“No.” Jasmine paused, still not sure what she was looking for. “My father wanted to talk to Mr. Hobbs about the work he already did.”
“Well, it’s going to be hard to get in touch with him. Mr. Hobbs retired almost three years ago.”
Jasmine frowned. “But that can’t be, because he just sent us the report…”
“Oh, that,” the man said. “Well, we did have to clear out his files. He asked us to mail any of the reports that were never sent to his clients.”
“Oh.” Her brain was turning fast. If Leonard Hobbs had retired that long ago, that meant Reverend Bush had hired the investigator before she and Hosea were married.
“So why didn’t Mr. Hobbs mail us this before?”
“Well, I couldn’t really tell you, but reports are usually only kept if someone cancels an investigation, if someone changes their mind. Maybe that’s what happened with your father.”
Maybe.
The man continued, “But by law, we can’t destroy the report for a couple of years. When did your dad file for the investigation?”
“Uh…I…”
“Do you have the report with you?”
“Yeah,” Jasmine said, flipping through the pages.
“Maybe I can help you figure this out. There’s a date of origin—usually on the last page.”
Jasmine flipped to the back. Saw one number that didn’t make sense. “There’s nothing here except two, zero, zero, four slash zero, two.”
“That report was originated in February 2004. If your father is just getting it in the mail, he probably canceled the investigation and we just sent him the part that Mr. Hobbs had already done.”
It was with great relief that she said, “Okay, it makes sense now. Thank you so much for your help.”
“Anytime. Let us know if your father…or you…need any more work.”
Slowly, she dropped the phone into the cradle. A cacophony of thoughts spun through her mind, but at least it was all good.
Reverend Bush had hired an investigator in Los Angeles when he first met her. When he didn’t trust her. But once he came to love her, he’d canceled the report, probably believing that whatever was in her past needed to stay there.
The only thing was, now he did know. He hadn’t requested the report, but it was in his hands, nonetheless.
Jasmine nodded, her brain already working. She had no plans to tell Hosea, if Reverend Bush never said a word, never remembered. And that was her prayer—that the report would be lost forever in his mind.
Only time would tell if that prayer would be answered.
But even if Reverend Bush remembered, it would be weeks, months, before anything would happen. Dr. Lewis said he’d be confused for a while, so she had plenty of time to come up with another plan.
This was nothing but God’s grace.
Jasmine shook her head with that thought. How the years had changed her. She never used to think about God, but now she couldn’t get away from Him. Not that she wanted to. It was as if He was always trying to show Himself to her. As if He wanted her to know that He was always there.
She was beginning to get it—seeing grace from the inside. Maybe it was time to pass a bit of that grace on.
She pushed herself from her chair and walked to the door. She called out to Mrs. Whittingham; there was no answer.
Jasmine strolled to the front, but the chair behind the woman’s desk was empty. Mrs. Whittingham and her purse were gone.
Oh, well. She’d found that compassionate place in her heart, and she wanted to share. But she’d see Mrs. Whittingham later today, or tomorrow. And then she would share the grace that had been passed on to her.
Jasmine wasn’t sure if it was relief or seeing grace from the inside, but when she returned to her office, she dropped down on her knees and thanked God for all that He’d done.
He had never forgotten her, and her prayer was that she always remembered that.
FIFTY-SEVEN
IT WAS RIDICULOUS THE WAY good works kept evading her.
Jasmine was trying to do this wonderful deed, but no matter what, she couldn’t get to Mrs. Whittingham.
Last night at the hospital, the woman had walked out of the room as soon as Jasmine had come in. After she’d sat with Hosea and her father-in-law for a couple of minutes, she’d searched the hospital halls for Mrs. Whittingham, but she was gone again. Then this morning, she’d waited for Mrs. Whittingham to show up at the hospital, but she never came.
