by Pat Simmons
Table of Contents
Reviews
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Jeremiah 29:11
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Author’s Note
About the Author
Welcome
What Others Are Saying About Pat Simmons and In Defense of Love…
Author Pat Simmons has done it again. She has written another powerful story that draws you in from the beginning and keeps your attention until the end. Pat has a way of telling a story that makes you feel as if you are a part of each character and also prompts you to take an inventory of your own life.
—Ellowyn Bell
This book is the sweetest romance crafted to perfection and saturated with God’s love.
—Tanishia Pearson-Jones
Characters Book Club
It’s the story of our lives—the ups, downs, and emotions of relationships. An exciting read!
—Andrea Alexander Binion
Publisher’s Note:
This novel is a work of fiction. References to real events, organizations, or places are used in a fictional context. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Holy Bible.
In Defense of Love
The Carmen Sisters ~ Book Two
Pat Simmons
P.O. Box 1077
Florissant, MO 63031
[email protected]
The author is represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc., of Hillsboro, Oregon.
ISBN: 978-1-62911-292-3
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62911-293-0
© 2015 by Pat Simmons
Whitaker House
1030 Hunt Valley Circle
New Kensington, PA 15068
www.whitakerhouse.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (Pending)
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical—including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system—without permission in writing from the publisher. Please direct your inquiries to [email protected].
This book has been digitally produced in a standard specification in order to ensure its availability.
Dedicated to an amazing sister in Christ at Bethesda Temple Church who shared an astonishing testimony about the Lord’s presence.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Book 2 in The Carmen Sisters series would not have been possible without the following people:
Jessica Hougen, curator, U.S. Marshals Museum in Ft. Smith, Arizona.
Cory Thomas, U.S. Marshals Service, Ft. Smith, Arizona.
Jessica Sinkfield, Assistant State Attorney at Miami-Dade State Attorney’s Office. (She also happens to be my cousin.)
Major JaRai A. Williams, attorney, United States Air Force Judge Advocate General’s Corps.
Family, friends, readers, book clubs, my street team, and Jersey captain Mia Harris.
My dark and lovely friends and family: Diamond Flanagan, Joylynn Ross, Rene Daniel Flagler, and Krystal Mims.
Sister Cynthia Patterson (1950–2012).
Agent Amanda Luedeke, MacGregor Literary Agency.
The wonderful staff at Whitaker House, from the editorial department to marketing, for allowing me to tell my stories. Thank you for helping me promote the series.
Special thanks to Chandra Sparks Splond for giving me clarity for In Defense of Love.
My pastor, Bishop James Johnson, and the first lady of Bethesda Temple Church, Lady Juana Johnson.
Descendants of Cole, Wade, Simmons, Sinkfield, Carter, Wilkerson/Wilkinson, Brown, Palmer, and others I have yet to meet.
And most definitely my husband, Kerry Simmons, who not only enjoys our road trips but even books them. I am blessed to have his support. And to Jared and Simi.
For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.
—Jeremiah 29:11
Chapter 1
Garrett Nash’s Boston homecoming was bittersweet. The majority of his family and most of his friends were glad to see him—but not all. There were some who seemed to take pleasure in his discomfort in the aftermath of breaking up with his fiancée. At least their whispers couldn’t be heard in Philly, where he had relocated months ago.
If only he hadn’t needed to return home so soon. But it was his grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, and nothing would keep him away, especially since he was spearheading the program. Only one problem had arisen as the event neared: The original band had canceled, forcing Garrett to scramble to find a replacement.
John Whitman, an old college buddy and the band director at his new home church in Philly, had offered the ensemble’s services. Talk about a godsend. Garrett hadn’t thought twice about accepting the offer.
The instrumentalists would arrive an hour or so before the ceremony. Garrett’s only request was that someone perform one of his grandparents’ favorite songs, Walter Hawkins’s “Thank You.” John had assured him that a fellow saxophonist could play the selection flawlessly.
He hoped so. The slightest off-key note would be a blaring error to his maternal grandfather, Moses Miller, who had taught music theory both in high school and also at a historically black college before retiring. Plus, Grandpa Moses had toured with a band in his heyday. Most in the Miller dynasty didn’t bother reading music, since they could play almost anything by ear.
Sighing, Garrett glanced out the window of his childhood bedroom in Roxbury. The radiance of the sunrise was surreal. It seemed like yesterday that his fate had been sealed without a heads-up.
Grandpa Moses had been livid when he’d gotten the news that Garrett’s fiancée, at the time, was expecting a baby. The rumors, accusations, backbiting, and shame from longtime friends in the church had caused the Miller clan to call for two days of consecration with fasting and prayer. After all, they were a godly family, living a God-fearing life, and scandal was not something that was connected with the Miller name.
