“Gravy, Arykah got other things to worry about than making a baby.”
“Such as what?” Myrtle asked.
Monique exhaled. “Arykah’s got problems, Gravy. The mothers over at Freedom Temple are giving her the flux.”
“What are they doing to my Sugar Plum? Do I gotta go over to that church and kick some butt? Does some order need to be set?”
Monique laughed at Myrtle. “You’re always trying to come to somebody else’s defense, Gravy. But Arykah can hold her own.”
“Just tell me what’s going on and I’ll decide if I need to pay a visit to Freedom Temple.”
“They did what?” Myrtle was flabbergasted.
Monique shared what the mothers of the church had done to Arykah. “And neither you nor Arykah thought to pick up the phone and call me about this?”
Monique saw blood vessels protruding on Myrtle’s forehead. “Will you please calm down, Gravy. I told you that Arykah can handle her own.”
“But she shouldn’t have to handle her own,” Myrtle said. “Who else besides you is watching her back? And what did y’all do about that red-ink situation?”
“We couldn’t do anything. Lance wouldn’t let us. But the mothers won’t get away with what they did.” Monique thought about the private meeting that was held in Arykah’s office at church yesterday. “Eventually, they’ll get what’s coming to them.”
“Y’all got a plan?” Myrtle asked.
Monique smirked.
Chapter 10
At noontime Tuesday afternoon, while seated with a client at Gibson’s Steak House, Arykah inserted a forkful of well-done prime rib into her mouth. “Okay, Jeremy. This morning was the third time that I’ve shown you the estate in Belfor. A month ago you contacted me and stated that you wanted me to find you a five-bedroom, four-bath home with a walk-out basement. I’ve found the perfect home for you, and it has a chef’s kitchen. Are you ready to make an offer?” Arykah worked with a strategy. Every time she showed a home to a client, she offered to buy them lunch or dinner afterward to discuss the details of the home to try to persuade them to buy. “And remember how lovely that first-floor study was? The built-in bookshelves and brand-new Berber carpet sets the tone for a bestselling author such as yourself to get lost in time while creating masterpieces.”
Jeremy Montahue, a four-time New York Times bestselling author of horror fiction, had outgrown his two-bedroom, one-bath condominium in downtown Chicago. He was willing to give up his view of Lake Michigan and his five-minute walk to Navy Pier for a more luxurious single-family home. “Arykah, I must say that the home office in the Belfor estate was the highlight of the home for me. My home office is where I spend most of my time, but the office at the estate isn’t manly enough for me. I’m not fond of the light colored carpeting or the standard egg-shell paint on the walls. There aren’t any window treatments, which bring in way too much light for my liking.”
Arykah laughed. “I can understand that coming from an author who writes about ghosts and goblins. So, let me ask you this, Jeremy. If the home office in the Belfor estate had dark wood paneling on the walls and dark wood flooring and thick, custom Italian drapes on the windows, you’d buy the house?”
Jeremy drank from a glass of pink lemonade, swallowed two gulps, then set the glass on the table. “If you can make that happen for me, Arykah, then you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Arykah smiled. “I have the perfect interior designer for this project, Jeremy. Shall we make an appointment this afternoon and get started on making your vision come true?”
“Arykah, I have a manuscript to complete, and I’m working against a deadline. My editor will have my hide if I don’t turn it in on time. My schedule doesn’t allow me the luxury to shop and choose paint, drapes, and flooring. You know what my vision is for my home office. I trust that you can handle that for me.” Jeremy’s words weren’t a question; they were a statement bordering on command.
Arykah knew that if she wanted the sale, she’d have to work harder for it. “Of course, I can, Jeremy.” She picked up her glass of iced tea and held it across the table.
Jeremy picked up his glass of lemonade and connected it with Arykah’s glass.
“To handling it,” Arykah said.
Jeremy smiled. “To handling it.”
Arykah paid the bill; then she and Jeremy headed to the realtor’s office. She was excited to write up the paperwork for Jeremy to sign and present his offer of $760,999 for the Belfor estate to the seller.
