Lady Jasmine

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  “I wanted to pay my respects, Pastor.” The next woman in line leaned in and pretended to aim for Hosea’s cheek. “Oops,” the woman giggled when her lips made contact with his.

  Flashback!

  Jasmine’s fingers curled into a fist. But before she could take a swing, another female was in his face.

  “You have certainly grown up.” This time it was a gray-haired woman smiling and stroking his hand.

  When the woman, who had to be almost twice his age, stood as if she planned on having a long conversation, Jasmine said, “Uh, honey. There’re other people waiting.”

  The woman’s blue-shadowed eyes rolled, and she stayed as if she didn’t plan to move. But this time, Jasmine didn’t have to do a thing. The next woman in line pushed the older woman out of the way.

  “Oh, Pastor!”

  And Jasmine thought, What a ridiculous hat! There were so many feathers on the golden apparatus the woman wore that Jasmine was sure the hat and the woman would take flight at any moment.

  The feather-wearing woman said, “I was hoping, Pastor, that you could take some time…and pray with me.” She lowered her eyes and jiggled her cleavage as if it was her chest that needed prayer. “I could come by your office tomorrow—”

  “Why don’t you call Sister Whittingham,” Hosea said. “We’ll have the Intercessory Prayer team lift you up every day this week.”

  “Well, actually, what I need is personal—”

  Before she could finish, Jasmine said, “Next,” and, with her hip, shoved the woman out of the way.

  It seemed as if an hour passed before all of the kissing and stroking and jiggling was over. And when there was no one left standing, Jasmine waited until Brother Hill escorted Hosea to his office before she dashed into the restroom.

  Inside the stall, she breathed with relief and rested on the seat for a moment before she heard the door swing open.

  “Did you see that stupid hat?”

  The response, “I couldn’t believe it. Country! That woman ain’t nothin’ but country.”

  “Not just country, girl, a country-bama for real.”

  When they laughed, Jasmine wanted to join them. She knew who they were talking about: that woman in that ridiculous feathered contraption.

  “And wearing white in February. How country is that?”

  More laughter, and Jasmine slowly rose from the seat.

  The chatter continued. “She ain’t never had no class. Was nothing but a Jezebel when Pastor met her.”

  “And not a thing has changed.”

  “I will never understand why he married her, but why did he stay married after he found out about the baby?”

  “It don’t make no sense. Especially when he has so many women to choose from right here in the church. Including me!”

  “Girl, I saw you pushing up on Pastor. But you better recognize—he’s married.”

  “And how long do you think that’s going to last?”

  “I’d say forever,” Jasmine spoke through the closed door, and imagined their shocked looks. She waited a couple of beats, letting them stew, before she showed her face.

  Their eyes were opened as wide as their mouths as she moved toward the women—her eyes on the one in the yellow-feathered device. The one who had asked for special prayer and was about to need it for real.

  The two stood frozen until Jasmine was right in front of them. And then, they parted like the Red Sea, giving Jasmine a clear path to the sink.

  Not a word was spoken as Jasmine turned on the water, and while she washed, she stared down the women through the mirror. Still they stood, still as stone.

  When Jasmine reached for a hand towel, the woman in the yellow hat found enough nerve to stutter, “Ah…M-mrs. Bush…”

  Drying her hands, Jasmine said, “You don’t have to apologize.”

  The one no taller than a third-grader smiled as if she’d been forgiven. “We didn’t mean nothin’, Mrs. Bush. We were playin’. Just girls talkin’. You know?”

  “Oh, I know that.” Jasmine dried her hands. “You had to be playin’, ’cause I know there’s no one crazy enough in this church to mess with me.”

  Only Jasmine laughed.

  “You’re right, Mrs. Bush,” the short one said.

  Jasmine held up her hand. “Don’t call me that. My husband is the senior pastor; you should be addressing me as ‘First Lady.’”

  The women looked at each other before they said, “Okay.”

  Jasmine took two steps toward the door, then turned back. “Change that. Forget about First Lady. Call me Lady…Lady Jasmine.”

  She didn’t think it was possible for their mouths to open wider than before—but she was wrong. Jasmine spun around and left them standing in the bathroom.

  In the hallway, she lifted the hat from her head. She sighed with a bit of embarrassment, but more with relief—that thing was giving her a headache. It was clear—hats weren’t going to be her thing.

  Tucking the almost ten-pound apparatus underneath her arm, she marched proudly to her husband’s office.

  Jasmine held Jacqueline’s hand as they walked down the long hallway of the left wing of City of Lights, which housed the children’s church. As Jacqueline tottered beside her, Jasmine couldn’t stop thinking about the women in the bathroom. She’d never been one to care much about what others thought, but somehow those words hurt. Because it wasn’t just about her anymore. Everything she said, wore, or did reflected on Hosea. She couldn’t make any mistakes.

  White in February?

