Lady Jasmine

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  “And what kind of home training have you had, Pastor Wyatt? Oops.” She raised her hand and covered her mouth. “Why did I call you ‘Pastor’? Have you even taken a seminary class…Earvin?”

  Enid gasped, and now even Pastor Wyatt paused.

  Jasmine said, “Yes, you heard me right.” She repeated the name, “Earvin.” Then she leaned back in the booth.

  Four eyes drilled through her. Both of the Wyatts wanted to know what she knew. But both of them were smart enough not to ask.

  So she told them. “I know that you’re not Eugene,” she said in a reporter’s tone. “I know that you’re his twin brother. I know that Eugene actually died in that car accident, but that you,” she said, turning to Enid, “told everyone that it was Earvin who was killed.”

  The sounds of Sunday continued around them. But the three were frozen, as if they were in their own time capsule. Each waited for the one who would make the next move.

  Enid broke first. “What are you—”

  The way Earvin held up his hand and the way Enid stopped speaking, Jasmine wondered now who really was in charge in this bogus relationship.

  “I don’t know who told you those lies,” Pastor Wyatt spat. His voice was strong, as if he had the truth behind him.

  But no one knew this game better than Jasmine, and she could see, smell, and call a bluff.

  “You know what?” Jasmine glanced at her watch. “I don’t have time to go back and forth with you, so let’s get to the point.

  “No one lied to me. I know everything about Hogeye Creek. Down to”—she glanced at Enid—“everyone wearing their hair two feet high on their head.”

  Enid sucked in more air.

  Then Jasmine’s eyes moved to the man who’d been calling himself Pastor Eugene Wyatt. “And the fact that Earvin and not Eugene had a dimple in his left cheek.”

  He moved without thinking, his hand automatically raised to his face.

  “Look,” Enid said before Earvin could speak. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  Jasmine shrugged. “It’s too late for that. The two of you have caused my husband plenty of trouble.”

  “We can be out of New York in twenty-four hours,” Enid negotiated.

  Jasmine’s eyes moved to Earvin. He sat quietly, transmitting his hate through his eyes.

  Enid was back in charge. “There’s no need for any of this to come out. We”—and then Enid glanced at Earvin—“he can resign, and we can leave…quietly.”

  Jasmine shook her head. “That’s not what I want.” She paused, said slowly, “I want you and Earvin to stay.”

  “What?” the two said together.

  She spoke to Enid. “Look, I don’t like what you did, and I certainly don’t like what you and your husband, or your brother-in-law, or whatever”—she waved her hand in the air—“I don’t like what you tried to do to my husband. But you,” she looked at Earvin, “have been a decent associate pastor. So you should stay.”

  Earvin’s eyes got even smaller than they already were. “We should stay…so you can hold this over us. So you can blackmail us?”

  Jasmine cocked her head. “Blackmail is such an ugly word. And this certainly isn’t blackmail. I’m telling you to stay, keep your job.”

  “Why?” he asked. His lips hardly moved. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Because,” Jasmine leaned closer to Earvin, “even though I don’t like you, my husband needs you. He’s going through a lot and he needs someone at the church to have his back.”

  “He could always hire a new pastor,” Earvin grumbled.

  Jasmine nodded. “He could.” Her eyes stayed on the pastor. “Let’s just say I understand wanting to change your life.”

  And in that moment, Jasmine recognized the reason for their chemistry. They were bookends, each with chapters of their lives that they wished could be rewritten. They each understood the other one.

  Jasmine said, “So if you want a new beginning, you should have it.”

  Pulling the strap of her purse onto her shoulder, she said. “You have my word. This will remain between the three of us. All you have to do is drop the vote.” She stood, looked down at both of them, but neither one looked back at her. “So I’ll see you in the board meeting tomorrow?”

  Their eyes were still on each other, and they still said nothing to her.

  Jasmine shrugged. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  And then she walked away and back out into the sunlight of the wonderful Sunday afternoon.

  Three down.

  It was done.