An hour before Bible class began, Mother Gussie walked into Lance’s office wearing her winter coat and holding a large envelope in her hand.
“I’m heading home, Bishop,” Mother Gussie said. She extended the envelope across Lance’s desk for him to take. “A courier left this for you.”
Lance sat behind his desk studying the lesson he was going to teach that evening. He looked up and saw Mother Gussie extending the envelope his way. He took the envelope from her hand. “Thank you, Mother. You’re not staying for Bible class?”
“My arthritis is singing. I’m going home to soak in Epsom salt.”
Lance glanced at the envelope and didn’t see a return address in the upper left corner.
He flipped the extremely thin envelope over and didn’t find a return address on the back.
Then he looked up at Mother Gussie standing on the opposite side of his desk. “There’s no return address on this envelope. Do you know who sent it?” he asked while reaching for his letter opener.
“No, Bishop. I have no idea,” she lied effortlessly.
Lance slid the letter opener beneath the sealed flap of the envelope and tore it open.
He looked inside and frowned. The envelope contained an eight-by-ten colored photograph.
He pulled the photograph from the envelope and studied the picture.
Mother Gussie stood holding her breath.
“Wow,” Lance said as he looked at the photograph.
“Something wrong, Bishop?”
For the longest moment Lance didn’t say a word.
“Bishop?”
Lance placed his hand over his mouth and shook his head from side to side as if he was looking at something horrific, and then said, “You know, Mother, if I hadn’t realized it before, I certainly realize it now.”
That your wife is a tramp? “What’s that, Bishop?”
Lance turned the photograph around to show Mother Gussie what he was looking at.
“That I have the most beautiful wife in this world.”
The photograph revealed Arykah and a Caucasian man seated at a restaurant, having dinner and holding up drinking glasses across the table. They were smiling and seemed to be making a toast.
“Look at how pretty Arykah’s hair is in this picture,” Lance said. “And her blouse is pretty. I love when Arykah wears the color red. It accentuates her light complexion. And that smile she’s wearing. Wow,” Lance said again. “Isn’t she lovely?”
That was not the reaction Mother Gussie expected from him. He didn’t even acknowledge the man in the picture. She had hoped that seeing his wife out on what appeared to be a date with another man would send Lance over the edge. But all he saw was the fat cow in a red blouse.
“Isn’t she lovely, Mother?” Lance repeated his question. “I mean, have you ever seen a more elegant first lady?”
Lance put Mother Gussie on the spot. Heck, no, she ain’t elegant. How can anyone consider a loud-mouthed, trailer-trash tramp to be elegant? Mother Gussie looked at the photograph again and realized that her and Mother Pansie’s Plan C had failed. “Yes, Bishop, Lady Arykah is quite lovely.” Mother Gussie swallowed the words like she was swallowing thumbtacks.
Lance spun around in his chair and picked up an eight-by-ten frame from his credenza.
The frame held a picture of him standing on a golf course, wearing golf attire, swinging a golf club. He removed the photograph from the frame and replaced it with the photograph of Arykah and the strange man having dinner. Then h
e set the frame back on the credenza. “I think that’s my new favorite photo of Arykah.”
Mother Gussie looked at Lance, then at the photograph, then back at Lance.
“Good night, Bishop.” With that being said, she pursed her lips, then turned and left Lance’s office.
When Lance turned the knob on the master bedroom door, he saw candles burning on his and Arykah’s nightstands. The smell of a country garden filled the room. The fresh flowers that sat in a vase on the dresser were doing their job. Jazz music flowed through the built-in speakers in the walls.
Suddenly, Arykah appeared from the master bathroom wearing a long, black, sheer duster. “Welcome home, Bishop,” she smiled seductively.
Lance studied Arykah’s nude body through the duster she was wearing. “I could get used to coming home to a greeting like this.”
Arykah slowly strutted over to the bed and lay on it, all the while keeping her eyes on Lance’s eyes. “I sold the Belfor estate today.”
“Congratulations.”
“And I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate than to make wild passionate love to my husband. So, you wanna join the party?”
