Love Like Hallelujah

by Lutishia Lovely

  Hope rolled over and gazed out the floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows. With no nearby building as tall, their penthouse allowed privacy without having to close out the stunning ocean view. It was early, the sky still holding hints of night. But as she continued to look out over the ocean, wisps of light blue, orange, and pink emerged. This was going to be a beautiful Valentine’s Day.

  After returning from the bathroom and morning ablutions, Hope picked up the poem she’d tweaked the night earlier. She sat on the bed and began reading it again, out loud:

  “God’s gift to me was you, His undeniable treasure, Your value beyond numbers anyone could measure, A blessing designed by Spirit, such an awesome wonder, What God has joined together, man can’t put asunder, You’re the one….”

  A tear fell. And then another. Hope set down the poem and covered her eyes. Thank you, Jesus, thank you, God, she prayed inwardly. More tears fell, tears of thanksgiving, and relief. Over the years, when doubt crept in, she’d feared ending up old and alone in a quiet, one-bedroom senior’s complex, playing backgammon and cards with the neighbors, two or three cats for company. She cried harder. It was happening! She was getting married!

  Suddenly a pair of arms went around her. She relaxed immediately, smelling her mother’s familiar perfume.

  “Sh-h-h, now it’s gonna be all right, baby,” Mrs. Jones crooned softly. Hope leaned her head against her mom’s shoulder, willing the tears to stop. “You can’t believe it, can you?”

  Hope shook her head no.

  “God is faithful, Hope. I always told you that one of these days, when the time was right, he would come along. And now he’s here. God is good.”

  This powerful truth made Hope start crying anew. She tried to talk through her tears. “I’m, j-j-just so th-th-thankful,” she sobbed. “I can’t believe I’m getting m-m-married.” Hope had revved up into an all-out boo-hoo.

  Frieda burst into the room. “What the hell, oops, excuse me, Aunt Pat. Girl, what is the matter witchu?” She sat down on the other side of Hope. “I guess you’re trying to get your eyes all red and puffy so you can look like some kind of baboon up there at the altar, have Cy think Queen Kong is walking up to meet him; is that it?” Her words had the desired effect as Hope’s sobs turned to laughter.

  “No, fool!” Hope answered, grabbing a pillow and attempting to hit Frieda upside the head with it.

  Frieda jumped up and grabbed another pillow. “No, you’re the one who needs some whup’ass…in here crying like somebody died.”

  “You’d better not, you’re gonna hit Mama!” Hope snuggled under her mom for protection.

  Pat pushed her away, laughing. “Oh no, don’t be trying to get me to protect you. Take yo’ whuppin’ like a woman, a soon-to-be married woman. In fact”—she reached over and grabbed a smaller, decorative pillow—“take two whuppin’s.”

  Hope rolled to the other side of the bed, grabbed two small pillows, threw one at her mother and one at Frieda. Frieda ducked and it almost hit Jackie, Frieda’s mother, who walked in at just that moment.

  “What in the w—?”

  “She’s trying to hit you, Mom,” Frieda warned, “said she was gonna get you back for beating her at bid whist last night.”

  “Ooh, Frieda,” Hope said, in a menacing tone. “That’s not true, Aunt Jackie. I’m trying to get at your crazy daughter.” Hope ducked as Frieda threw the pillow back, and picked up another one to throw.

  “Y’all stop,” Pat scolded. “You both need Jesus.”

  “I need some breakfast, that’s what I need,” Frieda said, watching herself pose in the mirror. “And I need a man that can put me in a place with a view like this. Now, this is livin’. Hurry up and go on your honeymoon so I can come over here and get my groove on—I mean, so I can housesit.”

  Three pairs of eyes gave her “the look.”

  “Just kidding,” Frieda said sheepishly before flouncing out of the room. A trio of laughter followed her out.

  The day flowed seamlessly. After a hearty breakfast, Cy, Simeon, and the fellas had enjoyed a game of basketball. Hope and the women spent their morning being treated to a full body massage, manicure/pedicure, and an in-home hair stylist. The limo picked them up promptly at three. Hope, exquisite and serene, now sat in the boat’s largest bedroom, waiting for the moment she became Cy’s wife.