  FIFTY-TWO

  JASMINE PACED IN FRONT OF her desk as Mae Frances read the article from the Le Marque Daily.

  “And the last paragraph says, ‘Although no formal charges have yet been made, sources say that Viceroy’s arrest is imminent.’” Then, the sound of paper crinkling as Mae Frances pushed the newspaper aside.

  “Wow,” Jasmine said, still moving. “Who would’ve thought that would have made it all the way down there?”

  “I’m not surprised. Jerome Viceroy was always trying to make it onto the national scene. He was an aspiring Al Sharpton.”

  “Who aspires to be Al Sharpton?” Jasmine smirked.

  “You better show some respect, Jasmine Larson,” Mae Frances huffed. “The good reverend is a friend of mine.”

  Jasmine rolled her eyes. Was there anyone who wasn’t a friend or a connection?

  Her friend said, “So now that you have Jerome Viceroy and Mrs. Whittingham out of the way, what do you think Pastor Wyatt will do?”

  “What can he do?” Jasmine whispered. Even though her door was closed, she wasn’t taking any chances of being overheard. “Pastor Wyatt is going to show up, give a resounding speech about Hosea being the best man for the job, then sit his butt down until I tell him what to do next.”

  A pause and then, “Jasmine Larson, does that sound like the Pastor Wyatt you know?”

  “The Pastor Wyatt that I know doesn’t exist anymore. I’m in charge now.”

  This time, Mae Frances’s pause was longer. “You know what rats do when they’re cornered?”

  “Oh, please. Do you think I’m scared of him? Knowing that Eugene is really Earvin is all the rat poison I need.”

  The knock on the door stopped the conversation.

  Hosea peeked inside. “You ready?”

  She nodded. “Mae Frances, I’ll call you after the board meeting.” She clicked off her BlackBerry and took her husband’s hand.

  “How’s Nama?”

  He’d asked that question, but Jasmine could tell by his tone that, if she answered, he wouldn’t hear her. His eyes were focused ahead, on the path of this long hallway that led to the conference room.

  His burden was on her heart, too. She knew his fear—that he was about to lose his father and his father’s church at the same time. She wanted to throw her arms around him and let him know that the church part was under control. She wanted him to know that she had his back when no one else did, now and always. And that in an hour or so, they’d walk out of the church exactly the way they’d come in—with Hosea Bush, still the senior pastor.

  But Jasmine had to stay silent. And pretend that this situation was playing out by itself.

  Right outside the conference room, she squeezed Hosea’s hand. And then she stepped inside, wearing enough confidence for both of them.

  The chatter stopped when the two walked in. But Jasmine pretended that she didn’t notice.

  “Hey,” she said to Malik, as he stood to hug her.

  In a hushed tone that was normally reserved for a funeral, Malik asked Hosea, “How you holding up?”

  Hosea nodded as the two bumped knuckles.

  Jasmine glanced at the members surrounding the table, but only Sister Pearline had the guts to look at her. Even though the old woman smiled, Jasmine’s lips stayed flatlined, her anger at Sister Pearline apparent.

  No one else at the table looked their way, which let Jasmine know that,
even with all of the lies she’d had to tell, all the tricks she’d had to play, she’d done the right thing, because if there had been a vote, she had no idea who would’ve been on their side.

  Her eyes stopped when she looked at Mrs. Whittingham. She was sitting at the opposite end, staring down at the blank notepad and rocking a little.

  She was going to have to speak to her about looking so disconsolate. People were soon going to start asking questions, and she didn’t want Mrs. Whittingham buckling under the scrutiny.

  “We’re waiting for Pastor Wyatt,” Brother Hill began, “And then we’ll get started.” He glanced at his watch. “Did anyone see him today?”

  A chorus of nos rose through the room.

  Brother Hill shook his head. “I don’t know what’s keeping him.” And then under his breath, he grumbled, “He’s the one who wanted this darn meeting.”

