Seasoned with Grace Read online

  Seasoned With Grace

  Nigeria Lockley

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  UC HIS GLORY BOOK CLUB! - www.uchisglorybookclub.net

  What We Believe:

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  While writing this book, I learned that grace comes in many different forms, and one of those forms is friendship.

  I dedicate this book to my girls, who have watched me grow, cried with me, and embraced me, no matter what state they have found me in: Maxie Rodgers, Stephanie Charles-Marc, Shaniqua Wilkerson, Latasha Cordera-Belk, Alisha Noid, Tania Louisdor, and Cassandra Allard-Souter.

  And to my sisters-in-Christ, who have prayed for me, over me, have fasted with me, and have encouraged me in the Word: Myriam Skye Holly, Sarah Adams, and Shenetta Purnell.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I have to give God all the honor and glory for bringing me to this point, for blessing me with this gift, and for trusting me to minister to the hearts of people in this fashion.

  William Lockley, my loving husband and partner for this journey, thank you for bearing with me as I ride this wave.

  I especially want to thank Myriam Skye Holly for remaining a loyal supporter and beta reader, and for being my cover girl (she helped me select the image for the cover).

  I want to thank my soul sis and fellow Christian fiction author Unoma Nwankwor for connecting with me and encouraging me. Thank you, Berta Reddick Coleman, for being a great accountability partner. Our talks come with the perfect blend of comfort and whip cracking necessary for me to get it done.

  Michelle Chester, of EBM Professional Services, thank you for taking me on and getting me through this process smoothly. You edited my work and allowed me to maintain my dignity throughout the process; you were responsive, organized, and personable. Every author needs an editor like you.

  To my supporters, thank you for welcoming me and my work into your world. I pray that you are edified and entertained.

  But unto every one of us is given grace according to the measure of the gift of Christ.

  —Ephesians 4:7

  Chapter 1

  The sound of Young Thug’s cartoonish intonation and the infectious chorus of his and Rich Homie Quan’s hit song “Lifestyle” snapped Grace King out of her alcohol-induced slumber. She squinted to read the screen of her iPhone. “Ethan Summerville,” she read slowly before tapping the green telephone icon to accept the call from her attorney slash agent slash everything. Throughout the years, Grace had come to rely on Ethan. To Grace, it seemed like no one understood her except for him.

  “Hello,” she grumbled into the phone.

  “Grace Terisha King, I know the reason that you are late to this meeting is that you’re still in bed.”

  “No, I’m up, Ethan.”

  “You know what my mother used to tell me when she caught me in a lie? Lying lips are an abomination unto the Lord.”

  Grace mustered up enough strength to sit up in the bed so that she wasn’t completely lying, just telling a little half-truth. Those half-truths had taken her far. The half-truth she’d told the bouncer—that her friend was drunk and needed her help getting out of the club—had enabled her to finagle her way into the VIP section of the 40/40 Club, where she was discovered by Bleeker Kios, the head of Fresh Faces Modeling Agency. Her friend had been drunk and had needed her help, but she’d passed out with her head on the bar. From there, Grace had parlayed that half-truth into a prosperous modeling career.

  “You can’t continue to do this,” Ethan said when she was silent.

  “Do what?” she asked, slapping her thigh. Sometimes Ethan’s paternal and overbearing nature frustrated her, and it also made her think of all the things she’d left behind, like family, namely, her father, whom she had once considered herself close to.

  “You cannot continue to walk out of nightclubs, inebriated, and expect to book legitimate jobs. It’s all about branding, and no one wants you associated with their brand. These proceedings were supposed to begin at eight, and it is now nine o’clock. The judge has been calling here every hour on the hour since six a.m., trying to determine why it was exactly that she didn’t lock you up, and why it is that she shouldn’t lock you up now.”

  “So . . . what?” Grace shrugged her shoulders. “Am I not supposed to enjoy myself ever?”

  “Not when you’re trying to break into the world of acting. Tell me which producer wants the drunken girl on page six on their billboard.”

  “Page six?”

  “I knew you were not out of bed. You’re on page six of the Post, page two of the Daily News. And I’m sure they have a shot of you in every free paper that exists in New York City as well. If you keep this up, your star is going to nova soon.”

  Grace ran her fingers through the long blond bang she’d had sewn into her short pixie cut as she digested what Ethan was telling her about her career. Since she’d left home at sixteen, the only thing she had had was her career.

  “Grace, just hurry up and get down here to sign this plea deal before Judge Laramie comes down here to arrest you herself.”

  “All right, Ethan,” she whimpered into the phone before hanging up.

  It took everything inside of Grace to fling her legs over the side of her bed. She rushed out of her bedroom, skirting over her platform pumps, Michael Kors jeans, her white shirt, and the fuchsia blazer she’d worn last night. Her feet slapped the parquet flooring on the steps of her condo as she headed to the door to fetch the newspapers.

