Grounded by Neta Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

back when she was a horse-crazy teenager. She’d taken a gazillion lessons at a riding stable just outside Indianapolis where she’d grown up and fantasized about owning her own horse one day. The horse never materialized, but the flannel shirt had survived high school, university, the move to Nashville, then back to Chicago, concerts and tours, and numerous wardrobe upgrades, even though it mostly hung in the closet. One flannel tie to the girl she used to be …
    She felt rattled by Roger’s phone call. Part of her had longed to hear from him, hoping he’d apologize for the late-night phone call last weekend, surprise her by meeting her at the airport, kiss and make up. After all, his main complaint was how often she was on the road. But … why now? It was the end of her New Year, New You tour and she didn’t have another long tour until April. Just a few fly in, fly out dates, be gone three days max.
    The other part of her wanted to scream and slap his face. How could he dump her the night before her last concert, making a fool out of her “I’m worth waiting for” testimony? Couldn’t he at least have waited till she got home, told her face-to-face?
    The coward.
    Argh!
She needed to do something physical, let off some steam. She couldn’t go for a walk. It was still snowing. Besides, her sorethroat might be a virus. Better stay inside. She’d vacuum. The house needed a good cleaning.
    Striding into the second bedroom where she stashed the vacuum cleaner, she slid open the closet doors—and froze.
    Her wedding dress hung in the closet, encased in a zippered plastic bag, white, full, and delicate. She stared at it for a full minute, and then slowly lifted the padded hanger off the bar. It was her dream dress, the dress she’d gone shopping for a week after Roger had slipped the diamond-and-ruby ring on her finger, even though they hadn’t set a wedding date yet. Hanging it on the hook on the back of the bedroom door, she slowly zipped open the protective bag and slid the brocade dress off its hanger.
    The silver threads woven into the fabric shimmered in the natural light coming from the snowy world outside.
    Holding the dress up to her body, Grace looked in the mirrored sliding doors of the closet. The first time she’d put on the dress, she’d felt like Cinderella in her magic ball gown. The dress had a curved sweetheart neckline, plunging just enough to look feminine and luscious, but not so low it wouldn’t be appropriate for a church wedding … short, capped sleeves with lace trim … and an empire waistline outlined with a white silk ribbon, below which the dress fell in soft folds in front and gathered in back into a train that would trail several feet.
    Grace stared at the reflection in the mirror.
    More like Cinderella than she’d figured. The clock had struck midnight and the magic was gone.
Poof
.
    With swift determination, she hung the dress back on its padded hanger, zipped up the plastic bag, and stuffed the dress back into the closet. Yanking out the vacuum cleaner, she jerked it into the carpeted hallway, plugged the cord into a socket, and when the power head roared to life, pushed it vigorously back and forth.
    Why am I still in this tiny house?
Two bedrooms. One bath. She’d bought it two years ago with some help from her parents when she’d decided to move back to the Midwest after ending her run with the record label in Nashville. A classic brick bungalow in a decenturban neighborhood. Quiet. On a dead-end street bounded by St. Mark’s Memorial Cemetery. Closer to family.
    At the time, it seemed a good investment, a good first home—modest, gave her time to take her career in a new direction with the independent tours and her purity message. CD sales had been better than expected, maybe enough to afford a newer house in one of the suburbs. But, she’d figured, why move when she was going to get