The Pastor's Husband

by Tiffany L. Warren

  Also by Tiffany L. Warren

  Don’t Tell a Soul

  The Replacement Wife

  The Favorite Son

  Published by Dafina Books

  THE PASTOR’S HUSBAND

  TIFFANY L. WARREN

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Tiffany L. Warren

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1 - NYA

  CHAPTER 2 - NYA

  CHAPTER 3 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 4 - NYA

  CHAPTER 5 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 6 - NYA

  CHAPTER 7 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 8 - NYA

  CHAPTER 9 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 10 - NYA

  CHAPTER 11 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 12 - NYA

  CHAPTER 13 - NYA

  CHAPTER 14 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 15 - NYA

  CHAPTER 16 - NYA

  CHAPTER 17 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 18 - NYA

  CHAPTER 19 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 20 - NYA

  CHAPTER 21 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 22 - NYA

  CHAPTER 23 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 24 - NYA

  CHAPTER 25 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 26 - NYA

  CHAPTER 27 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 28 - NYA

  CHAPTER 29 - FELICIA

  PART II - Five years later

  CHAPTER 30 - NYA

  CHAPTER 31 - NYA

  CHAPTER 32 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 33 - NYA

  CHAPTER 34 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 35 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 36 - NYA

  CHAPTER 37 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 38 - NYA

  CHAPTER 39 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 40 - NYA

  CHAPTER 41 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 42 - NYA

  CHAPTER 43 - NYA

  CHAPTER 44 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 45 - NYA

  CHAPTER 46 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 47 - NYA

  CHAPTER 48 - NYA

  CHAPTER 49 - NYA

  CHAPTER 50 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 51 - NYA

  CHAPTER 52 - FELICIA

  CHAPTER 53 - NYA

  CHAPTER 54 - NYA

  EPILOGUE

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  Discussion Questions

  PROLOGUE

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Another one in the can! I always have to thank God first, because He is the reason I am able to continue crafting these stories. I feel blessed every day that I have the opportunity to share my stories with readers.

  I am nothing without my family. They are my backbone. My husband, Brent, is my best friend and travel partner. I am so glad to be on this journey with him. I have the best children in the world and I always thank them, because they take care of me. They cook, clean, iron, and make sure I don’t forget stuff. Briana, Brittany, Brynn, Brooke, and Little Brent (Fatman)—I love you all!

  My publishing team is the greatest too. Everyone at Kensington is dedicated to seeing their authors successful. My editor, Mercedes Fernandez, really is a champion for my quirky, faith-based stories. She really strives to get it, which is a rarity. My agent, Sara Camilli, totally rocks. She is a bundle of energy and fire. I’m so glad to have her on my team.

  I spent a great amount of time away from home during the writing of this book, so I have to list all of my friends and my support system who got me through the horrible time in D.C., living in my own fancy apartment . . . wait. So maybe it wasn’t that horrible. But my bestie brigade is always on tap: Shawana, Afrika, Tiffany T, Rhonda, and Robin. Love y’all. My writer friends are better than yours! Victoria, ReShonda, Pat, Renee, Tyora, Angela, Vanessa, Sherri, Piper, Michelle Lindo-Rice, and Michelle Stimpson!

  To the book clubs, readers, and Women’s Ministries who continue to read my books and invite me to yummy outings, and show up at my events: God bless you, real good!

  Last but not least, I’d like to thank my planner extraordinaire, LaSheera Lee. She gets me together with these blog radio shows and tour stops. Appreciate you!

  Okay, enough mushy stuff. Let’s read already!

  PROLOGUE

  Nightfall was near, and that was a good thing. Felicia needed the cover of darkness to execute her plan. She was cramped in her tiny, rented Ford Aspire as she impatiently waited for the sun to set. She couldn’t possibly drive her own car. For this task, she needed to be anonymous.

  The tools for the job, a crowbar and a gas can, sat on the passenger seat next to Felicia, and she glanced at them from time to time as if reminding herself of the reason she was there. Every time she thought about not following through, a little voice in the back of her head reminded her of everything Lance had done; of everything he’d stolen from her.

  Felicia swept her long black hair into a ponytail and sighed. She wished it didn’t have to be this way. It definitely wasn’t what she had planned when she first saw Lance. He was supposed to be a blessing, but Felicia didn’t feel blessed. She felt cursed.

  Felicia touched one hand to her midsection, and shuddered as if she could feel the emptiness of her womb. It paralleled the desolation that she felt in her heart. All because Lance had chosen his family. He didn’t love her, and worse, he’d lied about it.

  Finally, the lavender dusky sky turned a deeper shade of violet. It was time to teach Lance a very expensive lesson.

  And then . . . then it would be Nya’s turn.

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  NYA

  Today could be my big break.

  No, that’s wrong. I should say this could be our big break, mine and Greg’s. My speaking engagement today could take our ministry to the next level.