Jasmine knew that the woman was doing everything to avoid her, and at first she thought about waiting until tomorrow. Surely, Mrs. Whittingham wouldn’t miss church. But the thought of the call she’d made to the private investigator yesterday stayed on her mind, and she knew she had to do this now.
Jasmine twisted the SUV into the visitor’s space of Lenox Terrace, in exactly the same spot where she’d parked more than a week ago. She really couldn’t believe she was even here. After all that Mrs. Whittingham had taken her through, it was ridiculous that she couldn’t even last a week as a blackmailer.
“I’m not going to be thirty minutes,” Jasmine told the doorman before he asked. She marched to the elevator, pressed the button, and went over the plan in her mind.
This was going to be short, much sweeter than the last visit. It should take five, ten minutes tops to ring the woman’s doorbell, walk inside, and then say what she’d come to say.
“You don’t have to worry anymore,” she would tell Mrs. Whittingham. “I’m not going to say a word to Ivy about your being her mother. I’m not going to tell Ivy or anyone.”
Jasmine was sure that Mrs. Whittingham would stare at her with fire burning from her eyes, a look that was a cross between disdain and disbelief. And then she would scream in her wicked witch’s voice, “Why should I believe you? Why should I trust you?”
But she would reply with calm and class, “Because of God. I’m only here because God wants me to be.”
In Jasmine’s mind, the fairy tale played out. Mrs. Whittingham’s fangs would burst through her gums when she said something like, “God! Do you know God, you heathen!”
But she would ignore the woman’s hatefulness and sweetly say, “Yes, I know God.” And then she would add the part that she really wanted Mrs. Whittingham to understand, “I know you never thought I was good enough for Hosea, but what you don’t get is that he’s always been good enough for me. It’s because of him—and God—that I always want to do better. I might not make the mark all the time. In fact, most of the time, I miss it. But that’s never going to stop me from trying.”
More fire would come out of the woman’s eyes, but Jasmine would go on.
“So,” she would say, “you can go back to hating me, but I will never again treat you as if I hate you.”
Then she would walk out the door. And even if Mrs. Whittingham didn’t live happily ever after, she would.
The story ended right before Jasmine stopped in front of Mrs. Whittingham’s door. She took a breath. Rang the doorbell. Waited. There was no answer. She rang again. Nothing.
With a sigh, she turned away. Here she was, trying to do the right thing, and she couldn’t make the right thing happen. Maybe this was a test—to see if she would do it, even if doing it was hard.
I’m gonna pass this test, God!
If she didn’t see Mrs. Whittingham today, then she would see her tomorrow in church, or the next day. No matter how long it took, she was going to make this right.
FIFTY-EIGHT
JASMINE STRODE SLOWLY TO THE front of the church with the strut of a survivor. As she made her way down the center aisle, she was giddy with all of her plans. She was going to start with the Women’s Day event; it was going to be the biggest, baddest affair the church had ever seen. And after that, she’d move right into planning the First Lady’s Appreciation Day program. Only now, she wasn’t thinking about a single day—it was going to be a weekend gala. And of course, once Reverend Bush was released from the hospital, there wo
uld have to be a welcome-home affair for him.
Stopping in front of her seat of honor, Jasmine smoothed out the lines of her suit—a lavender St. John, similar to the outfit Enid had worn last week.
That thought made her pause. This was the first time she’d spent more than a second thinking about the Wyatts. After the board meeting on Monday, she knew what no one else did—that those two hustlers were far gone and had probably already set up house in another state far away. Maybe they were even at another church. Or maybe Earvin had found a new gig.
Jasmine couldn’t stop grinning when Hosea entered the sanctuary. It was the way he walked, taller than he had in months. He sat down in his father’s chair, for the first time looking as if he now knew that the chair had been made for him.
She settled into the pew when he moved to the podium, laid his Bible atop the stand, and then smiled, just a little, at the congregation.
His voice was low when he first spoke. “Today.” He stopped. Then, a little louder, “I want to give all glory and honor to God.”
