Grounded (8 page)

At times like this, Grace wished she had a dog. Her brothers had had a yellow Lab—okay, a Lab mixed with something else—when she was a kid. Lovable mutt. But a dog definitely wouldn't fit into her current lifestyle, not with all the travel she did. It was hard enough leaving Oreo so often, but at least it was easier to find care for a cat than for a dog.

Walking through St. Mark's Memorial Cemetery felt good. The temperature hadn't even made it above freezing, but there was no wind and the noonday sun was out. Bundled up in a down vest and a hooded parka with a wool scarf wrapped around her face, she'd walked over to Ridge Avenue to enter the main gate. Just as she'd figured, the narrow paved road that wound around the various burial areas had been plowed and provided a good surface to stretch her legs away from traffic and city sidewalks.

A sign on the gate said No Dogs Allowed. Couldn't take a dog for a walk here even if she had one.

The peace and quiet of the cemetery, however, and the pristine beauty of the snow blanket covering the graves and topping the headstones made Grace smile. Gray-and-black chickadees flitted in and out of pine-tree branches, and in spring the bare maples and elms would come alive with fluttering leaves. She ought to walk here more often—an oasis of nature in the middle of the big city. And she definitely could use the exercise!

But she shouldn't stay out too long. Still fighting that virus. Turning back, Grace walked around the bottom of the cemetery till she got to Beecham. Her house was almost at the end of the dead-end street, two houses away from the “McMansion” that had
been built last year facing the cul-de-sac at the far end, backed up against the cemetery. It was a pretty house, stone exterior with lots of beveled windows, but totally out of character—and size—for the rest of the neighborhood. And as far as she could tell—though admittedly she wasn't around much to know for sure—seemed like only one guy lived there. Why did a guy without a family need such a big house? Probably partied a lot. That would explain the extra cars that filled the cul-de-sac on weekends.

As Grace approached her brick bungalow, a small gray SUV pulled up and a black woman she recognized as her next-door neighbor got out, opened the back, and started to unload plastic bags. “Tavis! Tabitha!” she yelled. “Get out here and help with these groceries!”

The front door opened and a boy about twelve or thirteen hustled down the steps.

“Where's Tabitha?” The mother handed two bags to the boy, clad in a sweatshirt, unzipped, hood down. “And where's your gloves and your hat?”

“I'm goin' right back in,” he protested and hustled inside with the bags.

Grace cleared her throat as she walked toward the SUV. “Hello!” Good grief, she could barely hear herself. Grace got closer and tried again. “Hello?”

The woman looked up. “Uh, hello.”

“I'm Grace Meredith.” Grace pointed at her house. “I live next door.” Her voice was still raspy, but better than she expected.

“Oh!” The woman gave a laugh. “Didn't recognize you all bundled up like that. Haven't seen you around lately. You been gone?” Without waiting for an answer, the woman again called toward the house. “Tavis! Tabitha! Get your sorry selves back out here!” She turned back to Grace. “Like pullin' teeth gettin' those kids to stick with somethin' longer than ten seconds.”

“Yes … yes, I was away most of January. As you can tell from my unshoveled sidewalk. But that's what I wanted to—”

“Tavis! Tabitha!
Don't make me come in there!” the mother yelled again. This time the boy appeared with a girl who looked to
be about the same age. Grace stepped aside as the two young teens grabbed several bags each and hustled up the walk into the house.

The woman slammed the back of the SUV. “I'm sorry … you were saying? Oh, by the way, I'm Michelle Jasper.” She held out a mittened hand.

Grace pulled her own gloved hand out of her parka pocket and shook the offered mitten. She was starting to shiver. “As you can see, I didn't get the sidewalk in front of my house shoveled while I was gone, and I've been sick this week. So I was wondering—”

“Uh-huh. Sounds like you still oughta be in the bed.” The woman picked up the last two bags of groceries from where she'd set them on the snow.

“I know … But I was wondering if one of your kids wanted to earn some money shoveling my walk. I'm way overdue getting it done.”

Michelle Jasper paused and looked at her a moment. “Well, guess I could ask. Do you want Tavis—he's thirteen—or my older boy, Destin?”

“Uh, either one would be fine. Thanks.” Grace smiled. “Well, guess I'll go back in. Tell them I'll pay twenty dollars.”

The woman scoffed. “Good heavens! Don't do that! Make it ten at the most or they'll be spoiled, wanting more when other folks need a favor.”

“Oh. Well, I had no idea what to pay. I just know it won't be easy. Some of it's packed down from people walking on it. But I have some rock salt for the icy patches.”

“Fine. I'll send somebody over. Probably Tavis. Destin will probably say he doesn't have time. Basketball and all that, you know. Junior year. That boy keeps busier than both his father an' me put together!” The woman nodded at Grace and headed up her own walk. “Well, better get inside …”

Yeah, me too
.

But as Grace turned back toward her house, something caught her eye across the street. A For Sale sign in front of the old lady's two-flat. How long had
that
been there? And what did the bright
yellow strip on top of the sign say? She wandered past her bungalow until she was directly across the street from the two-flat …
Foreclosure
. Oh, now, that was really too bad.

She was really shivering now. Once inside, Grace peeled off her layers, pulled off her boots, and turned on the teakettle, blowing on her numb fingers as it heated. The walk had felt good, but maybe wasn't the wisest thing. She hadn't felt really cold until she stood still to talk to the woman next door … Michelle. Michelle Jasper. And the kids were Tavis and Tabitha. Could be twins. And the older one … Dustin? Something like that.

The doorbell ding-donged. That was quick. She hoped the boy had brought his own shovel. If he didn't, she'd have to go out to the garage.

