Sinners & Saints

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  “Oh, okay. Is Nama all right?” he asked, referring to Mae Frances by the name their children called the older woman.

  “She’s fine. You know Nama. I’ll call Mrs. Whittingham and tell her that I may be a little late for my meeting.”

  By the time they said their good-byes and Jasmine grabbed her purse, she already had a plan. But she’d need some help, and Mae Frances, her friend who knew everyone from Al Sharpton to Al Capone and his offspring, was just the person to help her.

  “Sorry, Pastor Adams,” she said to herself as she rode down in the elevator. “Whoever you are, you can be the president of the ABC once Hosea and I are done—in, say, ten or twenty years.”

  She stepped outside of their Central Park South apartment building and into the New York springtime sun. Slapping on her designer glasses, she laughed out loud.

  Oh, yeah, today was gonna be a really good day.

  Chapter

  TWO

  Watch out, Michelle Obama!

  Rachel Jackson Adams smiled in satisfaction as she surveyed her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She’d had to leave the prestigious American Baptist Coalition regional dinner and step inside the restroom to compose herself. After all, she was about to be the first lady of one of the most prestigious organizations in the country. She couldn’t very well be acting a plumb fool because she was overcome with excitement. But Rachel had wanted to do a backflip, front flip, toe touch, cartwheel, and anything else she could think of to express her joy.

  Rachel fluffed her honey brown curls, then lightly refreshed her MAC Oh Baby lip gloss. She had come such a long way. Her mother was probably dancing in her grave at the sight of Rachel as not only a first lady, but a soon-to-be prominent one at that. Rachel had worked hard to garner the respect of the parishioners at Zion Hill Missionary Baptist Church. She’d grown up in that church, so everyone knew her dirt—all of it—and it had taken God himself to get these people to respect her. And while Zion Hill had grown tremendously, it still wasn’t considered a megachurch, and outside of Houston there were few who had even heard of it. As the first lady of the American Baptist Coalition, her status would go to a whole new level. Shoot, if she had to be first lady, she might as well be the top first lady.

  Rachel savored the thought as she dropped her lip gloss back into her clutch and stepped back into the corridor.

  “I was beginning to think you’d fallen in,” her husband of eight years said before leaning in and lightly kissing Rachel on the cheek.

  Lester Adams wasn’t her true love—that title belonged to her thirteen-year-old son’s father, Bobby Clark. But Lester was good for her. Her love for Lester was that agape love they talked about in First Corinthians. It brought out the best in her. Well, for the most part anyway. Life with Bobby had been filled with drama—Rachel admitted much of that was her own doing, but it was drama-filled nonetheless. And although Bobby still remained a part of Jordan’s life, Rachel had finally gotten him out of her system and was focusing all of her attention on making her marriage work.

  “What took you so long?” Lester asked, snapping Rachel out of her thoughts.

  “Sorry,” Rachel said with a slight smile, “but you know I’m about to be the preeminent first lady, so I had to make sure my makeup was on point.” She tossed her hair back. “Come to think of it, I think I’ll change my name to Lady Rachel so I can have the title to go along with the position.”

  Lester narrowed his eyes and glared at his wife. “Rachel,” he began in that voice she hated—the one that he always used when he was chastising her.

  “What?” Rachel shrugged, already getting defensive.

  “I don’t have the position yet,” he said matter-of-factly. “The regional board just nominated me tonight. There’s still a national election.”

  Rachel waved him off. “That’s just a formality. Did you hear those election results? You beat Pastor Johnson seventy-three to twenty-five percent!”

  Lester sighed. “Pastor Johnson also got his sixteen-year-old stepniece pregnant.” As soon as Lester said it, he looked like he wished he could take the words back.

  The smile immediately left Rachel’s face. Lester was no saint himself. He’d had his own little pregnant-woman-on-the-side debacle. But thank God, they’d worked through that crisis.

