Also by Pat G’Orge-Walker
Sister Betty Says I Do
Holy Mayhem
No Ordinary Noel
Don’t Blame the Devil
Somebody’s Sinning in My Bed
Somewhat Saved
Cruisin’on Desperation
Mother Eternal Ann Everlastin’s Dead
Sister Betty! God’s Calling You, Again!
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Sister Betty Says I Do
Pat G’Orge-Walker
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Prologue
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
Epilogue
A READING GROUP GUIDE
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Catch up with Sister Betty in these hilarious and uplifting novels!
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
Ecclesiastes 3:1 (KJV)
My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.
Song of Solomon 2:10–11 (KJV)
I give sincere thanks and appreciation to the town folks of Williamston, Belton, Anderson, Piedmont, and especially Pelzer, South Carolina. My childhood memories went a long way into creating the Sister Betty character.
“On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand.” I give all praises to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ; to my husband, Rob, a constant prayer warrior who always covers me and the family with so much love and prayer; my beautiful daughters, Gizel Dan-Yette, Ingrid, and Marisa; along with my grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and, forever in my heart, my twin great-granddaughters, Livi and Serene, whom God saw fit to take back to heaven no sooner than they had arrived. My ninth great-grandchild has also arrived; welcome Nolan Gary Brewer . . . what happens at great-grandma’s house stays at great-grandma’s house.
As always, I remain sustained by prayers and support from those too numerous to name. I thank them all.
I am eternally grateful to my beloved bishop John L. and Lady Laura L. Smith, and to my entire St. Paul’s Tabernacle City of Lights Ministry congregation, pastored by Reverend James D. Tucker and Co-Pastor Evangelist Phyllis Johnson. Many thanks to Bishop Paul M. Morton whose song “Finally” from the album “Sacred Love Songs” became Sister Betty and Freddie’s theme song. My unconditional appreciation goes to numerous supportive churches and organizations.
Deep gratitude and appreciation to my editor, Selena James, and the Dafina Books/Kensington Publishing family, and to longtime friend and attorney Christopher R. Whent, Esq., and my wonderful physician, Dr. Karl Deratus.
Without a doubt, I thank my online and off-line readers, my supporters, family, friends, numerous book clubs, my beloved friend Carol Mackey and my adopted sorority, the Deltas along with the many fellow author friends who share prayers and encouragement and offer wonderful virtual hugs.
A very special thank-you goes to Elder Lamar L. Moore, affectionately called Mr. Church-All-By-Himself. You will always be my prophetic son.
What a lackluster world this would be without the wisdom, humor, and in-your-face spirit of motivational speaker and founder of the E.S.T.H.E.R. Ministry (Empowering Sisters to Have Eternal Relationships) and author of Tell Prince Charming to Keep That Slipper: I’m Standing on My Own Two Feet, the incomparable relationship minister/coach Livi Stith-Bynum. I treasure your insight regarding Sister Betty’s, Ima’s, and Sharvon’s reactions. It will make many women and men hit the reset button in their lives. I can’t imagine having a book published without involving the PR skills of Ella Curry, BAN, and Ty Moody. And, of course, the wonderfully creative promotional items by Debra Owsley of Simply Said. Thank you ladies for all you do and have done for my literary career.
In 2012 and 2013 I lost my ninety-one-year-old mother-in-law, Rosalie Walker, My mother-in-law was a bundle of energy with a surplus of chutzpah. I also lost my last remaining aunt who never had a chance to return to her native Cuba, mi tia Bertha Martha; and my fellow authors Dee Stewart and Rachel Berry. I’ve no words for the deep hole left in my heart by the departure of Dee Stewart and Rachel Berry, two amazing women of literature and God.
www.patgorgewalker.com
www.sisterbetty.com
www.Twitter.com/pgorgewalker
www.facebook.com/sisterbetty
Prologue
A year ago . . .
“Sister Betty,” Trustee Freddie Noel whispered, his bony, hairless chest pushing in and out. Adding to what was apparently a moment of uncertainty, he swallowed hard, nearly tripping as a leg hit the edge of the ottoman.
Feeling somewhat embarrassed from the near fall, he bit his bottom lip before announcing, “I need to say something.” He fumbled around inside the pocket of his suit jacket and retrieved a small box tied with a blue silk ribbon. “You know I ain’t the most romantic being on the planet. . . .” Freddie quickly lowered his eyes. His shoulders slumped as he took a deep breath, while at the same time raising his free hand and pulling at a small sprig of silver hair that resembled a Mohawk in training. It was a nervous habit formed twenty-five years ago, when he turned forty-five.
His cheeks, turning almost a bright red, contrasting sharply with his lemon-yellow complexion, slowly began shrinking, freeing the air seconds ago trapped inside his lungs. Now, with the untied box in hand, Freddie’s fragile body knelt at Sister Betty’s feet. He slowly raised his head. His tired and now tearing brown eyes, embedded in deep sockets, began darting between the opened box and the huge fourteen-carat, pear-shaped diamond ring he now held between two trembling fingers. “Betty . . . Sarah . . . Becton, would you pretty please marry me?”