“You know I do,” Lance said mischievously. Arykah was turning him on big time.
She ran her hand along the length of the duster. “Well, come on over here and unwrap your gift.”
“A gift you are, baby.” Lance undressed and joined his wife on the bed.
On Sunday morning, Arykah appeared from the master closet dressed in a dark violet suit. It was the fifth outfit she modeled for Lance that morning. The jacket had an asymmetrical effect with pearls decorating the wrists at the end of the sleeves. The short skirt stopped just above Arykah’s knees. She wore a matching dark violet hat with a five-inch wide brim. On her feet were black Jessica Simpson six-and-a-half platform stilettos.
Lance lay in bed. He had gotten used to Arykah’s fashion shows every Sunday morning, and he looked forward to them. “Very nice, Cheeks. That’s the perfect look for the perfect first lady.”
Arykah brought Lance’s attention to her feet. “But what about the stilettos? These are extremely high. Do they look hookerish?”
Lance laughed. “Hookerish? No, not at all. They look good on your feet. In fact, they look so good that I want you to come to bed in those tonight.”
At Freedom Temple, Monique and Arykah were in Arykah’s office chatting when there was a knock on the door.
“It’s open,” Arykah announced.
The door opened, and a woman poked her head inside. “Excuse me, Lady Arykah, may I have a word with you before morning service begins?”
Arykah stood from her desk and approached the woman at the door. “Absolutely. Come on in.” Arykah opened the door wider and saw that the woman wasn’t alone. With her was a young lady Arykah recognized as a choir member. “What’s your name?”
Arykah asked the woman when she and the girl were inside the office.
The woman extended her hand to Arykah. “I’m Gladys Blackmon.”
Arykah shook Gladys’s hand and looked at the young girl. “I know your face. You sing in the choir, right?”
The young girl was afraid to speak to Arykah. Tears were on the borderline of her lower eye ducts.
“This is my daughter, Miranda,” Gladys said.
Arykah looked into Miranda’s eyes. “Are you okay?”
Now the tears fell onto Miranda’s cheeks. She didn’t answer.
“Miranda has gotten herself into some trouble,” Gladys said.
Arykah’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? You want to talk about it, Miranda?”
Still nothing from Miranda.
Monique stood from her chair. She knew when to give Arykah privacy. “Lady Arykah, I will meet you down in the sanctuary.”
“Thanks, Monique,” Arykah said.
When Monique closed the door behind her, Arykah invited Gladys and Miranda to sit in the chairs on the opposite side of her desk. Arykah sat behind her desk and looked at Miranda. “Okay, Miranda. Let’s see if we can get you out this trouble you’re in. Can you tell me what the problem is?”
No words came from the young girl’s throat.
“Open your mouth, Miranda, when the first lady speaks to you,” Gladys ordered.
Clearly, whatever the problem was, Arykah knew she wasn’t going to get Miranda to confide in her. “Gladys, why don’t you tell me what Miranda’s problem is?”
Gladys sat back in her chair and crossed her left leg over her right knee. She exhaled loudly. “Miranda is fifteen years old and pregnant.”
Not only was Miranda crying, but Arykah saw tears forming in Gladys’s eyes as well.
Arykah looked into Miranda’s eyes. “Is that true, Miranda? Are you pregnant?”
Miranda wiped tears from her face. “Yes.”
“Tell her the rest,” Gladys ordered her daughter.
Miranda hesitated. “I, um, I want to have an abortion.”
Arykah focused on Gladys’s eyes. “And how do you feel about Miranda’s decision?”
Gladys tried to blink away her tears. When a single tear had fallen onto her cheek, she wiped it away. “I’m disappointed in Miranda. I’m a single mother, and I work two jobs just to keep the bills paid and food on our table. I’m not thrilled about her pregnancy, but I’m against her having an abortion. The last thing I wanted for my daughter was for her to become a teenage mother, but an abortion is something that I just can’t approve of. But the decision isn’t up to me. If Miranda wants to terminate her pregnancy, the laws in Illinois protect her right to do so. At fifteen years old, she doesn’t need my consent.”
