Finding Grace

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are 18 years or older when in sexual situations.

Chapter One

Poplar Bluff

The screen door hinges creaked as Grace stepped out onto her weather-beaten front porch. She made a mental note to give the hinges a shot of WD-40 and then placed her glass of ice-cold lemonade on the wicker table next to her matching chair. She had spent countless hours on the covered porch and she knew, without looking at the weather forecast, it was going to rain. The air had a musty odor to it that Grace sensed was announcing the arrival of a summer thunderstorm.

She sat down and put the cold beverage to her lips, puckering as the astringency of the freshly squeezed lemon washed across her tongue. She had been waiting for rain all summer, but this rainstorm would likely be too little and too late to help her drought-stricken crops. She watched the darkened horizon and listened for the distant boom of thunder. A swarm of mosquitos gathered under the large oak tree in her front yard.

She called to her aging black lab to come in before the rain arrived. Bo (actually his name was Bojangles, as named by her oldest daughter Brittany) came trotting up, his thick, pointy tail wagging furiously as he spotted his owner. He was carrying a large branch in his mouth that had apparently broken off one of the property's trees and dropped it as a trophy at Grace's feet.

Grace patted his head as a reward for his gift and then pointed to the house. Bo knew it was time for his mid-day meal, and required no coaxing to follow Grace into the farmhouse. She dutifully measured out Bo's "mature" dog food into his stainless steel bowl, watching him sit in anticipation of his feeding. She placed the food bowl down and then ran her hand across his silky black coat. He waited until she nodded her head, then he set about devouring his kibbles. The sounds of the hard discs scraping against the bowl echoed in the expansive kitchen. Grace sighed as she screwed the lid back onto the plastic dog food container and wiped her hands clean on her worn coveralls.

She turned to watch Bo eat, and thought to herself that it was just her and Bo in a house built for a large family. Her oldest daughter Britt had already moved to Cedar City, Utah, some 1,800 miles from Poplar Bluff, and had recently married the owner of a small auto repair business she met when her car broke down on the way to Los Angeles [ed. note, see "Falling from Grace"]. Britt had a delightful young daughter, appropriately named Grace, as well. Britt's younger sister Adele was a sophomore at the University of Missouri.

Grace was the impulsive type. She led with her heart and not her head. She married young, barely nineteen, to Aaron Moreland, the high school quarterback, and now a high plains drifter. He stuck around just long enough to get Grace pregnant (twice), then went to the outlands of Oklahoma to work as a wildcatter, never to be seen again. It had been almost twenty years since he left, and in that long twenty-year stretch Grace was on no more than a dozen dates. Because Aaron provided no child support, Grace had to hold down two jobs to keep her girls properly fed, clothed and housed. That left precious little time for love.

But Grace was also an optimist, and she knew that someday she would find "the one." Her youngest daughter Adele just left home over a year ago, making Grace an empty nester. She finally had the time to realize her dream to farm the family homestead's one hundred acres, which had largely remained fallow since Aaron left, but chose the most unfortunate time to start, during the middle of a prolonged drought. Now almost two years into the farming endeavor, Grace managed to burn through her savings and finally defaulted on the mortgage encumbering the farm. But Grace's worries about her love life and her finances took a back seat to the approaching storm.

Bo finished his meal and was pushing his bowl on the floor, attempting to glean the crumbs sticking to the edges. Grace picked up the bowl and gave Bo another pat on his head. She put the bowl in the kitchen sink, then looked out the window to see only blackness in the distance as raindrops started to trickle down each of its panes. She flipped on an aging cream-colored analog clock radio (the one that used to be in her bedroom, but was since replaced by a digital one), its cracked plastic surface a reminder of the night when Aaron told her he was going to seek a divorce. Grace remembered she unplugged it and threw it at him in a fit of instantaneous rage. She missed. The radio crackled with static caused by lightening as the newscaster warned of the severity of the oncoming storm. The tall brunette, her hair a tangled mess from being outside in the wind, started washing the dishes from last night's supper to clear her mind as the drone of the radio faded to background noise.

