“All the way?”
She smiled. “Well, if you mean marriage, I understand—”
He interrupted, “I’m not talking about marriage. I’m talking about how we get close to that point. We can only do it as two people—one man, one woman. No one else.” He paused, letting her take in his words. He continued, “From today forward it’s just you and me and us trying to figure this out. Don’t need a third party.”
“If you’re asking me if I’m seeing anyone else, I’m not.”
“And I’m not either. So let’s keep it that way. I don’t want to start anything that doesn’t have the chance of finishing. So are you up to this?”
It’s already finished, Hosea. “I’m more than up to it.”
“Are you sure?”
“I said yes. How many times do you want me to say I’m fine? Are you trying to run me away?”
He chuckled. “Far from it. Just want to make sure that you’re sure. So,” he took a breath of relief, “we should celebrate and make this official. Now, let’s talk about lunch.”
“Great.” She paused. “But this time, can we do something besides the corner of Fifty-ninth and Pitiful?”
He laughed. “Are you saying you didn’t enjoy our last date?”
“I’m just sayin’—”
“Okay, so maybe I won’t win an award for first-date-of-the-year, but today is different. How does ‘Twenty-one’ sound?”
Jasmine’s eyes widened at the mention of the fabled mid-town canteen. “That would be wonderful,” she cooed.
“Be ready in twenty minutes.”
For “21,” she’d need a couple of hours. “You’re kidding, right?” She jumped from her bed. “You have to give me more time, Hosea.”
“Listen to you, making demands already.” He chuckled. “I’ll meet you in your lobby at noon.”
She glanced at the clock and didn’t wait for his good-bye. Just hung up and rushed to her closet. In an hour, she’d be going to the legendary speakeasy that had turned into one of the finest restaurants in the country. This sealed it—Hosea Bush was definitely the one.
Chapter 18
Jasmine felt like his wife already.
It had begun yesterday when she and Hosea stepped into “21.” The maître d’ greeted them as if Hosea was a regular. That was the first time Jasmine held his arm tighter.
As they dined over the jumbo shrimp with fresh horseradish sauce for her and the citrus poached lobster with coconut rice for him, Jasmine tried to keep her eyes on her prize. But it was difficult when Magic Johnson, Susan Lucci, and Barack Obama were sitting in the same room.
She’d enjoyed the food. The ambiance. The company. The money Hosea was spending.
After they shared tiramisu, Hosea had surprised her with tickets to the Broadway show Make Me Hot and then they’d strolled hand-in-hand through Times Square. When they stopped and admired the jewels in the world-famous diamond dealer Sachs Jewelers, she squeezed his hand tighter.
A bit after seven, he escorted her home, leaving her with just a hug, and plans to pick her up for church in the morning. It was not the way she wanted to end the evening—too early, no action—but she would play it his way, for a little while.
Now, the next morning, as he held open the door of his Armada and took her hand as she slid out, she definitely felt like his wife. She had dressed appropriately, in a tan mid-calf-length suit that was suitable for any corporate meeting.
Holding hands, they stepped across the church’s parking lot to the symphony of good wishes.
“Hey, Hosea, great to have you home.”
“Congratulations, Hosea.”
“We’re proud of you.”
With the kind words came the curious stares. But she kept her head high. Walked straight, moved tall. Strode like the minister’s wife she was born to be.
“Hosea,” Mrs. Whittingham exclaimed when they stepped inside the church’s side door. Then the secretary saw Jasmine. She frowned, sighed, said, “Ms. Larson, what are you doing here?”
“She’s with me,” Hosea spoke.
At first, the secretary’s face crinkled, then cleared with understanding. She lowered her head, and pretended that she did not see what she just saw. “Your father is in his office,” she said to Hosea as if Jasmine wasn’t there. “Just go on in.”
He nodded. “Would you mind waiting here?” he asked Jasmine.
