* * *
The late-evening sky burned softly with deep purples and shades of orange, the world succumbing to shadows, when Grace left Beck one Thursday evening in early October. By the time she drove onto her estate forty minutes later, the sky was black. She could see the huge manicured lawn and the small pond, illuminated by lake lights, with its sable and placid geese and ducks, in no hurry to migrate farther South but lingering in the unseasonable warmth of Georgia’s autumn. She thought of Darrel, whom she knew was inside, for he had called her on the Jag phone to see where she was. At times like this, she noticed with appreciation the features of the estate and felt a kindled gratitude for Darrel, for despite her fame as Amazing Grace, it was his career, his money, that placed her in the seat of luxury. Product endorsements for a black female athlete in the 1970s, even with Olympic gold, didn’t yield a quarter of the earnings male athletes like Darrel commanded today. And so even though it was often her ideas and advice that resulted in turning his money into something they could both enjoy, the fact remained that his earnings made it possible for her to give full attention to Beck—to build a state-of-the-art sports complex, to create the efficient and harmonious athletic department she had always dreamed of leading, and to mold a succession of championship teams. Grace smiled, drove the Jag into its spot in the garage, and was soon inside the mansion.
A pleasant lemony odor lingered in the air of the laundry room, and in the kitchen, warm pots of aromatic food sat on the stove. Mrs. Gentry. Grace walked over to examine the contents of the cookware. Not until the maid had been cooking at Gracewood for two weeks did Grace feel trusting enough to sample the woman’s cooking, and finding the taste superb and nothing amiss in her bodily functions thereafter, she decided that thenceforth she would avail herself of the maid’s culinary efforts. After all, the cooking had not killed Darrel. Grace smiled at her own absurdity, knowing that her paranoia was borne not so much out of distrust as it was resentment over the woman’s presence. Even now, a month into the maid arrangement, she struggled with the idea, but she had to admit that the thought of a strange woman roving about in her home was not as troubling as it had been even two weeks ago. Grace knew it was because she had become so absorbed in basketball training that she didn’t have mental energy, at the end of the day, to devote to anything else. Including Darrel. So when he stuck his head and shoulders through the swinging door that connected the kitchen with the den—he had heard her entry—she readied herself to pay him kind attention.
Darrel peered at her with mock suspicion and playfully asked, “Is it safe to speak?”
She cut her eyes at him and smiled.
Darrel broke into a grin and entered the room. “I never know these days,” he explained, walking over to her, where she stood at the stove, lifting pot lids. He reached her, slid his arms around her waist. “You know how you get during training. ‘Don’t touch me, Darrel!’” he mocked in a falsetto voice. “‘I’m too tired to be touched!’”
Grace chuckled. He was right. When training was underway, she became so single-minded that any attempt at intimacy on his part became a greater annoyance and intrusion than usual, and so she responded by brushing him aside or not coming home at all. They owned a condominium near MacDonald Park and sometimes, after a particularly exhausting day of training, she would retreat to it, staying as many as three nights during the week. Darrel hated it when she did that, but in years past she had found it necessary in order to remain focused during the pre-season. This year, she promised herself she would try not to sleep at the condo but would come home each night to the mansion, when he was in town. Even so, she had remained emotionally distant, which is why she knew he was happy to see her in a sociable mood tonight.
From behind, he squeezed her tightly, holding her against his legs. She reached into one of the pots and removed a spear of cooked broccoli, popped it in her mouth, liked the taste.
“I have missed you, woman.”
Chewing, she acknowledged his words with a low sound in her throat.
“Past two weeks, you’ve been nothing but a voice on the phone,” he continued.
She popped in another spear of the vegetable and, mouth full, replied, “So have you.”
“I know,” he admitted. “With both of us training, and me going straight from the arena to the office, we don’t see each other. And you’re asleep by the time I get home.”
“And you’ve been out of town on the weekends,” she reminded him.
“I know, but that can’t be helped.”
“I know. But remember, I need you to come talk to the girls one Saturday this month.” She licked her fingertips.
He squeezed her affectionately. “Uh…” he said with affected dread.
She turned her head and peered up at him. “What?” she demanded.
“Would it be all right if I talked to them next month?”
“Darrel! You know I like you to come in October.”
“I know, baby, but my weekends are booked this month. Jay did it.”
