Saving Grace (Madison Falls)

by Lesley Ann McDaniel

  Devon took the glass. “I had no idea you were so aquatic.”

  She poured a second glass. “Seriously, it started out as part of the kitchen problem, but it turns out a big root is about to break through the pipe.” Raising the glass to her lips, she took a pleasing taste of the tart liquid. “We made an appointment for the Roto Rooter guy to come from Missoula, but apparently you have to book him almost as far in advance as Placido Domingo. Why, Sam says—”

  “Sam?” Devon’s neck snapped like a cadet doing drills.

  Her stomach lurched. She knew how he felt about Sam. Why had she mentioned his name? “Yes. He’s fixing my floor.”

  “Why?” His eyes flared.

  Hoping to soften his reaction, she smiled coyly. “Because the fountain really isn’t practical.”

  Agitation tinted his skin a rosy pink. “Grace, I just don’t think it’s very smart.”

  She kept her tone steady. “I know you’ve got a problem with Sam, and believe me, he’s not my favorite person in the world either, but—”

  “He’s trouble.” His voice was stern with warning. “You have no idea.”

  “Oh, I have some idea.” Her stomach listed. Finally, someone else who had judged Sam’s true character. “What do you think I should do?”

  “Just…” He waved a hand in the air as if discarding the dilemma. “Find somebody else to finish the job.”

  A twinge curled her insides. “Well, there really is nobody else. I mean, have you seen the Madison Falls Yellow Pages? It’s not exactly Angie’s List. “

  “What about Hank? Or Carl?” Devon’s eyes held a soft concern.

  “Hank or Carl? Devon, they’re farmers, not handymen.” She quelled an all-too-familiar sense of dread. “I could call them if I needed my barn door fixed.”

  “Lucy’s husband.” He snapped his fingers repeatedly like he’d suddenly turned into Frank Sinatra. “What’s his name?”

  “Bob. He’s working sixty hours a week right now on some ranch remodel. Besides, they’ve done so much for me. I couldn’t possibly—”

  “You’ve got to do something.” His brow was sweating, which seemed totally out of character.

  “Okay. I will.” With an awkward twist of her wrist, she picked up a piece of chicken and plopped it onto the grill. “What’s Sam’s problem, anyway?”

  “I just don’t want you around him.” His eyes sharpened on her face. “Have you…talked to him much?”

  “No…” She shifted the chicken, recoiling when a drip of dressing ignited a sizzle underneath it. “He seems nice enough when he’s here to work.”

  “Meaning?” His eyes suddenly turned as icy as the drink he held.

  “Meaning…I don’t know.” Had she said something wrong? The conversation had taken an uncomfortable turn and her thoughts addled.

  Devon searched her face with his eyes. “Meaning, you’ve seen him otherwise?”

  She drew back at the intensity of his tone, nearly dropping the second piece of chicken onto the patio. “No, of course not. I bought paint from him. Lucy knows him, that’s why he came over to do the floor. It’s not like I’d socialize with someone like him.”

  Guarded relief replaced the urgency that had cloaked his features. “Good. Keep it that way.” He took a sip of lemonade. “Actually, I’d prefer you didn’t even talk to him.”

  Discomfort at his implied control over her personal interactions gnawed at her. No doubt another overreaction to her experience with Kirk. She shook it off. “Fine by me.”

  “Good.” His eyes sparked. “Let me tell him, n’est pas?”

  “Okay…?”

  “I just don’t want you to deal with him at all. Ever. Got it?”

  She swallowed hard. “This seems really important to you.”

  “It is, believe me.” His piercing gaze intensified.

  “Okay, whatever you say.” She subtly relaxed her stance. “I trust your judgment.”

  “I’m glad. Trust is critical.” At last his face softened. “So, let’s not waste any more time on that topic. Let’s talk about books, or movies, or—”

  “Shoo!”

  “Or shoes.” He turned, following her gaze around.

  The stray dog had just rounded the corner of the house and stood there watching them intently.

  “Friend of yours?” His voice wavered with uncertainty.