  Cy and his cousin, Simeon, relaxed quietly at a table, enjoying the view of sparkling water and sailboats. Wisps of conversation floated around them from the thirty or so guests who mingled on the luxury yacht Cy had chartered. It would be their last moments with Cy as a single man.

  “Well, cuz, the water isn’t too deep here; still time to make the great escape.”

  Cy raised up a bit as if gauging his chances for a successful jump; then he smiled. “Even with a gun to my head, there’s no way I’d leave. I’ve never been surer about any move I’ve ever made than I am now.”

  “You’re a lucky man.”

  “I’m blessed, Simeon. Nobody but God put Hope and me together.”

  “Humph. You’re talking about her behind her back and she ain’t even yours yet.” Hope’s dad, Earl, punched Cy’s arm playfully as he sat down. The three men could have graced the cover of Elegant Man, if there were such a magazine. Cy’s tux fit flawlessly and Simeon’s blue Kenneth Cole suit was equally stunning. Mr. Jones was dignity personified in a charcoal gray double-breasted suit, with a silk blue shirt and complementing necktie. In fact, everyone on the boat looked quite refined.

  Mr. Pheneas Taylor, Cy’s father, joined them at the table. An older, distinguishably handsome version of Cy, Mr. Taylor still turned the heads of women half his age. “Well, now that the important people are ready and on the scene,” he said, pointing to himself, “the festivities can begin.”

  Earl’s eyebrows rose at that comment. “Careful now, you’re gonna be like that slave who showed up in the field with a tuxedo on, after a visit to the doctor’s office.”

  “How you figure?” Pheneas asked with mock indignation.

  “Well, when the other slaves asked him why he was in the field wearing a tuxedo, he told ’em,” Earl continued in an exaggerated southern accent, “‘since the doctor say’s I’se impotent, I’se might as well look impotent.’”

  The men tried not to, but laughed anyway. Earl Jones was a character, one anybody would be hard-pressed not to like.

  It was time. The guests lined the stern of the boat, leaving the middle empty. Three of the Musical Messengers, a guitarist, saxophonist, and keyboard player with drum machine, kept a low profile on the side. Soft sounds of smooth jazz emanated from their corner. Pastors Brook and Montgomery stood waiting with appropriate seriousness. King had chosen to wear a white pastor’s robe, complete with scarf bearing a solid black cross and fringe at each end. Derrick had on a stellar black tux.

  Mr. Jones waited in the back, talking quietly with Hope, whom her mother had finally summoned.

  After the parents and guests had been seated, an imperceptible nod from Mrs. Jones signaled all was ready.

  Pastor Derrick began. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are here to celebrate another love affair that God has designed. Let our hearts be filled with love as we surround this couple, here and now, at the beginning of the rest of their lives.” With this, he and Pastor King moved to the side as Cy’s classmate stepped up to sing “The Lord’s Prayer” in a rich baritone.

  Hope stood just outside the door, near the rear of the ship. She couldn’t see anyone, but heard the wondrous melody float like waves across the boat, now anchored in the middle of the ocean, halfway between the marina and Catalina Island. She closed her eyes and leaned against her father, whose eyes were misty. He was losing his only daughter, albeit to a fine young man.

  After the solo, Frieda and Simeon took their places. Cy came next. The keyboardist began playing the instrumental wedding march, Luther Vandross’s “Wait for Love.” When the saxophone joined in with the melody, Hope, led by her father, came around the si
de of the boat. She was radiant. Every eye was on her. Her eyes were on Cy. A solitary tear slid down her face as he stood beaming.

  After Mr. Jones had escorted his daughter to the front, he joined his ex-wife. Having a child together created a lifetime bond, and both had put differences aside, even if temporarily, to be united in this moment. Cy reached for Hope’s hand and held it gently as her poem, “The One,” was read by a childhood friend. They turned and looked into each other’s eyes as Eric Benet’s duet with Tamia, “Spend My Life,” was performed with enchanting loveliness:

  “Can I just see you every morning when I open my eyes?

