The 15,000-seat sanctuary had always been filled to capacity on the rare occasions she had been given the opportunity to preach. Television ratings would skyrocket, primarily due to channel surfers forced to pause by the striking and charismatic woman who flashed on their screens.
Men loved Samantha for one reason. She was beautiful. At thirty-five she commanded the adoring attention of deacons, cameramen, lighting technicians, and every heterosexual male within range of her seductive voice. She never flaunted her looks. Everyone in her presence took notice of them without any effort on her part. Instead, she focused her energy on perfecting the image of a sacrificing wife and mother who stood by her man, come what may.
Women had the predictable love-hate reaction to Samantha Cleaveland. They loved her devotion to the man they admired but envied the command she had over every inch of her body. No part of her was unattended, unnoticed, or unappreciated.
She only wore clothes designed especially for her voluptuous figure or those from her favorite boutiques in Beverly Hills, New York, and Paris. Even if other women could afford the clothes and accessories she took for granted, they could never assemble them as masterfully as she. It took years to perfect the look and most people didn’t have her patience, skills, or her means.
“Why didn’t you ask me earlier?” she hissed. “I won’t have time to prepare a sermon by next Sunday. I’ve got a busy week.” Anger took over after the initial shock from the unfortunate timing of his request. Titles of the dozens of sermons she’d written but never had the opportunity to deliver flashed through her mind.
“You don’t have to do anything new. How about preaching the one on wives supporting their husbands?”
Samantha marveled at the arrogance of her husband. His one-dimensional view of her caused her blood to run cold. She had spent their entire marriage in the shadow of Hezekiah’s greatness. Her beauty and talents only served to propel him higher.
She responded sharply, “I’ve got more important things to say than to remind women of how great their husbands are.”
“I know you do, honey. I just thought it was a good sermon.”
“Drop it, Hezekiah. I won’t be able to preach next Sunday.”
“All right, baby, maybe the following Sunday,” he said while rubbing her knee. “I think I’ve got at least one more good sermon in me.”
Hezekiah stared out the tinted limousine window. He braced himself and hoped that the next exchange would be quick and painless. “Reverend Duncan is in town,” he said, closing his eyes.
“Who’s Reverend Duncan?” Samantha asked with a hint of suspicion.
“He’s from Shiloh Church of God in Detroit. I’m having dinner with him today.”
“I wish you would have told me this morning. Etta has been home all day preparing dinner for us.” She knew there was no Reverend Duncan.
“I didn’t know about it then,” Hezekiah snapped defensively. “He called before this morning’s service. Where was Jasmine? I didn’t see her at church.”
“She wasn’t feeling well.” Samantha had no intention of allowing him to use their daughter as a diversion for his lies. “I can go to dinner with you.”
“He wants to talk to me alone. I think he’s having marriage problems.”
Samantha was almost embarrassed by the perverse pleasure she took in his obvious discomfort. “Then he might benefit from a woman’s perspective,” she said looking directly at him.
“Damn it, Samantha, he said he wanted to talk to me alone.” Hezekiah knew he had overreacted as his words reverberated through the car.
“Hezekiah, I know you’re seeing someone. You haven’t been yourself for months now. The least you can do is come up with more original lies.”
“Can I have dinner with a fellow pastor without you thinking I’m sleeping with another woman?” he snapped. “Your paranoia is getting out of control.”
“It’s not just dinner, Hezekiah. You’ve been sulking around the house for weeks now. You could never hide your feelings from me.”
“Maybe if you had a life of your own I wouldn’t have to hide my feelings.”
Samantha sat erect in the plush leather seat. “A life of my own? You wouldn’t have a life if it weren’t for me. You’d still be in that storefront preaching to neighborhood kids and old ladies. Everyone knows I made you and without me you’d be nothing.”
“I don’t want to argue with you, Samantha.”
“I’m not arguing. I simply want you to tell me the truth for once. I can’t keep pretending not to know something is wrong. I deserve better than this.”
