Lady Jasmine (8 page)

T
HIS WAS IT
. A
NOTHER MOMENT
Jasmine pressed her shoulders back, held her head as high as she could underneath the weight of her hat, and then tried not to shift too much from one leg to the other. She had to go to the bathroom bad, but she wasn’t about to miss one minute of standing by her husband’s side.

She took hold of Hosea’s hand, but not a second passed before he let her loose to greet the first parishioner.

“Hosea! Oh, excuse me, I mean ‘Pastor.’” Sister Pearline wobbled toward them, balancing her eighty-year-old legs on a cane that looked to be as old as she was. “I’ve watched you since you were a little boy, but I’m telling you, that sermon was almost as good as any your father ever gave; God bless that man.”

“Thank you, Sister Pearline, but I have a long way to go before I’m anywhere near my dad.”

The woman turned to Jasmine. “How’re you, baby?”

She smiled, but as Jasmine leaned in for a hug, she heard a voice that made her stand straight up.

“I think you’re pretty close to your dad right now.” Those words came from another woman, a much younger woman, somewhere in her thirties, around Hosea’s age.

Jasmine’s smile turned upside down as her eyes rolled down,
then back up the woman’s slender frame. She’d seen her before, with her fiery red hair weave that was twisted in long curls down her back. Jasmine had never cared for the way the woman always waltzed down the center aisle a half hour after church started, pushing her way to the front, in too-short, bright-colored skirts and too-tight, cleavage-raising tops, as if she was the center of the world. She even suspected that this woman had her eyes on Reverend Bush—as if he would ever be interested in a hoochie like her.

But if Jasmine wasn’t feeling her before, she definitely didn’t like her now. Especially not the way she stuck the deep V of her purple skin-tight sweater underneath Hosea’s nose.

“I think you’re just like your dad,” the red-haired girl said, taking Hosea’s hand. “Only you’re younger. And better.”

Jasmine’s frown deepened. Why did this woman’s chest shimmy with every word she spoke?

Hosea smiled. “How are you, Nikki?”

“Ah, you remembered.”

“How could I forget?”

Forget what?
Jasmine pushed her hand in between her husband’s and Nikki’s. “I’m
Mrs.
Bush,” she said.

This time it was the woman who looked Jasmine up and down and when, after her perusal, she grinned, Jasmine wanted to ask her what was so funny.

“I know who you are,” Nikki said, and then looked back to Hosea. “That was a great sermon. Especially the part about the prophet, Hosea, and his whore.”

Oh, no she didn’t.

But before Jasmine could move to take off her hat and her earrings, the next woman stepped up.

After another, then another, and yet another woman pressed her hands against his hands and her lips against his face, Jasmine turned to get a look of when all of this would end. But the reception line—filled with women—stretched long. Women of
all sizes, every shape. Some standing next to a man. Most standing alone. Twenty-somethings, thirty-somethings, forty-, fifty-, even sixty-and seventy-somethings. Every one of them waiting to spend personal moments with her husband.

Jasmine had never paid any kind of attention to the women in the church. Sure, she noticed their demure smiles and cutesy waves as she and Hosea walked across the parking lot on Sundays. But not one woman had ever stepped to him the way they were doing today. As if wearing that burgundy robe had turned him into a lure for all of these female leeches.

“I wanted to pay my respects, Pastor.” The next woman in line leaned in and pretended to aim for Hosea’s cheek. “Oops,” the woman giggled when her lips made contact with his.

Flashback!

Jasmine’s fingers curled into a fist. But before she could take a swing, another female was in his face.

“You have certainly grown up.” This time it was a gray-haired woman smiling and stroking his hand.

When the woman, who had to be almost twice his age, stood as if she planned on having a long conversation, Jasmine said, “Uh, honey. There’re other people waiting.”

The woman’s blue-shadowed eyes rolled, and she stayed as if she didn’t plan to move. But this time, Jasmine didn’t have to do a thing. The next woman in line pushed the older woman out of the way.

“Oh, Pastor!”

And Jasmine thought,
What a ridiculous hat!
There were so many feathers on the golden apparatus the woman wore that Jasmine was sure the hat and the woman would take flight at any moment.