She looked at him a moment, exasperated, then relented. Jay was Darrel’s sports agent and his appointments were often ironclad. “Well, your visit’s a surprise, anyway, so I guess it doesn’t matter if you don’t come this month. Just make sure you come. They may not know when, but word has gotten around that you visit my girls during the pre-season.”
“All right, all right, I’ll be there,” he assured.
Grace picked up a serving spoon that rested on the stove top. “And why do you spend so much time at the office when you’re in town? Isn’t that why you hired Carol? To oversee?”
“Yeah, but you know I like to be there when I’m off the road. Like to know firsthand what’s going on.”
She made a low sound in her throat, removed the lid from the casserole dish, dug the spoon into a corner of the spinach-and-cheese offering. When she had secured a little on the spoon, she slid it off with her teeth and chewed.
“I think you’re beginning to like having a maid around here,” he observed.
She put down the spoon, turned her head to look at him. A light shone in her eyes but she did not answer him. Instead, she said, “I’m going to get my bath.” She pulled out of his arms and moved toward the door that led to the front hall.
“How’s training? How’s the team looking?”
She stopped, as Darrel knew she would.
“Good. Really good. There’s this one girl, a sophomore. Tracy Sullivan. Plays like a senior—no, better than the seniors. Amazing to watch.”
Darrel folded his arms, smiled, nodded attentively, trying to project more interest than he felt so that his wife would stay and talk to him. “Is that right? Where’d you find her?”
“She came to us. From L. Carlton Haines,” she said and watched for his reaction.
“Your rival? You’re kidding. How’d she end up at Beck?”
“Her aunt and uncle live in MacDonald Park. She came to live with them. My luck,” Grace said.
“So what are you going to do with her?”
“I haven’t decided her role yet, but she’s damn sure not going to be on the bench, tell you that.”
With that, she turned to leave.
“Grace.”
She turned. His voice indicated he wanted to discuss something she was not going to like. She looked at him and demanded with an expression to know what it was.
Darrel swiped his palm nervously across his lips. “Um…there’s something you might not like…when you get upstairs.”
She just looked at him.
“Uh…I had Mrs. Gentry…clean the bedroom,” he admitted and peered at her sheepishly.
The news did not anger Grace, as Darrel expected it to. Instead, she continued to stare at him without expression even as she considered, with surprise, her own lack of anger. So the maid had been in their bedroom. In the bathroom. Oh, well. The old woman had already handled Grace’s intimate apparel, so as far as Grace was concerned, the woman had already been in the
ir bedroom. Grace sighed. Nothing to do about it now—it had been inevitable, anyway. Besides, if Mrs. Gentry cleaned the master suite as well as she tackled the rest of the house, then arriving upstairs in a moment should yield a pleasure.
“I-I know how you feel about it,” Darrel stammered, “but, well, I wanted it done. I-I mean, that’s part of what I wanted a maid for. Clean my bedroom. You know?” He paused and braced for her reaction.
“It’s okay,” Grace said.
Darrel’s face registered surprise. Grace noted his reaction with amusement and pushed through the swinging door and was gone.
They did not see each other again for three weeks.
On that day, which was also a Thursday, Grace entered the laundry room with her hands full. She carried her attaché, shoulder purse, and a bundle of dry-cleaned outfits. But also she was curious. Mrs. Gentry’s green sedan was parked outside, even though the maid should have gone home hours ago. Grace passed the washing machine, which sloshed warm water through a wash cycle. Beside it, the dryer hummed and gently tossed socks and linen. The room smelled sweetly of fabric softener. On the other side of the room, the shampooing station, industrial hair dryer, stylist’s chair, and wall mirror sat in dimness, silent and unused and polished. Grace opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside. Immediately, she saw the older woman at the stove.
Mrs. Gentry looked back and smiled warmly. “Well, hi!”
“Hi,” Grace responded. She was not sure, but she thought she saw the older woman’s chest rise and fall at the sight of her, as it does in one who is pleasantly overwhelmed. Grace thought the reaction curious. Was it a sign of relief? Or perhaps nervousness? She had spent the last three nights at the condo in town, so maybe the maid had not expected her at the mansion tonight and was disconcerted because of it. Grace walked to the counter and laid her garments and purse on the island.
