Hosea raised his eyebrows. “And?”
“That means,” Pastor Wyatt spoke slowly, as if Hosea had a comprehension problem, “only board members are invited. You’re a member,” his eyes shifted to Jasmine, “but your wife isn’t.”
“And your wife isn’t.” Hosea gave a nod and a smile to Enid Wyatt, who was sitting against the wall behind her husband.
“But my wife…this is a special occasion,” Pastor Wyatt explained.
As Hosea held out a chair for Jasmine, he said, “Then you can understand my wife being here with me.”
Pastor Wyatt looked around at the others, and Jasmine followed his glance to the side of the table where Brother Hill, Sister Whittingham, and Jerome Viceroy, a Harlem city councilman who was responsible for community outreach for City of Lights, sat together. On the other side, Pastor Wyatt was in between Malik, Brother Stevens, and Sister Clinton, the presidents of the Men’s and Women’s Auxiliary, and Sister Pearline, the head of the Silver Saints.
Malik and Sister Pearline wore welcoming smiles; the rest glared at her as if there was no way she should be sitting in the midst of such holiness.
Jasmine was pissed—especially at Sister Clinton. She expected Brother Hill and his bandits to behave as if they had no grace, but Sister Clinton? Every Sunday the woman had smiled in her face, told Jasmine how wonderful she looked, how well-behaved Jacqueline was. And now she didn’t support her sitting in on this little meeting? She had lost her mind—along with the rest of them. They needed to recognize that a change was about to come up in this place.
Jasmine took a hard breath. Calmed down. In ten minutes, Hosea would be appointed, and she would wear her crown.
When Hosea sat down and stared at him, Pastor Wyatt said, “Well, I guess it’s fine.” He turned to Jasmine and gave her one of his smiles that always made her twist. But his words were not as inviting. “I hope you understand that you won’t be able to vote.”
Before she could part her lips, Hosea answered, “Of course she wouldn’t vote, if there was going to be one.”
Pastor Wyatt gave a little chuckle. “I thought Brother Hill told you. We’re here to make a decision about your father—” He stopped. “You know what?” Pastor Wyatt reached his hands forward. “We need to pray, right now, for your father. Let’s take a silent moment.”
They all bowed their heads and began to send up private prayers. But not even three seconds passed before Pastor Wyatt said, “Amen,” startling everyone. “Okay, now let’s get started.” The man didn’t even try to contain his excitement.
Sister Pearline spoke first, “How’s your father, Hosea?”
“I spoke to the doctor before we came, and there’s no change.”
“Detective Foxx told me today that the investigation is going to stay open,” Brother Stevens said.
Hosea nodded. “That’s good, but I’m more concerned about Pops. The doctors said that he could wake up at any moment.”
“That’s my prayer,” Sister Clinton said.
“But the truth is,” Pastor Wyatt interjected, “we don’t know how long he’ll be this way, do we?”
Hosea looked straight into that man’s eyes. “No, we don’t. But God knows.”
Pastor Wyatt nodded. “Of course, of course. And as we all stand with you, we still have to keep this church running. City of Lights is an important institution in this city. There’ll be lots of things that need to be handled, including the media…”
“What media?” Hosea asked.
“You’ve been at the hospital, but we’ve all been contacted by the major networks—to get our views on what happened to Reverend Bush. I’m sure the radio stations and newspapers will follow. We’re going to have to put out a statement; we may even need to hire a press agent.”
Jasmine shifted. She’d always been aware that Reverend Bush was one of the premiere pastors in the city; he was often on television, responding to some reporter’s questions on his views about what was happening in New York. But she’d had no idea that his shooting had attracted this much attention.
She’d speak to Hosea—she’d take over the media. She could already see her face in front of the camera, or her words in the New York Times! She needed to add a whole new wardrobe to her list of things to acquire.
Hosea said, “We don’t need a press agent, Pastor.”
