Page 4 of A Taste of Grace

Although I was a darn good researcher and analyst, I wasn’t lying about being a writer.

I’d always been a solid editor and creative, so it was easy for me to craft a plan for my new profession in rehab.

I joined several freelancer sites and advertised my services as a ghostwriter, picking up a couple of jobs that would keep me busy for the next few weeks.

I also marketed myself as a creative writing coach with a specialty in writing intimate scenes between protagonists.

Several romance authors had already contacted me.

I even had a pending opportunity to write a screenplay draft for a primetime television host whose husband was a big-time Hollywood movie producer.

Uncle Keith crossed his arms across his chest and stared at me with light brown eyes that always appeared watery despite his never shedding a tear about anything other than the final words spoken over my mother’s dead body.

“As a writer, you can craft any story you want. It’s not my place to tell your business, but you earned that doctorate and deserve the respect that comes with it. Pat was so proud of you.”

At the mention of my mother’s name, my heart swelled. I would consider Uncle Keith’s words but didn’t want to stand out too much in such a small place.

“I will.”

“Oh…before I leave, here’s Nita’s info. Call her when you’re ready.” He pulled a small canary-yellow business card from his wallet and handed it to me.

I received it and read the relatively small words out loud.

“Prophetess Nita Stallings, Woman of God.” I raised an eyebrow. “Why does she need to advertise being a woman of God?”

Uncle Keith chuckled.

“Nita’s different.”

“Different how?”

“You’ll see.”

“Because she’s a prophetess? Like a fortune teller?”

Despite my growing trust of Uncle Keith, I didn’t want my first connection in the city to be too radical. I needed to take baby steps in my recovery.

“Calm down. She’s not spooky or mystical. She has a pure heart and is drawn to people who need direction. Give her a chance. What do you have to lose?” My uncle’s smiling eyes displayed hope that matched how I wanted to feel.

As had become my habit since rehab, I forced myself not to overthink.

“I’ll call her tonight.”

“Good.” Uncle Keith gently patted me on my arm and walked to his Chevy truck. With a final wave, he drove off down the narrow dirt road that led to the main highway.

Before it got too late, I called Nita.

“Hello?” Her crisp voice rang through the phone.

“Hi…this is Grace Toliver, Keith Glass’s niece.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been expecting you. What time are we meeting tomorrow at Sunbeams?”

I was shocked by her forwardness despite my intended request to meet her at the cute little coffee shop down the road from my home.

“Does ten o’clock work for you?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“Uh…yes.”

“Alrighty then. See you then. Rest well, Grace.”

“You too.”

I hung up with a keen interest in her. She was anxious to engage. Could she be the friend Uncle Keith said she might be?

That night, I had a vivid dream. I stood over the Edmund Pettus Bridge, looking into the brownish waters of the Alabama River. My heart raced as my mind told me to turn back.

“I want to live.”

When I said the words out loud, a firm hand pulled me back.

“It’s okay, Grace,” a man said in a voice that melted my fear like a piece of warmed chocolate.

I couldn’t see his features, but his presence comforted me. I pressed my face into his broad chest, inhaling the spicy cologne that covered his soft cotton shirt. This stranger rescued me from death.

I woke with a start and sweat popping off my face. After going to the kitchen and drinking a glass of water, I finally settled down and went back to sleep, wondering what the dream meant.

The next morning, I finished my hygiene routine quicker than normal since I overslept.

I threw on a flowing teal wrap dress and cardigan with my favorite ballet flats.

Translucent Fenty peach lip gloss Mama bought me last Christmas completed the look.

She told me that it reminded her of how cute I was as her baby girl. That memory made me smile.

I pulled my late-model Kia into the only empty parking space on crowded Main Street five minutes before ten. When I stepped out of my car, I took a deep breath, something I did often since my suicide attempt. I didn’t take life for granted anymore, even down to the air I breathed.

Small groups of people walking up and down the street smiled and laughed as if they wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. I loved that for them.

When I entered the Sunbeams Coffee Shop, my eyes instantly landed on a beautiful older woman with snow white pressed hair and red-rimmed eyeglasses.

When her eyes met mine, I knew it was Nita.

She rose as I walked toward her, giving me one of the sincerest smiles I’d ever seen.