Mrs. Gentry stepped forward with arms extended. “Let me take those upstairs for you,” she offered.
Grace dismissed the offer with a wave. “No, I’ll do it.”
“I don’t mind,” the maid insisted.
“No,” Grace repeated firmly but with a quick smile of appreciation. “I’ll take them.”
Mrs. Gentry stood uncertainly in the middle of the floor.
Grace continued to smile courteously at the woman, but secretly she was fascinated by the maid’s bewilderment at being told not to perform a task. Grace admired this devotion to duty; it was the sort of diligence she displayed in coaching, and discovering it in her housekeeper made Grace take a moment to ponder the other woman. For weeks now, she had walked into the effects of Mrs. Gentry, but this was the first time they had seen each other in more than a month, and Grace had forgotten the details of the woman’s face—again. Seeing the face now, with its taupe skin and luxuriant eyelashes, Grace observed vestiges of youthful beauty in the weary eyes and softening jowls.
“You’re here late.” Grace made the observation pleasantly but was demanding an explanation.
“Yes,” Mrs. Gentry said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mr. Nelson hurt a muscle today, practicing with the team.” At the mention of Darrel, the maid tossed her head in the direction of the den. “He’s supposed to stay off his leg, so I waited around to get him what he needed.” She smiled. “But you’re here now. So I can go.” She nodded once and turned away, untying the apron as she moved across the room.
Her abrupt departure startled Grace. “Um…you…have some laundry going. Don’t you?”
The maid’s mouth popped open with remembrance. “That’s right, I forgot about that. You don’t mind if I—stay behind—to finish it?”
“No,” Grace said, and realized she meant it. “Stay as long as you like. To finish what you need to do,” she added.
Both women nodded in acknowledgment, exchanging quick shy looks, and neither seemed in a hurry to depart.
Mrs. Gentry smiled nervously. “I…hope you enjoy the dinner tonight.”
Grace stammered. “Sure. I—have been meaning to—thank you for the other meals. I’ve—enjoyed them. Yes.”
The maid hesitated.
“You’re an excellent cook,” Grace added.
The maid was immensely pleased. “Thank you,” she said.
They hesitated.
“And now I’ll go and finish these clothes,” Mrs. Gentry said, retreating to the laundry room.
When she was alone, Grace walked to the stove and looked at the food. Stewed collard greens and whole-kernel corn, steamed squash and baked Talapia fillets. She took a pinch of the fish and popped it into her mouth. The flaky white meat was lemon-peppery, delectable, and warm, and she couldn’t wait to sit down for dinner. She left the kitchen, pushing open the door of the den and going to the couch in the middle of the room, where Darrel lay on his back, snoozing. He wore shorts and a T-shirt, and one limp long arm lay across his abdomen. Quickly, her eyes went to his legs in search of the injury Mrs. Gentry had mentioned. A flesh-colored Ace bandage gripped his left thigh. Grace sat on the couch beside his chest and his eyes flickered open.
“Hey,” he said, his voice bass from sleep.
She smiled at him and nodded toward his leg. “What happened?”
“Pulled it,” he said curtly.
“Not the hamstring,” she said hopefully.
“Nah.” He slid a finger along a band of the quadriceps near the front of the thigh. “Along here,” he explained. “Be all right. Little rest.”
“Let me see it,” she said, reaching.
“It’s all right,” he objected.
“No, let me,” she insisted, touching his leg muscle gently.
He moved the leg away from her fingers and gently grabbed her wrist. “It’s all right,” he repeated firmly.
Surprised by his grip, she looked at his face. He kept his eyes downcast and there was no smile in his features. He released her wrist. She concluded he was either not being truthful about the injury or else he was upset with her. She tested her suspicion by bending forward and kissing his lips. She pulled away and watched his reaction. He looked at her with mild surprise and twisted his mouth in a weak smile.
“That for?” he asked.
“Been a while,” she admitted.
His smile vanished. “Yeah,” he agreed pointedly.
She watched him in silence.
“What?” he finally asked irritably.
“You’re upset with me,” she observed.
“For what?” he denied.
Again she watched him a moment. “Every year,” she said, “when training gets intense, I spend the night in town. You know that. And every year, you act like this.”
He sat up on the couch now, fully awake. “Yeah,” he agreed, “because I didn’t have this house built in the franchise city just so I could come home to an empty house.”