The feather-wearing woman said, “I was hoping, Pastor, that you could take some time…and pray with me.” She lowered her eyes and jiggled her cleavage as if it was her chest that needed prayer. “I could come by your office tomorrow—”

“Why don’t you call Sister Whittingham,” Hosea said. “We’ll have the Intercessory Prayer team lift you up every day this week.”

“Well, actually, what I need is personal—”

Before she could finish, Jasmine said, “Next,” and, with her hip, shoved the woman out of the way.

It seemed as if an hour passed before all of the kissing and stroking and jiggling was over. And when there was no one left standing, Jasmine waited until Brother Hill escorted Hosea to his office before she dashed into the restroom.

Inside the stall, she breathed with relief and rested on the seat for a moment before she heard the door swing open.

“Did you see that stupid hat?”

The response, “I couldn’t believe it. Country! That woman ain’t nothin’ but country.”

“Not just country, girl, a country-bama for real.”

When they laughed, Jasmine wanted to join them. She knew who they were talking about: that woman in that ridiculous feathered contraption.

“And wearing white in
February.
How country is that?”

More laughter, and Jasmine slowly rose from the seat.

The chatter continued. “She ain’t never had no class. Was nothing but a Jezebel when Pastor met her.”

“And not a thing has changed.”

“I will never understand why he married her, but why did he stay married after he found out about the baby?”

“It don’t make no sense. Especially when he has so many women to choose from right here in the church. Including me!”

“Girl, I saw you pushing up on Pastor. But you better recognize—he’s married.”

“And how long do you think that’s going to last?”

“I’d say forever,” Jasmine spoke through the closed door, and imagined their shocked looks. She waited a couple of beats, letting them stew, before she showed her face.

Their eyes were opened as wide as their mouths as she moved toward the women—her eyes on the one in the yellow-feathered device. The one who had asked for special prayer and was about to need it for real.

The two stood frozen until Jasmine was right in front of them. And then, they parted like the Red Sea, giving Jasmine a clear path to the sink.

Not a word was spoken as Jasmine turned on the water, and while she washed, she stared down the women through the mirror. Still they stood, still as stone.

When Jasmine reached for a hand towel, the woman in the yellow hat found enough nerve to stutter, “Ah…M-mrs. Bush…”

Drying her hands, Jasmine said, “You don’t have to apologize.”

The one no taller than a third-grader smiled as if she’d been forgiven. “We didn’t mean nothin’, Mrs. Bush. We were playin’. Just girls talkin’. You know?”

“Oh, I know that.” Jasmine dried her hands. “You had to be playin’, ’cause I know there’s no one crazy enough in this church to mess with me.”

Only Jasmine laughed.

“You’re right, Mrs. Bush,” the short one said.

Jasmine held up her hand. “Don’t call me that. My
husband
is the senior pastor; you should be addressing me as ‘First Lady.’”

The women looked at each other before they said, “Okay.”

Jasmine took two steps toward the door, then turned back. “Change that. Forget about First Lady. Call me Lady…Lady Jasmine.”

She didn’t think it was possible for their mouths to open wider than before—but she was wrong. Jasmine spun around and left them standing in the bathroom.

In the hallway, she lifted the hat from her head. She sighed with a bit of embarrassment, but more with relief—that thing
was giving her a headache. It was clear—hats weren’t going to be her thing.

Tucking the almost ten-pound apparatus underneath her arm, she marched proudly to her husband’s office.

Jasmine held Jacqueline’s hand as they walked down the long hallway of the left wing of City of Lights, which housed the children’s church. As Jacqueline tottered beside her, Jasmine couldn’t stop thinking about the women in the bathroom. She’d never been one to care much about what others thought, but somehow those words hurt. Because it wasn’t just about her anymore. Everything she said, wore, or did reflected on Hosea. She couldn’t make any mistakes.

White in February?

Those women had laughed, as if someone wearing white in February was the dumbest thing they’d ever seen. What was wrong with that? In L.A., everyone wore white any time they wanted. But this was New York, and maybe she needed help. Maybe she needed a fashion coordinator who could turn her into a true fashionista. She’d get working on that tomorrow.

She looked down at Jacqueline moving merrily beside her, still wearing her fur hat. When she found her fashion consultant, Jacqueline would be her client, too.

