Her eyes wandered around her six-hundred-square-foot efficiency apartment. This was all that her parents had been able to afford when she’d moved in at the beginning of her sophomore year. Maybe if they hadn’t stretched to pay this rent, she’d have the money to finish school. But she had to have this place—from the moment Kenny had pledged Omega Psi Phi and moved into an apartment with some of his frat brothers, she’d moved close to keep the hoochies away.
It had taken weeks of begging to convince her parents to spend some of the money they’d saved on this three-hundred-dollar-a-month studio. Her argument had nothing to do with Kenny. Instead, she played the danger card—telling them that by having her own place, she wouldn’t have to drive all the way from Westwood to Inglewood, risking her life late at night to some carjacker. That image—along with the real ones her mother had seen on TV every night—had been enough. The Coxes had been willing to ante up whatever they had to in order to keep their daughter safe. And she’d convinced them that she’d be better off without roommates to distract her.
Jasmine did help out with work-study during the year and then her summer gigs. But even though she now had one of the coveted rising-senior internships at Sony, the two hundred and fifty dollars a week, which had seemed like so much yesterday, was nothing more than a pittance today. Without her father’s help, her biweekly check (after taxes) would barely keep her housed and fed. The money from that eight-week internship (which was part of her financial aid package) would do nothing for the five thousand dollars she needed for tuition, rent, books, and looking cute for her senior year.
If only her mother hadn’t gotten sick with Lou Gehrig’s disease. If only their medical insurance had paid for all of the expenses. If only grief hadn’t stricken her father and kept him out of work for months now. If only her father didn’t owe five thousand dollars—exactly what she needed—in medical expenses.
Five thousand dollars. That was a lot of money to pay when the doctors were the ones who were responsible for her mother not being here anymore.
Jasmine closed her eyes, hardly able to stand the thought of living the rest of her life without the only person who truly understood her. With her mother gone, all she had was school…and Kenny. The doctors should be paying her for what they’d taken away.
Jasmine’s eyes widened. That’s it!
The hospital should pay them. And they would, if her father sued. He should. After all, the doctors hadn’t saved her mother’s life. It was probably because of them that she died. Her father could have this tied up in court for years. She could graduate—Serena could graduate—by the time this got settled.
Jasmine looked at the clock—she was supposed to be at Sony at ten, but handling this was much more important.
She coughed. Took a deep breath and then coughed again. Smiled. Yeah, she could pull it off. She’d call in sick from her parents’ house.
As Jasmine locked the door to her apartment, her heart was filled with hope. Once she convinced her father to sue, he could take the money he planned to pay the hospital and he could pay her tuition. And who knew what was going to happen—they could actually win the lawsuit. The hospital could pay them a million dollars. Or maybe even ten million or one hundred million!
With her hands stuffed inside the pockets of her jeans, and her Walkman plugged into her ears, she walked as fast as she could to the bus stop. She couldn’t wait to get home to talk to her father and let him know that everything was going to be all right…
Jasmine rolled over and glanced at the clock; it was almost four now, and she wasn’t any closer to sleep. She couldn’t stop remembering how it began, so innocently, all those years ago.
She was just a girl, trying to stay in school.
The thing was, she had graduated from UCLA. On time. Mother’s Day weekend in 1984. She’d marched right into the coliseum with Kenny and the thousands of others Bruin graduates. Because she had done what she had to do.
She closed her eyes, knowing she had to find a way to press away those memories. Jerome Viceroy knew nothing about her past. His threat was just a threat—a tactic to scare Hosea, not her. She wasn’t going to expend any more energy thinking about days that had nothing to do with who she was now.
She would have no more thoughts about the past—she would keep her eyes and her mind on what her life was all about. And that was her future.
But an hour later, when her eyes were still wide open, Jasmine knew that she hadn’t told herself the truth.
SEVENTEEN
THIS TIME, JASMINE LISTENED TO the saleswoman at Saks. When she strolled into the grand ballroom in the Trump International Hotel Towers, she wanted to call the woman right then and hire her away from the department store.
Heads turned when she sauntered inside wearing the form-fitting twelve-hundred-dollar scarlet-collared money-green two-piece. She paused just inside the door, sucked in her stomach, raised her chin, and posed as if she were waiting for photographers.
It was the smiles on the men’s faces that let her know she’d nailed it. Some gawked as if she were mesmerizing. Others stared—she was scintillating. Many gaped—she was simply gorgeous.
And the way the women tossed daggers at her told her that the men were right—she was all of the above.
“Jasmine?”
A petite, bright-blond woman, dressed in a buttoned-up-to-the-collar designer suit that was probably more expensive than her own outfit, held out her hand. “I’m Charlotte,” the porcelain-looking woman said, as if Jasmine should know who she was. When Jasmine frowned, the woman added, with a lilt that attested to her good home training, “Charlotte Hollingsworth. You met my husband, Lowell, and me at the Metropolitan Museum of Art a couple of years ago—before you and Hosea were married.”