The closer I got to her, the more familiar she felt.

Like Patricia at the hospital, unspoken joy and peace radiated from her.

When I was inches away from her, she opened her arms. Although I wasn’t a hugger by nature, I wanted to embrace her. I clutched her tightly as she squeezed me back. The longer she held me, the more I felt…something. I closed my eyes as unexpected tears welled up in me.

What was going on?

I stepped back and wiped my eyes with the pads of my fingers.

“Sorry about that. I haven’t been this teary since my mama died.”

Nita reached for the napkin holder in the middle of the table and pulled a couple of rough brown napkins out before handing them to me.

I dabbed each of my eyes and sniffled, eventually balling up the used napkin and slipping it into the deep pocket of my dress.

Before Mama’s death, I knew how to hold everything in, but rehab opened up emotions I couldn’t bottle up.

“There’s no need to apologize, sweetheart. You only get one mother. Let’s sit.” She gestured to the table where her red leather purse lay.

I slid into the metal chair closest to the door and briefly lowered my eyes to the wooden floor of the shop before giving Nita a closed-lip smile. I set my arms on the table and composed myself as best I could. Nita didn’t flinch as I squirmed, feeling like a little girl under her steady gaze.

“Crying is cathartic. It’s better to get it all out.” Nita reached across the round table and covered my hands with hers.

Her gentle voice and nurturing presence soothed me as the scent of shea butter entered my nose.

“Thanks, Nita. I learned that recently.” I mustered a faint smile.

“You’re beautiful with that voluminous hair and smooth skin.” She gushed over me in the most animated way.

Her hands moved toward my hair. She patted it lightly as if she were in awe of what she saw.

“Thank you. I’m cute but not anything special.”

As a naturally reserved person, I wasn’t comfortable receiving this kind of attention.

“You are gorgeous.” She emphasized each word dramatically.

“Thank you for the generous compliment.” I placed my hand on the patch of hair Nita touched, patting what I used to think was an unruly lion’s mane.

It took years for me to master my thick hair that grew fast and shot from my scalp like a sunburst. My mother began trimming it into its signature round shape when I decided to stop relaxing it and cut it off in college.

Once it was “trained,” as my mother would say, the tight coils that were now my signature curled into a round shape that looked like a queen’s crown.

The topic of hair pricked my heart since one of Mama’s final acts was to comb her fingers through mine and tell me how healthy my jet-black coils were.

She wore hers just like mine when she was my age.

Because of that, I was never going to dye it when it turned gray.

Tears welled up again as I recalled how soft her silver strands were when I brushed my fingers through them a final time.

I wiggled my fingers and examined my hand with my palm down.

Mama called my skin peanut butter creamy, the same shade as my Daddy’s—the man who turned any number of heads throughout his life.

Mama swore he was the most handsome man she had ever met.

The older I got, the more I envied Mama for experiencing that once-in-a-lifetime love that I didn’t see in my future.

No one my age was as handsome or generous as my dad.

Nita watched me for several moments before picking up one of the worn menus on our table and handing it to me.

“Let’s order.”

Nita ordered hot black tea and a gluten-free orange scone. I decided on a cup of decaf coffee and a piece of vegetarian quiche. We then settled back into our conversation.

“Your mother sounded lovely,” she said.

“My parents were beautiful, generous people who gave me the best of themselves. They had me in their forties, so I knew early in life they would not see me grow old. Because of that, I have always been something of an old soul. They poured everything they had into me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I suppose. That seriousness forced me to make the best of my time with them.”

Our server brought our order, pausing our conversation. I picked up my cup of coffee and stared into the hot liquid, thinking of the Christmases, birthdays, and countless holidays I’d no longer spend with the two people who loved me most.

“Do you have any regrets?”

I hadn’t thought about that question before.

“I just wish we had more time together. I miss having a loving family.”

The topic of my parents always pulled raw emotions from me. No matter how many healing tools I had in my toolkit, their physical absence felt like salt being poured on an open wound that never healed.

“Your compliment reminded me of them. It’s bittersweet.” My voice lowered as I recalled how fragile my mother was on her deathbed.

Her muscles atrophied, but her spirit never dulled. That was how I wanted to remember her.