“Not at all.” She giggled when he lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. Made just enough noise for Mrs. Whittingham to look up. The grimace on the woman’s face told Jasmine that the arrow she’d aimed had hit its mark.
Jasmine sat on the couch and with her eyes, dared Mrs. Whittingham to speak. Triumph was in her heart as she flipped through a magazine.
A few minutes passed and the reverend’s door opened. Father and son strolled close together, heads bent, as if their conversation was too deep for others to hear.
Hosea looked up. “Pops, I wanted to introduce you to my friend, Jasmine Larson.”
A miscellany of emotions scrolled across the reverend’s face. Looking straight into her eyes, the reverend said, “Actually, son, Sister Jasmine and I have met.”
“Yes, we have,” Jasmine said returning his stare. She was better in this game than he could ever be. She reached out to him. A beat, and then he took her hand. “Good to see you again, Reverend Bush,” she said, as if she hadn’t been trying to get him into her bed.
“I figured you guys had met in passing,” Hosea said, standing by her side. “But I wanted to make a formal intro, Pops, since I invited Jasmine to come with me to church today.”
“Well, that’s great. Anytime one of God’s lost sheep can hear a message, it’s a good thing.”
“Amen,” Mrs. Whittingham said.
Jasmine didn’t know which one she wanted to slap first. But instead, she took Hosea’s hand into hers. And smiled at Reverend Bush. Then turned her smirk to Mrs. Whittingham.
“Pops, let me take Jasmine to her seat and then we can walk out together.”
Reverend Bush pressed his lips as if he was trying to hold words inside. Finally, he said, “I want to go over a few things with you, son.” He turned to Mrs. Whittingham. “Would you mind taking Sister Jasmine…to where…our special guests sit?”
Jasmine was sure the woman gagged. She squeezed Hosea’s hand, and then followed Mrs. Whittingham into the sanctuary. As she moved in front of the altar, she could feel eyes watching, hear whispers.
“You can sit here,” Mrs. Whittingham said in the same tone she would have used if she’d told Jasmine to lay in front of a speeding train.
“Thank you.” She spread her mink along the top of the pew and then sat. Crossed her legs. Held one finger in the air and motioned for Brother Hill.
His glance ricocheted between Jasmine and Mrs. Whittingham. The secretary gave him a slow nod, then marched away.
“I’d like a program,” Jasmine demanded.
He wore no smile as he handed her a bulletin. He stayed, standing over her, not understanding. “That will be all,” she dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
She never looked at him again. Just kept her eyes on the bulletin and away from the many glances she felt on her.
When the music played, she looked up. When Reverend Bush walked in, she smiled. When Hosea followed, she stood. She sang along with the praise team. And she swayed, and clapped, and thanked the Lord for all of her blessings.
Hosea glanced at her. Grinned. Winked.
She beamed. This was the way life was supposed to be.
She was the picture of demure.
With her ankles crossed and her hands resting in the center of her lap, Jasmine waited patiently as Hosea stood at his father’s side, greeting parishioners.
But even as she sat, her mind was spinning, swirling with thoughts of moving her plan into full force.
Hosea turned toward Jasmine, wiggled his fingers. She waved back and wondered what he’d look like naked. Then, a vision of Br
ian—nude—marched through her mind. She frowned; shook her head.
“You look intense. What are you thinking about?” Hosea asked.
She blinked, not realizing he had stepped over to her. “You.”
He bobbed his head as if her words were music. “That’s what I’m talking about.” Holding hands, they strolled to the side door. In the foyer that separated the sanctuary from the church offices, Brother Hill stood with Reverend Bush, as Mrs. Whittingham jotted notes. Other deacons and a few of the ushers huddled in the space, snacking on the spread of fruit and pastries that graced a long table against the wall.
“Do you want something to drink?” Hosea asked, as he picked up a small bottle of orange juice.
She shook her head.
“Okay, I’ll be ready in a sec. Need to check a few things with my pops since we won’t be staying for second service.”