“I’m not seeing anyone, Samantha. I’ve just had a lot on my mind. You can believe it or not. I don’t care anymore.”
The intersections rushed by in a blur. Samantha’s mind raced as she thought. When this is done, I should send his body to whoever the bitch is and let her bury him.
The car turned onto Sunset Boulevard, toward the whitewashed towers at the West Gate of Bel Air, and began the familiar ascent up the hill. Rolling estates quickly replaced the grime and congestion of the city streets below. Lush trees on each side of the winding road tilted inward and formed a green lace canopy over the street. The center median was filled with vibrant flowers and cement fountains poured water from the mouths of lions at each intersection. Pristine terra-cotta-tiled roofs peeked over the tops of densely clustered shrubs and waving palm trees. Couples wearing matching jogging suits strolled leisurely along the paved sidewalks with their sprightly Lhasa Apsos and prancing Irish setters in tow.
Samantha’s thoughts shifted to her daughter, Jasmine. She remembered the therapist’s recommendation to admit their only child into a drug rehabilitation program. Her stomach tensed at the thought of the public scandal it would cause. The daughter of a prominent pastor spending the tithes given by grandmothers on pensions to support her addiction to Ecstasy and alcohol.
No further words were exchanged until the car turned into the driveway of the Cleaveland estate. Hezekiah never liked the enormous house that overlooked Los Angeles but Samantha felt it appropriate for a family of their prominence. An eight-foot white stucco fence surrounded the grounds. Lower points in the rolling fence allowed passersby brief glimpses of the magnificent home. A wrought-iron gate emblazoned with the initials “HC” quietly parted at the sight of the car and gently closed behind it. Palm trees that lined the winding driveway quivered gently as the car drove past. Meticulously manicured grounds surrounded the home and seemed to spill down the hill into the skyline. To the left was a freshly painted green tennis court with sharp white lines. A whitewashed gazebo stood to the right, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and a two-story guesthouse could be seen tucked behind a grove of trees. At the final curve of the driveway, the trees unfurled like a stage curtain and the house could finally be seen. It was an off-white Mediterranean villa, nestled behind pine and oak trees, sitting on a sloped crest with spectacular views of the city and Pacific Ocean. Double stone stairways ascended to the grand main entrance under a covered porch, which was held by four twenty-foot-high white carved pillars. Each window on the front of the home was topped by cream-colored arches and flanked by stone columns. Branches dripping with lavender and white wisteria spilled from a deck on the second floor.
The car stopped at the foot of the stairway.
“Are you coming in?” she asked coldly.
“No,” came the abrupt reply.
“What time will you be home?”
“I won’t be gone long.”
Samantha slammed the car door and walked up the steps to the house without turning to see her husband being driven back down the hill.
Etta Washington, the Cleavelands’ housekeeper and cook, opened the massive double wooden doors as Samantha approached.
Etta had been with the Cleavelands for five years. She was forty-eight years old but appeared much older. She wore a white apron, knotted at the waist, over a simple black dress which fell just below her knees. Samantha insisted sh
e wear the uniform at all times. Etta had never married and had no children. To Etta, the Cleavelands were her family, but to Samantha, Etta had never risen above the rank of hired help.
The opulent exterior of the house was mirrored in its interior. Sunlight poured through a skylight in the two-story foyer and coated the oval-shaped room in a warm glow. Double living-room and dining-room doors framed in oak were to the right and to the left. A round marble table holding a massive floral arrangement sat in the center of the room and on each side symmetrical stairways molded into the curve of the walls and climbed to a second-floor landing which overlooked the room. Black wrought-iron banisters provided a stark contrast in the bright room. Directly ahead hung the first of two original Picassos in the Cleaveland home. The painting was in the center of the foyer rear wall and the first thing seen when entering the home. The dreaming woman’s hands rested suggestively in her lap. Her head was slightly tilted to the right and her closed eyes hinted of erotic sweet dreams. Parts of her deconstructed face provided a glimpse of the thoughts that seemed to give her such serene pleasure.