Jasmine wasn’t going to disagree with her husband in public—that’s not what a first lady should do. But she’d change his mind later. She was going to need someone to help her with all the press.
Jerome Viceroy glanced at Jasmine, licked his lips, then said to Hosea, “You don’t realize the power of this church.”
“Yes, I do,” Hosea said. “And Holy Ghost power doesn’t need any kind of agent.” Before anyone had a comeback, Hosea added, “Look, I expect my father to make a full recovery very soon. There’s no need for any big changes. We just need—”
“A new pastor,” Pastor Wyatt finished for him.
Hosea kept his stare steady. “An interim pastor.”
Pastor Wyatt gave Hosea a half smile. “I stand corrected.” The pastor laid his hands flat on the table and looked from one member to the next. “Of course, no one could really step into Reverend Samuel Bush’s shoes, but I am fully prepared to take on the position of senior pastor of City of Lights at Riverside Church,” he declared.
The way his wife grinned behind him, Jasmine wondered if the woman was going to stand up and applaud.
Brother Hill said, “Pastor Wyatt, there’s something—”
Hosea held up his hand, stopping his godfather. “I really don’t understand why you called this meeting,” he said to Pastor Wyatt. “It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours since…” He slipped the envelope from his pocket. “My father could wake up tonight, and this would all be for nothing.”
Sister Whittingham spoke softly, “I understand how you feel, Hosea, but Pastor Wyatt is right. Your father would want someone to step in for him.”
Hosea nodded as he unfolded the letter. “This is from my father. As the founder and senior pastor of City of Lights, he’s requested that I step in. And I’m going to follow my father’s instructions.”
The hush that followed made Jasmine want to stand up and do her own cheer.
Then, “That’s not going to happen,” Pastor Wyatt exclaimed. “I’m second in line; I’m the leader of this church.”
“Obviously, you didn’t hear what my husband said,” Jasmine piped in.
Every face in the room turned to her. Every eye told her to be quiet. But Jasmine stared right back at all of them—even Malik and Hosea.
Pastor Wyatt continued, “As I was saying, that doesn’t make sense; we already have a church hierarchy.”
“This is what my father wants.”
Pastor Wyatt was frowning when his wife leaned forward and whispered in his ear. Then his eyes brightened. And when Enid Wyatt returned to her seat, her chin was raised high in the air in triumph.
Jasmine glared at her; she hadn’t liked this woman (and the woman hadn’t liked her) from the day they met over a year ago at the reception Reverend Bush held for the new associate pastor and his wife.
The rivalry started when Reverend Bush introduced the two.
“Jasmine, this is Enid Wyatt,” he’d said.
“Oh, Mrs. Wyatt. Nice to meet you. You must be really proud of your son.”
Hosea had jumped in and tried to save his wife. “Uh, darlin’, this is Pastor Wyatt’s wife.”
It had taken Jasmine a moment to close her wide-open mouth and apologize. She’d later learned that Enid Wyatt was three years younger than her husband, but how was she supposed to know that? The woman’s weathered skin had more wrinkles than an elephant. And she had so much gray in that old-fashioned beehive hairdo she wore atop her head that she could’ve been the leader of the Silver Saints.
Jasmine had shaken her head then, just like she did now. And she had the same thoughts: Why was someone as fine as Pastor Wyatt
with someone who was one step below plain?
With his eyes shining like he was on the verge of victory, Pastor Wyatt said, “I have a question.” He glanced back at his wife. “When was that letter written?”
Everyone turned to Hosea, but he didn’t even look down. “January first.”
Both of the Wyatts chuckled before the pastor said, “Obviously, this was an oversight. Your father put this in writing before I joined the staff. Remember, I joined last February.” He waved his hands in the air. “He probably forgot he had this little letter—”
“That’s January first of this year. Five weeks ago. Eleven months after you joined the staff, Pastor Wyatt.” Hosea let that news settle. “There must’ve been a reason why my father wrote this and then had it notarized—even if there is a hierarchy in place.” Hosea slid the letter in front of the pastor.