Grace's "therapy" session at the kitchen sink was interrupted when she heard a sharp rapping on the edge of the screen door at the front entrance. She had put out of her mind that a banker from the home office in St. Louis was stopping by to discuss the default on her farm's mortgage. She chided herself for forgetting about the appointment. She then looked down at her dirty coveralls. She had spent the entire morning working in her garden and her clothes were stained with grass and dirt. She went to the front door, checking in the hallway mirror and cursing softly when she saw the state of her hair. She used her hands to smooth it, then walked briskly to answer the door.

She could see through the small window in the front door that a man, probably in his mid-40's, was standing at the door holding a slightly wet leather briefcase. His hair was already dotted with raindrops, and beyond the porch the water was already sheeting over the leaf clogged gutters.

"Come in, come in," said Grace, trying to be hospitable even though she knew it would be an unpleasant conversation.

The man brushed the rain off the shoulders of his coat and stepped into the house. Grace saw that he had a pleasant face, friendly, and wondered how he drew the short straw for this assignment. She took his coat and motioned for him to take a seat in the upholstered chair in the living room. She took a seat across from him on the sofa.

"I'm ... ummm ... Jim Nathanson, an executive vice president with Farmer's Bank. Thank you for taking the time ... Ms. Larsen." Jim was unusually nervous for this client call, and his voice uncharacteristically wavered as he spoke.

"Call me Grace." Her ingrained sense of Midwestern hospitality made her want to put him at ease, even though he was there to discuss whether the bank would take away the home in which she raised her children. There was no reason this conversation shouldn't be civil, she thought to herself.

Trying to relax, the banker continued. "Grace. Thank you for seeing me. Forgive me for my appearance. I think there was a cloudburst the second I stepped out of my car."

Grace was still fretting that she looked like a wreck. Even though the bank executive was somewhat wet, he looked handsome and well-dressed in his custom blue pinstripe suit.

"I barely saw it in time myself." She brushed the hair off her face and continued. "I'm so sorry about my appearance. I completely forgot ..."

"Please no ... ummm ... Grace." His eyes softened as he looked at her. "You look lovely."

At age forty-two, and divorced and single for almost twenty years, it had been a long time since Grace had heard a compliment. She blushed.

Off balance, Grace decided to change the topic. "Can I offer you a chocolate chip cookie? I just baked them this morning."

The man's face lit up. "Sure. I can't turn that down."

Grace went into the kitchen and retrieved a plate of cookies and two glasses of milk.

"Here you are," she said as she placed the platter and the two glasses of milk on the coffee table between them.

An experienced chocolate chip cookie consumer, he looked for the one with the most chips in it. He took one bite and looked up at her. "Delicious," he proclaimed, as he savored the chewy, yet crispy, treat.

Grace watched as her guest devoured the cookie. "So, Mr. Nathanson, how did you get the assignment to call on me?"

"Please call me Jim. Well ... uhhh ... I ... I gave myself this assignment."

Grace was understandably puzzled by the answer and raised her eyebrows. Jim couldn't help but notice her bewildered look.

"I'm from around here. I grew up in Green Forest and wanted to return to see some good friends. I also thought I could see if there was anything the bank could do to help you avoid a foreclosure. Maybe we'll come up with an idea."

What Jim didn't tell Grace was that he was in her class at Green Forest High School. He had a teenage crush on her, but never got up the nerve to talk to her. Grace was not only the best-looking girl in high school, she was the most popular. Jim was intimidated by the posse that always seemed to follow her. When Grace's file crossed his desk he took it for himself because he wanted to see her again. Now that he was sitting in her home, his heart was pounding furiously in his chest.

His mention of Green Forest stirred memories that had been long buried in Grace's mind. Had she seen him before? He looked vaguely familiar, but everyone changes after twenty years. She looked up at him, trying to remember.

His face became somber when he realized he'd have to address the elephant in the room. "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to discuss our ... I mean the bank's foreclosure action." Grace knew that the conversation would eventually turn to this subject. She had convinced herself that anger wouldn't accomplish anything.

"That's OK, Jim. I know you're just doing your job," she said, greatly soothing Jim's anxiety.