Antique furniture and European oil masterpieces were skillfully displayed throughout. A well-thought-out floor plan of wing-backed chairs, marble and glass-topped tea tables, and satin-swathed couches created the optimum setting to impress and entertain the rich, the pious, and the famous. Crystal chandeliers and Lalique vases glittered throughout, while plush pastel carpets softened the hard edges of each room. A sleek black baby grand rested in front of a wall of glass which overlooked the grounds and a shimmering cobalt blue infinity edge swimming pool. The second Picasso hung over the fireplace in the living room. The five women of Les Demoiselles d’Avignon looked approvingly over the elegant room. Their faces resembled primitive tribal masks and the jagged edges of their pink flesh formed sharp angles that pointed in every direction.
An oil painting of Hezekiah and Samantha was on the opposite wall. The two smiling faces countered the seductive and horrifying image of the five women across the room. Hezekiah’s and Samantha’s smiles in the painting absorbed all the light that streamed through the room’s many windows. As lovely and masterfully executed as the dueling paintings were, their beauty was eclipsed when Samantha entered the room.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Cleaveland.” Etta took her coat and hung it neatly over her arm. “How was church today?”
“It was fine, Etta. I’m sorry you had to miss it.”
“Will Pastor be home for dinner?” Etta asked.
“No,” Samantha said. “He’s having dinner with a pastor from out of state. How’s Jasmine? Has she been out of her room today?”
“No, ma’am, she’s been up there all day. I knocked on the door a few times but she told me to go away.” Etta knew an addict when she saw one but had been sternly warned by Samantha not to get involved in Cleaveland family matters. “Will you be having dinner in the dining room, ma’am?”
“No. I think I’ll have it in my study. I’m going to check on Jasmine first. I’ll ask if she wants dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
From birth Jasmine had two strikes against her: she was an only child and a pastor’s kid. To others her life was a fantasy: two loving parents, a beautiful home, the finest private schools, a new convertible BMW on her sixteenth birthday, and lots of attention from the many people who loved her parents. But it was a nightmare for her. She often referred to herself as “a theater prop” used by her parents to illustrate their idyllic Christian life.
Years of being “the perfect little angel” had taken their toll on her. She ran away from home for the first time at thirteen. Her first abortion was at fourteen and the second at fifteen. She added the use of Ecstasy to her already nagging alcohol problem at the exclusive Catholic high school. Jasmine ran with the most privileged kids in the school, and soon she even ran them. The drug use turned from recreation to abuse. Now, at sixteen, she was rapidly heading for what appeared to be a tragic ending, but only her mother was able to see the signs.
Samantha put her black patent leather Gucci clutch under her arm as she climbed the staircase. At the top she looked over the banister into the vestibule below to ensure Etta had gone back to the kitchen.
“Jasmine, honey, open the door,” she said, accompanied by a gentle tap. “Jasmine, it’s Mommy.”
“Go away,” came the hostile reply from a hoarse voice behind the door.
“Young lady, open this door right now.”
Jasmine crawled out of bed and abruptly swung open the door. “What do you want?” she moaned as she crawled back into bed.
Samantha, with determination, stepped into the room. It was dark and musty. The room still looked as it did when it was designed especially for Jasmine when she was ten years old. Pink was the dominant color. A dusty pink floral paper covered the walls and a pile of satin and silk pink pillows lay jumbled beneath a brass headboard. Cherubic faces of the favorite boy bands from her innocent years still hung on the walls. A collection of over one hundred dolls from exotic lands she and her parents had traveled stared down on the groggy teen from shelves around the room. Pink shades were drawn and designer clothes were strewn on the bed and floor. Samantha immediately pulled up the blinds and began picking up clothes.
“Why are you still in bed?” she asked. “Get up this minute, take a shower, and get dressed. Dinner is ready, and I want you downstairs.”
Jasmine shielded her eyes from the light and asked, “Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s having dinner with a minister from Detroit.”
“Then why do I have to come downstairs?”
