Lady Jasmine (9 page)

Jasmine’s eyebrows rose at the mention of money. “How wealthy?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. The rumors say several million.”

“Wow!”

“But it hasn’t been all good. His grown children have been fighting her for the money. So I guess she’s looking for something to do to get away from the church, his seven children, and the two ex-wives for a little while. I think it would be great if you worked with her.”

“She wants to be an armor bearer,” Jasmine said, still not having a clue.

“Like your right-hand person. An assistant. Like Brother Hill is for Pops. She’d help you out, teach you a couple of things about the church, look out for you as you wade through all of this stuff.”

She nodded, but didn’t say a word. Her husband may have thought it was a good idea, but she knew it wasn’t. There was something about that woman—her smile was too wide, her hands were too warm, she was too gracious. And she was defi
nitely too attractive to be trusted.

“Make sure you call her,” he said.

“I will,” she lied.

A million years would pass before she did that. She didn’t want the woman as her friend or her armor bearer. All she wanted was for Roxie to have the good sense to stay far, far away from her husband.

Because she didn’t feel like having any more flashbacks.

I
N HER LIFETIME,
J
ASMINE HAD
intercepted plenty of telephone calls. But today was an accident—good fortune, really. She’d been passing by Mrs. Whittingham’s desk when the telephone rang. She picked it up. And now she was talking to Bishop Henry Bailey, the most renowned pastor in the city.

Jasmine leaned back in the overstuffed chair on wheels that Mrs. Whittingham thought was her throne.

“So what do you think, Bishop Bailey? I would love to stand in for my husband.”

In the pause that followed, Jasmine recalled how this conversation started. How she introduced herself to the bishop as Hosea’s wife. How the bishop had been thrilled to meet her. How he’d asked about Reverend Bush and then went on to explain the reason for his call—to invite Hosea to attend the annual Mayors and Ministers luncheon, which was limited to neither mayors nor ministers, but included the rich and powerful in the tristate area. Jasmine had a been-there-done-that attitude about the rich, but she rarely had the chance to mingle with the powerful. So after she told Bishop Bailey that she doubted if Hosea would want to leave his father’s side on Saturday, she’d offered herself instead.

“Well, you know what, Mrs. Bush,” Bishop Bailey began after his long pause, “that might not be such a bad idea. I know there will be many who will be glad to see you…”

Jasmine’s grin widened.

He finished, “Because they’ll want to know what’s going on with Reverend Bush.”

Okay, so this wasn’t really about her.

“Maybe I’ll have you get up and say a few words. Yeah!” The bishop warmed to the idea. “I’ll make sure you’re on the program.”

Jasmine jotted down the details and ended the call with more pleasantries, more thank-yous, more promises to keep the bishop posted on any change in the reverend’s condition between now and the luncheon on Saturday.

With a smile, Jasmine hung up, leaned back in the chair, and imagined herself in front of the five hundred or so attendees of the two-hundred-dollar-a-plate mixer. But as she settled into the thought of standing on that stage, she heard the cackle, “What are you doing?”

Startled, Jasmine toppled, her feet left the floor, and the chair rolled back, banging into the wall. “Ouch!” she yelled as she hit her head.

But the pain on Jasmine’s face did nothing for Mrs. Whittingham. She stood with her hands on her wide hips and flames in her eyes. “What are you doing at
my
desk?” she asked, her voice sounding like there was a man rising up inside of her.

Still rubbing her head, Jasmine stood. “The phone was ringing and—”

“Stay away from my area,” she growled, as she pushed Jasmine aside to inspect the chair for damage.

Jasmine rolled her eyes. The woman didn’t even care that she might have a concussion. She spun around and marched toward her office, not giving another thought to Mrs. Whittingham. And even though her head still throbbed, Jasmine was
past her pain. Her focus was entirely on the luncheon. And who she would meet. And what she would say. And how she would dress.

Yesterday had been her debut at church, but Saturday would be her unveiling to the most important people in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut.

Being the first lady was paying off already.

N
O ONE FROM THE MEDIA
had the courtesy to call her back!

