Love Like Hallelujah (5 page)

“I’m glad the men decided to play a few holes, give us some time to catch up,” Tai said to Vivian, as they strolled leisurely to Vivian’s Escalade.

“Me, too,” Vivian replied.

They had just enjoyed a few jostled, crowded hours in LA’s famous “garment district.” Vivian usually didn’t have the patience for the dense street vendors, or “The Alley’s” rambunctious atmosphere, but on special occasions, such as when she had her best friend in tow, she braved the traffic and ventured into the masses. It had been worth it. There were a few upscale shops that sold her beloved designer suits at a third of what she’d pay for them elsewhere. Plus, the February day was perfect, not a cloud in the sky.

Vivian punched a button and heard the locks pop open. She and Tai placed their bags in the handy back compartment and carefully slid onto soft leather seats.

“You haven’t been here since the summit,” Vivian said, as she pulled away from the curb. “I can’t believe you guys are flying back right after the wedding.”

“You know King is trying not to miss a service,” Tai answered, buckling her seatbelt. “At least he got a guest minister for the morning message. We’ll take a morning flight out and be home by five.”

King and Tai had arrived Friday, a little after nine A.M., to a sunny, warm day in Los Angeles. A car had picked them up and whisked them to Derrick and Vivian’s, where Vivian had prepared a sumptuous breakfast of homemade waffles, fluffy scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, fresh fruit, coffee, and juice. They’d spent a couple hours relaxing by the pool, and then the boys had headed off to their newfound passion, the golf course. Derrick had taken it up a year ago with some men at KCCC, and had soon thrown down the “you-can’t-play-golf-it’s-a-thinking-man’s-game” gauntlet to King. King had hit the greens shortly thereafter with the most unlikely of partners, his dad, the Reverend Doctor Pastor Bishop Overseer Mister Stanley Obadiah Meshach Brook Jr. Now, in between King’s love of golf and his dad’s love of fishing, they were spending more time together than ever before in their lives. Both Tai and Mama Max were glad for that.

“I can understand his being anxious to get back,” Vivian said, as she turned onto Olympic Boulevard and drove away from the crowded downtown area, “especially with the success of your broadcast ministry. I know it’s only been a month, and you guys are still working out the kinks, but it really is good, Tai. King’s charisma comes right through the TV screen, and he always was an awesome orator. You guys may not get that five-year reprieve you wanted between major building projects.”

“Tell me about it. We’re already seeing the increase in attendance at services. Just slightly right now, thank God, but as the network opens up in more markets, and the word gets around Kansas City and the surrounding towns,” Tai sighed, “I think things are really going to blow up.”

Tai’s sigh had not gone unnoticed. Vivian glanced over. “I understand, sistah, mega-congregations are a lot of work.
Any
size congregation is a lot of work, for that matter, but once they get over a thousand, and then two thousand, and on and on…no joke.”

“Yeah, King’s already talking about adding a second morning service, and I never dreamed we’d have to do that.”

“Can you believe it, Tai? Did you have any idea when you were in high school and declared to me that King was going to be your husband, that your life would be anything like this?”

“Be careful what you pray for, is all I can say,” Tai said drily.

Vivian knew that Tai’s concerns were not limited to the size of the congregation. She herself had had to deal with more than one overly zealous churchgoing female trying to get her hands on her husband. “I’m glad the air cleared about Tootie being back,” Vivian segued smoothly.

“I am, too,” Tai agreed.

“You still haven’t seen her?”

“No, and honestly, that’s fine with me.” Tai no longer felt threatened but there was no love lost for the ex-girlfriend; the farther the distance between them, the better.

“According to Mama Max, she’s at the hospital mostly. You know Mama and Miss Smith have known each other forever. She’s been to see her quite a bit.” Tai looked at the foreign signs as they passed through Koreatown. “Mama Max says she looks good, says Germany must agree with her.”

“Speaking of Germany, you and King still going on that second honeymoon for your twentieth anniversary?” Vivian segued again, flowing as easily as her Escalade through traffic.

Tai blushed. The past two months had felt like a honeymoon. “That’s the plan. Don’t know where, though.”

“There are so many beautiful places: the islands, Hawaii, Mexico, Europe. I saw a brochure on Madagascar the other day. It’s beautiful.”

“Mada-who? I’m not going any place I can’t spell or pronounce, trust.”

