Grounded by Neta Jackson Page B

had inflamed her throat, he’d said overuse, vocal fatigue, and stress were responsible for her loss of voice. The specialist had been very thorough, not only doing a medical workup and vocal history, but performing several tests, including an endoscopy—she hadn’t been able to eat or drink anything for ten hours prior to her appointment—and something called a “nasal fiber-optic laryngoscopy,” both of which required enough twilight anesthesia that they’d advised her not to drive, so she’d taken a taxi both ways.
    So much for Monday.
    Well, it was what it was. At least she had good medical reasons for a sabbatical. Maybe she’d be ready to resume doing concerts again after a few weeks of rest. And surely Bongo Booking had run into these types of problems before with other clients, since—accordingto the specialist—voice disorders were as common among singers as tennis elbow and knee injuries were to athletes.
    Bongo Booking …
    Grace couldn’t help a small grin as she turned from the window and headed into the living room to get an update on the weather. Strange name for an agency that specialized in booking contemporary Christian music artists. Go figure. But at least “Bongo” got attention and a place near the front of the alphabet in listings.
    The TV screen leaped to life as she pressed the remote.
Oprah
. Was she still on? She’d heard rumors the diva was moving her show to LA. Well, whatever the hot topic was, the show would be over soon. It was almost ten. According to the flight schedule Newman had e-mailed her, he was supposed to land at O’Hare around nine thirty, pick up a rental car, and drive to her house. He’d suggested meeting here so she wouldn’t have to go out. Thoughtful of him. His last e-mail said the agency had lined up the rental car and a couple of other business appointments for him as long as he was in Chicago …
Wait. What’s this?
    A weather warning was running across the bottom of the screen.
Heavy snow accumulation possible by evening rush hour
. Ugh. Now she was doubly glad she didn’t have to drive anywhere.
    But waiting was hard. She’d cleaned the house … had the makings for a simple Thai salad and pita bread lunch … answered a few e-mails … and changed outfits twice. Should she go homey, with jeans and bulky sweater? Business casual pantsuit? Long winter skirt and tall boots? Her phone finally rang at 10:25. It took her a moment to recognize it. She’d reset the ringtone to a simple pleasant guitar strum—for now, anyway. The caller ID said Jeff Newman.
    â€œGrace! So sorry to keep you waiting. Air traffic was backed up because of weather and my plane just landed.”
    â€œThat’s okay. I figured as much. Glad you made it down safely.”
    â€œOh, yeah. God’s got us covered, right? Anyway, no checked baggage so I’m on my way to pick up the rental car. I’ve got GPS on my phone, so I should be able to find you. Let’s see … it’s going to be eleven thirty at the earliest. Still okay for you?”
    â€œFine.” Not like she was going anywhere. “See you then.”
    It was noon before the doorbell rang. She’d changed again, deciding on business casual: black slacks over ankle boots, feminine white blouse, belted corduroy cranberry jacket, and her makeup had a soft-rosy glow. After a week of slopping around in slippers, hair in a ponytail or clip, and no makeup, it felt good to spruce up a bit.
    Grace took a deep breath and opened the door. A gust of wind blew a swirl of snow inside. A man stood on her stoop, hatless, his shoulders hunched inside a leather jacket with the collar up, a leather messenger bag hanging from one shoulder. Snowflakes had already layered on his dark hair, but a red scarf was wrapped around his face and ears. “Grace Meredith,” said a muffled voice.
    She pulled the door open wider,