  “I’m just saying,” Lester quickly continued, like he wanted to prevent Rachel’s mind from traveling down that rocky memory lane, “Pastor Johnson wasn’t that hard to beat. I still have to run against whomever they nominate from the North region, and rumor has it they’re bringing out their top dog—Pastor Hosea Bush.”

  “That jack-legged TV preacher?” Rachel asked with a frown.

  Lester shook his head. “Pastor Bush is not jack-legged. He’s well established, comes from a highly respected family, and he leads one of the largest churches in the country.”

  “So? He’s. Not. You,” Rachel said, reaching up and adjusting Lester’s bow tie. Lester had been an extreme nerd when they were in high school—which is why Rachel had never given him the time of day. But he’d pursued her relentlessly and eventually had worn her down. He was willing to be a father to her two kids and he loved her unconditionally. So she agreed to give their relationship a try, but not before having him shave off that red mop of a hairstyle he wore and introducing him to Proactiv. She’d revamped his wardrobe, taught him how to have a little swagger, and now, even she had to admit, he had it going on. Not to mention the fact that he was an awesome preacher. “Lester, sweetheart,” Rachel said, taking her husband’s hands, “you heard that emcee tonight. For the past sixty years, the president of the ABC has been a Southerner. That’s not about to change. I don’t care how prominent this Rev. Tree is.”

  Lester let out a small chuckle. “Pastor Bush,” he corrected.

  “Tree, Bush, Leave, whatever,” she said, flicking her hand. “The bottom line is, that position is ours. God said so.”

  He laughed again. “Oh, God said so, huh?”

  Rachel nodded emphatically. “He sure did. And if God said it, then it’s so.” She grinned widely.

  “Look at my baby,” Lester said proudly. “And to think, you threatened to divorce me for entering the ministry.”

  “Well, that’s because I’d spent my life as a preacher’s daughter. I wasn’t trying to be a preacher’s wife. But I’ve gotten the hang of it now.”

  “You do make a great first lady,” Lester said, kissing her again. “And can I say it again—you look lovely in that dress.”

  “Thank you. And I’m going to make an even better first lady on a national level.” She tightened the belt on her royal blue Diane von Furstenberg silk dress. Her attire tonight was just one indication of how far she’d come. Just a few years ago, she would’ve shown up to an event like this in the latest Baby Phat or Apple Bottoms style that she could find. And although she still loved her some Kimora Lee Simmons, she didn’t have to wear it everywhere.

  “Congratulations, Rev. Adams,” an elderly man said as he walked past them.

  Lester stopped and smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I can’t wait until you officially claim that presidency,” the man said as he stepped on to the elevator.

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” Lester replied as he waved good-bye.

  Rachel waited for the elevator door to close. “See, everyone knows you’re the man for the job. And I’m the woman that needs to be next to the man for the job.”

  “Since when did this kind of stuff excite you?”

  Rachel’s hands went to her hips. “Since I did my homework. Do you know that the last wife of the ABC president was invited everywhere? To White House dinners, commencement ceremonies, the Grammys—she even cohosted on The View!”

  “But wasn’t she a TV journalist anyway?”

  Rachel frowned. Lester and all this negativity was about to work her nerves. “That’s beside the point. Everyone knows the ABC president is one of the most powerful men in the country, so that mean
s the ABC’s president’s wife would be one of the most powerful women.”

  “I’m just saying, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  “Whatever, Lester.” Rachel rolled her eyes. She’d been euphoric since they announced he’d won the election an hour ago. Of course, she always knew he would, but hearing it confirmed was the icing on the cake.

  As thoughts of hanging out with Michelle Obama danced in her head, Rachel once again smiled.

  “Rachel, I see your mind working.”

  “Just trying to determine where I’ll get my dress for your induction ceremony.” Maybe she could get Kimora to design her something personally.