  “He seems to think so.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Why do you keep showing up?”

  “You’re talking to the dog, I hope.” A jittery chuckle didn’t quite mask his unease. “Whose is he?”

  “Nobody’s. I mean, look at him.” She lifted a hand. His scruffy coat had only gotten rattier since their initial encounter a couple of weeks before.

  Devon tentatively approached the animal, who sniffed his hand and emitted a low rumble.

  “Whoa.” Devon retreated back a few steps.

  Grace rushed forward and knelt down. The brown tail swished from side to side as the dog offered his head for a pat. She spoke in a low voice. “What are you trying to do, ruin this for me?”

  His rough tongue lapped her cheek.

  Devon held his distance. “It looks like you learned a trick or two working at that pet store.”

  She startled at the reminder of her little web of deceit. “Yes, I’m a real pro.” She tipped her head close to the alert ear of her uninvited guest. “Whatever you do, don’t blow my cover.”

  She stood, allowing the dog to follow her back to the grill to check on the progress of dinner. She smiled demurely at Devon and blew a stray hair off her forehead.

  He smiled and she recalled his words. Trust is critical. Now was definitely not the time to let him know that Grace Addison was really a fictional character.

  Chapter 22

  “She’s great, isn’t she?” Bob inclined his head toward Grace.

  She clutched the folds of her gabardine skirt and angled her head to get a better view of Lucy, seated at the piano onstage. Grace smiled her concurrence at Bob, who beamed from his place next to her on the pew.

  “She’s very talented.” Much to Grace’s surprise, the simple hymn Lucy played revealed genuine skill.

  Fiddling with her church bulletin, Grace felt like a lighthouse, unable to keep her head still. The number of familiar faces around her was no surprise—she’d been in Madison Falls for three weeks, after all. There was Spritz, leaning on the shoulder of a dashing red haired gentleman. Joanie nattered with the waitress from the Country Kitchen—probably an exchange of work stories. Hank, Carl, and Ruby were there too, with not a bib overall in sight. She even spotted the man who had helped her open her checking account.

  Warmth bathed her senses. She’d never really been a churchgoer, and had hesitated to accept Lucy’s invitation. Now that she was there, she felt surprisingly at ease.

  A thought flitted across her mind. She craned her neck to see the front rows, immediately identifying Nancy by her bobbing strawberry blonde plait. She casually scanned the room again, then faced forward with a frown. Of all the people she’d met in town, she would have pegged Mr. Roberts as a dedicated churchgoer. He was so much like her father, who had, according to her mother, picked up the habit of prayer in his final months. She sighed. It would have been nice to have seen Mr. Roberts there.

  The song ended to a rousing round of applause, and Grace inclined her head toward Bob. “Before I forget, who do you know who can fix my kitchen floor?”

  The corners of his mouth lifted. “Is this a riddle?”

  “No, I’m serious. Sam started it, but I need someone else to finish.”

  Bob rotated toward her in his seat. “It’s not like Sam to leave a job half-done—”

  “Oh no, it’s not that. He could do it, it’s just that…”

  Bob’s brow creased. “You’re unhappy with his work?”

  “No, not at all. As far as I can tell he’s done fine.”

  “Then why—”

  “Well…” Confusion pressed at her t
emples. How could she make her reasons sound reasonable?

  He seemed to sense her discomfort. “Let me put it this way. All my guys are pulling overtime right now. Sam’s the best man for the job anyway.”

  There had to be an alternative. “Well, I hear there’s a plumber in Victor.”

  “There is, but he’s not cheap. Sam can handle the whole job for less than what you’d pay that guy just for the plumbing. I’d stick with him.” Seemingly satisfied, he returned his attention to his bulletin.

  “But—”

  The opening notes of the high voltage, well-amped band startled her. Everyone around her stood and she halfheartedly followed suit. What was she supposed to do now?

  The music pulled her mind from her concerns. She started to tap her foot, but shirked a little when a twenty-something man took a step toward the microphone. The band was good, but they really shouldn’t press their luck by adding vocals. She looked down, embarrassed for the poor guy as he took a breath and let out his first phrase.

