Grounded (14 page)

The dark brown eyes glittered. “Well, gotta tell ya, I'm gonna have to charge more this time. That's a lotta snow. Gonna take me a long time.”

“Hey, Tavis!” a girlish voice yelled. “You were s'posed to wait for me!” Another junior high–size figure waded through the deep snow toward her stoop.

Tavis rolled his eyes. “My sister—she wants to help shovel too.”

Now Grace's smile was genuine. “
That
is a great idea. Except I only have one shovel. Do you have another one?”

Tavis's twin popped up beside him on the stoop. “Hiya, Miz Meredith. My mom says she met you. I'm Tabitha.” A mittened hand shot out and Grace shook it, though she was starting to shiver standing in the open doorway with no coat.

“I'm happy to meet you, Tabitha. Tell you kids what—I'll make it fifteen bucks each if you get the sidewalk out there and my front and back walks shoveled. If you can't do it all—I know it's a big job—I'll adjust accordingly. Deal?”

The twins hooted and high-fived each other as she shut the door.

Yikes
. Had she just offered to shell out
thirty bucks
to get her walks shoveled? What kind of precedent was that? But as she peeked out the window at the mounds of snow—two feet deep in some places because of the wind—she decided it was worth every penny.

The city trucks finally plowed Beecham Street Thursday morning, burying parked cars that hadn't been shoveled out and moved. Grace was grateful she'd put her car in the garage before the storm—except that now she couldn't get it out. City trucks didn't plow alleys and some of the drifts were over two feet deep. What was she going to do? She had an appointment with the voice therapist that afternoon.

She called a taxi.

At least she'd been a good girl and had rested her voice the past twenty-four hours, along with drinking copious amounts of water and hot lemon-honey tea—no coffee—and running the vaporizer
all night. Her voice strength was at least back to where it was when Jeff Newman showed up.

The voice therapist was a lot younger than the otolaryngologist, maybe just a few years older than herself, Grace decided. The woman had wavy light-brown hair worn shoulder-length and reading glasses perched on her nose. Looked like a librarian. She introduced herself as Dr. Erskine and seemed genuinely interested in Grace's career history. What kind of music did she sing? How many tours did she do a year? Did Grace have a CD? She'd love to hear her sing …

“But not today!” the therapist laughed. “Today I want to do a few more tests. I've gone over your test results from Monday, and of course the first thing to take care of is that viral infection, which you say is doing much better. But I'd like to do a fiber-optic test today to assess your larynx function, as well as do a telescopic examination, which will feel awkward, but will help identify any lesions on the vocal folds—nodules, polyps, cysts, hematomas—that kind of thing.”

Grace swallowed. “You think there's a problem like that?”

Dr. Erskine smiled. “Don't worry. Most of what we do is to rule things out so we can treat you most effectively. Now, you might be more comfortable if you removed your earrings …”

By the time Grace got home, she felt exhausted. She'd had to make all kinds of sounds and even try to sing scales up and down her pitch range with the doctor's scopes in her mouth. The good news was no lesions on the vocal folds, but, according to the therapist, she was suffering from acute vocal fatigue and abnormal muscle tension of the larynx, resulting in the ongoing dysphonia. “Hoarseness,” Erskine translated.

So now she had biweekly appointments for the next month, with exercises to strengthen her vocal chords, build better breath support, and … Grace wasn't sure what all. “But even if you start to feel better,” the therapist had warned, “use this sabbatical to slow down, get extra rest, pay attention to your diet and exercise, do some reevaluation of the emotional stressors in your life—in short, take care of yourself. It's all related, you know.”

It was almost as if the doctor knew about the emotional stress-ors in her life. But she couldn't … no. Probably just her regular spiel to all her patients. Still, Grace knew it was good advice. But how to get all that extra rest and healthy diet and exercise and de-stress her life—
that
was something else altogether. For the past week she'd just been plodding her way through each day. Only the family Sunday dinner and Jeff Newman's extended visit had broken up the monotony.

Grace tossed her coat on a chair and flopped down on the couch, which Oreo took for a personal invitation to jump into her lap. What in the world was she going to do with a whole month at home—in the dead of winter? She needed a plan … except she was too tired to make a plan. She'd figure that out tomorrow, after a good night's sleep. Right now she needed food.

She pulled out her phone, typed in the appointment reminders on her calendar, and was in the middle of a call to Siam Pasta ordering pad thai and jasmine rice, when a notice flashed on her cell screen that she had a new text message—

“Yes, yes, Beecham has been plowed … did you say forty minutes? … All right, thank you.” Ending the phone call, she quickly switched to Messages. Oh. From Samantha Curtis. Had it been a whole week since she'd communicated with her assistant? Feeling a pang of guilt, she clicked on the message …

Grace! Sorry for not staying in touch better. Busy helping mom. But coming home Sat. Your voice OK? Is Roger still going 2 Sweetheart concert with U? If U need me, I could come 2. Otherwise, when do U want me to catch up fan mail & stuff? Best! Sam

Grace tossed the phone on the couch with a groan. She still hadn't told Sam she'd canceled the sweetheart gig plus the next couple concerts as well. Or that Roger was out of the picture. Or that her trip home from Memphis had been hell. Or that she had a new agent. Knowing Sam, once she had the whole story she'd be all over her like a mother hen, cluck-clucking, giving
her
opinion of Roger's desertion, checking on her every day, making sure she was taking care of herself, offering her a shoulder to cry on … though,
to be honest, she wouldn't mind a little of Sam's motherly TLC, even if the girl was her junior by five years.