"I know this is a longshot, but is there any way to bring your loan current?" Jim asked, knowing it was wishful thinking.

"How much do I owe?"

Jim flipped open his briefcase and retrieved a file. He found the page he was looking for. "With interest and penalties, it's $11,504.87."

Grace knew it was a big number. To hear it out loud was downright depressing. "I'm sorry ... I don't have anywhere near that amount." Last time she looked she had less than $200 in her checking account.

"Well ... we do have a process for requesting a waiver of the additional interest and penalties. That would bring the balance down to ... $9,756.23," Jim offered, holding out a faint glimmer of hope.

"Jim, I appreciate the gesture, but I don't even have $1,000 in my bank account."

"What about additional collateral? Do you own a car or another piece of property?"

Grace shook her head. "I'm afraid all I have is this farm and a broken-down truck. I guess soon I won't even have that."

The rain started to sheet against the parlor windows. Tree branches were whipping about as the wind screamed through them. It suddenly became pitch black. Bo cowered under the table, whimpering. Grace and Jim looked at each other, then out towards the windows. Occasional hail stones could be heard pinging off the roof.

The couple walked to the windows, looking down first to see a fine layer of hailstones on the lawn, then upwards to see a maelstrom of clouds, like a witch's brew, as the rain became a downpour. Papers and yard debris started flying past the window. Grace realized it was time to get to a safe place.

"Follow me," said Grace in a no-nonsense tone of voice. Grace walked to the basement door and opened it. She flicked on the light and started walking down. Jim obediently followed, smelling the familiar damp, musty odor of a basement. Each wooden stair groaned as it was stepped on. Grace used the basement as a laundry room. Clothes were scattered helter-skelter on the concrete floor. Grace kicked some clothes aside and turned around with her hands on her hips. Jim stopped when she did.

"Jim, it's an emergency, and only in an emergency would I let a stranger see this mess."

Jim chuckled nervously. "I'm just grateful to be in this basement ... with you."

Grace sensed the dynamic had shifted. Jim had the upper hand when they were discussing her defaulted mortgage. Now Jim was dependent on her. His life was literally in her hands. She had no mind to take advantage of the situation, but did feel as if a weight was taken from her shoulders as she was no longer under his microscope.

The rain was hitting the narrow basement windows with ferocity as Grace rooted around in the clutter to find two chairs. She came back carrying two low folding chairs, the kind you would use at a pool. She handed one to Jim and opened the other for herself. She was now grateful that she was wearing work clothes. They were comfortable and the right ones to wear in a time of crisis. She watched Jim fold his suit coat and loosen his tie. He neatly draped the jacket and tie over the open dryer door and fell backwards into his chair.

They were silent for several moments, both listening to the storm outside.

Jim was looking more closely at Grace, not as a bank client but as his adolescent fantasy woman. His mind wandered back to his high school days, where in English class he was seated in the back of the classroom with a clear view of Grace two rows in front of him. She was his gold standard, the bar to which he compared all others. He remembered the gloss to her thick, wavy chestnut brown hair, the gentle curve of her neck, and her effervescent personality. He would daydream about kissing her neck and shoulders, with her hands guiding him down to her breasts. The Grace that was in front of him was a twenty-year older version of the girl he knew. Her frayed flannel shirt couldn't hide her full breasts and her threadbare coveralls accentuated her curvy hips.

Grace could see where Jim's eyes were going, but under battlefield conditions certain social niceties were forfeit. They both wanted to know who they were stuck with in a potential disaster situation. Grace thought Jim to be a good looking man. He had a slightly receding hairline, but the cut of his short dark hair took advantage of it. He was of average height and looked fit. He had more angular facial features and a strong jaw. Grace's concentration on Jim was snapped when she heard a dog bark.

"Bo!" she cried. "Oh God, I forgot to get Bo!"

"I'll get him," said Jim, rising quickly out of his chair.

"No. He's my dog. I'll get him," insisted Grace.

"I'm going, and I'll take no argument from you."