“Hallelujah,” rang through the sanctuary.
“I don’t think,” Hosea continued, “there is one person in here who doesn’t know my good news.”
Heads nodded. The murmurs began.
His voice rose a little more. “When the doctors told me to give up,” he sang.
The chatter was louder now.
“I told them that my father’s life wasn’t their decision!”
“Amen!” the shouts started.
“I told them that this was all in the hands of the Lord.”
Now came the cheering.
“And do you know what the Lord did?”
Hosea didn’t get a chance to answer that question. Every one of the parishioners was on their feet, answering Hosea’s question for themselves. Jasmine rose with them, water filling her eyes as she clapped her hands with the thousands.
It was a harmonic blend of “Hallelujah,” and “Thank you, Jesus,” and “Amen,” that sounded through the church like a song. Hands were clapping and feet were stomping and the keyboard player hit single chords, turning the sanctuary into a Sunday morning praise party.
Hosea stood on the altar and did his own dance, raised his own hands, let tears fall from his own eyes. And from her seat, Jasmine joined her husband.
She had no idea how long the celebration continued. But exhaustion made her drop back into the pew, although the revelry kept on around her.
Hosea let the parishioners rejoice for long minutes. And then he held up his hands.
The music stopped. The congregation settled. And Hosea was able to once again speak.
“All I can say,” he puffed, out of breath, “is that God is good.”
“Amen!”
Hosea continued, “But while we’re raising praises to God for my father, at the same time, we have to send up prayers for Pastor Wyatt and his wife.”
The mumbles were softer now.
“As most of you know, it appears that Pastor Wyatt and Enid have moved away.”
More murmurs.
“And while we may never know what was on their hearts, what caused them to leave without a word…”
Jasmine squirmed.
“God knows,” Hosea finished. “Even though the Wyatts had secrets, God knows the inner parts of their hearts. He knows those dark places where we don’t want to let anyone in.
“Saints, if you don’t let anyone else into your heart, let God in. Get on your knees and talk to Him. Because there’s one thing I know.” He paused. “There is no taller man than one who’s on his knees.”
“Hallelujah!”
“Never keep anything on your heart, so hidden that you have to run,” Hosea pleaded. “So shameful that you have to hide.” Hosea paused. Looked down at his Bible and tilted his head, as if he was listening to something that only he could hear.
Then he stepped away from the pulpit and took one step down the altar. He held out his hands to the congregants. “There is someone here who needed to hear that. Someone who is holding on to a secret…”
Jasmine’s eyes and mouth opened wide at the same time. Her gut told her to look down, turn away from him before he glanced her way. Before he could see in her eyes that she was the one he was talking about.
But she was frozen in her shock, unable to move at all.
How does he know?
Her heart hammered a hard beat to every word he spoke.
“Don’t hold on to the secret anymore,” he admonished. “Bring it to the altar, and you’ll be able to leave it—with all of the heartache and the pain and the shame—right here.”
No! Jasmine yelled inside.
She pressed her legs against the pew, making sure that her heart didn’t move her to do something she didn’t want to do.
“Come now.” Hosea held his arms open, an invitation to the sinner. “Come now to the Lord.”
No! She wanted to jump up and beg him to stop. Tell him to change the subject, to go back to talking about the Wyatts or his father. Even Jerome. She wanted to tell him to stop talking about her.
“It’s time for the secret to come out,” he said.
No!
And then, a wail.
It startled her. Made her jump. Ripped her straight from the trance that she was in.
Jasmine’s head whipped to the side. Her eyes searched for the place from which the cries came.
It was Mrs. Whittingham who wept. Who stood. Who trembled. Who staggered to the altar and then fell into Hosea’s arms.
“Oh, Lord, forgive me!” the woman howled.
Brother Hill rose, flipped a handkerchief from his pocket, and handed it to his friend.