Oreo jumped off her lap and wandered off. Grace, sprawled listlessly on the couch, watched him go. Somewhere outside, she heard kids calling, laughing. Probably on the way home from school, throwing snowballs. Inside, she sat in a pocket of silence … except for the ticking of the schoolhouse clock, which seemed to grow louder as the minutes passed.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …

Saturday … the day Sam was coming home. Two days away. But for some reason, it felt like forever. Just her and Oreo and that darn ticking clock, stuck in this house like house arrest.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …

Saturday … the day she and Roger had been scheduled to show up at the sweetheart banquet in Milwaukee as the sweetheart poster couple.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …

Saturday … the day Jeff Newman would be on the slopes skiing with his blind date.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock …

Suddenly grabbing for her phone, she found Sam's text and hit Reply:

Sam! Glad Ur mom doing OK. Sweetheart was canceled. Can you come to the house on Sunday?
She hesitated a moment, then typed,
Really want to see you
. She signed it
Grace
, and hit Send.

And then she grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it tight.

A text message from Jeff Newman on Friday said he was on his way back to Denver, he'd work on the cancellations first thing Monday and let her know how it went.
And thanks again for the hospitality
.

Grace stood at the front window, absently watching somebody across the street shoveling out his car, wondering how to reply. Businesslike? Chatty? Ask how his meetings went in Nashville? Tell him to have fun this weekend? Finally she just typed
Thanks
and hit Send—just as a UPS truck pulled up in front of the house and put on its hazard blinkers. Had to be her brother …

“Can't stay long, Sis,” Mark said as she opened the door for him. “Just wanted to check on you. You doing okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Mark jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I see you got your walks shoveled. Neighbor kid?”

“Kids plural. Twins from next door. Seems like a nice family.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “It's twelve thirty. Want some lunch?”

“Nah, can't. Got a ton of deliveries. Hope your car isn't one of those buried by the snowplow. Aren't people supposed to move their cars so the city can plow the whole street?”

Grace shrugged. “Street signs say cars on one side are supposed to move on odd days during a snow emergency, the other side is supposed to move on even days until both sides get plowed.” She shrugged. “But my car is safely tucked in my garage surrounded by snowdrifts and an unplowed alley. Going to have to shovel it out myself, I guess. Or wait till spring when it thaws.”

Mark guffawed, then grinned apologetically. “Sorry. Not funny. Uh, maybe I can come back this weekend and shovel it out. Or tell you what—I'll call Roger and tell
him
to get his butt over here and dig you out. The cad owes you that much.”

She gave him a
don't-you-dare
look. “Don't worry about it. Besides, I'm supposed to be taking it easy for the next few weeks till my, you know”—she pointed at her throat—“gets better, not running around.” But she grimaced. “Unless I go stir-crazy first. It's been a looong week.”

A series of impatient car honks outside sent Mark to the front window. “Uh-oh. I'm blocking somebody. Gotta go.” He pulled open the front door. “You want to come out to the house again for Sunday dinner?”

“Oh, Mark, thanks, but—”

“I mean, if we can get your car out—or I could pick you up.” The car honks got more insistent. Her brother yanked the door open and glared at the big SUV, which was nose to nose with his UPS truck. “Who's the jerk?” he muttered.

“Uhhh, not sure.” Fancy car. Might be the guy at the end of the block in the McMansion. “But about Sunday … Sam—Samantha Curtis, my assistant—is coming here that afternoon. She's been in Memphis ever since my last concert, her mom had a heart attack, and—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Gotta go.” Mark was already down the steps. “Call if you change your mind. See ya!” He hustled down her walk and detoured via a shoveled-out parking space in front of the house next door to reach his truck. Watching from the window, it seemed to Grace like he backed down the street a lot slower than he had to. Probably just to spite the guy in the SUV.

She snickered. Her brother was a nut—lovable, but still a nut.

Standing at the window till the UPS truck disappeared from sight, Grace noticed the shoveled-out parking space next door had lawn chairs set up in it, no doubt to keep anyone else from parking there. She glanced up and down the block and saw three or four other shoveled parking spaces with similar barricades, interspersed between the lumps of snow-covered cars.

Couldn't really blame folks for claiming parking spots after going to all that work, though she doubted it was legal. At least she'd done her duty this time and had her walks shoveled, like most of the other neighbors up and down the street—except for the two-flat across the street. The walk was still only half-shoveled where Jeff and the lawn service guy and the twins' father had tried to make a path for the paramedics two days ago.

Grace wondered what had happened to the old lady who'd fallen down the basement stairs. Was she still in the hospital? Sign said her house was in foreclosure … was she coming back? Had she died? Did anybody on the street even know?

Saturday was the pits.

The temperature had fluctuated between ten and twenty degrees the past few days with just enough wind to knife the cold right into her bones the few times she'd ventured outside. No new snow, but the snow from the mini-blizzard was still half frozen—not conducive to going for a walk or getting exercise.