  Sister Pearline said, “Well, I don’t want to be here all night. Somebody needs to call him so that we can get started.” Jasmine wanted to growl at the old woman for being such a traitor. “Y’all know that I don’t like Monday meetings. Don’t make no sense that I have to miss my CSI.” Jasmine rolled her eyes, but the woman continued, “And anyway, I’ve been thinking about this. It don’t really make no sense to vote in a new pastor when we already got a perfectly good one.” She passed Hosea a girlish grin. “I don’t know what I was thinking, baby. These people,” she pointed to Brother Stevens, “they had me confused.”

  Brother Stevens’s eyes widened. “Sister Pearline…huh, I don’t think we need to talk about this yet—”

  “That’s right,” Brother Hill agreed. “We need to wait until everyone is here for the full discussion.”

  “Then somebody needs to call that pastor!” Sister Pearline pounded her walking stick against the floor. “I’m not going to sit here all night.”

  Hosea said, “Brother Hill, would you mind giving Pastor Wyatt a call? Make sure he’s on his way.”

  Brother Hill nodded before he stepped out of the room.

  The murmurs began, one-on-one conversations around the table.

  Malik whispered to Jasmine, “I would’ve thought Wyatt would have been the first one here.”

  Jasmine nodded. “Maybe he came to his senses.”

  “You’re working under the assumption that the man has some sense to come to.” He chuckled. “And speaking of losing your mind”—he twisted his body so that he faced her and lowered his voice even more—“looks like they’re really pressing charges against Viceroy. Can you believe it?”

  Jasmine shrugged. “I haven’t been following the story.”

  “I don’t know how you can stay away from it. I turn the volume up every time a report comes on New York One about him. I can’t stop—I got that watching-a-train-wreck thing going on.” Malik shook his head. “Soliciting sex from a minor. I would’ve never thought it.”

  Before she could say anything else, Brother Hill returned, stopping all the talk. “I can’t find Pastor Wyatt. He’s not answering his cell, and neither is Enid. And there’s no answer at their home.”

  Hosea’s frown deepened. “What could have happened?”

  This time when the confused mutters began, only Jasmine sat quietly. There was no need for her to speculate—she knew exactly what had happened—those fools had left New York City! Cowards!

  That was not what she wanted. Her hope had been to keep Earvin and Enid around. Work them like she was working Mrs. Whittingham.

  She glanced, once again, down to the other end of the table. Mrs. Whittingham still sat silently, staring. And rocking, even more now, looking like Sofia—Oprah’s character in The Color Purple—after she’d been released from prison.

  Jasmine sighed; that woman was all she had.

  Hosea said, “We can’t do this without the person who called for the vote. So…”

  “We should adjourn.” Brother Hill made that statement as if it made him happy. “I’ll catch up with Pastor Wyatt, and we’ll reschedule.”

  “Make sure it’s not next Monday,” Sister Pearline demanded.

  Brother Hill ignored her. “If there are no other issues—”

  Malik piped in, “This wasn’t on the agenda”—he opened the folder resting in front of him—“but I had planned to share these today—the financials for the last month.” He passed the pages around the table. “We don’t have to discuss this now, but I wanted everyone to see tithes and offerings are almost back to where they were two months ago before Reverend Bush—” He stopped, just like everyone else did when they mentioned the reverend.

  After their eyes scanned the financial page, Jasmine watched Brother Stevens and Sister Clinton exchange a long glance. She wondered if they were willing to vote against Hosea now.

  Not that it mattered—there would never be a vote.

  Brother Hill said, “If there’s nothing else, we’ll reschedule and Sister Whittingham will be in touch.”

  Hosea pushed his chair back and leaned toward Jasmine. “Let’s get out of here,” he kept his voice low, “I want to stop by the hospital for a minute.”

  She smiled, knowing what he wanted to do—he was going to tell his father. “Let me get my purse.”

  “Good night.” Hosea raised his voice and his hand in a farewell wave to the others.

  Jasmine departed without saying a single word to anyone except for Malik. Why should she talk to them after the way they’d turned on her husband? Soon enough all of them would be in line the way they were supposed to be—the Bushes were back in control, and that meant she would keep her crown.