“You know I need time alone to relax and think.”
He was infused now with the desire to argue. “Oh! And ten thousand square feet isn’t big enough for you to find some place to be alone?”
She hesitated, examining him. “You know what it takes to get my head where it needs to be so that I can do what I do at that school. You, of all people, should understand that.”
“I understand that, Grace, I’m not stupid. As a matter of fact, I’m an athlete, too, in case you’ve forgotten, and I got to keep my head together, too. But I know how to do that without shutting my wife out. Without keeping another house and telling her she’s not welcome in it because I have to go there to think.”
She took a deep breath and tried to choose her words carefully. “First of all, Darrel, you were the one who told me not to get rid of the condo, to keep it for our use, but it wasn’t being used, it was just sitting there. Secondly, I have never told you that you can’t come there. It’s your place, too.”
“No, but you have made it very clear, Grace, that when you go there, you don’t want to be bothered. So that’s the same as saying I’m not supposed to be there.” He grimaced
as he swung his legs off the couch. She stood to get out of his way. “Almost makes me wonder what you got going on up there that you don’t want me to know about.”
She laughed in disbelief. “Oh, Darrel, please!”
“Please?” he repeated. “Put the shoe on the other foot, Grace. How would you feel if I holed up somewhere in town during Playoffs and didn’t want you there? Which would make more sense, with the pressure I’m under to bring the team another championship.”
She sighed, looking at him gently, and said, “I’m here tonight, Darrel.”
He turned away from her, limping. “Well, I’m not.”
She gaped with surprise and amusement because she thought he was leaving the house. “Where are you going, with a bum leg?”
“Downstairs. I need to be alone,” he retorted sarcastically. He was leaving the room and entering the piano parlor.
“Darrel, should you be up on that leg—?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he interrupted. “You don’t care enough to stay here during the week, don’t worry about me now.”
She sighed again. His petulance annoyed her. “Is that what this is about? You’re pouting because I wasn’t here when you scraped your knee?” She followed him.
“No reason for you to be downtown when I’m out here. Unless you’re doing something,” he added.
“I am doing something,” she said heatedly. He hesitated, looked at her. They stood near the white baby grand. He leaned on it for support. “I’m doing the same thing you do: Working! You don’t spend the night here three hundred days out of the year because of your job. I can’t do the same thing because of my job?”
He turned, began limping away. “Ain’t the same thing.”
She followed. “Why isn’t it?” she demanded. “My career is as important to me as yours is to you, Darrel.”
“Yeah, well, as serious as you take it, you’d think your job was the one taking care of us.”
She abruptly stopped. And gasped. Darrel moved into the foyer and was gone.
Grace stifled the desire to go after him because the confrontation would have been a terrific one. But indignation burned in her chest like a bonfire, its heat radiating to her face. She stood near the entrance of the parlor, closed her eyes, willed the heat away—willed it—inhaled deeply, reminded herself that she had married a man who so desired to be in her presence he said things he did not mean when deprived of that privilege. Still, his parting words lodged in her heart, in her pride, creating a wound she knew would not heal any time soon. She decided, in that moment, that rather than seduce him tonight, as she had planned to do, she would withhold herself from him indefinitely. She could do that easily, yes, she could. Besides, with his awful words, he had just earned the loss.
Grace recovered with a deep breath and walked back into the kitchen. At the same time, Mrs. Gentry came out of the laundry room with a basket of linen in her hands.
“May I fix you a plate, Mrs. Nelson?” the maid asked over the basket.
Grace reached the island counter and picked up her overnight bag. “No, thank you. I’m going to bathe first.” She draped the clothes over her forearm and used her free hand to rub the back of her neck, which was suddenly tense.
“Then I’ll go up and get your water run for you,” said Mrs. Gentry as she headed for the swinging door that connected the kitchen to the front hall. “Lukewarm or hot?” she asked, hesitating at the door.
“Hot,” said Grace, surprised at the ease with which she responded to the older woman’s offer.
Arlene Gentry nodded in compliance and pushed her hip against the door to exit—but hesitated again to look at her employer. At the island, Grace Gresham had paused, briefcase in hand, the same arm draped with clothes, a distant expression on her face. The couple had argued—Mrs. Gentry had overheard the rhythms of angered speech, especially from Darrel—and so she surmised that the argument was the reason for Grace’s changed, somber mood. Now Grace closed her eyes and rested a hand against the back of her neck. Arlene reached inside for courage and managed to sound casual and warm.