  When First Lady Bowens invited me to her Women’s Empowerment conference, I knew it was God. First Lady Bowens, or Lady Sandy as she likes to be called, is only the most popular pastor’s wife in Dallas. She and her husband built their ministry, the Pathway Church, from a Bible study in a high school gym, and now they have ten thousand members. Speaking in the pulpit of their church could launch a minister into the very lucrative speaking circuit. This could mean invitations to conferences and churches all over the country. All over the world, even.

  It’s exactly what Greg and I had in mind when we started our little church, Love First International. The international part was partially an inside joke between me and Greg. We weren’t anything close to being international when we started. We still aren’t. We’re a local storefront church trying to impact the community with a little bit of money and a whole lot of love.

  But the other reason for our church name is because God showed me in a vision that we would be known worldwide. It almost makes me cringe to tell people about that vision, because everybody is a prophet these days. A person can call an eight hundred number to get a prophetic word over their life. These days, saying that you have a prophetic gift is almost enough to get you laughed out of town.

  Except that I really do have the gift.

  It runs in my family. My cousin Zenovia is a minister right now, operating in her gift at a church in Maryland. She’s low key with it, and doesn’t want to be famous for it, or even known for it. Maybe because the gift killed her mother, Audrey. Well, that’s wrong. It wasn’t the gift that killed Audrey. It was the combination of her gift and the schizophrenia that led her to take her own life.

  I married Greg because he didn’t run from me when I told him about my prophecies. He was intrigued by it; in awe of it eve
n. And he believed that we would do great work together. A vision of us speaking in front of a crowd of thousands confirmed it for me, because I know the visions are real and from God.

  Even still, I have to admit that when I received the invitation from Lady Sandy, I was a little bit nervous. Okay, not just a little nervous. I was terrified.

  Greg is always at my side when I preach. We’re a tag team. We prepare our sermons together and flow so effortlessly that we finish one another’s sentences. I can tell when he needs a break and step in without missing a beat, and he does the same for me. Our congregation loves it, and it is effective for us.

  But for this occasion, this Women’s Empowerment conference, I have to do this alone. Lady Sandy said she was inspired by Beyoncé’s all-girl tour, and she only wants women musicians, worship leaders, and speakers. All-girl everything. She said that in order to empower women, women needed to be in power. So I was invited to do this engagement without Greg.

  When I told Greg about the invitation he was supportive, if not a little hurt about not being invited himself. Ultimately, though, he gave me his approval. I wouldn’t have done it without his blessing.

  Greg knows I would’ve been a fool to turn it down, but I don’t know if I’m ready to do this without my husband by my side. These women are expecting God to show up with a prophetic word. The only reason I got the invitation to speak is because I gave Lady Sandy a prophecy about a woman in her congregation who was pursuing her husband, and it was true. Lady Sandy believes in the gift and wants to show these women something miraculous.

  So they’re waiting to hear what God has to say about their lives. And I have to deliver. Talk about being under pressure.

  The problem with the gift is that God cannot be scheduled. He does not move just because there’s an arena full of women. He speaks on His timing and only when He has something to say. I hate to tell people that, though, because they think I’m a fraud if I can’t give them what they want.

  Believers don’t understand that faith is trusting God without getting confirmation, and that God wants us to trust Him. Hearing a word from God for one person’s situation is so rare for me. When it happens, it is truly a miracle, so I’ve tried not to build my ministry on the prophecies. I study and prepare to expound on a scripture and provide a word of wisdom straight from the Bible. And when God doesn’t give me a prophetic word, I preach, pray, and speak blessings over the women.

  Usually those prayers and blessings are enough. But today is different. My reputation is going to rest on me being able to deliver a fresh and anointed prophetic word from God.

  My nerves are getting to me as I sit backstage at this church, waiting for it all to begin. The hustle and bustle seems more like a television production than a church conference. There are makeup artists, hair stylists, and assistants for all of the speakers—except me. I’m a newbie, and I only have my best friend, Tina, who is a beautician and has volunteered to stand in as a stylist.

  Tina points her perfectly manicured nail toward a makeup chair. “Sit down and let me airbrush you,” she says.

  “Do you know how to use that?”

  “I had one of the other girls at the salon show me how. It’s pretty easy, actually.” She gives a shrug, like this isn’t all that important.

  I know I can trust Tina with my hair, ’cause she’s been doing it since we were teenagers, but I’m not sure about the makeup part. This is definitely an experiment.

  “Do you think I would have you out here looking crazy?” Tina asks when I still hesitate to sit down in that makeup chair. She flips her long wig out of her face and gives me a lifted-eyebrow glare. I guess I should know better.

  “No, but you know how important this is! It’s going to be streaming live all over the world, and on Daystar.”

  Tina nods and pulls me down into the chair. “I do know how important this is to you, honey. I want you and Greg to blow up. Shoot, you can be Oprah and I’ll be Gayle. You can get me designer handbags. And we can sit in the front rows together at New York Fashion Week. I won’t be mad.”

  This makes me crack a smile. Tina is talented in her own right, and she’s gorgeous. Her hair is always on point. She has a different weave or wig every week, but she makes sure they look flawless. She should be doing hair for celebrities, and I think one day she will. That’s not a prophetic vision, that’s just me knowing my home girl is the bomb.