Jasmine wandered past the reverend and Brother Hill, eyed the food, before she turned back to Hosea. In the service, she had studied her man as he stood with his father. They shared similarities: the tailored suits, the shining shoes, their shaven heads that gleamed. At the same time, they were walking exclamations of their generations—while the father wore a simple gold watch, the son glittered. From the diamond stud in Hosea’s ear to the jewel-encrusted watch on his wrist, he blinged success. It was those differences that she loved about the son.
“Darlin’, I’ve got to check something out with Brother Hill. Give me a few.”
“Sister Jasmine will be fine,” Reverend Bush said as his son walked away. Then, Reverend Bush motioned toward his office. “Would you mind joining me, Sister Jasmine?”
Without a word or a smile, she followed him; marched into the office as if she belonged there.
As soon as the door closed, Reverend Bush said, “I thought we agreed you were going to stop these games.”
Jasmine lowered herself into the chair. “What games are you talking about, Reverend?”
“I told you. I’m not interested in you.”
She raised her eyebrows. Chuckled. “Does it look like I’m interested in you?”
She could see the heat rise beneath his skin. “What do you want?” he asked.
She was tempted to tell him that she wanted—and would get—his son. But she stayed silent.
“What do you think my son would say if I told him about the things you’ve done?”
She didn’t allow a beat to pass. “I would deny anything you said.”
Now, he chuckled. “And who do you think he’ll believe? His father or a…woman he’s just met.”
Jasmine let his question rest in the air. His lips twisted into a crooked grin, as if he were in charge.
“Reverend Bush, I have no doubt your son will believe you over me.” She paused. “But before he does,” she leaned forward, rested her arms on his desk, “I can cause enough dissension and doubt to create havoc between you and Hosea.”
Her words wiped his smirk away.
“The best that would happen,” she continued, “is that Hosea would resent you. Wouldn’t trust you.” She paused. “But the worst thing…Hosea just came home and it would be a shame for him to want to get away from you…again.”
“Are you threatening me?” He glared.
Her look was just as fierce. “No more than you’re threatening me.” She pushed back, softened her tone. “Reverend Bush, I’m not playing games. I met your son and didn’t even know who he was.”
His expression said she was a liar.
“I don’t want to be your enemy,” she continued. “But I’m not afraid of you.” She cocked her head. “So maybe we can call a truce. Start all over.”
He contemplated her words. Smiled. “I’d like to start all over…but I don’t trust you.” This time, he leaned forward. “I won’t let you hurt my son.”
“I don’t plan on doing that.”
He stared at her more. “Don’t think I’m concerned with your threats. My relationship with my son can withstand any truth.”
Although his words made her heart pound, she shrugged as if she was willing to test that theory.
“If I see any reason to warn my son about you, I will.”
She wanted to exhale, but refused to let the reverend see how his words had made her sweat. “I can accept that,” she said, working to keep her voice steady.
She felt as if she were on fire, under the glare of his stare. “I’ll be watching you, Sister Jasmine. That’s a promise. And if there is anything that stinks, I’ll smell it.”
A knock on the door prevented her response. “Pops, is Jasmine—” Hosea stepped into the office. “There you are.” Hosea looked between his father and his woman. “Everything all right in here?”
“Definitely,” she said quickly and stood. “Just getting to know your father.” She turned to Reverend Bush. “Thanks for the talk. I heard everything you said.”
She waited as father and son exchanged good-byes, although all she wanted was to grab Hosea and run far away. But it wasn’t like she had anything to fear. The reverend said he’d be watching—so what? Her slate was clean and would stay that way. She’d make sure of it.
Chapter 19
De Janeiro was bumping.
The walls of the massive room reverberated with the music and couples swarmed the dance floor swinging and swaying.
This trip had been a last-minute decision.