  “Rachel—”

  She put her finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” she said, draping her arm through his. “Let’s just savor the moment tonight. Let’s go back in, mingle with the people, and enjoy ourselves. My dad and Brenda have the kids, so the night is all ours. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about the national election.” Rachel decided to just change the subject because she didn’t care what Lester said, he would win the national election. And if this Reverend Bush proved to be a problem, well, Rachel might just have to revert to her old bag of tricks—just for a moment—to make sure that he wasn’t a threat. She wasn’t going to let anything, or anyone, stand in the way of claiming what was destined to be hers.

  Chapter

  THREE

  Not even the deep breath she took could stop Jasmine’s knees from knocking; this was really happening. She wiggled her butt against the wooden chair in the Langston Hughes Auditorium, but it was difficult to get comfortable, especially since she couldn’t stop shaking.

  “You all right, darlin’?” Hosea squeezed her hand.

  She could only give him a nod before her glance wandered again to the men in front of the stage. Their heads were bowed together, their voices low. Jasmine strained, wanting to take in even a single syllable of what they were saying. But it was impossible to hear their whispers through the chatter of the two hundred or so participants in the room.

  She pressed her knees together. It wasn’t that she was nervous—this was all excitement. Because this was the day she’d been waiting for … the voting for the pastor who would represent the Northern region in the national election for president of the American Baptist Coalition. The region had actually postponed the election for more than three weeks under the guise of opening the ballot to more pastors. But though several had submitted their resumes, only Hosea’s had been accepted to go up against the four other pastors whose names were already on the ballot.

  Now, just weeks after Hosea had declared that he would never run for president of the esteemed organization, Jasmine, Hosea, the Senior Reverend Bush, and a host of friends from their church filled the first two rows of the auditorium waiting for what Pastor Griffith had called the inevitable.

  And this was all happening because of her.

  Just like with everything else in their lives, she had taken charge, knowing what was best for her husband, even when he didn’t have a clue.

  She hadn’t done it alone, though—no, a task like this had taken big names, big guns. It had taken Mae Frances. And her connections.

  For the last eight years, every time Jasmine needed to win, her friend had handled it, had worked it out, had brought the victory home. And this time was no different …

  “I agree, Jasmine Larson,” Mae Frances had said the morning Jasmine had barreled into her apartment, telling her that she needed her like never before. “This position would be wonderful for Preacher Man,” she said, calling Hosea by the nickname she’d given him when they’d met all those years ago. “And”—she paused for a moment—“this will be great for you.”

  Not more than the beat of a second passed before Jasmine said, “And anything that’s good for me will be good for you.”

  Mae Frances had reared back on the sofa that Hosea and Jasmine had given her, and released a hearty laugh. “You got that right. I always gets mine.” She was still chuckling, but then turned to her serious get-down-to-business tone. “So, tell me what you know.”

  The two had moved to the mahogany dining room table, this piece of furniture a gift to Mae Frances from Hosea’s father, Rev. Samuel Bush. And as Jasmine leaned forward and relayed to Mae Frances everything that Hosea had told her, Mae Frances took notes as if making things happen was her job.

  “So, that’s it?” Mae Frances asked when Jasmine stopped after two minutes.

  Jasmine nodded. “I don’t even know that pastor—Griffith. I never heard of him before this morning.”

  Mae Frances frowned a little. “I wonder if that’s Earl Griffith out of Chicago.”

  Jasmine shook her head. Was there anyone her friend didn’t know?

  “I don’t know where he’s from,” Jasmine said. “All I know is that he called and he wants Hosea to run … and I do, too. I want him to have that position … I need him to be the president.”

  “Whoa! Hold on, Jasmine Larson.” Mae Frances held up her hands. “Calm down. You’ve been home being the good wife for the last couple of years and it shows. You talking like you’ve forgotten how to play this game.”

  Jasmine’s frown asked her question.

  “You’re acting like you’ve already hit the home run. The old Jasmine would know that you can’t get too far out in front—you’ve got to touch first, second, and third base before you can bring it home.” Mae Frances continued, “So, back to the business of getting Preacher Man to be the leader of the—”

  “Not the leader, the president.”