Not the
New York Post,
not the
Daily News,
not the
New York Times.
She’d placed a call to the
Wall Street Journal
and the local TV and radio stations, and even sent a press package to
Oprah
! But after two weeks and a dozen messages, not one journalist (or Oprah) seemed interested in meeting the fabulous new first lady.

That’s why Jasmine decided to take destiny into her own hands—and go to the people who would listen. She prepared a press package and article for
Gospel Today
and
Christian News.
Surely, sophisticated church folks would want to read about the influence first ladies had on American culture.

She was so into writing her article that she didn’t hear the first knock on her door. Nor the second. It wasn’t until she heard the raspy cough that she looked up.

Mrs. Whittingham stood in the doorway, her face masked in a deep scowl adding dozens of creases to her already-wrinkled forehead.

Every time they’d passed each other since yesterday, Mrs. Whittingham had glared at her. As if that was Jasmine’s punishment for being at the woman’s desk. As if she even cared.

Mrs. Whittingham’s lips hardly moved when she spoke. “Hosea’s finishing up that conference call with the doctors, and he wants you to join him.”

“On the call?”

Mrs. Whittingham shook her head, and her face bunched into an even deeper frown as if the next words pained her. “He wants you to join him for a meeting with Jerome Viceroy.”

The woman turned away, but Jasmine called her back. “I have something for you.” She grabbed the papers she’d typed earlier. “Here’s the church bulletin for Sunday.”

Now there were hundreds of lines in Mrs. Whittingham’s forehead. “What are you talking about? I do the bulletin.”

“I wanted to bring the bulletin into the twenty-first century. So I’ll be working on it from now on.”

Mrs. Whittingham poked out her lips as she read through the pages. And when her eyes stopped moving and her eyebrows rose, Jasmine knew exactly what part she was reading.

She said, “You want
this
to go inside the bulletin?”

Jasmine crossed her arms. “Yeah!” she said with a what-about-it attitude.

Mrs. Whittingham read the words out loud: “Mrs. Jasmine Larson Bush, the first lady of City of Lights at Riverside Church, will now be referred to as Lady Jasmine.” She shook her head, as if she thought those words had been written by a fool. “You want this to go into the church bulletin?” she repeated.

Saying nothing, Jasmine stared her down until Mrs. Whittingham walked away.

Alone, Jasmine sighed, the weight of working with that woman was becoming too much. It was always so difficult to find good people. But there was not a thing she could do about Mrs. Whittingham. She was a fixture in this church—like the old pipe organ that still sat in the sanctuary, even though it hadn’t been played in a year’s worth of Sundays.

Jasmine straightened the silver frame of the picture of
Hosea, Jacqueline, and her taken last Christmas. She’d brought the photo in to put atop her desk this morning, hoping to make Mae Frances’s office feel a bit more like her own. She didn’t plan to move too many things around, though, because her friend had reminded her that this space was hers.

“Remember,” Mae Frances had begun brusquely when Jasmine told her this morning that she was moving in, “that office belongs to me, and when the good reverend and I get back there, we have a lot of work to do.”

Stepping away from the desk, she took a quick glance around. This space was much smaller than the one she had at Rio. And the cherrywood furniture was far from the modern glass-and-chrome pieces that she was used to.

But this room—with its one shelved wall stuffed with Bibles and Christian commentaries, with its tiny, single window that faced the parking lot, with its industrial gray carpet—felt so much like home. Maybe it was because here, she was closer to Hosea. Or maybe it was because here, she was closer to God. Whatever…being here made her happy.

She grabbed a pad before she marched down the hall. Hosea was still on the phone, but he motioned for her to come in; it wasn’t until she stepped inside that she noticed Jerome Viceroy already sitting on the sofa.

He stood up, dressed, as always, in one of his trademark suits. Today it was brown with gold stripes. He licked his lips. “How are you, First Lady?”

She smiled when he called her that. Jerome Viceroy had never been a man whom she liked much—he seemed too smooth (in a throwback-to-the-eighties kind of way). But if he started calling her Lady Jasmine, then the two would become great friends.

A moment later, Hosea joined them.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He shook Jerome’s hand, then motioned for Jasmine to sit next to him.

