She needed to let her know they had to leave by five to get to practice.
Sam stuck her head in the refrigerator to rustle up some lunch while Grace dialed Estelle’s number. The voice that answered was breathless. “Grace? That you? Lord, Lord, … I’m so sorry I didn’t call to let you know.”
Grace made a frantic motion at Sam and pointed to the phone as she switched to speaker. “Let me know what? Has something happened?”
“Yes, yes. O sweet Jesus! Mother Bentley passed yesterday. Just like that, another stroke! We’ve been all up in a tizzy, makin’ arrangements an’ plannin’ her homegoin’ service. But, oh dear, I should’ve called earlier.”
Sam hovered at Grace’s elbow, dark eyes widened, hand over her mouth.
“No, no, it’s all right,” Grace said. “But I’m so sorry to hear that Mr. Bentley’s mother died. Sam is too. She’s right here. Uh, is there anything we can do?”
“Fact is, yes, there is … look, can I run over in about half an hour? I’ve got some more calls to make, but I need to talk to you. Would you have a few minutes?”
Grac
e and Sam ate a quick lunch of tuna sandwiches. Sam kept shaking her head. “That’s so sad. Didn’t Miss Estelle say they were fixing up the first-floor apartment for Mother Bentley? Wonder what they’ll do with it now.”
The doorbell rang. Estelle came in, wearing a loose caftan and sloppy slip-ons that had seen better days, her straightened salt-and-pepper hair caught up in a careless topknot. Both Grace and Sam gave her a hug, once again expressing their sympathy for the Bentleys’ loss.
Estelle got right to the point. “Can’t stay … sorry about our prayer time today, but I’m workin’ on the repast. Harry should be the one to ask you this, but … oh, you know, he’s got a dozen different things on his mind, dealin’ with the funeral home, the cemetery, his mother’s apartment.”
“Of course. But, um … ask me what?”
“We could bring something to the repast,” Sam jumped in helpfully.
“Oh, no. that’s all right. My Yada Yada prayer group sisters have got that covered now, thank you, Jesus. But Harry wanted to ask you for a special favor, Grace. Wanted to ask if you’d sing at his mother’s homegoin’.”
“Sing?” Grace was startled. She’d never even met the woman, and barely knew Harry. In fact, she’d never sung at anyone’s funeral before.
Estelle nodded. “He wants that song on your CD. Harry plays it over an’ over. Has come to mean a lot to him, he says. You know the one, that old spiritual … ‘Give Me Jesus.’”
Which is how Grace came to be sitting in the strangest church she’d ever been in the following Saturday, a large storefront in the Howard Street Shopping Center, its big glass windows looking out over the parking lot with SouledOut Community Church—All Are Welcome in big red script across the glass. The large room with its rows of padded folding chairs set in a semicircle was filling with a diverse crowd of young and old, mostly African Americans and whites, but a good number of Hispanics as well. The room almost looked festive. Colorful handmade banners hanging on the wall behind a low platform seemed to shout, GOD IS GOOD … ALL THE TIME and THE JOY OF THE LORD IS OUR STRENGTH.