Then, on the infamous night of the gathering, a family member had spoken in tongues, and Garrett and his grandfather had both received the interpretation.
“What did God tell you?” His grandfather’s eyes had been weary, reflecting the same heaviness Garrett had felt in his heart.
Garrett had frowned, feeling confused and disturbed. The word from God hadn’t made sense to him. The Lord had told
him to walk away from the job and family he loved and the woman he had vowed to love—everything that was in Beantown. “I’m supposed move.” That hadn’t sounded right to his ears when he’d said it. And now, a couple of months later, he was still baffled.
Deborah, his older sister by two years, had been outraged. “Your fiancée got herself pregnant,” she’d insisted. There had been no love lost between his only sibling and Brittani.
The fault didn’t lie with his ex alone. Regardless of his sister’s outburst, Brittani hadn’t gotten pregnant by herself.
“Granddaughter, my spirit bears witness to Garrett’s. God’s ways aren’t like ours. His decision is final,” their grandfather had stated in a voice that left no room for bargaining.
Their grandmother Queen—a classy, garrulous grand diva who had been aptly named—had seemed to age in seconds. Sniffing, she’d held her peace as she linked her arthritic fingers with her husband’s.
“This pregnancy is not only an embarrassment to our family but a humiliation before God,” Moses had said. “There’s no excuse for any sin, and sexual immorality….” He’d shaken his head.
But he’d been preaching to the choir. The Millers were three—going on four—generations strong of committed Christians. Garrett had been born, reared, and educated in Boston public schools; had completed his undergraduate studies at Boston University; and, at age thirty-one, had transferred from the Department of Homeland Security to the Justice Department as a U.S. Marshal less than a year ago. Life was good. Everything had been going smoothly, until, through no fault of his own, a night of passion—one that never should’ve happened—had altered his life forever. Garrett scowled whenever he thought about it.
“Haven’t I spent years telling you and your cousin Landon, my only grandsons, that you’re supposed to walk uprightly before God, not touching a woman unless she’s your wife? I’m so disappointed. Brittani was bewitching from the start, but God can forgive instantly, as each of us is a work in progress. Look at your move as a blessing in disguise.”
Deborah had snorted. “A blessing, Grandpa? I see it as Brittani dolled up in a church disguise.”
Their mother had frowned. She was long-suffering toward her children until they stepped out of place.
Garrett cleared his mind of the memories. That night had been traumatic. At times, he hadn’t known where he was going—a new city, a new job, a new place of worship. There had been so many questions, but, one by one, the Lord had opened doors and led him to where he lived currently—in Philly, attending a great medium-sized church where he was the new kid on the block and where no rumors circulated about him and his ex-fiancée.
And now he was home, where the pain had escalated. But it was just for a few days. After giving his grandparents the anniversary party of their life, he would be back on the road to Philly, ready to resume his fresh start.
|
“Great,” Shari Carmen groaned when her smartphone chimed. Climbing out of her SUV, she fumbled with her purse and briefcase, then tapped her Bluetooth. “Hello?”
“I need you,” the caller greeted her in a raspy, desperate-sounding male voice.
Shari curled her lips into a mischievous smile. “Does your wife know?” she whispered in the huskiest voice she could muster. She strolled up the pathway to her childhood home, which she shared with her widowed mother. Although Shari could afford pricier real estate in Center City, closer to her downtown office, she preferred her mother’s company—any company, other than a cat’s—to living alone.
“Who do you think put me up to this?” John Whitman demanded in his regular voice.
Laughter spilled out of Shari’s mouth. The church band leader and his wife were known pranksters. She groaned as she inserted the key in her front door. “You and Rita have no shame. Whatever it is, my first and final answer is no.”
She had to watch out for that duo. The only thing that topped their antics was their notorious matchmaking schemes directed at the members of the band and choir at Jesus Is the Way Church. The pair seemed to have the gift, not necessarily from God, for predicting a couple’s compatibility. They had even beaten out a church busybody who was infamous for her get-your-hope-chest-ready-because-you’re-about-to-be-married prophecies. And the church folks were keeping score. So far this year, the Whitmans were leading, five happy couples to Mother Ernestine Stillwell’s one. The senior citizen had cited her last three fiascos as false starts.
“Wait, Sharmaine. Hear me out.”
Sharmaine? Whatever he was calling about, it had to be a doozy. She was surprised John didn’t tack on “Esquire” to her given name.