They’d barely sat when Jerome said, “I wanted to tell you,
Pastor, that was some sermon you gave Sunday.”

“Thank you.”

“Hallelujah, thank you, Jesus,” Jerome said. “After listening to you, I knew I’d done the right thing. It’s a new day at City of Lights.”

On one accord, Hosea and Jasmine frowned.

Jerome continued, “Yes, Jesus. Giving my approval in the board meeting so that you could become the senior pastor, that was the right thing to do, Amen!”

Jasmine wondered why her husband didn’t remind the good councilman that his approval had not been needed.

But Hosea just sat. And smiled. And waited.

“Honestly”—Jerome leaned forward and lowered his voice—“I was glad to hear about your father’s letter.” He held his hand in the air as if he was about to testify. “Because, frankly, Wyatt…” He bowed his head like he was about to pray. “I don’t know about that man and his wife. You know, I heard their marriage is one of convenience and—”

Jasmine moved to the edge of her seat, but before Jerome could add another word, Hosea stopped him. “Now, Brother Viceroy, we don’t need that kind of talk.”

With eyes wide with innocence, he said, “Pastor, this isn’t gossip—glory to God. But sometimes it’s important to know what’s being said in the streets.”

“If my father listened to the streets, you wouldn’t be here.”

Jasmine moved to give Hosea a high five, but then she remembered where she was and sat back in her chair.

The smile that had been on the edge of Jerome’s lips faded. “
Everything
that’s
ever
been said about me…it’s lies, all lies, in the name of Jesus.”

Jasmine wanted to move her chair several feet away before lightning struck them all. Even she never told a lie in the name of Jesus!

And anyway, Jerome Viceroy needed to quit. The eight-term
city councilman moved from one political scandal to another. Extortion. Tax evasion. Money laundering. He’d been charged with all of that and more.

The thing was, Jerome Viceroy had earned his nickname as the Teflon Man. Not one charge had ever held. And after every dismissal, Jerome had been able to stand on the court steps, in front of television cameras, and declare that, “Once again, the government’s vast conspiracy to bring down another God-fearing black man has failed! Hallelujah!”

But game recognized game, and even though Jasmine and Jerome played different sports, Jasmine knew this man was a liar and a cheat. She suspected the people of his district knew what Jerome was, too. But that didn’t stop them from voting for him one election after another.

Jerome would tell anyone who would listen, “I got Harlem on lock!” And those words were true, because many of his constituents understood that sometimes it took someone who was smooth, someone with game, someone who could make moves to bring changes they needed in their neighborhoods.

“Every single thing that has ever been said about me is a lie,” Jerome repeated, as if saying it twice would make it true.

“Well, that’s why my father never removed you from the board, Jerome. Nothing’s ever been proven. And in this country and this church, you’re innocent until someone can prove otherwise.”

“No one will
ever
be able to prove otherwise, Pastor. I’m a man of God, thank you, Jesus. I walk the straight and narrow. I—”

“Jerome,” Hosea looked at his watch, “I’d like to get to the hospital before dark.”

Jasmine giggled—it wasn’t even noon.

“So…” Hosea motioned for the councilman to get on with his business.

“Oh, yes, well.” Jerome pulled a folder from the Louis Vuit
ton messenger bag he carried. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about this.” He handed Hosea a thick binder. Jasmine scooted her chair closer to her husband’s.

Hosea read the cover, “The Harlem Redevelopment Project. Yes, everyone knows what’s going on up here.”

Jerome frowned a little. “So your father talked to you about this?”

“Not extensively.”

“Thank you, Jesus!” Jerome’s smile was back, as if he was relieved.

Thank you, Jesus?
Jasmine frowned.

Hosea continued, “The only thing my father told me was that he wasn’t interested.”

Jerome shook his head so hard that Jasmine was sure his 1980s jheri curls were going to fall straight out of his hair. “No, that’s not true. We were supposed to get together today to discuss this some more. Your father would have never said no to me, because a no to me is a no to Harlem. And your father would never say no to Harlem. Look at the plans,” he said, motioning toward the book Hosea held.

