When Sunday Comes Again

by Terry E. Hill

  “Thank you, Chantal. I’ve been looking forward to my visit.”

  “Please come in. Pastor Cleaveland will be down shortly,” Chantal said, directing Gideon over the threshold and closing the doors behind him.

  The foyer surpassed the splendor of the exterior of the home. The oval-shaped room was bathed in warm golden light. Gideon couldn’t tell if it was natural or artificial. Double doors on the left and on the right led to the living and dining rooms. A round marble table stood in the center of the room, balancing the most elaborate floral arrangement he had ever seen.

  Two stairways on the left and right, with black wrought-iron banisters contoured to the shape of the curved walls, led up to a second-floor landing that overlooked the foyer.

  Gideon’s eye went directly to the painting that hung on the wall opposite the main entrance. He pointed at the picture and stammered, “Is that . . .”

  “Yes, it is, Mr. Truman. Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland gave it to Mrs. Cleaveland on their thirteenth wedding anniversary.”

  It was the first of two Picassos in the Cleaveland home. The deconstructed portrait of a woman whose dreamy expression had mesmerized the world for decades, ignored the two standing in front of her. Painted hands formed the triangle in her lap through which all life must pass. Her slanted head and blissfully closed eyes hinted of the erotic dreams that caused her pouting red lips to smile.

  Gideon resisted the urge to blurt out, “Holy shit!” and instead said to Chantal, “He must have really loved her.”

  “Yes, he did, Mr. Truman. This way please.” Gideon followed the young woman and her smoldering red hair into the living room. Antique furniture and classic French, Italian, and Flemish masterpieces were arranged throughout the cavernous room. The placement of each object was so precise that Gideon correctly surmised that the blueprint was the work of one of the world’s renowned interior designers. Finely woven Persian rugs served as the canvas upon which the well-thought-out ensemble of wingback chairs, marble-topped tea tables, and satin couches were displayed. A massive crystal chandelier hung in the center of the room, and Lalique vases glittered throughout. A cold black Steinway baby grand piano rested in front of a wall of glass that overlooked the grounds.

  Gideon’s eyes soon found their way to the second Picasso, which hung over a gaping fireplace. The five women of Les Demoiselles d’Avignon looked unimpressed as they surveyed the room. Their faces were primitive, and the jagged edges of their pink flesh formed sharp angles that jutted out in every direction.

  An eight-by-six-foot oil painting of Hezekiah and Samantha hung on the wall opposite the Picasso. Their two smiling faces served as the perfect aesthetic counterbalance to the seductive five women across the room. But as lovely and masterfully executed as the two paintings were, their beauty was eclipsed when Samantha Cleaveland entered the room.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Truman.”

  Gideon tore his gaze away from the paintings and turned to see Samantha standing in the threshold, enveloped in a pool of light from the foyer. She wore a powdery pink pantsuit that had obviously been sewn in strict obedience to every curve of her statuesque form. A pair of flat Ferragamo shoes, the exact color of her suit, barely touched the carpet as she glided toward him.

  Gideon could not move. His feet felt like they each weighed a hundred pounds. She was, he thought, one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on.

  Gideon had forgotten that Chantal was in the room until he heard her voice. “Mr. Truman, this is Pastor Samantha Cleaveland,” she said, as if introducing a guest on a late-night talk show. As she spoke, she took a step back to clear the path between Samantha and Gideon.

  “It is so nice of you to come on such short notice. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the house,” Samantha said.

  As she spoke, she extended her hand. Gideon was distracted once again, this time by the glitter from a diamond bracelet on her wrist, which seemed to catch every particle of light in the room.

  “Thank y—you for inviting me,” he stuttered. “Finding the home was a challenge.”

  “It’s a bit hidden, but when my late husband first saw it, he insisted on having it.”

  “It’s a beautiful home.”

  “Thank you. It was built by a steel magnate. He lived here for less than a year. I originally was not very fond of it, because it’s so large, but now it’s filled with so many of our memories, I could never dream of moving.”