“It’s a favor for a frat brother, a new church member, a fellow band member—”
“Hmm. Am I supposed to have warm fuzzies by now? I’m not feelin’ it, whatever it is.” She hiked up the steps to her spacious bedroom on the second floor, kicked off her four-inch heels, flopped on the bed, and wiggled her toes. Exhausted from back-to-back court appearances, she was hardly in the mood for granting favors. A deep-conditioning shampoo and a warm bath were the only items on her agenda for the evening.
John sighed. “I’ll cut to the chase. Brother Garrett Nash is in a bind.”
Now that name made Shari pause. His dark complexion, handsome features, and muscular build would make any lady smile—even one with cataracts. The handsome package reminded her of actor Lance Gross. God really did know how to create masterpieces. But dozens of female bees at church were already swarming around him. Shari shook her head. No surprise there.
She recalled the formal introduction of the three new band members—all male—at the last practice she’d attended. Garrett had been the standout of the bunch. Unfortunately, due to her other church ministry obligations, Shari hadn’t rehearsed with the band for almost a month. Still, Garrett was unforgettable.
Curious now, Shari took the bait. “So what does that have to do with me?”
“Garrett asked if some band members wouldn’t mind traveling to Boston to play for his grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary party. Apparently, the musical talent he had booked had to cancel at the last minute. He’s covering the transportation costs, so there’s no expense on our part. Please.”
Shari wasn’t opposed to the travel aspect. The six-hour road trip—five hours, if John drove—would be a piece a cake. She’d traveled with other groups from her church to gospel choir competitions, the pastor’s preaching engagements, and other events; as long as she was back in time to play at Sunday services, it wasn’t a problem. Her lips were forming an “o” for “Okay” when he dropped the bombshell.
“I need you to play ‘Thank You’ for the ceremony,” John said quickly, then rushed on. “Terrell was going to play his sax, but he’s down with the flu. Rod could manage it on his guitar, but, as you know, the horn rules on that song.”
John had just wasted ten precious minutes of his cell-phone plan. No wonder his wife had put him up to badgering her. The answer was still no, and Shari felt no shame in telling him so. “Sorry, can’t do it.”
That solo belonged to one man: her father, Saul Carmen. He was the one who had taught her to play that timeless Walter Hawkins tune, and Shari had thought it would be appropriate to play it one last time at her daddy’s funeral as a tribute. The key phrase was one last time. So what if it had been twelve years since the heart attack that had claimed his life? The song still quickened those bittersweet memories of father-daughter bonding time. She wanted to keep that song hidden in a secret place in her heart forever.
Among the four daughters, Shari liked to think of herself as a bona fide daddy’s girl. She and her father even shared his same rich dark skin, “the color of God’s earth,” as he had described it. And when she’d come of age to notice that a color divide still existed, even within black circles, her daddy had wiped away countless tears when she had been rejected, insulted, or frightened.
“Please, Sharmaine,” John pleaded. “I—we—really do need you.” He sou
nded drained. “Garrett is a perfectionist. I’m frantic now, having committed the band after hearing his desperation.”
That song was a private part of her life that was not available for public viewing. It had sentimental value. She’d thought more about it, and her answer remained no. “If we’re not wearing our robes, and the color scheme is black-and-white, I’ve sent everything to the cleaners and have nothing to wear. Sorry again.” She wasn’t really, but she felt obligated to say it.
John mumbled something, and then his wife came on the line. “Hi, Shari. Rita here. Pick your poison: I can go shopping either with you or for you. Sis, you really are one of the best on tenor sax. I was there when you broke down after playing that song at your father’s funeral. I’m not insensitive. But I believe God will turn your midnight hours into joyful mornings if you play that song for a festive occasion. Do it for Brother Garrett, and God will bless you.”
God had already blessed her—with a career, a car, a healthy bank account. The only things lacking were a husband and children. Unfortunately, at twenty-nine years old and counting, Shari saw no relief from her singleness. Even the church busybody, Mother Stillwell, who took pleasure in tracking down sisters and proclaiming that they were next in line for a husband, wobbled in a different direction when she saw Shari coming. It didn’t matter. The older woman didn’t even have a fifty-fifty accuracy rate.
The Whitmans were relentless as they took turns on the phone, chipping away at Shari’s resolve. In the courtroom, they never would have won the argument; but, because she was hungry, Shari reluctantly caved in so she could go eat dinner.
But after the call, in the quietness of her bedroom, she wondered if she could get through the emotional song without breaking down. At a funeral, people understood her emotional state. A room of strangers definitely wouldn’t understand. “And you call yourself a defense attorney,” she scoffed. “You can’t even defend yourself against those two amateurs.” Then she stood and dragged her feet to her closet to begin a scavenger hunt for a dark skirt and a light-colored top to wear for her “showdown.”
