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 Vuitton 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.
“You’re going to regret this.” His words were for Hosea, but his eyes were still on Jasmine. “I’m going to do what I have to do.”
And then he was gone.
Hosea’s chuckle was without humor. “Can you believe that guy?”
Jasmine shook her head but didn’t say a word. Even when Hosea wrapped his arms around her, all Jasmine could do was remember the way Jerome had looked at her.
And she shivered again. Because true game always recognized true game.
SIXTEEN
EVEN THOUGH THE DUVET COVERED every part of her body, Jasmine shivered. Jerome’s words had stayed with her for the rest of the day, followed her home, and were still with her now as Hosea slept in peace next to her.
You’re going to regret this. I’m going to do what I have to do.
Jerome’s threat was meant for Hosea, but he’d been looking straight at her—as if she was his real target.
With wide eyes, she glanced at the clock. It was because of Jerome that she lay awake now at three in the morning. But it was because of the flashes of her past that she trembled in the dark.
Since this afternoon, she felt as if Jerome’s threat and her past were connected. But they couldn’t be. He couldn’t possibly know anything about those days. That time was so long ago…
Her life as a stripper.
It all began with a phone call back in ’83.
From her father.
“Jas, honey, I’m so sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”
She had sat on the stool inside her studio apartment with the telephone pinned to her ear. “But, Daddy,” she cried, “how am I going to pay the rent? How am I going to pay for my tuition and my books?”
She imagined her father sitting at the small, round kitchen table in their Inglewood home, still in his robe, even though in better days he would have been at work by now. She could see him shaking his head, with tears in his eyes, so sorry for the fact that the savings he’d once had were now gone.
But his sorrow wasn’t enough to get her through.
“I don’t have it anymore,” he said.
Was “it” the money that she needed to finish her senior year at UCLA? Or was “it” some kind of drive—because her father never seemed to have had that. She loved her father to pieces, but he’d always disappointed her as a dad. He wasn’t anything like the fathers of her friends who attended the private school that she went to. Those men were doctors and lawyers and teachers. Her father, as hardworking as he was, was a longshoreman, and she was in the second grade when she learned she was supposed to be embarrassed by that. When the kids had laughed at him and her on Daddy Day. When they’d made fun of the man who’d shown up in his work clothes—including his plaid shirt and hard hat. Her seven-year-old classmates made it known then that she—and her family—weren’t good enough. And that had been confirmed a year later, when she’d overheard a teacher calling her “one of the scholarship students.” At the time, Jasmine wasn’t sure what a scholarship student was, but the teacher’s tone alone made her feel ashamed.
Her father spoke through those bad memories, “I’m going back to work in a few weeks, but with me working one job now, I don’t know how I can do it all.”
“Daddy…”
“I know I’ve let you down, sweetheart, but…”
He paused, so that she could say something like, “That’s all right.” But she’d been saying “That’s all right” her whole life.
She’d told him it was okay when she was in the sixth grade and she couldn’t take the class trip to San Diego. She’d told him she was fine when he didn’t have the money for her middle-school yearbook. And forget about the senior prom, or the senior trip, or her class ring.
“We just have enough for the basics and school,” she’d grown up hearing. “Because your mother and I want to give you girls the best education possible—and that includes college. We want to make sure you have the kind of future we never had.”
Well, the future was here. She had one more year, but her father was letting her down—once again.
Breaking through her lamentation, he said, “When I go back to work, I’ll be putting in as many extra hours as I can. We’ll get you through school—maybe not in one year, but you’ll be able to finish. Your mother would—” He stopped.
>
Just saying “your mother,” made them both sob. But as she cried for her mother, she thought about her father’s words.
Maybe not in one year, but you’ll be able to finish. How long did he expect her to wait?
“Daddy,” she said through her tears, “maybe we can get a loan.”
“Sweetheart, you know how I feel about that. And anyway, no one is going to give me any money. Even this house is tapped out because of…”
He didn’t have to finish; she sobbed even more.
“You know what this means, Jas,” her father began through his own cries.
What?
“I can’t afford that apartment anymore.”
What!
He said, “But I’ll take the bus every day so that you can take my car.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “Really, honey, this is going to be a good thing. Your sister and I need you. Serena’s trying to be brave, but she’s only fifteen and”—another sob—“it’s going to be so hard without your mother.”
Now he cried for real. And she did, too.
It took about a minute before he gathered himself enough to talk and she collected herself enough to listen.
“So you pick a time, and Serena and I will be right there to help you pack.”
“Daddy, I’ll call you later.”
“Jasmine…”
She was still sniffing when she’d hung up. Her heart was aching for her mother; her head was hurting from her father. After all she’d been through, did he really want her to move back home? What would her friends say?
And what was worse, how was she supposed to leave Kenny alone, free to wander the whole campus without her? Kenny Larson was no longer the star running back of the UCLA football team, but the hussies still chased her boyfriend like he was about to sign a seven-figure contract in the NFL. Even though he’d been injured, Jasmine was sure Kenny was still going to be a star, and the witches who roamed the campus knew that, too. That’s why the women were always hovering, waiting for the opening so that they could step to Kenny. That’s why she had to stay close—to protect the investment that she’d had in Kenny since the eleventh grade. As far as she knew, Kenny had always been faithful. But her trust went only so far—her faith definitely didn’t go ten miles south on the freeway. If she moved back home, Jasmine knew the temptation all around campus would be too much for Kenny to bear.
Lady Jasmine Page 9