  “Whatever! You want him to be the head Negro in charge, right?”

  Jasmine cringed at her friend’s choice of words, but still, she nodded. No one had ever accused Mae Frances of being loaded with class. But no one could deny that for an assignment like this, there was only one person who could make it happen … and that was exactly what Mae Frances had done.

  She had sent Jasmine home with no information, but no worries, either, and by the time Jasmine maneuvered the thirty or so blocks from the Upper East Side to Central Park South, Mae Frances’s plan was already in motion.

  It hadn’t even been a half hour from when she left Mae Frances until she stepped into her apartment, but when Jasmine walked inside, Hosea had not yet left to go to his office in the church. He was still at home, pacing the length of their living room, his cell phone pressed against his ear. With his eyebrows bunched together, and his forehead creased with deep wrinkles, Jasmine knew that the talk was serious—she knew it was about the ABC.

  “I hear you, Steve,” Hosea said as Jasmine laid her purse on the table.

  Ah, she thought. So that’s where Mae Frances had started. She’d begun with Hosea’s award-winning cable talk show. Steven Hager was the executive producer of Bring It On, and because of his and Hosea’s efforts, the show enjoyed ratings that rivaled some network programs. Bring It On was Hosea’s cherished project, his idea, his success. And Jasmine knew what Mae Frances knew—that Hosea would do anything to help the show thrive even more.

  Jasmine peeked into the living room from the foyer and waved to Hosea, letting him know that she had returned. But he’d only nodded, distracted by his conversation. She pretended to have her own distraction, glancing through yesterday’s mail, which she’d already sorted. But though her eyes were turned away, her ears were at full attention.

  “Yeah, it would be great for the show, but if I were going to take a position like that, it would have to be for much more than just good ratings,” Hosea said, still pacing.

  Then more silence, peppered every few seconds with Hosea grunting, “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Then something on the other end of the line made Hosea stop. Made his eyes widen. Made him sit down … slowly.

  Jasmine’s heart pounded.

  “You’re kidding me?” he whispered. “Jeremiah Wright?”

  Jasmine pressed her lips together, but it was still hard to keep the scream inside. It pressed through her lips—a little yelp—just enough to make
Hosea look up and at her for just a moment.

  “Well, yeah,” Hosea said. “If he thinks I should do it … if he thinks I can bring something to the Coalition.”

  There was more silence, but at the mention of Jeremiah Wright’s name, Jasmine knew that Mae Frances had hit that home run. Hosea might say no to Pastor Griffith, and even no to her. But not to the man whom he considered a stand-up guy, a hero, a mentor, even though he’d never met him.

  “Okay,” Hosea said. “Yeah, definitely give Reverend Wright my number.” His voice was filled with an excitement that Jasmine had not heard in a while. “I’ll call Pastor Griffith back now.”

  Hosea hung up and turned to a nonchalant Jasmine. “You are not going to believe this.”

  “What?” she asked, her eyes still on the mail.

  “Jeremiah Wright.”

  “Oh, did you speak to him?” When Hosea frowned, Jasmine realized that maybe she was being a bit too casual. So she added, “Really?” as if she were surprised.

  It was enough to get Hosea back on track. “No, I didn’t speak to him, but he called Steve over at the studio. He said he heard that the ABC was considering me and that he’d followed me and the show after all that we went through with Jacquie.” He paused and sat down on the sofa. “He really wants me to run and represent the North in the national election.”

  “Babe, that’s great!” This time, Jasmine didn’t have to add anything to her voice. Her excitement was enough. “So, if Reverend Wright is taking an interest in this, then …”

  She left the sentence open for Hosea to finish. “Then, I have to do it.” He nodded. “I don’t have any choice.” Glancing at Jasmine, he smiled as he stood up. “I need to make another call. I’m going to call back Pastor Griffith.”

  Within an hour, Hosea had reneged on his promise to never run and had faxed his resume to Pastor Griffith. An hour after that, Hosea Bush’s name was on the ballot to represent the Northern region.