Arykah felt Gladys’s pain. She could only imagine having to work two jobs to make ends meet. Single mothers certainly have it hard. Arykah wondered if Miranda’s father played a significant role in her life. But since Gladys didn’t mention Miranda’s father, Arykah didn’t inquire about him.
“Miranda, I know you feel as though the weight of the world is on your shoulders right now. And I understand that, at fifteen years old, you don’t want the responsibility of having to care for a baby. But have you considered adoption as an alternative? There are so many people who’d love to adopt your baby and give it a good life.”
“We’ve talked about that,” Gladys said. “But Miranda doesn’t want to go through the embarrassment of carrying a baby to term at fifteen years old.”
Arykah looked at Miranda. “Do you think of yourself as an embarrassment?”
“No.”
“Then you shouldn’t think of your baby as an embarrassment either. All babies are miracles, no matter how they get here.”
Miranda wiped more tears from her face. “But folks will talk about me. What do I do when people walk up to me and say bad things?”
You tell them to kiss your—Arykah immediately apologized to the Lord for her thought. She leaned forward and placed her elbows on top of her desk and folded her hands. “Sweetheart, you can’t control what folks will and will not say about you. But remember this one thing; you don’t owe anything to anybody. I want you to repeat after me. Ain’t nobody got a heaven or hell to put me in.”
Miranda slowly said the words. “Ain’t nobody got a heaven or hell to put me in.”
“Say it louder,” Arykah encouraged.
“Ain’t nobody got a heaven or hell to put me in.”
“Whatever decision you make, Miranda, I want you to make it because it’s something that you want to do. Please don’t base your decision on what other folks might say about you. I can’t tell you what to do, but I do want to put something in your mind. In your womb may be a future president of our country. You really won’t know what your child could be unless you afford it a chance at life. So, I want you to think about that and talk it over with your mom. She doesn’t want you to have an abortion and, truth be told, I don’t either, but the decision is yours.”
“I don’t want an abortion anymore,” Miranda mumbled.
Gladys looked at her daughter.
“What did you say?”
Miranda spoke with conviction in her voice. “I don’t want to have an abortion. I wanna keep my baby.”
Gladys reached over and hugged Miranda. “I’m so happy to hear that. We’re gonna get through this.”
Arykah was pleased with the outcome of the meeting, and she was happy that Gladys and Miranda came to her for help and guidance.
Miranda let go of the embrace from her mother and looked at Arykah. “Thank you, Lady Arykah. I’m so happy my mother made me talk to you.”
Arykah smiled. “You’re welcome. My door is always open to you. You have a long, difficult road ahead of you, but if you ever get discouraged, come see me. And don’t forget to send me an invitation to the baby shower.”
“Oh no. There won’t be a baby shower,” Gladys said.
Arykah frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“The mothers of the church don’t condone unwed pregnant girls to have baby showers. They feel that throwing a baby shower for an unwed mother is an abomination against the Lord. Mother Pansie says that by giving Miranda a baby shower is approving of the sin she committed. She says that a baby shower is thrown to celebrate a new life that’s conceived by married folks.”
“Mother Pansie told me that my baby will be a bastard and bastards aren’t to be recognized or celebrated,” Miranda said.
Arykah sat behind her desk with her chin in her lap. Her mouth was open so wide, Miranda and Gladys could probably have seen what her last meal consisted of. “Never in all of my life have I heard such foolishness,” Arykah chuckled. By no means did Arykah think what Mother Pansie said to Miranda was humorous. The chuckle was a reaction to how much gall Mother Pansie had for uttering such evil and hateful words to a fifteen-year-old girl. It was quite sad at how low the mothers of the church would stoop to keep control over the women. “Miranda, listen to me. Being the pastor’s wife, I have to step in and take action when I am made aware of wrongdoing in this church. I apologize for what Mother Pansie said to you about your baby, and I want you to let it roll off your back.” Arykah turned her attention to Gladys. “Now about the baby shower. How do you feel about it?”
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