The long quiet was broken by Sister Clinton. “But Hosea, you’ve had no experience.”
“And,” Brother Stevens asked, “how’re you going to pastor with your television show?”
“I haven’t had time to think about all of that, but when my father wrote this, he knew what I had on my plate. He knew I’d figure it out.”
“Well, I have another concern.” Sister Clinton’s eyes went straight to Jasmine.
Jasmine’s eyebrows rose.
The woman continued, “What will people say when they find out that the new pastor is married to a woman who works in a nightclub?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Malik jumped in, before Jasmine could rise up from her seat. “I own that club.”
“Yes, but you’re only on the board. The pastor and his wife will be under more scrutiny,” Brother Stevens said. “I agree with Sister Clinton. This could be a problem.”
“And your wife has other problems,” Pastor Wyatt added. “If the media finds out that you’re not even the father of that child…”
Ouch, that hurt! That was Jasmine’s first thought. But then the warrior rose up inside of her. She was ready to hike up her skirt and climb over the table to beat that man down. Who was he—or any of them—to judge her like this?
It was only Hosea’s gentle grasp of her arm—as if he knew the war she was about to wage—that made her stay in place.
“Pastor Wyatt,” Hosea began, in such a calm tone that Jasmine wondered if he’d even heard what the man had said. “I’m going to accept your apology, and then we’re going to end this right here.”
The men glared at each other, their own battle brewing.
“I was only speaking the truth,” the pastor said. “Your wife could be a liability to this church. We have no idea what else could be lurking in her past!”
That’s it! Jasmine jumped from her chair and pointed her finger at Pastor Wyatt. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
And then, a flash of her past.
Sudden.
A shiny silver pole.
Jasmine, crouched down and swinging around the rod.
Hair, courtesy of a wig, flowing down to her waist.
A man, grinning, his fists full of dollar bills.
She gasped, fell back in her chair.
“Jasmine?”
It was her husband’s voice that snatched her away from that memory. Brought her back from a scene she hadn’t thought of in years.
“Jasmine, are you all right?”
She swallowed, nodded, glared at Pastor Wyatt. “I’m fine, it’s just that…” She couldn’t say any more.
With his hand over hers, Hosea said, “You owe my wife an apology.” His voice was calm, though stern, his anger evident.
Pastor Wyatt waved his hand in the air. “Fine. I’m sorry,” he said, backing down. “But as one of the largest churches in the city, we have to be careful with our image.”
Hosea turned from Pastor Wyatt to the other board members. “I understand all of your concerns,” he said, leaving out the associate pastor. “But everything that you’ve raised, my father already knew. However, if it’ll help, I’ll answer your questions.” Facing Brother Stevens, he said, “My show is on hiatus and won’t be back in production until May. Pops should be back by then.”
“But what if he’s not?” Sister Clinton asked. “How’re you going to handle all of this? Not only your show and the church, but taking care of your father?”
It took a moment for Hosea to say, “I don’t know.” He looked around the table. “But let me tell you what I do know. I know that I love the Lord and that, whatever I need, He will give to me—including time and wisdom. I know that I love my father. This is not my wish, but his. And as the founder of this church, he’s always done what’s best for his congregation.
“I know that I love my wife. We may not be perfect, but that’s why I’m so glad to have each of you in our lives.” He let his eyes move among the members of the board. “Because by the examples of the wonderful marriages and homes that you have, Jasmine and I have something to strive toward; one day, we may get this as right as you.”
Brother Stevens’s cough slashed through the quiet. Sister Clinton twisted in her seat. Even Brother Hill, Mrs. Whittingham, and Sister Pearline looked away.
Only Pastor Wyatt, his wife, Jerome Viceroy, and Malik looked Hosea dead in his eyes.
Dang! Jasmine thought, already pushing down the quick memory of her past. She wondered about the stories behind Hosea’s words; the way half the room had shifted, there had to be some mess. These saints acted more like sinners who’d been caught.