Oreo had run to the front door at the bell, curious as always. “Scoot,” she said, moving the cat out of the way with her foot so she could open the front door.

But it wasn't Tavis.

A tall man stood on her stoop, shoulders hunched against the cold inside a long gray topcoat, red wool scarf tucked into the neck, wraparound sunglasses, no hat.

Roger
.

“Hello, Grace.”

Grace stared. Swallowed. “What are you doing here?”

Just then a black-and-white fur-ball darted out the door, around the man's shoes, and down the steps.

“Oreo! Catch the cat! He'll freeze out there!”

Oreo seemed startled to find himself belly deep in wet snow. He stuck his tail up and let out a pitiful meow.

“I'll get him,” Roger said, stepping gingerly down the steps, backtracking in his footprints as if to save his shoes. “Stay there. You don't have any shoes on.”

Grace ran for her boots, not at all confident Oreo would let Roger get near. The door was still open, letting in a wall of cold air. But as she pulled on her boots, she could hear Roger coaxing, “Here, kitty, kitty … come on now.”

She ran out onto the stoop in time to see Roger creep toward the cat, who'd made it to the front sidewalk. But just as Roger grabbed for him, Oreo took off across the narrow parkway between sidewalk and street, bounding across the deeper snow.

Oh no!
Grace started down the steps, grabbing the cold iron hand railing.
What if he runs out into the street! What if—

“Got him!”

Grace jerked her head. The boy from next door—though he was now bundled up in a winter jacket, sweatshirt hood over his head—was slushing through the snow across her tiny front lawn, arms wrapped around the black-and-white cat.

She blew out a relieved breath as he came closer. “Oh, thank you! Tavis, isn't it? Here …” She held out her arms for the cat as the boy reached her stoop. “I'll get him inside and be right back. Did your mom ask you about shoveling my walk?” She was pushing her voice beyond its raspy whisper in order to be heard.

“Yeah.” The boy pointed back the way he'd come. “I dropped the shovel back there when I saw the cat runnin' loose. I'll go get it.”

Grace hustled back inside, shut Oreo in the guest bedroom, grabbed her parka, and headed outside again as she pulled it on. Tavis had already retrieved his shovel and was staring at Roger, who had come back up the steps and was stamping snow off his leather shoes on the mat just outside the front door.

“Ya still want me to shovel? Or is your husband gonna do it?” the boy said.

Grace stifled a laugh, which she was afraid would come out slightly hysterical. “Yes, I still want you to do it. He's just … a visitor.” Ignoring Roger, she told Tavis she'd like him to shovel the sidewalk along the street, then up her short walk up to the door, plus the walkway from the back door to the garage. “You can forget the side for now.”

“Okay. Ten bucks, right?” The boy snickered. “Tabitha is gonna be so pissed.”

Grace winced at his language, but couldn't help grinning. “Your sister … how old is she?”

“Thirteen. Same as me. We're twins.” He rolled his eyes. “Double trouble, my dad says.” He squinted up at her. “Mama said you got laryngitis, so I'm not s'posed to make you talk much. But I gotta tell ya …” His eyes strayed to the sidewalks. “This ain't gonna be so easy.”

“I know. Do what you can. There's a bag of rock salt in the garage. I think the side door is open.”

A masculine throat-clearing made Grace turn around. Roger, eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses, cocked a thumb toward her open front door. “Can we, uh, go in?”

“Wait a moment.” The chasing-the-cat episode had given Grace time to recover from her surprise at finding Roger at her doorstep. Squeezing past him, she turned in the open doorway and said, “Let's start over.” She stepped back, closed the door in his face, took a slow, deep breath, and then reopened it. “Roger. What are you doing here?”

Roger shook his head and looked away for a moment. She imagined he'd just rolled his eyes. “Let's not play games, Grace. I'm
here
because you won't answer my phone calls. But we really need to talk. That's why I—”

“I'm not supposed to talk. I've got laryngitis.” She let her voice croak all it wanted—which didn't take much after all the talking she'd done in the last thirty minutes.

“Grace. It's cold. Please let me come in.”

Grace stood there one more nanosecond, then stepped aside so Roger could come in. Closing the door, she shed her parka and boots and stowed them in the coat closet. She could at least try to be civil. She didn't want to burn any bridges with Roger, in case this whole breakup was just a case of getting cold feet.

She turned. Roger had taken off his topcoat and laid it neatly over the back of a chair. The sunglasses had also disappeared, unveiling his blue-gray eyes. She steadied her gaze. “Would you like some coffee?”

“That'd be great.”

“I'll be right back,” she said, giving him a clear signal he wasn't supposed to follow her into the kitchen. She wanted to keep this formal. Civil but formal. Fortunately she still had enough hot coffee in the pot for two cups, which she carried back into the living room on a tray with packets of sweetener. Roger took two sugars in his coffee and always let it cool. She liked hers hot and black. The kind of little details a couple knows about each other.

She set the tray on the coffee table near where he'd seated himself in the chair that matched her sectional, let Oreo out of his prison, then curled up on the couch with her own cup. The cat jumped up on the couch and settled down beside her. Grace watched as her fiancé—now
ex
—took a few sips.

She spoke first. “Why, Roger?”

He slowly set the cup down. “I told you why, Grace. Your career, your travel schedule … it's just too much time apart. It's not working for me—and we're not even married yet. It would only get harder—especially if we wanted to start a family.”

Start a family
. They'd only talked about having kids once, and he'd said it was too soon to decide something that big—how many, or when, or if …

“But we didn't even talk about it! You just made your own decision,
bam
, like that.”

He shifted. “Not ‘
bam
, like that.' Never was happy with these long separations. You know how much I miss you when you're gone …”

“Then why didn't you call more often while I was on tour?”