  Grace hated disappointing Ethan, and she really didn’t want to see her bad side in print, but she needed to see the photo that might get her sent to jail. She cracked the door slightly to make sure there were no paparazzi in the hall trying to get the exclusive candid shot of her that magazines like Them and Soundoff loved printing—models with no makeup.

  After verifying that the coast was clear, she pushed the door open wider and collected her loot—the Times, the Daily News, and the Post.

  Grace tucked the Daily News under her arm and placed the other papers on the small brown marble-legged table near the door. She walked into her living room and pressed the button on the remote sensor for her window treatments. Slowly, the white panels rolled back and revealed Central Park. From her condo, Grace could see the ice skating rink, the pond, and a group of children escorted by three adults. The adults pointed at the pond, and the children scribbled on their yellow notepads.

>   Why didn’t I become a schoolteacher or a librarian or someone who was responsible and able to contribute to society in a meaningful way? Grace thought.

  It crossed her mind that maybe she should have completed high school and opted for a normal life. On the other hand, Grace had to admit she loved the perks and the pay that accompanied being a top model, but after delving a little too far into the dark side of things, she found herself constantly fighting for air.

  Taking a seat Indian style on her red Italian leather sofa, Grace peeled back the first page of the paper and read the caption that accompanied her photo: A fall from Grace: Supermodel Grace King, best known for strutting her stuff, reaches an all new low as she stumbles out of Greenhouse after what onlookers said was “a night of binge drinking.”

  Onlookers? What onlookers?

  After reading the caption twice, Grace allowed her eyes to stray to the photo. She swallowed the image of her long limbs awkwardly contorted. Her legs curved inward, with her kneecaps touching each other and the sidewalk; her right arm was bent slightly to break her fall; and her left arm was tied up in the hands of her friend Chela, another model, who had somehow managed to escape the photogs. As if that was not enough to highlight her fall, the editors had been gracious enough to provide readers with a photo of her on the catwalk for Zac Posen during Fashion Week, in case they didn’t have a point of reference.

  Grace’s eyes darted back and forth from the inset picture to the photo of her collapse on the sidewalk.

  “How did you get all the way down there, Grace?” she asked herself, speaking the words.

  The buzzer on the intercom interrupted her moment of quiet contemplation.

  “Yes, Arnie?” She stared at the dome of her doorman through the intercom camera and wondered why he didn’t wear the hat that accompanied his uniform to hide his premature balding.

  “Good morning, ma’am. Your car is here.”

  “Good morning, Arnie. Could you please stop calling me ma’am? Your Christmas bonus is depending on it. And please send the car back. I did not call for a car. It’s probably another one of those lousy photogs trying to lure me outside while I’m looking crazy so they can post it on TMZ.”

  “Ms. King—”

  “Grace,” she insisted.

  “Grace, Mr. Summerville sent this car to take you to his office.”

  Grace smacked herself on the forehead. She’d totally forgotten the reason why she had bothered to get out of the bed this morning.

  “Let the driver know I’ll be down in half an hour.”

  “Yes, ma’am . . . Grace.”

  “Thank you, Arnie.”

  Grace made a mad dash for the bathroom. She took a two-minute shower, like she used to when she was homeless and used the showers in the parks department to get cleaned up. Either she’d ask to use the restroom and then hop in the shower or she’d sneak in with a crowd of teenagers walking in for their after-school program, a time when they were really busy.

  She wiped the fog off her mirror with a towel, spiked up the front of her hair with pomade, and covered the dark circles around her eyes with concealer. Let’s make the most of today. All you have to do is a little bit of community service, and you’ll be back on top.

  “Britney, T.I., Chris Brown.” While slipping into a gray A-line skirt and an oxblood peplumed blouse with sheer shoulders, Grace called out the names of celebrities who had behaved badly recently yet had managed to make a comeback.

  “This is not a death sentence,” she proclaimed aloud, sealing the ankle strap of her black patent leather Mary Jane red bottoms. “It’s just another part of your journey.” She pulled her navy blue Burberry cape over her head and checked herself in the mirror. Grace smoothed a stray strand of hair and spoke to her reflection. “What doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger,” she declared before walking out the door.

  She continued to mouth clichés and life-affirming statements on her elevator ride down to the lobby and during her car ride to Ethan’s downtown office in an attempt to block the thoughts of darkness that threatened to besiege her entire day and the rest of her life. These words had gotten her through so many other trials; she was depending on them to be enough to steer her through this.

  Chapter 2

  Grace crossed her legs and leaned back on the chocolate-brown leather couch next to the window in Ethan’s downtown office. She stared down at the pedestrians hustling to and fro.

  “You cannot sign these documents from all the way over there, and you certainly can’t read the conditions of your probation, which include community service, through those sunglasses. Please take a seat over here, Ms. King.” Ethan pointed to the mini conference table located in the opposite corner of his office.