Sister Betty, almost a foot shorter than Freddie, could feel a hot sensation flooding throughout her small brown-skinned body. She felt as though she’d suddenly turned into the head of a lit match. If that was the case, then her sudden rush of tears would quickly douse its flame.
“Yes,” she replied, smiling, then giggling like a child who received what she’d always wanted on Christmas morning. She allowed him to slip the diamond engagement ring upon her finger. And, just as the man kneeling before her had done moments ago, she quickly took a deep breath, struggling to form the words through her smile. Finally, she added, “Yes, Freddie, I will marry you.”
That was late spring of 2010. It was a first for them in marriage, and as far as carnal matters went, perhaps for Freddie more so than for Betty. She’d lain with a young man once in her youth, an ill-advised sexual act committed inside her parents’ South Carolina barn that ultimately produced a stillborn son. Freddie, on the other hand, had had several missteps, which had caused most women seeking fulfillment to shun him. He ultimately learned to do without the pleasure of a woman.
They were overjoy
ed now, having lived into their twilight years, to finally jump the broom. Their future looked so bright, they’d begun wearing sunglasses every day.
“Honey Bee, what do you think about honeymooning in Aruba?” He’d not bothered to tell her that it was a place he’d always dreamt about going. He could’ve gone more than a year ago, when he won over a hundred million dollars from South Carolina’s Mega Millions lottery. Instead of traveling and living the high life, he’d given most of it to the beloved Crossing Over Sanctuary Church, where he and Sister Betty attended, because it was in deep financial trouble.
He didn’t wait for her to answer before laying out upon her living room coffee table several brochures detailing cruises and land vacations in the Caribbean. “Just take your pick,” he told her. “Anywhere you wanna go . . . And if none of these tickle your fancy, we can visit a travel agent and see what else there is.”
On that beautiful sunny day, when all things seemed possible, the date was set and the wedding planning was about to go into full swing.
Of course, ole Satan wasn’t on the guest list but decided he’d send a gift or two, anyway.
Chapter 1
One year later . . .
It was barely sunrise when she awoke on this blazing hot Saturday morning. For much of her adult life, Sister Betty had been up by eight o’clock and praising her God by nine. The sun rays poured through every window in the five-bedroom Tudor home in the ritzy section of Pelzer. And added to her discomfort was the fact that she’d not slept well at all.
During the night she’d had visions. That was nothing new. She always had visions. She also had a keen sense of discernment. When she was on her knees, praying and speaking in tongues were her lines of communication to heaven. But last night her visions weren’t clear, and by the way she’d tossed and turned, waking with her knees feeling as though she’d used them to run instead of her feet, she knew God was trying to warn her about something. Or at the very least, He had something for her to do, as usual. Either way, at that moment she was way past too tired to figure it out.
For the better part of her sixty-something years, she’d been committed to a fervent prayer life. Sister Betty, a five-foot-two brown ball of fire, was a no-nonsense prayer warrior who some believed prayerfully aggravated God to the point of Him needing aspirin. She was free to praise her God in song with her tinny voice until the angel Gabriel would tell her to shut up, or to shout the victory until she wore a hole in the plush carpeting, which covered every floor but the one in the kitchen and bathrooms.
Yet despite her tiredness, she lifted her arms toward heaven. “Thank ya, God, for yo grace and mercy.” Of course, a woman of her seasoned years had many uncertainties that caused her to give extra praise. She never knew what to expect after crawling into bed, taking off her wig and revealing her natural hair, braided to resemble micro rows of natty gray threads, and tossing her partials into the water jar on the nightstand. She didn’t know whether she’d see another sunrise. The last thing I want is for anybody to find me bald-headed and bald-mouthed.
One thing was for certain—everyone in her small hometown of Pelzer, South Carolina, knew about her unusual encounter with the “Almighty.”
It’d been almost thirty years since God had surprised her with a phone call drafting her into His holy army. One phone call that interrupted her favorite pastime of watching soap operas had also disrupted her quiet life. God had turned her world upside down and had taken her out of her comfort zone. Once the word got around about the very unusual telephone call, everyone in her hometown finally had their proof, calling her eccentric and laughing behind her back, saying, “Sister Betty Sarah Becton has lost her ever-loving mind.”
Drinnggg! It sounded as though an elephant had placed all its weight on her doorbell. Sister Betty grabbed her wig and, still dressed in her nightgown, trudged down her hallway. She warily opened her front door a few inches. “Sweet Jesus,” she murmured as the uninvited guests, church mothers Sasha Pray Onn and Bea Blister, barged inside. The two bothersome church mothers had sat on the same pew for more than thirty years, and for reasons long forgotten by both, neither one could stand the other. Yet they always hung together. When asked why that was, they’d simply say, separately, “I’m keeping my friends close and that heifer closer.”
Without saying “Good morning,” and almost stepping on her feet, they headed down the hallway and on into her living room.