  As the two spoke, Chantal exited the room, unnoticed. The only evidence that she was ever in the room came in the form of a click as she closed the double doors behind her.

  “I hope you’re hungry, Mr. Truman. My chef has prepared a special meal for us. He apparently is a fan of yours.”

  Gideon’s years of experience as an investigative reporter slowly began to emerge through the fog of awe. He silently chastised himself for the momentary paralysis caused by the extravagance of the estate and the stunning beauty of the woman now standing before him. Pull yourself together, man. You’ve interviewed royalty, for God’s sake.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay for lunch, Pastor Cleaveland. I simply wanted to meet you to get a feel for who you are as a person and to discuss your appearance on my television program.”

  Samantha looked slightly disappointed. “I’m sorry to hear that. My chef will be disappointed. Can I at least offer you something to drink?”

  “Water would be fine. Thank you.”

  “Chantal, please have Etta bring water for Mr. Truman and coffee for me,” Samantha said into an intercom sitting on a tea table next to the sofa.

  “Yes, Pastor Clea—” came Chantal’s disembodied reply as Samantha disconnected the line.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Truman.”

  For the first time since she had entered the room, Gideon was able to move his feet. Samantha sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace topped by Les Demoiselles d’ Avignon, and Gideon sat in a plush chair opposite.

  Samantha spoke first. “Let me say, first of all, that I have not agreed to appear on your television program. I, too, first wanted to meet you and get a feeling for who you are. As you can imagine, I am cautious about speaking to the media. They have not always been kind to my husband and I.”

  “I completely understand.” Gideon removed the recorder from his pocket. “Would it be okay with you if I record our conversation?”

  Samantha did not blink and simply replied, “Of course.”

  Gideon placed the recorder on the coffee table between them and began. “Pastor Cleaveland, let me start by extending my deepest sympathies on the loss of your husband. I never met him, but by all accounts he was a great man.”

  Samantha’s face turned somber. “Thank you. It was a tragic loss, not only for me and my daughter, but for all the members of our congregation.”

  “How are you doing now?”

  “Right now I’m living my life one day at a time, and every day is a challenge. The only thing that keeps me going is my knowing that it was God’s will that he be taken from me. I don’t know why, and may never know, but I do find comfort in knowing that all things work together for good for those that love the Lord. Are you a religious man, Mr. Truman?”

  “Somewhat. I imagine that you must miss him terribly. Can you talk a little about your relationship? What he meant to you and how his death affected you?”

  There was a gentle tap at the door before it opened. Etta appeared, carrying a silver tray holding a crystal decanter filled with water, a goblet, and a cup of steaming coffee, and moved toward Samantha. She placed the tray on the coffee table and poured the water. “Will there be anything else, Pastor Cleaveland?” she inquired coldly. Her tone didn’t go unnoticed by Gideon.

  Samantha looked lovingly up at Etta and replied, “Thank you, Etta dear. That will be all for now.”

  As Etta moved toward the door, she could hear Samantha say, “That is my housekeeper, Etta. She’s been with us for years. She’s like a family member. I d
on’t know what I would have done without her. Now, where were we?”

  “You were about to tell me about your relationship.”

  “Hezekiah meant the world to me. Not only were we partners in building the ministry, but he was—please excuse the cliché—he was my soul mate. When I was growing up, I never imagined I could love someone as much as I loved him, or be loved by someone as much as he loved me. Over the years, we went through so many trials and tribulations and fought so many battles together, but each one only served to strengthen our union. We were a team, partners, lovers, and he was my best friend.”

  “How has his death affected you personally?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Truman. There are some days that I think I can’t go on without him. But then I remember how much he loved me. I also think about how much he loved the ministry we built together, and I know that he would want me to continue building the vision that we shared.”

  “And what is that vision?”

  “It is a simple one, to share the message of God’s love with every living being on earth.”