Pastor Wyatt said, “I still think we should vote.”
Hosea shrugged. “We can vote if you want, but I already know the outcome because no one on this board is divisive. No one wants to see this board or this church and its members split.”
Pastor Wyatt’s eyes darted from one to another, in search of an ally. But no one stood up for him.
“Then I guess you all agree,” Hosea said.
Brother Hill asked, “Does anyone here think we need to take a vote now?” His glance wandered from person to person.
They shook their heads—all except Pastor Wyatt. And behind him, his wife sat still as stone.
Brother Hill said, “Then Hosea Samuel Bush is the senior pastor of City of Lights at Riverside Church until further notice.”
Again, Enid bent forward and whispered to her husband.
Jasmine frowned again. Could it have been any clearer who was running this show?
When his wife returned to her seat, Pastor Wyatt jumped up. “I’d like to revisit this at the next board meeting.” He held up his hands when he looked at Hosea. “I’m not challenging you; we need to make sure things are running smoothly and—”
“That’s fair,” Hosea said, a truce in his tone. He shook Pastor Wyatt’s hand. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“We’re a team,” Pastor Wyatt said. “I’ve got your back.”
Jasmine smirked. She didn’t want that man—or his wife—anywhere near her husband’s back. Not unless the two were frisked first.
When they all stood, Jasmine wanted to stop them and ask about the money. She needed to know exactly what her husband would be earning so that she could do their new household budget. But with all the chatter, she decided to ask Hosea later.
Minutes passed as all the board members came over to offer more condolences to Hosea.
No one said a word to her until Malik pulled her aside. “You okay?” he whispered.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Some of the things they said”—he motioned with his head toward the group—“were out of line.”
She waved her hand like their words meant nothing. “That kind of stuff doesn’t bother me.”
“So you’re going to be able to handle this?”
“Hosea being the pastor? Definitely. I’m looking forward to it.”
He leaned back, as if that was not the answer he expected. “I thought since you and Hosea were all Hollywood now, you wo
uldn’t want anything to do with the church.” He nodded. “Good for you.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a stop to make, but I’ll come by the hospital a little later.” He hugged her before he bumped knuckles with Hosea.
“You ready?” Hosea asked her.
She nodded, and without saying a word to anyone else, she took Hosea’s hand. As they stepped out of the room, Jasmine heard the voices rise behind them.
And then, Mrs. Whittingham screeched, “Oh, Lawd, that woman is going to be our first lady!”
Jasmine glanced at Hosea, but his eyes were straight ahead, his thoughts already beyond the church and with his father.
On another day, Jasmine would have stomped back into the room and jumped in that woman’s face. But that wasn’t the appropriate behavior for a pastor’s wife. Anyway, Mrs. Whittingham had only spoken the truth—she was the first lady.
And every single one of those clowns in there were going to have to deal with that.
SEVEN
“POPS, I DID IT,” HOSEA whispered, leaning over the side of the hospital bed. “I’m going to lead the church the way you wanted me to.”
Jasmine stood at her husband’s side as he uttered the same words that he’d said last night when they’d rushed to the hospital after the board meeting. And like last night, Reverend Bush was still as unmoving as a statue, still living only because of the constant beep…beep…beep—the only sign that he was alive.
“Pops,” Hosea called again, his lips touching his father’s ear. “Can you hear me?”
Whoosh! was the only response—the air from the breathing tube that was performing that life function for him.
“Pops?”
Hosea’s voice cracked, and Jasmine’s heart did the same. She wanted to take her husband’s hand and yank him away from this den of death. It had been only three days, but this room smelled and sounded like the end. And Hosea was sleeping in the middle of this every night. No wonder he was beginning to break down.
“Hello.”
The voice startled them both as they turned.
Dr. Lewis said, “I was hoping I’d get a chance to talk to you.” She gave Reverend Bush a quick glance before she looked down at his chart, which hung on a chain at the lower part of the bed.
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