“What now!” Betty felt her praying hands morphing into fists. She’d known the two women for most of her adult life, and they’d been a boil on her nervous system and a threat to her salvation for most of it.
Sasha Pray Onn was the main culprit and leader of the unwelcome committee. She was petite yet deadly, and her hair, a mound of gray pulled into a tight bun on top of her head, resembled a puff of smoke. Sasha was a pecan-complexioned aggravation, and her entire family was a rowdy bunch. “Satan keeps them on earth because they’d cause too much confusion in hell,” most said with a straight face.
Bea Blister, the other aggravation, was physically a remarkable sight. She was dark like an overripe raisin. She had a back shaped like the letter C, caused by years of bad posture, although many believed she had pulled a back muscle from years of peeking through keyholes and had never recovered. Bea also favored multicolored wigs. She was at least three times the weight of Sasha and almost twice as tall on those occasions when she could straighten up.
Within seconds of entering the living room, Sasha stood with her nose in the air, defiant, as though it was Sister Betty who had defiled her personal space. Sister Betty, frowning, looked her up and down. Sasha also had skinny chicken legs shaped like a pair of parentheses, seeming ill-suited to keep her taupe-colored knee-highs from falling down. Yet somehow the twisted knot she’d tied above the knee stayed put. She also wore white orthopedic Hush Puppies, and her serrated-edged Bible and a cane dangling from her wrist completed her holier-than-thou outfit. Her slanted brown eyes, hidden behind square-shaped spectacles, scanned the room before she began complaining.
“This here a big old mansion,” Sasha whined, fanning with her free hand, “and you ain’t got no central air-conditioning? That’s a sin before God.” After a moment she added angrily, “When He made you rich, He didn’t mean for you to take all that money to your grave or make people feel uncomfortable when they come to make a Christian call.”
As she looked Sasha up and down, the smile on Sister Betty’s usually smiling face morphed into a sneer, which she didn’t try to hide. “Sasha,” Sister Betty hissed, “get to your point, and then hurry and leave.” Without waiting for Sasha to respond, she quickly turned to Bea, who hadn’t said much at all. Looking Bea squarely in her eyes, Sister Betty added, “I’m in no mood for neither of y’all’s silliness today. I’m fasting, and you two are making me lose my prayer points.”
Bea groaned slightly, trying to force an aura of innocence. “Sister Betty, never let anyone or anything mess up your salvation.” She pivoted and pointed at Sasha. “Do you think I’d ever let this Smurf monkey holding a Bible put my soul in jeopardy of hellfire?” Bea suddenly reached out and grabbed Sister Betty’s hands, turning her ring finger back and forth. “This engagement ring is just gorgeous,” Bea said, smiling. “It’d be a shame to have to slap Sasha hard enough with it to leave a pear-shaped mark on her mug.”
Sister Betty jerked away her hand. “Bea, you do understand that I meant you, too, don’t you?”
Bea said nothing, choosing instead to stare at Sasha’s contorted face before returning her eyes to Sister Betty and sighing. “I guess it’s the company I’ve been keeping that makes you hafta throw me in the mix with Sasha.” Bea winked. “I know if it was just me and you standing here, you’d have thought otherwise, especially since you’ll need my help in finishing up plans for your wedding reception.”
No, I wouldn’t! Sister Betty wanted to speak her thoughts aloud, but Sasha spoke up too fast.
“Watch it, she-rilla!” Sasha snappe
d at Bea. “I’m not invisible. You’d better be glad my blessed Jesus holds me and Sister Betty in the middle of His hands. There ain’t no way in the world anyone with an ounce of style and grace would let you anywhere near a part of their wedding planning.”
Bea spun around from Sister Betty. Waggling her finger in Sasha’s face as her dark eyes narrowed, she retorted, “I know He holds Sister Betty, but you act like you must’ve slipped out of the good Lord’s hands and fallen on your head a few times.”
“Will you two please stop?” It was her turn to spin around. Sister Betty looked around her living room for her blessed oil spray. “Where did I put it?”
“Ahem,” Bea said softly as she stepped in front of Sasha. “I know you’re looking for that can of blessed Pam oil spray. Please just open a window or something. Sasha and me sweating like Friday night strippers sitting on Sunday morning church’s second pew. I also have things to do, so we need to hurry this chat along.”
Betty took a few steps forward and pounded her fireplace mantle.
Sasha stepped from behind Bea. “You’re standing there with a look that’s unbecoming a saint and a soon-to-be bride.”
“I hafta agree,” Bea added. “Sister Betty, you do look a might bit pissed off.”
Sasha turned and glared at Bea. “That’s what I meant!” She then turned back to Sister Betty and continued speaking softly. “We’ve known you for more than forty years, and we ain’t even upset that our wedding invites haven’t arrived yet. If anyone should be mad,” Sasha snapped while poking the carpet with her cane like she was trying to stab a fish with it, “it oughta be us.”
“Pay Sasha no mind,” Bea added, with one of her heavy paw-shaped hands now sitting upon one hefty hip. “We know how slow the mail moves.”
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