Tonight, Jasmine and Malik were going to judge the salsa contest, and then meet tomorrow with de Janeiro’s chef. At first, the plan was for only Malik to come to L.A., but then he invited her.
“You should join me,” he’d said to her on Monday.
“I don’t think so,” Jasmine said, as she eyed the stack of papers on her desk. “I have way too much to do.” Besides, she thought to herself, things were just getting started with Hosea. She needed to stay in the city, keep an eye on her investment.
On Tuesday, when Malik asked again, right as she was running out the door for a late dinner with Hosea, she repeated that her workload mandated that she stay behind.
But on Wednesday, she’d told Malik, “I think it would be good if I joined you in L.A. tomorrow.”
“What changed your mind?”
She’d shrugged, pretending this was nothing more than a woman’s prerogative. She wasn’t about to tell her godbrother about the images that had danced through her dreams after Hosea had once again dropped her off—alone—last night.
Now, as she stepped inside de Janeiro, it took only seconds for regret to set in. What was she doing here when her desk was piled high with work? Why wasn’t she home focusing on Hosea?
J.T. greeted Malik and Jasmine the moment they entered, and she stood to the side as the friends exchanged greetings. It didn’t take long for Jasmine to tire of their chatter, and she rounded the bar, away from them.
“A Coke, no ice, please,” she ordered.
“That’ll be four dollars,” the bartender said when he returned with her drink.
A voice came from behind her. “I got that.”
Her hands shook and she took her time picking up her glass. Took even more time turning around, and focusing on the image that had made itself at home in her mind.
“We meet again,” Brian said.
She nodded and brought the glass to her lips, giving herself time to scan every bit of him; he was better than any of her dreams. “Hello, Dr. Lewis,” she finally said.
He chuckled. “Why so formal? Aren’t we friends?”
“Are we?”
“I would like to think so. But then, I could be wrong. I gave you my number, but never heard from you.” His gaze unbalanced her.
“I lost your card.”
He laughed. “That’s a good one, Jasmine.”
She smiled and tried to eject the naked vision of him from her mind’s eye. “I really lost it, and I came all the way back here so that I could get…another one.”
His laughter continued. “I doubt that.”
She
laughed with him. If only you knew.
“So, when’s your New York club opening?”
“In a couple of weeks.”
He leaned forward, rested his empty glass on the bar, brushed against her. She held her breath, taking in his scent. She didn’t recognize his fragrance. Only knew that she liked it.
He asked, “Does that mean you’ll be spending more time in L.A.?”
“Why do you want to know?”
He ordered another Amaretto Sour before he said, “Because I want to know how much time I have.” She frowned, and he added, “To make my move.”
In another time, that would have been her cue. To make her move. But she had changed. Didn’t sleep with married men anymore.
But this is Alexis’s husband.
“What kind of move are you talking about?” she flirted.
He paid the bartender for his drink, then took a sip. “Where are you staying?”
Thoughts swirled in her mind. Thoughts of Hosea. Thoughts of her plan. Thoughts of celibacy. Thoughts of her wedding.
The thoughts of Alexis made her say, “At the Four Seasons.”
“Under your name?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Of course.”
He handed her his drink and then he disappeared into the crowd.
“There you are,” J.T. exclaimed. “Thought we’d lost you.”
She said, “No, I was just…trying to find…some aspirin.” She slipped Brian’s drink onto the bar.
Malik frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“I think it was something I ate on the plane.” She held her stomach. “I don’t know, suddenly, I’m just not feeling well.” She eyed the front door. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“Do you want me to take you to the hotel?” Malik asked.
“No, I’ll get our driver. But I do think I need to leave. With all the work I have I can’t afford to be sick.”
J.T. said, “Aw, come on,” and smirked as if he didn’t believe her. “You can hang in there for an hour or two.” He picked up the glass that she’d put down and sniffed. “Amaretto Sour. Maybe this is what’s made you sick.”
“That’s not mine,” she snapped.
A Sin and a Shame Page 12