“Tough day at school?”
Grace opened her eyes, surprised to see the older woman still standing in the room. “It…The usual.” A spasm sent her hand to the back of her neck again, where she squeezed the trapezius and grimaced.
“You okay?” the maid asked pleasantly.
“Yes,” said Grace, suddenly desiring to be alone. “I guess I need to make an extra appointment with my masseuse—listen, thank you for looking after Darrel. He can be such a baby when he’s hurt. But since you’ve already stayed longer than you were supposed to…”
“I didn’t mind…”
“…you don’t have to stay for the laundry. I’ll finish it.”
“Looks like you could use some looking after yourself,” the maid observed. Grace was squeezing her neck again. The older woman walked over to the counter and set the basket of linen on top. Grace looked at the woman with curiosity. Without waiting to be asked, Mrs. Gentry moved toward Grace, saying, “Let me do that.” She stood behind Grace and placed her hands on the strong young shoulders.
Grace did not move away or object, though she was uncomfortable with the maid’s unexpected gesture of familiarity. She had come to accept the idea of having a maid, but this certainly went beyond her expectations, and she was not sure how to abort the act without hurting the older woman’s feelings. The hands were moving now, squeezing the raging muscles with just the right amount of pressure.
“I used to do this for a living, you know.”
Grace turned her head slightly in the direction of the face behind her. “You were a masseuse?”
“No, I was a nurse who was exploited as a masseuse.” Mrs. Gentry chuckled. “Old half-white woman I worked for in New Orleans always had ‘tightness’ everywhere. Claimed she couldn’t get through a day without one of my massages. I think she was just a spoiled old bat used to being pampered. I didn’t always mind, though. She always paid me on time. And I think she had a good heart—once.” She chuckled again.
Grace smiled politely, but under the pinching palms she had slipped into a sort of languor and an appreciation for the gratifying feel of the strong hands. “That’s—oh—good,” she remarked. “I actually…have a masseuse already. But—I already told you that, didn’t I?” She chuckled nervously, still embarrassed by the intimacy. Behind her, Mrs. Gentry’s voice was suddenly soft and earnest.
“Well, as hard as you work, Mrs. Nelson, it’s not surprising you need someone to squeeze out the tension. It can’t be easy being the best coach in the country.”
Grace stifled a gasp, not wanting the maid to hear it. She had not realized Mrs. Gentry was truly aware of what she did at Beck, and so the woman’s complimenting words entered Grace and became as soothing as the fingers kneading her muscles. With her back to the other woman, Grace smiled. And relaxed. And allowed the intrusion—welcomed it, even. And then, wanting a fuller effect from the treatment, Grace bent her head forward and pushed her hair out of the way. Mrs. Gentry responded by kneading the area between the scapulae and at the back of the neck. Grace closed her eyes and absorbed the ripples of pleasure from the rolling knuckles and commanding fingertips.
Several moments later, the maid moved her hands back to their original positions, on either side of the neck, squeezed a few times more, and released Grace’s flesh. “There,” she announced. “Maybe that’ll help.” Without waiting for a thank you, she walked back to her basket of linen and picked it up.
“Thank you,” said Grace sincerely. She wanted more, needed more—her back felt better but remained tense in some spots—but she stood silent and smiled politely when Mrs. Gentry looked her way.
“I’ll put these away, get your bath started, and then I’ll be gone. Don’t forget there’s one more load drying.”
“Okay,” said Grace. “Thanks again.”
Mrs. Gentry smiled, pushed open the door with her hip, and was gone. Grace stood
by the counter, stunned. She lived behind walls, had always lived behind walls, and throughout her life had been quite careful about who she allowed inside those walls to be with her. But now this woman she did not know, this woman she had managed to keep at arm’s length even though Mrs. Gentry moved inside Grace’s home two days a week and left vestiges of herself everywhere, this woman, this stranger, had done the unthinkable: She had managed to slip inside those walls, audaciously but gently, and laid her hands upon Grace’s flesh, something few people were allowed to do. And Grace still did not know how it had happened.