  “You sure you know how to use it?” I ask again.

  “Yes. I made all the other girls at the shop let me practice on them. The only one who didn’t look good was Ramona, and you know she is facially challenged anyway.”

  I shake my head at Tina and laugh. “That was not right.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s still true.”

  I take one last skeptical look at the airbrush machine in Tina’s hand, and then I ease back into the chair. “Go ahead and make me camera ready.”

  “Girlfriend, you woke up camera ready. I’m just frosting the cake. You know you’re gorgeous.”

  I don’t know that I’m gorgeous. I know that I have a different look for an African American woman, with this bright red hair and green eyes, and it makes people ask me if I’m “mixed with something.” I’ve been hearing that my entire life.

  “Make sure my freckles are nonexistent,” I say with a chuckle. “I woke up with a few new ones.”

  “I think you ought to let them show,” Tina said. “They’re unique. They add to your aura.”

  More than anything I can’t stand my freckles. They usually are what starts the “are you mixed” conversation. I am part Irish, but I don’t claim that side of my family, because the majority of them don’t know I exist. Only my father knew me, but he disappeared long ago. It’s crazy that I look more like him than my grandmother who raised me.

  I’m not proud of it, but I spent my entire childhood being jealous of my darker cousins. They don’t carry the same badge of dishonor that I do. I am the product of rape, just like my mom and my Aunt Audrey. Every time someone remarks on my red hair or green eyes, it only reminds me that my mother, my grandmother, and my grandmother’s baby sister were all victims of a dirty lowlife who liked to put his hands on women he had no right to touch. The fact that he was a white man in the backwoods of East Texas protected him from the law, but not from my grandfather’s revenge.

  Tina makes a few final brushes and then stands back to look at me, admiring her work. “Like I said, you’re flawless.”

  I take the mirror from Tina’s hand, and I am shocked at my reflection. “Tina, you are a miracle worker.”

  “I sure am, although a miracle wasn’t needed this time,” she says. “Do you need me to do anything else?”

  My hair is popped, my makeup is on point, and my outfit cost less than a hundred dollars, but it looks like it was more expensive. I think I’m good—on the outside anyway.

  “Nothing left to do except make myself a vessel and hope God shows up.”

  “God’s got you! He’s always on time,” Tina says.

  Penelope Bowens, Lady Sandy’s daughter, waves at me as she walks up to me and Tina. We’ve met before, and she’s very sweet. Gorgeous too. Like Tina, her hair is always different. This time it’s a two-toned weave that’s curled in big waves that tumble down her back. She’s so tiny that she looks frail in her cream dress, but her smile is huge and warm.

  “Hi, Pastor Hampstead,” she says as she stops in front of me. “You look wonderful. Your stylist did an awesome job.”

  “Oh, this is my home girl Tina, she’s not my—”

  “I did, didn’t I?” Tina interjects, not letting me reveal that I don’t have an actual stylist yet.

  “You did,” Penelope says.

  “Are you going to speak tonight?” I ask, unsure about Penelope’s role in the service.

  “I was going to speak, but I think I’m just going to sing. My mom doesn’t think I’m ready to speak yet. I’m still learning.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sure you’
ll do great,” I say.

  “I will talk to you later,” Penelope says. “I need to go and drink some tea for my voice.”

  “She seems sweet,” Tina says after Penelope leaves.

  I nod in agreement. “She is.”

  Lady Sandy struts over to me in her perfectly fitted and undoubtedly designer dress. It’s perfect for the spring season with its yellow top and flowered flare skirt. Her bright yellow stiletto heels have a red bottom that lets me know the shoes alone cost more than my entire wardrobe. And even though I just looked in the mirror and was happy with my reflection, Lady Sandy’s expertly coiffed swoop bang that covers one eye makes me want to tell Tina to start over from scratch.

  “You look beautiful, dear,” Lady Sandy says. “This is your time! Get ready to walk in your purpose.”

  Although I think I’ve already been walking in my purpose, I smile up at Lady Sandy. I can’t help it. Her beaming smile makes me feel like I just have to beam right back.

  “I feel the presence of God here!” Lady Sandy says in a loud, booming voice, making it sound like an announcement.

  Everyone stops to look over at Lady Sandy, and she bows her head and immediately starts to mumble a prayer. I can’t understand the words, but I respectfully bow my head until the moment passes. When she is done, she claps her hands and the staff and members backstage all say “Amen.” I don’t say anything, because I didn’t hear the prayer. “Amen” means agreement to me, and I can’t agree if I don’t know what was said.

  “We’re set to begin in five minutes,” Lady Sandy says, again speaking directly to me. “Your life is never going to be the same after this.”

  I don’t know why, but her statement sounds more like a warning than a positive omen.

  Next, Lady Sandy is directed to the stage area to start the service, while the rest of us are left to watch the service on jumbo TV screens.

  “What was that?” Tina whispers to me. “It was a little strange.”

  “Shhh!” I whisper back. I don’t want anyone to hear Tina and have her skepticism mess up my opportunity to speak.