“Because you don’t need to be in this dark room all Sunday.”
“I’m not hungry. I still feel sick. Just leave me alone, please.”
Samantha threw her purse onto an overstuffed pink chair under the window and sat down on the edge of the bed, which was partially covered by a satin pink down comforter. She pulled the comforter back to reveal Jasmine’s tired face. She was a young and beautiful female version of Hezekiah Cleaveland. Her skin was still taut and clear but her eyes told of the troubles she had seen.
“Honey, you’ve got to let me help you with this problem.”
Jasmine recited her well-rehearsed denial. “I’ve told you, I don’t have a problem. I was just out too late last night. I’ll be fine if you would leave me alone.”
She knew well the fine line between her mother’s love and rage. Jasmine skillfully stopped short of pushing her to the edge.
“Jasmine, I’m not stupid. You smell of alcohol. Your eyes are red and you’ve been in this room all day. I won’t have this in my house. You’re going to have to get some help, or else…”
“Or else what?” Jasmine blurted out. “You’ll throw me out? How would that look? The daughter of the perfect Samantha Cleaveland living on the streets and begging for food. Maybe I could sit on the steps of the church with a sign that says, ‘Pastor’s daughter—will work for food.’”
Samantha’s eyes tightened. “You know that’s not what I was going to say. Why are you doing this to me? I love you and it’s killing me to watch you destroy yourself like this.”
Jasmine turned to avoid her mother’s eyes. “I’m not destroying myself. I told you I’m just tired. Now please leave me alone.”
“I won’t put up with this much longer.” Samantha stood and picked up her purse from the chair. “I’m not going to let you embarrass this family with your behavior.”
She slammed the door of her daughter’s room and stood for a moment to compose herself before walking back down the stairs.
Samantha took keys from her purse and unlocked the door to her private study. Hezekiah had never understood why she needed a private study but he didn’t protest when the locksmith came and installed the dead bolt. The room provided a startling contrast to the décor of the other rooms in the house. A sleek Swedish couch and two modern leather chairs, too perfect and erect for comfort, floated on a bloodred island rug in the center of
the room. Sparkling modern light fixtures served more as art than illuminators. Stark teak planks covering the floor guided every step taken in the room. Samantha’s glass desk glowed at the rear of the room from light shining through floor-to-ceiling French doors that overlooked the lush grounds of the estate.
Samantha locked the door behind her. Sitting at her desk, she opened the purse and removed her BlackBerry. Next she removed a pack of cigarettes and then a small black revolver. She found the weight and cold steel of the pistol strangely erotic as she held it in her hand. A sudden knock on the door startled her and she quickly placed the gun back into the purse.
“Mrs. Cleaveland,” Etta called through the locked door, “I have your dinner, ma’am.”
2
Monday Morning
Muted light filled the large conference room at New Testament Cathedral. The ministry’s staff looked as rested and eager as possible considering it was nine o’clock on a Monday morning.
The room bulged with a mix of young technology whiz kids, religious zealots, ministers, accountants, administrators, and wide-eyed interns who were clueless to the gravity of their role in running the renowned megachurch and television ministry. Hands clung to coffee cups. Expensive leather attaché cases and purses littered the floral-print carpet.
Five to six bodies sat at tables placed around the room in no particular order. Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland stood at the front of the room and addressed the gathering of sixty-two employees.
“Good morning, everyone,” he said with enthusiasm. “I’m sure you’ve all heard by now, Sunday’s broadcast was seen by a record number of viewers. This is largely due to the great new marketing campaign launched by our PR department.”
Everyone applauded to acknowledge the good news.
“We’ve got a busy week ahead of us,” Hezekiah continued. “We officially entered the final phase of the capital campaign for the new cathedral and media center. To date, twenty-five million dollars have been raised and, as a result of the recent jump in viewership, contributions are still pouring in. We are going to need each of you to double your fund-raising efforts. We’ve got twenty million more to raise in the next six months.”
Come Sunday Morning Page 2