  Those women had laughed, as if someone wearing white in February was the dumbest thing they’d ever seen. What was wrong with that? In L.A., everyone wore white any time they wanted. But this was New York, and maybe she needed help. Maybe she needed a fashion coordinator who could turn her into a true fashionista. She’d get working on that tomorrow.

  She looked down at Jacqueline moving merrily beside her, still wearing her fur hat. When she found her fashion consultant, Jacqueline would be her client, too.

  The moment she and Jacqueline stepped from the building, her daughter tore away from her and broke into a toddler run.

  “Daddy!” she exclaimed, already spotting her father.

  Jasmine wanted to tell her daughter to be careful, but all of her attention was on their SUV. And the long, lean frame of the woman perched on the hood like she was posing for an ad. It took only seconds for Jasmine to measure her—the expensive knit suit, the smartly spiked hair, the flawlessly applied makeup. The woman slid off their car when Hosea lifted Jacqueline into his arms.

  He kissed Jacqueline’s cheek and then did the same to Jasmine. “Darlin’, I want you to meet an old friend.”

  Jasmine sighed. Another one? All of her husband’s too many old female friends were making her sick. And she planned to tell him that the moment they were alone.

  The woman extended her hand and her smile. “I’m Roxie Willis.” Jasmine still wasn’t feeling her until she added, “It’s so nice to meet you, First Lady.”

  Now Jasmine returned her smile.

  When Roxie said, “You must be Jacquie,” and then squeezed her daughter’s hand, Jacqueline giggled.

  Jasmine relaxed, a little. Her daughter was the best barometer, and if she liked Roxie, then the woman had to be okay.

  “Reverend Bush has told me so much about the two of you…well, the three of you,” she said to Jasmine. “I haven’t seen Hosea in years, but I wanted to drop by this morning to support both of you. I’m so sorry to hear about your father-inlaw.”

  It was the first time someone offered condolences straight to her, and Jasmine warmed to this woman more. Roxie understood her place as Hosea’s wife.

  “Thank you,” Jasmine said, putting as much grief into her voice as she could. “We’re all still prayerful.”

  Roxie nodded.

  Jasmine said, “You’re not a member here?”

  “No, I’m at First Faith Chapel. But who knows, I might start coming here
now.”

  It was the way she looked at Hosea that tore away every single one of those good feelings Jasmine had for her.

  “Listen,” Roxie began as she searched through her purse, “I’m going to let you guys get going, but First Lady, let me give you my card.”

  Jasmine took a quick glance at the simple linen card embossed with Roxie’s name and number.

  Roxie said, “I don’t have much to do these days, and I know you’re going to need some help. I might make a good armor bearer.”

  “Roxie,” Hosea began with cheer in his voice, “I can’t believe you’d offer to do that. That would be great.”

  “Yeah,” Jasmine added, even though she had no idea what an armor bearer was.

  “So give me a call,” Roxie said to Jasmine. “We can do lunch and talk about it.” Then, before she stepped away, she rested her hand on Hosea’s arm and winked. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  If Hosea hadn’t been standing there, she would have torn Roxie’s card into a dozen pieces right in front of her face.

  What was with these women? They had all but ruined her debut.

  Roxie strutted away, and even Jasmine had to take notice how the knit of her dress hugged her ample behind. She turned to Hosea, and when she saw that his eyes were where hers had been, she snatched Jacqueline from his arms.

  “Hey,” he said, coming out of his trance, “I was gonna strap her in.”

  “I’ll do it. You seem busy.”

  “Nah, nah, I wasn’t busy,” he said, before he took a final glance Roxie’s way. He held the door open for Jasmine to slip into the car and ignored her when she rolled her eyes.

  Turning on the ignition, he asked, “Wasn’t that nice of Roxie?”

  “Who is she, Hosea?”

  A small sigh and a slight nod, as if he understood her jealousy. As if he felt responsible for it. “She’s an old friend, Jasmine,” he said, his voice filled with patience.

  “Seems like you have a lot of those.”

  “I do, but,” he reached for her hand, “I have only one wife. There’s only one woman I love.”

  She wanted to slap him away, but how could she after that? So she squeezed his hand, letting him know that it was all forgiven—for now.

  “Anyway,” he said as he backed the SUV out of the parking space, “Roxie is one woman you’d never have to worry about. She’s not hardly interested in me. She has quite a life.”

  “What life? She said she didn’t have much to do.”

  “Well, she may not have a nine-to-five, but believe me, her hands are full. Her husband passed away while we were in L.A.—Reverend Willis, remember him? He was one of Pops’s mentors.”

  “Oh, yeah. She was married to him?”

  Hosea nodded. “She was his third wife and thirty years younger. But Roxie seems to be doing all right. I guess it helps that Reverend Willis left her quite a wealthy woman.”

  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 definitely 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.

  FOURTEEN

  IN HER LIFETIME, JASMINE 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.

  FIFTEEN

  NO 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 p
eople 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.