“Oh, yes,” Jasmine said, remembering. That was back in 2004: the night Hosea had taken her out for her birthday—first, with a stop at the museum, before he wooed her with a tour of the city, by helicopter. That was the night she knew for sure she’d fallen in love. She said, “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”
“Please call me Charlotte.” With a squeeze of her hand, the woman led Jasmine a few steps away from the incoming crowd. “Dear, how is your father-in-law?”
“He’s doing as well as we can expect. He had surgery last week.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “Lowell spoke with Hosea.”
Jasmine nodded. “Even though he’s not awake yet, we’re still hopeful.”
“We all are, dear. Lowell and I visited Samuel when it first happened, but it was so hard to see him that way. We’re praying, though.” She paused before she asked, “Did you come alone?”
Jasmine nodded. Of course she had. She had no intentions of sharing this light with anyone besides her husband. “Hosea’s at the hospital; I’m standing in for him.”
“How wonderful.” She took Jasmine’s hand again. “Let me take you around, dear.” As if Jasmine were her protégé, Charlotte guided her through the maze of white-clothed tables, accentuated with gold vases overflowing with springtime blooms. Every few steps, Charlotte stopped and introduced Jasmine to one power broker after another. Government officials, Fortune 500 executives, religious leaders—the people who really moved and shook New York. All greeted her as if she were already a friend.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” they said, as they held her hand.
Many left it there, but sometimes, when Charlotte turned away, handshakes lingered and glances wandered to the deep cut of her neckline, as the men asked questions about Reverend Bush.
The ones who wore collars and crosses around their necks flirted the most. And Jasmine flirted right back, eagerly taking their business cards.
“Call me if you need anything…anything,” so many offered. Then they’d step back and, in a voice that wasn’t filled with so much lust, they’d add, “And know that I’m praying for him.”
If these were the kinds of people praying, Jasmine hoped none of them ever talked to G
od about her. But she played along, just so she could collect their contact information. Her plan was to send out before the end of this week her press kit—complete with her bio and speaking topics—because by the end of this luncheon, she was sure she’d be in great demand on the speakers circuit.
When the hosts started guiding the guests to their tables, Bishop Bailey escorted Jasmine to the dais.
“We want you sitting up here.” He led her to the long table.
“Lady Jasmine!”
This was supposed to be an event filled with top-of-the-line people, in both class and stature. So what was Jerome Viceroy—dressed in a plum-colored pinstripe suit—doing here? And why would someone like him be on the stage? Next to her?
“You two know each other?” Bishop Bailey asked.
“Yes.” Jerome held out the chair for Jasmine, but she didn’t sit down. He said to the bishop, “I’ll take care of Mrs. Bush for you.”
The bishop nodded and walked away before Jasmine could tell him that she needed to find another seat. Her eyes searched the table for a setting without a nameplate.
“You’re going to have to sit next to me,” Jerome said with a grin, “if you want to be up here.”
Jasmine rolled her eyes, took a final glance around, but then she sat. She could bear this obnoxious man for an hour or so.
“So have you and your husband thought any more about my offer?”
She leaned back and looked at him as if he’d suddenly grown two heads. “That’s the first thing you say to me?”
“Well,” he licked his lips and leaned in closer, “I could say that you are wearing that dress.”
She wondered, where were all of his “Thank you, Jesus” and “Praise the Lords” now?
“Let me school you—everyone else asked how my father-inlaw is doing. But it’s always about you, isn’t it?”
“Lady Jasmine,” he began, as he raised his eyebrows, “this is all about you. You’re the one whose father-in-law is in the hospital barely alive, but you’re here.” She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he added, “So don’t call me out, because the truth is you’re just like me.”
His words made her stiffen. “I’m nothing like you, Mr. Viceroy.”
He chuckled as he flipped his napkin from his water glass and unfolded it onto his lap. “Since it takes one to know one, let’s stop this dance.” Now he lowered his voice. “How much is it going to cost me to convince you to sell the church?”
“It’s not up to me.”
“Sure it is.” He leaned back and rested his arm on the back of Jasmine’s chair. “We both know who wears the pants in your family.”
“You must have me and Hosea confused with another couple.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He pushed even closer. “So how much? I’m willing to put hundreds of thousands of dollars on the table. Name your price.”
Jasmine smirked; this man thought he knew her. But Jasmine wasn’t who she used to be. It was true; a few years ago, she would be scheming right now, and by the time she got home, she would have a full-fledged plan to coerce Hosea into accepting at least a five-hundred-thousand-dollar check from Jerome.
But her life wasn’t just about money anymore. She loved Hosea, trusted him. And if he felt it was best not to sell the church, then she was standing by him.
“Ladies and gentleman!” The bishop stood at the podium, saving her from having to continue to conversate with Jerome.
As the bishop continued to greet the guests, Jasmine scanned through the program that lay at her plate setting. She turned the brochure over, then upside down, then back and forth. There had to be some pages missing; where was her name?
Another pastor stood and was now introducing the guest speakers. He passed right over her.
Then when another reverend came to the podium to bless the food, Jasmine wondered if Bishop Bailey had forgotten that she was supposed to speak.
Through lunch, Jasmine chatted with the man on her left, a rugged-looking priest with a Robert Redford–chiseled face who droned on about the challenges in the Catholic Church. Jasmine was drowning in boredom, but she refused to turn to her right, where Jerome Viceroy sat.