  Her head snapped back up. He wasn’t wretched. In fact, he had talent. He wasn’t Pavarotti, but then again neither was Pavarotti toward the end. This man sang with such joy that the audience energy instantly escalated.

  People sang along, buoyed by the supra-titles on the screen behind the band. Grace hummed in sympathetic vibration. She put her hand on her throat, trying to force the lump of emotion back down. This was not going to be easy.

  Shifting to see around the man in the row ahead of her, she frowned. The guitar player onstage looked just like Sam. She squinted. It was Sam. He hadn’t mentioned that he played an instrument, but then, why would he?

  She clucked in disgust. It was funny that church people could be such hypocrites—act however you want all week as long as you pray for forgiveness on Sunday.

  Failing to pull her eyes off him, she couldn’t help but admire his form. Clearly, he was skilled at playing and he seemed to enjoy it. Why did that surprise her so much?

  The song ended to wild applause. As it waned, the singer started to speak. “Lord we praise you for this glorious summer morning!”

  More applause. Boy, were these people cheerful.

  “Father, we gather here to worship You, to honor You, and to thank You for all the blessings You provide.”

  Everyone seemed to have their eyes closed, so Grace did the same.

  “We praise You, God, and thank You for dying on the cross for our sins.”

  Grace opened one eye, checking to make sure he wasn’t joking. Dying on the cross for our sins? That was such a cliché. What did it mean, anyway?

  “We know that we’re all faced with our trials, Lord, but we take comfort in knowing that no matter what, You are always with us, and that You know exactly what path we should take. All we have to do is ask, Lord, and You’ll lead us.”

  She frowned. If only it were that simple. ‘Ask and You’ll lead us?’ If the Lord was looking down on her right now, He was probably just shaking His head.

  She opened her eyes a bit, stealing a peek at Sam. He had one hand on the neck of his guitar and held the other above his head. There was an intensity about him which implied that he took this praying thing very seriously. Was God somehow leading him to be a greedy hot-tempered louse? What kind of god would encourage that?

  “Amen!” Everyone around her spoke the word in unison and she felt like a complete outsider for not knowing her cue.

  The band resumed playing, a slower song this time. Grace perked up. She knew this one. She’d learned it in choir years ago. As the room filled with singing she joined in, unable to stop herself. “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…” She closed her eyes and set her voice free.

  The music carried her out of her concerns, out of her prison of fear.

  In her mind she was lifted up, as if she’d never walked into that apartment two years ago. Never let down her guard or been nice to the wrong person. Music had always swept her up into its magic, allowing her to soar. That was the most precious of all that had been stolen from her, and for this moment she found it again.

  The final chord resolved and she opened her eyes. Instantly her heart took off at a full-on sprint. Why was everyone looking at her? Even the performers onstage stared. Her eyes met Sam’s and he flashed an admiring grin. Just what she needed. She sank into her seat as applause again erupted around her. How could she have let herself get so carried away?

  “You have a real gift.” Bob spoke softly, leaning toward her as he took his seat.

  Her stomach churned. What good is a gift if you can’t ever take it out and enjoy it?

  She had really blown it. It was only a matter of time before people started to question why she wasn’t using this gift. She slunk down lower in her seat. What story could she make up to explain her way around this?

  Chapter 23

  Balancing a tray of mochas with one arm, Grace pulled open the front door of the rehearsal space. She shuddered. Inside, the pirates reached for each elusive note of the song they were attempting to learn as Myra plunked out her own version of the tune. True, they lacked proper instrumentation, but what passed for singing with them made Grace worry that her ears might bleed.

  Scanning the room for a place to set her tray, she glanced up at the landing in the back corner and pursed her lips. Why was she going all the way outside and around when that door led directly into her stand? Too bad Nancy didn’t have a key.

  She crossed surreptitiously to the director’s table which sat squarely in the center of the room and set down the tray. Devon turned his head and gave her a more-than-cordial smile that lingered even after his attention turned back to the taped-off stage area.