  “And you are well on your way to achieving that, a global ministry, the sixth wealthiest congregation in the United States, a multimillion-dollar cathedral, university, and multimedia complex currently under construction. Some have speculated that without Hezekiah, the ministry might not be able to continue growing at the incredible rate that it has over the last ten years.”

  Samantha’s face tensed for a fraction of a second, then returned to that of the lovely grieving widow. The brief and almost undetectable change would have easily gone unnoticed by a television camera or a sanctuary filled with adoring worshippers, but to Gideon’s experienced eye the faint facial contortion hinted that he had touched on a sensitive topic.

  “What some people fail to realize, Mr. Truman, is that Hezekiah and I were equal partners. We built the ministry together. So it’s not as if I’m trying to fill shoes that I haven’t been wearing up until now.”

  Gideon decided not to pursue the line of questioning, but rather to save it for when the cameras were rolling. Instead he replied, “Pastor Cleaveland, you strike me as a woman who is capable of doing just about anything.”

  Samantha smiled. “I’ll assume you meant that as a compliment. But I have no doubt that the ministry will continue to grow. Not because of who I am, but because of God. This is his ministry and I am his servant and I truly believe this is God’s will.”

  “If I may change the subject, do you have any idea who might have done this to your husband? Was it an enemy from the past, a deranged viewer, an ex-lover possibly?”

  Again, her brief facial tic registered. “I have no idea who killed my husband, Mr. Truman, and I assure you that Hezekiah was completely faithful to me, if that is what you’re implying.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended, but I do want to be assured that if I were to appear on your television program, infidelity will not be one of the topics you broach. There would be no point, because Hezekiah was completely and utterly devoted to me and would never have broken the vows of our marriage. I know because he was that kind of man.”

  “I assure you, Pastor Cleaveland, that I will not touch on any topic that is not substantiated by fact. Have the police given you any indication that they are any closer to finding out who killed your husband?”

  “The Los Angeles Police Department has been absolutely amazing throughout this entire ordeal, but I’m afraid they are at a loss as to who assassinated my husband.”

  “How does it make you feel knowing that this person is still out there? Are you at all concerned about your own safety and that of your daughter?”

  “I, of course, am concerned, but more so for my daughter. As I’m sure you experienced when entering the property today, security on the estate is very tight. I never travel alone and am always surrounded by a number of highly trained security guards, seen and unseen. I must admit that sometimes it terrifies me that his killer has not been caught. I am afraid for my life, but I will not allow fear to control me. There is work to be done, souls to be saved, and a message to be preached. I’ve made the promise to God, to the members of my congregation, to Hezekiah, and to myself that I would go forward, and I will not allow anything or anyone to stop me.”

  A chill traveled up Gideon’s spine as the woman spoke. Beneath the beautiful veneer, he detected the soul of a woman who would stop at nothing in her quest for power, wealth, and fame.

  “Do you have any questions for me, Mrs., excuse me, Pastor Cleaveland?” he asked and once again noticed her stiffening cheek muscle. “I do hope that you will agree to appear on my show. I know my viewers would love to hear from you.”

  “Only one. Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you want me to appear on your show? And, please, be truthful. I detest dishonesty.”

  Gideon calculated at lightning speed his response. He knew her consent hinged on his answer. “Because millions of viewers would tune in if they knew a woman as beautiful and powerful as you was sitting across from me.”

  “If you had said anything other than exactly that, I would have known you were lying. Have your people call my office to make the arrangements.”

  “Wonderful,” Gideon said, barely containing his pleasure.

  “The head of my security team will need access to your studio at least one day prior,” Samantha said, standing to her feet to indicate the meeting was to end.

  “My studio?”

  “Yes. Isn’t that where you plan on conducting the interview?”

  Gideon stood obediently, following her cue. “I appreciate your willingness to come to me for the interview, but I was hoping we would be able to conduct it here in your home, in this room, as a matter of fact.”