Mrs. Whittingham buried her face in the cloth, but it did nothing to stop her tears. Her body heaved and jerked, like she was receiving electrical shocks.
Now others stood, gathered around her, offering comfort. Many had their hands stretched toward her, praying for her release, praying for her peace.
And in her seat, Jasmine prayed, too. Prayed that this nightmare would end.
Hosea reached for Mrs. Whittingham again and tried to rest her head against his chest, but she pushed him away.
“I have to tell you,” she said, shaking her head from side to side. “I have something to tell all of you.”
No! Mrs. Whittingham couldn’t tell her secret. She couldn’t say a word about Ivy. Or the blackmail. Because if she did, it would lead to Jasmine. And her secret.
“Go ahead, Sister Whittingham,” Hosea gently coaxed.
Her face was hidden by the cloth Brother Hill had given her, but she moved the handkerchief away. Turned and faced the congregation.
“I have to confess,” she sobbed. And then, she glanced at Jasmine.
And in her eyes, in that moment, Jasmine saw the future.
“I…” Mrs. Whittingham began.
The word that had been lodged in her throat burst through Jasmine’s lips as she sprang from her seat.
“Nooooooo.” Jasmine screamed so loud she didn’t recognize her own voice. “No,” she yelled again, just to make sure that Mrs. Whittingham heard her. “No,” shrieked to shut the whole service down.
Mrs. Whittingham turned to her, shocked into silence just like everyone else in the sanctuary.
“Jasmine?”
She heard her husband’s voice rushing toward her, but she couldn’t look at him. She didn’t dare take her eyes away from Mrs. Whittingham.
“Jasmine?”
She heard him again, this time next to her. But by that time, the shaking started in her soles. And it inched up, bringing heat with it. Now her head pounded harder than her heart.
“Jasmine?”
Her hands rose to her head. To stop the pounding. But it wouldn’t go away. And then her head exploded. She screamed.
Hosea reached for his wife, a split second before she collapsed inside his arms.
Jasmine had been here before—in this dark place. Where she could hear the voices—
Hosea’s, Brother Hill’s, and then others that she didn’t recognize. But they were all so far away.
She fought to open her eyes, but the effort made her head pound harder than before. She wanted to scream out at the pain, but her lips wouldn’t move.
She had to find relief.
Help! That came from inside, but she couldn’t get her cries out.
She tried again, but still nothing. And it hurt to do anything more. It hurt even to think.
It was her head. Just pounding. Pounding.
She wanted to get away. Go back to that dark place. Where she couldn’t see. Where she couldn’t hear. Where she couldn’t think.
Where there would be no pounding.
She closed her mind’s eye and dropped back into the abyss, falling deeper this time. And inside that darkness, she rested in that peace.
FIFTY-NINE
IT FELT LIKE A DEEP, long sleep. No dreams, no sounds. Just sweet peace.
Jasmine’s eyelids fluttered until she was fully alert. But the glare of the light made her quickly close her eyes.
“Darlin’?”
It was his soft voice that made her want to see. Slowly, she forced her lids apart. And through a murky veil, she saw her husband’s face.
She tried to lift herself, pushing her shoulders from the bed. And her head spun.
With a moan, she fell back onto the mattress.
“No, Jasmine. Stay there,” Hosea said, gently pressing his hands against her.
Jasmine frowned, and from her prostrate position her eyes scanned the room. This was not the ceiling of her Central Park South apartment. She tried to figure it out, but her thoughts were gray.
She spoke, though her mouth felt as if it was stuffed with cotton balls. She took a breath. “What?” She pushed out the question. “Where?”
“You’re in the hospital,” Hosea answered softly. With gentle fingers, he stroked her hair. “But you’re okay.”
Hospital? She frowned, closed her eyes again, and pressed hard to remember. But the few memories she had were jumbled together—Reverend Bush waking up, her feeding Jacqueline breakfast. She did remember this morning and getting ready for church. But that was where her life ended.
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