  It had been a hard fight, but she’d won! She deserved to be wearing a tiara. A tiara—that was a good idea. Maybe she would go out and buy one so that she could wear it to church on Sunday.

  And then she’d be Lady Jasmine for real.

  FIFTY-THREE

  JASMINE PRESSED 4 TO LISTEN to the message again.

  “Ah, this is Roxie.” The woman sounded flustered. “Ah, I need a little time. Away. I’ll call you when I’m ready to come back. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, right,” Jasmine whispered as she hit 7 for delete. She knew what this was about—Roxie had probably gone far away so that no one would look at or talk about the woman who’d been dating a pedophile. She would have said good riddance, if she didn’t feel so sorry for Roxie. But she wasn’t too worried—that women had millions to help her find happiness.

  Tossing her phone onto her desk, she strolled to the front of the church for what had to be the fiftieth time in the last two hours. She tried to tiptoe past Hosea’s office, but each time she walked by, he looked up.

  “What’s going down?” he called out to her.

  Dang! She walked backward until she stood at his door. And with a childlike, totally guiltless gaze, she said, “Nothing. I’m working on that Women’s Day event and I’ve been trying to find some of the old programs in the files.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Jasmine hated the way he looked at her sometimes, as if he still doubted every word that came out of her mouth. That was no way to treat his wife.

  She stood in the center of the hallway, away from Hosea’s view, and waved until Mrs. Whittingham looked up. Then she motioned with her finger toward the woman.

  It seemed to take minutes for the woman to waddle behind her, but once the two were alone, Jasmine whispered, “I need you to do something for me.”

  Mrs. Whittingham gasped, and Jasmine wondered if she was going to be sick.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Mrs. Whittingham shook her head. “I can’t do this.”

  “I haven’t asked you to do anything yet.”

  “I can’t jump at your every demand!” the woman exclaimed as her hands flailed through the air. Her voice rose, “I can’t be your slave.”

  “Would you calm down?” Jasmine said, closing her door. She lowered her voice and hoped the woman would follow her example. She didn’t have a lie ready if Hosea came down here and found Mrs. Whi
ttingham hysterical. “I’m not asking you to be my slave.”

  “Yes, you are!” she shot back with tears in her eyes and her voice. “I can’t…” And then the sobs came.

  Jasmine moved toward her, but that was where her compassion ended. “I was going to ask you to let me know when Brother Hill comes in. Or if he calls Hosea.”

  The woman sniffed. “But what about next time? What are you going to want me to do in the next minute, or an hour from now, or tomorrow?”

  “Look,” Jasmine began, her voice stiffer now. “I’m not the one who started this.”

  The woman stared at Jasmine with pleading eyes. “Ivy can never know,” she whispered.

  Jasmine felt a pinch in the corner of her heart. But she ignored it when she said, “I’m just asking you to do me a few favors. It’s nothing like what you did to me.”

  Mrs. Whittingham looked at her for a few moments longer, then nodded. As if she accepted her punishment.

  With a sigh, Jasmine said, “Just let me know when Brother Hill comes in.”

  Without a word, Mrs. Whittingham turned. Opened the door and then dragged away toward the front, as if her desk were located on death row.

  Jasmine slumped into her chair and blew out a long breath of air. It wasn’t easy being a blackmailer.

  Only twenty minutes passed before Mrs. Whittingham buzzed her.

  “Daniel just came in,” she whispered. “He’s in Hosea’s office.” Then she slammed down the phone.

  Jasmine pulled the receiver away from her ear. She couldn’t believe Mrs. Whittingham had dissed her that way, but her thoughts quickly moved beyond that.

  She rushed into the hall, then tiptoed down the carpeted passageway until she was outside Hosea’s office. She ignored Mrs. Whittingham’s disapproving stare and leaned against the wall, trying to hear what Brother Hill and Hosea were saying.

  Their voices were low, muffled—she heard words, but nothing she could understand. Jasmine rushed back to her desk, grabbed a folder, then marched into the hallway. Right outside of Hosea’s office, she took a breath.