  Samantha looked at him intently. “Here?” she questioned. “I don’t think I’m comfortable with that idea.”

  “Oh . . . I had assumed you would be more comfortable if we did it in your home. I also wanted to show my viewers a different, more intimate side of you, Pastor Samantha Cleaveland at home. Something I believe the American public has never seen before.”

  The opulence that even took me by surprise when I arrived at the estate, Gideon thought as Samantha pondered the possibility. The peacocks, the burly security guards, the lush rolling grounds, the fountains, and Picassos. If it weren’t done so tastefully, it would be considered vulgar. No surprise she doesn’t want the public to see this. He refused to let the opportunity pass to interview Samantha Cleaveland in her home.

  “You are correct, Gideon. We have never had cameras in our home. You see, my late husband and I always viewed this as our sanctuary. The one place we could go for peace and privacy.”

  “I assure you, Pastor Cleaveland, no hint of this location will be given, and we’ll only show areas of the home that you preapprove and are comfortable with.”

  There was a silence that seemed like an eternity to Gideon. Samantha scanned the room and made a mental note of the more expensive pieces that would have to be removed before filming. The pricier pieces of art were at the top of the list.

  “All right, Mr. Truman,” she finally said. “You can do the interview here. However, I don’t want any exterior shots of the house.”

  “Agreed,” he quickly replied. A small concession for the opportunity to film the bounty contained within the walls of the Cleaveland estate.

  After exchanging pleasantries and gracious goodbyes, Gideon was met in the foyer by Chantal.

  “Hello again, Mr. Truman,” she said, matching his stride as he walked to the door. “I trust your visit with Pastor Cleaveland was a pleasant one.”

  “Yes, it was. Thank you. She is a remarkable woman.”

  Chantal did not respond.

  “What’s it like working for someone as powerful as Pastor Cleaveland? I would imagine she can be very demanding.”

  “I feel very blessed that I am able to serve such an
anointed messenger of God.”

  “I’m sure you do, but what is she really like?”

  As the two reached the threshold, Chantal opened one of the double doors. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Truman. Your car is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Have a blessed day.”

  Before Gideon could respond, Chantal gently closed the massive oak door. Once again, he stood looking out over the grounds. Again, he could hear the call of the peacocks in the distance and the gentle whoosh of the fountain. The sun seemed brighter than it had been when he entered the house. Every flower petal seemed to have a ray of light dedicated to its beauty. Drops of water in the fountain shimmered like crystals falling into a lake of diamonds. This was an enchanted place, and now it was even more so after being in the presence of Samantha Cleaveland.

  As promised, his car was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, accompanied by yet another security guard wearing the regulation black suit and dark sunglasses. Again, Gideon noticed the revolver-shaped bulge in his coat. As Gideon descended the stairs, the man opened the driver’s side door. “Thank you for visiting the Cleaveland estate, Mr. Truman,” he said in a rich baritone. “Will you be able to find your way back down to the city all right?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Gideon said as he entered the car.

  “Very well then, sir. Have a nice day,” the man said as he gently closed the car door.

  Gideon drove the car to the main road. To his left he could see a mother deer and her fawn nibbling in a dense patch of brush. A flock of Canadian geese flew overhead in a V formation, honking as they landed on an open stretch of lawn to his right. He instantly regretted agreeing to not show the exterior of the estate. “America would never believe this,” he said out loud. “How many old ladies’ pensions does it take to pay for all this?”

  The wrought-iron gates glided silently open as he approached. He could see the poorly camouflaged lens of a camera on the gatehouse follow him as he exited onto the road. At the bottom of the long, winding hill the smog of the real world slowly became visible again. In the rarefied heights of the Cleaveland estate, smog was apparently not permitted. The preening peacocks were replaced by dusty gray pigeons, and instead of the soothing purr of the flowing fountain, he heard blaring horns and sirens from ambulances whizzing by.