  Can I just feel your heart beating beside me every night?

  Can we just feel this way together till the end of all time?”

  In these moments, Cy’s only thoughts were for the ceremony to be over, the guests to be gone, and Hope to be in his arms. Hope was thinking the exact same thing. The rest of the ceremony went by in a longing-induced fog, repeating the vows, the ring, the kiss, purposely chaste so as not to fan the already searing flames of desire.

  And then it was official. Cy and Hope were pronounced man and wife. Bubbles were blown as the couple walked around the boat lined with guests, hugging and thanking each one for their presence. While this was happening, the caterers set up a sumptuous feast of tenderloin steak, baked chicken and fish, a roasted vegetable medley, and rice pilaf. Simeon toasted the couple, who in turn toasted the guests with their choice of either Krug’s Clos du Mesnil champagne or sparkling juice. Once the bubbly started flowing, the evening began in earnest. By the time the almond-vanilla frosted carrot cake had been eaten, toasts made, dances danced, and the boat finished sailing around the marina and docked outside the Ritz-Carlton, folks were speculating on who could get married next so they could have an excuse to enjoy such fun all over again.

  Cy and Hope faced each other in the middle of the king-sized bed. Maria, Cy’s housekeeper, had cleaned up the day’s mess and, with Frieda’s help, had set a romantic stage in the bedroom, with candles, orchid petals, and burning, scented oil. The newlyweds each held a glass of sparkling champagne with bobbing strawberries. Both were naked, having enjoyed a relaxing, sensual bath in the penthouse Jacuzzi. They’d explored and pleasured each other’s bodies. Their senses heightened by months of agonizing celibacy, the first orgasms came quickly. It was just the beginning, though. Cy planned for Hope to be thoroughly satisfied from head to toe before the night was over. Hope had likewise secretly vowed to make her husband’s pleasure her singular focus, believing that if she took care of his needs, she too would be satisfied.

  “A toast to you, Mrs. Hope Taylor,” Cy began, “the woman of my dreams.” He reached out and gently pinched her nipple, which took notice immediately. Hope’s quick intake of breath made him smile. He leaned over, nipped it, licked it, and continued. “It will be my life’s mission to make you happy, woman, to satisfy you in every possible way. I’m so happy you’re in my life, baby, and I will spend a lifetime trying to repay you for how happy you’ve made me.”

  Hope drank in his words of love. She tried not to cry—there had been enough tears for the day. But she was so happy, beyond her wildest imaginings. She took a breath and returned a toast of her own. “When I prayed to God for a husband, it was you I longed for in my heart. I didn’t know your name, or what you looked like, but I knew how I’d feel when I was near you…like I do right now. I love you, baby.”

  They raised their glasses and toasted new love. Finishing quickly, they fed each other the strawberries, followed by passionate kisses. Hope felt desire pool in the pit of her stomach, and spiral lower. Cy moved over and placed Hope in the middle of the bed. He straddled her, lay full weight on her body. His shower of kisses began. He kissed her lavishly, their tongues dancing, dipping, the heat rising. He kissed her eyes, ears, neck, before lifting up a bit to move down farther. He grabbed her perfect breasts in his hands, tasted and blew on them softly. A quiet moan escaped from between his lips as he eyed the feast that had been set before him. Hope writhed beneath him, her hands in his hair. His exploration continued as he kissed her stomach, her navel. He nipped her hips playfully, causing bubbling laughter from his bride. “Ooh, that tickles, Cy.”

  “Hmmm…” was his quiet reply as he continued his journey, down into the valley of her paradise. He sighed softly. He would especially savor this moment. Placing soft kisses into her furry mound, he gently spread her legs. Hope was beside herself with anticipation. For so long she’d waited, dreamed, desired, yearned for her man. Cy took his time, honoring every crevice with skilled finesse. It had been a long time, but just like riding a bicycle…He alternately licked and kissed her inner walls, flicking her love button with his tongue. Hope’s escalating moans assured him his skills had not diminished from lack of use. She tried to move from his sexual assault but he simply changed positions, placed her on her side, grasped and gently lifted her thigh, and licked a slow, wet journey down the crevice of her lush buttocks before thrusting his tongue deeper into her hot feminine flower. It was a delicious way of making love, the best Hope had experienced. She grabbed Cy’s head, grinding her hips against his mouth, murmuring his name over and over. Her body shook with another release, and Cy drank her as he would the finest nectar.