  Feeling the heat of Sophia’s malevolent stare, Grace looked up. She tossed the little prima donna wannabe a look that she hoped read as victorious-but-not-too-haughty. No point in encouraging enmity.

  “Fine everyone.” Devon’s tone was commanding and upbeat. “Let’s take fifteen.” He stood and grabbed a cup from the tray, his face just inches from Grace’s ear. “I’ll be out front.”

  Her heart did a ka-thump that would have been audible if the room hadn’t been abuzz with excited chatter. She longed to tag after him, but thought better of being too obvious. It seemed best to keep her private life private even when she wasn’t playing witness protection program.

  “Miss Addison.” Hank tipped his cap as he approached the table and reached for a cup.

  “Evening, Hank.” She smiled. “Love your eye patch.”

  A hint of confusion crossed his face as he touched his cheek. “Oh, I almost forgot I had this thing on. Thought I should get used to it.”

  “A wise choice.”

  A hopeful glint pervaded the eye she could see. “Have you had much of a chance to hear us sing?”

  With some difficulty, she kept her expression pleasant. She had heard. Every sour note. “You’ve all been working very hard,” she encouraged.

  “Aw, thank you, Miss Addison.” He looked satisfied with the answer as he took a healthy swig. “Mmmm. Great cuppa joe.”

  “Thanks. Tell your friends.” She puckered her brow, marveling at Carl’s attempt to pick up a mocha with the hook he held in his hand. “Nice to see you guys are really getting into character.”

  “It’s not every day we get a chance to express ourselves artistically.” Carl gave up the piratical prop in favor of his field-roughened hand.

  “For the life of me, Miss Addison,” Hank flipped up his patch, “I can’t understand why you didn’t audition. After that beautiful singing you did on Sunday—”

  “Oh, that.” Her knees buckled. “I just really love that song.”

  “I’d belt it out too if it was called ‘Amazing Carl’.” Carl chuckled in apparent delight at his own wit.

  Grace let out a nervous titter as Ruby wedged between the two men. “Step aside and let someone else get some coffee, guys.” She elbowed them playfully. “Grace, you really were amazing the other day, but I’m grateful you did
n’t audition. I wouldn’t have had a chance at Mabel.”

  “Oh, Ruby.” Grace waved off her comment. “You’re doing a great job.”

  “Thanks,” Ruby lowered her eyes. “But I’m not trained like you obviously are.”

  “You’re kidding.” Grace handed out a few more cups to enthusiastic actors. “You’ve never had voice lessons?”

  “Nope.” Her expression humble, Ruby lifted her gaze. “Besides church, the only singing I’ve done has been to the cows when no one else is around. When I saw the audition notice, I started to think…”

  Grace smiled. “That you should be singing to people, not just livestock?”

  A pleased sparkle glinted in Ruby’s eyes. “Exactly. But I have a long way to go to be as good as you. Your voice reminds me of a singer I heard once.” She looked at the boys. “Guys, remember a couple of years back when my mom and I went to Frisco and we got to see Madame Butterfly?”

  A sudden jolt of nausea surged through Grace’s stomach.

  “I just love opera.” Ruby looked dreamily back at Grace. “Do you know that one?”

  Grace bit her lower lip to keep it from shaking.

  “The woman who sang Kate Pinkerton was astonishing. Her voice was pure and clear just like yours and she was beautiful.” Her eyes steadied on Grace. “In fact, you look a lot like her. What was her name…? Tracy something.” She looked away, her brow creasing, then snapped her fingers. “I know. Tracy Fontaine.”

  The trio continued talking but for Grace, their banter blurred. Her throat closed and breathing became difficult. She needed to get outside. Gulping in a lungful of air, she reeled abruptly toward the door just as Sophia stepped into her path, her arms folded like a sentry.

  “You look a little green,” she sneered. “I think you’ve had too much of that awful coffee of yours.”

  Grace reined in her thoughts and forced a controlled smile. “Thanks for your concern, but I’m just fine.” She turned back to the table, picked up the one remaining cup, and offered it to Myra as she passed by.