Free Falling Into Grace by Michelle Stimpson Page A

cooler temperature inside. She could get the hang of the big-church club.
    Grace Chapel had a praise team, too, which opened the morning affair. Seven members. Two sopranos. Just like The King’s Table, each one managed a song with the congregation while the words flashed on screens. Both sopranos were, in Camille’s estimation, a’ight. They could probably go beast on a song written specifically for them, but they didn’t have voices or styles that could adapt to anything set before them. The poor worship team leader probably had to sing their parts for them a few times before they caught on.
    And, speaking of the worship leader, he was well within a few years of Camille’s age and actually had a cute thing going on. Even from hundreds of feet away, his coffee skin, strong jaw line, and broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist put him around a five plus on a scale of one to ten. The camera close-up gave him another two points for a full hairline, white teeth, and an ensemble of favorable features. The absence of a wedding band brought him all the way up to an eight. Not to mention his vocals, which bolstered him over the top.
    Camille could definitely work with this man, assuming he was straight. Well, even if he wasn’t, she could work with him, but it wouldn’t be as much flirty fun.
    After church, Camille finally got her chance to approach the wide-open platform along with twenty others who wanted to join the church, just like she’d imagined. Pastor Collins led them in the prayer of faith, something Camille had done at least a dozen times while growing up, mostly at her mother’s direction.
    The congregation clapped for the new additions to the flock. One of the ushers handed Camille a folder. Following the benediction, the elders lined up, walked down the aisle of fresh congregants, and shook their hands. Then, hundreds of Grace Chapel members took the time to greet Camille, and the rest of the audience dissipated.
    Pastor Collins and his wife made up the last of the official welcoming committee. Camille took note of the sincerity in his eyes when he articulated, “We’re so glad to have you. Is there anything I can pray with you about?”
    â€œOh, no, thank you ... Pastor. I’m just glad to be here.” She didn’t want to get on their radar as one of those needy people who had come to the church only looking for a father figure. She was there to roll up her sleeves and help herself. And maybe help them, if they wanted a rockin’ praise team.
    With Pastor Collins out of view, Camille and the others stepped out of the greeting line. She glanced back at the band pit and gave an innocent smile to the drummer, who happened to be looking her way. Sooner than later, he’d know her name.
    â€œThat’s it! I’m in!” Camille screamed after locking her car doors. She’d taken the first step to reclaiming her life, her entire reason for being born: to sing.
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    First thing Monday morning, Camille hopped out of bed humming an old Faith Evans song. Hearing her own voice scroll up and down the notes precisely warmed her like a cup of hot cocoa in December. This was her element. She needed her voice, needed to know she could do something better than anyone else.
    Some kids kept their noses in books growing up. Camille had been tethered to a headset, listening and singing along to whatever blared through the earpieces. Ballads, solos, jazz, pop, neo soul. Across genres, she imitated her favorite artists, rewinding and replaying the toughest notes until she could hit them exactly the way Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, or even Dolly Parton did. She ran through player batteries like water, costing Bobby Junior a small fortune. He didn’t mind, though. He always said his baby girl had simply caught the creative bug from himself and dear, rich singing cousin Lenny Williams.
    Camille sang morning, noon, and night. When she wasn’t singing, she