  Grace gingerly slid off her oversize, wide-rimmed sunglasses, pushed herself up from the couch, and asked, “Where do you want me, Ethan?”

  “Just take a seat near Ms. Johnson.” He pointed at the stenographer. “The court sent her over here to record these proceedings.”

  “Well, let’s just get this over with.” Grace plopped down on one of the aluminum and white leather, three-legged swivel chairs at the black matte conference table. “I don’t care where I have to do my time at,” she announced.

  “Then you’ll have a great time at Mount Carmel Community Church.”

  Grace drew her lips up so that they nearly met her pointed nose. “A church?”

  “Yes, a church. They run a plethora of community outreach programs that you can assist with,” Ethan explained as he joined Ms. Johnson and Grace at the conference table.

  “You couldn’t find anywhere else for me to go?”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Summerville. I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Ethan’s secretary, Alice Wyatt, through a crack in the door. “Ms. King’s latte is ready, and I brought a bottle of water for you.”

  “Come on in.” He waved his two fingers back and forth, granting her permission to enter.

  “Ethan, I’m not doing community service at a f—”

  “Grace!” Ethan shouted, halting the onslaught of expletives she was prepared to release on him. “That potty mouth of yours is how you wound up in my office.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. She wondered when he was going to stop throwing her situation with Pamela Di Blasio in her face. Three years had passed since she cursed out Pamela and got sent to Ethan’s office on the third floor of Stars Unlimited, a one-stop shop featuring entertainment law, publicity, management, and a talent agency.

  When Pamela started managing Grace nine years ago, Ethan was fresh out of law school. She was one of his first clients. Back then it was only paper and the lawyers with more seniority would handle her issues. Once she began racking up troubles and charges, everyone in the agency pushed her off on Ethan.

  Pamela was the last to jump ship. When she did, the only thing she said between Grace’s obscenity-laden monologues was, “Ethan will now be managing you. I’ll take care of the contracts immediately, and if you don’t leave my office now, I’ll also be drawing up a lawsuit against you for harassment, which I will have sent right down to his office.”

  “Spending some time in a church is precisely what you need,” Ethan said.

  “Why?” Grace asked, smirking at him.

  “The church would be the perfect place for you to do your time,” Alice said, shoving Grace’s latte at her. Alice had never been a fan of Grace and her wild antics, and she was sure to demonstrate that whenever she had to deal with Grace. “What you need is an exorcism in your mouth. I hope they do that there.”

  Slamming her latte on the table, Grace rose from her chair. “And you need to be punched in the face, Alice.”

  Ethan clapped his hands. “All right now, let’s break this up, ladies.”

  “Did you get that, lady?” Alice shook her hand in the direction of the court reporter. “She just threatened to assault me.”

  “I think that what we all need right now is a little prayer,” Ethan suggested.

&
nbsp; “Don’t you think you’re taking this whole born-again thing a little too far?” Grace said, rolling her eyes. Although Ethan had given his life to Christ three years ago, he was still in what Grace called the “honeymoon phase.” It was her least favorite phase—that time when every new convert worked viciously to push his or her newfound salvation onto anyone within earshot, just like a new bride thinks all her friends should be married as well, that is, until the groom starts coming in late or, in Grace’s case, when God stopped answering her prayers. The moment she felt that God wasn’t listening, she stopped talking.

  “Ms. Johnson, we’re going to take a break from these proceedings to pray,” Ethan said to the court reporter.

  “May I join you, Mr. Summerville?” Ms. Johnson asked hesitantly. “I’m an usher at Mount Moriah Baptist Church, and I’m a huge fan of Ms. King. I really hope to see her make it out of this all right.”

  Another one? I am surrounded. What is this? A Holy Ghost ambush? Grace could not recall the last time she’d been around this many Christians, and she wanted to keep it that way.

  Ethan rose from his seat at the conference table, removed his tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, and smiled at Ms. Johnson, revealing the dimple that decorated his square jawline. “Please join us,” he said, with his arm extended in her direction.

  She slid from behind her stenotype and jumped to his side.

  Ethan and Ms. Johnson joined hands like they had attended a few prayer vigils together in the past. The sight of Ethan holding hands with another woman made Grace cringe. Despite the fact that they’d shared nothing more than the occasional dinner, and the only dates they’d been on were all appointed by the courts, in Grace’s eyes, Ethan was all hers. She snatched his right hand with her left and stretched out her right hand toward Alice, who folded her hands when she saw Grace’s palm.

  “Alice,” Ethan said with a raised eyebrow and in that fatherly tone he used that made every woman at the firm do whatever he said. “Let us look to heaven.”

  Grace held back her groaning. I am going to use this exercise in futility to work on my acting. Just imagine that there is a God and that He cares about you.