Jim plodded up the stairs, now only in his shirt sleeves, and went through the basement door to the kitchen. He stopped, straining to hear Bo through the cacophony of sound. He could hear whimpering, but wasn't sure where it was coming from. He saw that the front door was open and the rain was coming into the house. The screen door retaining chain had broken and the door was slamming against the side of the house. The whimpering noises were louder. He thought they were coming from underneath the porch.

Jim hurried down the stairs and looked under the frame of the porch. He could see two eyes, glowing amber.

"Bo!" Jim shouted above the din of the storm. He bent over to put his head under the porch when he felt a searing pain in his thigh. He cursed, and then tentatively moved his hand towards the source of the pain. He discovered that a splinter of wood had gone about a half inch into the inside of his left thigh. He gently tugged at the splinter, but with no success. He fought through the pain and squatted under the porch to coax the dog out of hiding. He snagged Bo's collar and led him up the stairs with a driving rain coming from behind the now waterlogged man. He pushed the grateful dog into the house, latched the top and bottom of the screen door to the door frame and shut and then locked the door.

Bo shook, spraying water everywhere. Jim was standing in the entranceway, dripping, and thinking of what he could grab while he was upstairs. Dry clothes for one. Food for another. The house was shaking as gale force winds were now blowing. Jim gamely walked up the stairs, finding a bedroom and rummaging through a closet for a shirt and through the bureau for a pair of pants. He was so pumped with adrenaline that he could barely feel the sting of the splinter as he cased the bedroom. He finally found a pair of pants, not his size, and limped down the stairs.

He walked briskly down the hallway, watching the overhead lights flicker. He got to the kitchen, found a folded paper shopping bag under the sink and went on a thirty second shopping spree. He opened the refrigerator and saw there was milk in a large glass bottle, two smaller bottles of some local soft drink, and six cans of beer. He took the soft drinks and beer and then opened the pantry closet. There was a half-eaten bag of potato chips, a box of granola bars and a full bag of Doritos on the top shelf. He threw all them on top of the beverages, loaded his clothes on top and went to the door to the basement. With Bo behind him, he navigated down the stairs with his arms full. Grace rose out of her chair and helped him with his load. They put all of the items on a folding table, then Grace knelt down to hug her wet, but grateful dog. Bo stood there until he realized he was in a room he usually wasn't allowed into, and that meant the possibility there was food to be had. Grace got up when Bo went off, sniffing the floor.

"Hmmm ..." said Grace as she scanned Jim's loot. "Beer, chips, Doritos ... I sense a pattern here."

Jim threw up his hands. "Hey, I was just trying to be helpful."

"No ... no ... I was just giving you a hard time. Thank you ...". Grace stopped in mid-sentence when she realized a shard of wood was sticking through his pants.

"Oh God, Jim, does that hurt?" she blurted out, pointing to his leg.

The adrenaline high was wearing off. The searing pain returned. "Only when I breathe."

"I've got a first aid kit upstairs in my bathroom. I've got to get it."

Jim was winded. He wanted to go in her place but his body said no. Instead, he reached out and took Grace's hand. "Please ... be careful."

"I will," she said, as she pulled away from him.

Grace climbed the stairs and opened the door. She was greeted with a howling wind. She saw that the dining room window had shattered and the curtain was wildly fluttering. There was already a considerable amount of debris in the house. Grace ignored the carnage and ran to her bedroom to retrieve the first aid kit. She cursed when it wasn't in its usual spot. She willed herself to calm down and remember. She recalled that she cut herself in the kitchen a few weeks ago. She dashed to the kitchen and emptied the drawers, finally finding the kit lodged in a "junk" drawer.

She tucked the kit under her arm and sprinted to the basement door. The wind continued to push at her as she struggled to open the door. She finally opened it and got through, with it slamming behind her. Now gasping for breath, she gingerly made it down the stairs. Miraculously, the lights were flickering but not yet out.

Grace put down the kit and knelt next to Jim. She pushed open his legs to get a better view of the splinter. "Let's see what we've got here," she said, as she tugged gently on the splinter, eliciting a groan from Jim, but no movement.

The splinter was sticking through the dress pants and was caught in the material, so she had no choice but to cut the thin wool. She retrieved the pocket knife she always carried in her pant's pocket and carefully cut away the material surrounding the splinter.