  Only after he was satisfied that Hope had reached multiple climaxes did he prepare for the next step in their love dance. He rolled over, preparing to position Hope on top of him. But before that happened, Hope had rolled over to begin her own kissing assault. Cy was pleased. He knew they were matched sexually, had the same tastes. Yes, he thought as Hope grabbed his manhood and lavished her praises. He sighed deeply as she rolled her tongue around the tip of his dick before taking him into her mouth, worshipping at Cy’s penile paradise. Cy closed his eyes and smiled. Yes, he thought as Hope showed her love. We are a perfect match.

  Their mating dance continued into the early morning hours. Cy took his time as he entered her, aware of his size and Hope’s years without sex. Not until she was totally ready did he join them in divine union, complete oneness. Hope was not able to hold back the tears then, crying in ecstasy, holding Cy tightly. Cy was an exquisite lover, his long, thick manhood at times fast, forceful, and plunging, and then slow and steady. Their lovemaking took on a variety of rhythms, in a variety of positions. As streaks of dawn announced the coming day, Cy turned on his side, pulled Hope into his arms and held her firmly, possessively. Hope nestled back against the hard chest of her man, rested her arm on top of his. Mr. and Mrs. Cy Anthony Taylor had chosen to wait until marriage to experience this oneness. It had been worth the wait.

  10

  The Sanctity of Sisterhood

  Millicent looked at Alison a long moment after they’d been seated at an ocean-view table. “It is really good to see you again,” she said finally. “I’m glad you’re here. Didn’t realize how alone I’d been.”

  Unlike the many other times she’d suggested it, Millicent said yes when Alison invited herself to La Jolla. Funny thing was that in hindsight, Alison had needed it as much as Millicent, and shared this with her friend: “Like I said earlier, this is blessing me as much as it’s blessing you.”

  Alison had moved from Los Angeles back to Clarkstown, New York, to take care of her mother. The transition was difficult. Her mother’s condition wasn’t good when Alison had arrived, and even with prayers, faith, and blessed oil, the Alzheimer’s was getting worse.

  Alison looked out over the ocean. “Be thankful for your mother every single day,” she said, almost to herself. “Call her every day, love her every day, because when things change…”

  Millicent reached over and took her friend’s hand in silent sympathy. These past few months had shown her all too well the value and power of a mother’s love.

  “How is your mother?” Millicent asked.

  Alison gave her an update. “I can’t keep worrying about Mama,” she said after answering Millicent’s question. “Her health is in God’s hands no
w.” The waiter brought tea, and Alison used that time to change the subject, as well as the mood. She was glad that Millicent seemed to have picked up the pieces of her life but concerned that she might have still carried a torch for Cy. Alison knew from experience that the best way to get over one man was with another. She intended to help her friend jump-start her love life, to truly move on. “Enough about me,” she said. “What is going on with you? How’s the job? It must be nice, surrounded by a group of successful bachelors.”

  Millicent deftly sidestepped talking about men and focused on the job itself. “I love what I’m doing. In fact, just this week I agreed to go full-time.”

  “That’s excellent,” Alison exclaimed. “You had said you were thinking about it. They must have agreed on the salary you wanted.”

  “And then some, plus the benefits are great—three week’s vacation the first year. I don’t know if I’ll stay past the one-year contract though. Just trying to live in the moment, one day at a time.”

  “Is there any other way? One day is about all I can handle; tomorrow will take care of itself.”

  Alison continued to listen as Millicent went on about her job. That’s all she talked about. As Alison suspected, Millicent wasn’t seeing anyone. If she had been, either an e-mail, a phone call, or something in the conversation so far would have at least alluded to it.