She felt as if she had been tossed a life jacket when Bishop Bailey stood and said, “Before we begin our program, I know everyone has been praying for Reverend Samuel Bush.”
In reverence, the five hundred guests put down their forks, twisted in their seats, became silent.
“And today, I am proud to say we have among us Reverend Bush’s daughter-in-law, the first lady of City of Lights at Riverside Church, Jasmine Bush.”
The applause was polite, and Jasmine beamed.
“First Lady,” Bishop Bailey began, “would you mind saying a few words. We all want to know how Reverend Bush is doing.”
With a nod, Jasmine pushed her chair back, then paused as she pulled the five folded pages from her purse. She never saw the bishop’s frown as she sauntered to the podium.
“Thank you, Bishop Bailey,” she began. “I am honored to be here today. And I bring you greetings from City of Lights, where my husband, Hosea S. Bush, is the senior pastor.” She looked into the expectant eyes of the people—all waiting to hear about Reverend Bush. Charlotte Hollingsworth smiled up at her from her seat at one of the front tables. And Jasmine felt nothing but glory.
With a deep breath, she said, “Today, I’d like to share with you my thoughts on the role of the first lady in American culture.”
She ignored the confused stares and murmurs that floated through the crowd. And now, she could feel Bishop Bailey’s frown. But this was her opportunity.
None of the gospel magazines had responded to her well-written, well-thought-through article, and now, today, it wouldn’t be wasted. In front of the most powerful people in New York, she was going to show that she was more than beautiful. She was an intelligent, thinking-for-herself first lady who was a dynamo speaker.
She said, “The church is not what it used to be.”
Bishop Bailey coughed to get her attention, but she pretended not to hear him.
“That means that the role of the first lady has grown, too. And I plan to step up…”
From the corner of her eye, she could see the bishop looking at his watch, but she didn’t plan to take too much time.
“There have been many first ladies who have forged a path for us to follow. Coretta Scott King is one, although I see myself more like a political first lady. Like Jacqueline Kennedy.”
Jasmine couldn’t believe Jerome Viceroy had the nerve to laugh out loud.
She kept on anyway. “What we must do—”
Rising from his seat, Bishop Bailey was at her side in two seconds. With his hand over the microphone, he said, “Uh, I apologize, but we didn’t plan for you to address our guests.”
“Oh,” she said, looking first at him, then turning to the audience. “I’m sorry; I thought this would be something that people would want to hear.”
He nodded. “I’m sure, but not today.” Taking his hand away from the microphone, he spoke so that everyone could hear him. “I was hoping that you could fill us in on Reverend Bush’s progress.”
Jasmine paused for a moment, wondering how she could get the rest of her speech in. But the bishop stood next to her, like he was ready to haul her away if she got off track this time.
With a breath, Jasmine spoke as if the words were the ones she planned to say, “Well, as you know it’s been three weeks, and he is stable.”
“Amen!” someone shouted.
“He had a tracheostomy Friday,” she said, hoping to drag this out, “which is an operation that—”
“Uh…Mrs. Bush,” Bishop Bailey interrupted, “what’s the prognosis?”
He just wasn’t going to let her shine. So she breathed deeply and tried to come up with the best line to show this crowd that she could think on her feet. “The doctors are hopeful, and we’re prayerful.” She leaned closer to the microphone. �
�Thank you for your prayers, and God bless each and every one of you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bush. Please give our best to Hosea and let him know that we’re praying for the reverend.”
To polite applause, Jasmine pushed her shoulders back, held her head high, and slipped back into her seat.
Jerome was still clapping when she sat down.
“See,” he said, “you are just like me.” He laughed.
She rolled her eyes, but kept her smile as she nodded her appreciation to the luncheon guests. Then she sat through two hours of mind-numbing speeches, wishing the whole time that Bishop Bailey had given her a chance. She would have added pizzazz to this affair. But even though the bishop had cut her off, Jasmine was sure she’d made an impression.
By the time the bishop stood and gave the benediction, Jasmine was more than ready to leave. With the final “Amen,” she pushed her chair back, determined to get away before Jerome could make his move. But he was quicker than she was, and he blocked her path before she could take two steps.
“I hope you’ll seriously give thought to what I said. Remember, I’m talking big money.”
“You know, Mr. Viceroy,” Jasmine said in a huff, “not everybody can be bought.”
“That’s not true, Lady Jasmine. Everybody has a price. And I think I know yours.”
In that moment, she wondered again if he knew anything about her past. But she pushed that thought away. He couldn’t know a thing.
She had to step on his foot to get past him, but he didn’t even budge. As she moved away, her eyes searched for Bishop Bailey. Even though she was still pissed that he’d shut her down, she was smart enough not to make enemies of the powerful.
“Mrs. Bush?”
Jasmine turned to face a woman who reminded her immediately of Popeye’s wife, Olive Oyl.
“I wanted to introduce myself.” The woman held out her hand. “I’m Lucy Carmichael, first lady at Lakeside in Queens. I was so impressed with your words up there,” Lucy gushed.
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