The moment she and Jacqueline stepped from the building, her daughter tore away from her and broke into a toddler run.

“Daddy!” she exclaimed, already spotting her father.

Jasmine wanted to tell her daughter to be careful, but all of her attention was on their SUV. And the long, lean frame of the woman perched on the hood like she was posing for an ad. It took only seconds for Jasmine to measure her—the expensive knit suit, the smartly spiked hair, the flawlessly applied makeup. The woman slid off their car when Hosea lifted Jacqueline into his arms.

He kissed Jacqueline’s cheek and then did the same to Jasmine. “Darlin’, I want you to meet an old friend.”

Jasmine sighed.
Another one?
All of her husband’s too many old female friends were making her sick. And she planned to tell him that the moment they were alone.

The woman extended her hand and her smile. “I’m Roxie Willis.” Jasmine still wasn’t feeling her until she added, “It’s so nice to meet you, First Lady.”

Now Jasmine returned her smile.

When Roxie said, “You must be Jacquie,” and then squeezed her daughter’s hand, Jacqueline giggled.

Jasmine relaxed, a little. Her daughter was the best barometer, and if she liked Roxie, then the woman had to be okay.

“Reverend Bush has told me so much about the two of you…well, the three of you,” she said to Jasmine. “I haven’t seen Hosea in years, but I wanted to drop by this morning to support both of you. I’m so sorry to hear about your father-inlaw.”

It was the first time someone offered condolences straight to her, and Jasmine warmed to this woman more. Roxie understood her place as Hosea’s wife.

“Thank you,” Jasmine said, putting as much grief into her voice as she could. “We’re all still prayerful.”

Roxie nodded.

Jasmine said, “You’re not a member here?”

“No, I’m at First Faith Chapel. But who knows, I might start coming here now.”

It was the way she looked at Hosea that tore away every single one of those good feelings Jasmine had for her.

“Listen,” Roxie began as she searched through her purse, “I’m going to let you guys get going, but First Lady, let me give you my card.”

Jasmine took a quick glance at the simple linen card embossed with Roxie’s name and number.

Roxie said, “I don’t have much to do these days, and I know you’re going to need some help. I might make a good armor bearer.”

“Roxie,” Hosea began with cheer in his voice, “I can’t believe you’d offer to do that. That would be great.”

“Yeah,” Jasmine added, even though she had no idea what an armor bearer was.

“So give me a call,” Roxie said to Jasmine. “We can do lunch and talk about it.” Then, before she stepped away, she rested her hand on Hosea’s arm and winked. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

If Hosea hadn’t been standing there, she would have torn Roxie’s card into a dozen pieces right in front of her face.

What was with these women? They had all but ruined her debut.

Roxie strutted away, and even Jasmine had to take notice how the knit of her dress hugged her ample behind. She turned to Hosea, and when she saw that his eyes were where hers had been, she snatched Jacqueline from his arms.

“Hey,” he said, coming out of his trance, “I was gonna strap her in.”

“I’ll do it. You seem busy.”

“Nah, nah, I wasn’t busy,” he said, before he took a final glance Roxie’s way. He held the door open for Jasmine to slip into the car and ignored her when she rolled her eyes.

Turning on the ignition, he asked, “Wasn’t that nice of Roxie?”

“Who is she, Hosea?”

A small sigh and a slight nod, as if he understood her jealousy. As if he felt responsible for it. “She’s an old friend, Jasmine,” he said, his voice filled with patience.

“Seems like you have a lot of those.”

“I do, but,” he reached for her hand, “I have only one wife. There’s only one woman I love.”

She wanted to slap him away, but how could she after that?
So she squeezed his hand, letting him know that it was all forgiven—for now.

“Anyway,” he said as he backed the SUV out of the parking space, “Roxie is one woman you’d never have to worry about. She’s not hardly interested in me. She has quite a life.”

“What life? She said she didn’t have much to do.”

“Well, she may not have a nine-to-five, but believe me, her hands are full. Her husband passed away while we were in L.A.—Reverend Willis, remember him? He was one of Pops’s mentors.”

“Oh, yeah. She was married to
him
?”

Hosea nodded. “She was his third wife and thirty years younger. But Roxie seems to be doing all right. I guess it helps that Reverend Willis left her quite a wealthy woman.”