As Hosea flipped through the pages, Jerome kept talking. “Let me get to the bottom line—the developers want this church. City of Lights is right in the middle of the developers’ plans. So here’s the thing.” He grinned. “What they’re willing to pay for City of Lights,” he raised one hand with his forefinger and pinky in the air like he was throwing a gang sign, “it’s stupid.”

Jasmine raised her eyebrows. “How much are they talking?”

This time he looked at her. Licked his lips. Said, “They’re not talking to
you
about anything.” With his chin, he motioned to Hosea. “This is business between men, praise the Lord.”

“You know what—” she began.

“Jerome,” Hosea stopped Jasmine’s words as he pulled her back down into her seat, “my wife is going to be involved in
every aspect of this church’s business. You need to recognize that.”

Jerome leaned back on the sofa, crossed his legs. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. It’s just that, you know, your father and I always handled our business.”

“Like you said, it’s a new day.” Hosea paused. “But, it doesn’t really matter how much they’re offering, because I’m not interested.”

“What if I told you they’d pay,” Jerome paused, as if he were waiting for a drum roll, “eight million dollars!” He sat back and spread his lips into a grin so wide, every single one of his thirty-two teeth shined.

“That’s a lot of money.” Jasmine shifted in her seat. What would a check like that mean? Would it all go to the church, or would Hosea get a million or two or three of it as the pastor?”

“And I’m still not interested,” Hosea said.

Jerome moved to the edge of the sofa. “Okay, okay, that’s what they were talking. But I told them that they were going to have to come correct. So I know that they will go as high as”—he held up his hands—“and this is the final offer…twelve point two million!”

Jasmine’s mouth was open wide, but Hosea said, “And it’s still a no.”

“How can you say that?” It was Jerome who asked the question, but that was exactly what Jasmine was thinking.

“Look, let me get to
my
bottom line,” Hosea said. “I’m not going to make this kind of decision for my father.”

Jerome sat back, stared for a moment. “Can I be honest here?” He paused, licked his lips, glanced from Hosea to Jasmine, then back to Hosea. “We realize this church is important to your family. And we realize that it’s a difficult decision for you to make without your father. So what we’re, I mean, they—the developers—are willing to do is make it easier for you.”

Jasmine grinned. She knew what Jerome was talking about.

Game
always
recognized game.

Jerome said, “Cash…lots of it…can somehow…find its way…to you. All off the record, of course.”

Hosea and Jasmine spoke together.

“How much cash?” she asked.

“My answer is still no,” he said.

Jerome heard Jasmine. “What do you need? Whatever, we can make this happen.”

Before Jasmine could open her mouth, Hosea said, “Not a thing will be happening here.” He stood up, but Jasmine stayed in place. As if she wanted to hear more from Jerome. It wasn’t until Hosea stared her down that she jumped up.

But Jerome still sat, refusing to be dismissed. “Seems like we’re at a bit of an impasse.”

“No, we’re not,” Hosea said matter-of-factly. “Whatever has to happen in Harlem is fine with me. But City of Lights will not be part of this. At least not while my father is…in the hospital.”

Jerome’s teeth were still shining, but his tone was tight. “We don’t have time to wait. We need to make this happen now.”

Shaking his head, Hosea said, “Not going to happen on my watch.”

“Then maybe your watch needs to come to an end.”

Silence. The men stared. Neither flinched. Until Jerome said, “You need to remember that I backed you at the board meeting.”

“I appreciate that, but it was my father’s decision.”

“Things could change if, let’s say, there was another board meeting. If we forced a vote, and with your father down, who knows if that letter will hold up.”

“It’s time to end this conversation.” Now Hosea’s voice was as tense as Jerome’s.

More silence before Jerome stood. “This is not over.” He paused, as if those words were supposed to make a difference.
When Hosea shrugged, Jerome grabbed his messenger bag and stomped toward the door. But before he stepped outside, he added, “I’ve done too much work, made too many promises for this to blow up.”

Hosea just shook his head.

Jerome grasped the doorknob, glanced back over his shoulder, and stared at Jasmine—a look that made her shiver.