Vivian laughed. “Don’t put off the planning too long. You know how time flies. And I didn’t miss that blush, sistah. King must be, uh, taking care of business.”

Tai’s smile was proof enough that King was being
quite
the businessman.

“Aw, man, that shot wasn’t nothin’ but luck.” King shook his head as he walked over and got a different iron. “Ain’t no way you’d make that shot again.”

Derrick smiled broadly and then agreed. “You’re probably right.”

King and Derrick had chosen a rather easy course, not far from Derrick’s home. Their camaraderie was the main enjoyment, the golf was gravy.

“So man, I know you’ve seen Tootie a few times. How’s she look?” Vivian had told Derrick about this thorn returning to Tai’s side.

“Fine as ever.” King putted.

Derrick eyed his friend a moment. King and Tootie had been quite the item back in the day. But that was a long time ago. “Tootie, Tootie, with the big—”

“Booty, booty,” they both finished together.

“You’re crazy, man.” King laughed even as a clear memory of Tootie’s young, tight, upturned rear end floated into his mind’s eye. “That’s the first thing I thought, too, when Von told me she was in town.”

“How’s her mother doing?”

“A little better, according to Mama. I went to see her right before she had the operation, and again just before I came here.” King watched Derrick choose an iron, practice swing, and then choose another. “You know Deacon Nash is a good friend of the family. He’s been there regularly on the church’s behalf.”

Probably best,
is what Derrick thought. “It’s good Miss Smith has someone to lean on,” is what he said, and then continued. “Where’s Tootie’s husband? Although I guess I should try and call her. What’s her new name, Janet? Wonder where she got that name, anyway.”

“Home, in Germany. And it’s Janeé.”

“Huh?”

“Tootie is using her middle name now. Her name is Rita Janeé. You don’t remember?” King asked.

“I don’t think I ever knew that.”

“You knew her pretty well not to know that.”

They picked up their clubs and walked to the next hole.

“You know she’s got kids,” King said.

Derrick paused in midstroke. “Kids? Tootie?”

“Yeah, she’s got three.”

Derrick shook his head. “I never imagined Tootie as a mother.” He swung his club and frowned at the less than stellar shot. As King was getting ready to swing, Derrick commented, “Big booty Tootie.”

King laughed again. “Man, will you cut that out! It’s like you’re seventeen again.” He carefully lined up his club, shadowed the ball several times, and then hit it directly into a sand trap. “Ah, man!”

Derrick laughed, commiserating with his friend. Golf definitely wasn’t as easy as it looked. They both reached for their water bottles.

“Life is full of surprises,” Derrick said. “What’s it been, fifteen, twenty years since you’ve seen her? Guess she finally realized she couldn’t have you and moved on.”

“Humph. Hear you tell it. Remember how she used to drive everybody crazy singing Whitney?”

“And Donna, Natalie, Aretha, Chaka—anybody who can blow.”

“That girl was wild though, wasn’t she?” King asked, capping his bottle and picking up his bag. He’d thought of their wild times more than once since he’d seen her. He and Tootie were careful not to bring up the past, but one look in her eyes, and he knew Tootie had been thinking about it, too.

Derrick placed his ball on the tee and lined up his shot. He smiled slightly as he watched his ball land about six feet from the hole.

“Another lucky shot, dog,” King said, playfully taking his iron and faking a swing to Derrick’s head.

“That’s skill, my brothah. I got skills.” And then, “Tootie was something else, a sex addict before they invented the term.”

“Sure was. Always classy though,” King responded. “Even though we all knew who was doing her, it wasn’t like she was a ho, you know?”

“Yeah, Tootie had that way about her. And she was just like a man. She’d do the do and then beat you out of bed, shower, dress, and be ready to go home.”

“True that. Messed with a brothah’s ego a little bit, almost made
me
feel like the ho sometimes!”

Both of them knew that feeling. Derrick reflected on who he was then, and who he was now. “We were different men back then, young, foolish.” He thought the same of Tootie—Janeé—who’d obviously changed more than her name. “And she’s married? Is the man
German
German?”

“He’s white, if that’s what you’re asking,” King replied. “Supposed to have money, runs some financial company or something.”

“How old are their kids?”

“I didn’t ask all that. But you know, me and Tootie had a couple of close calls. I even thought she had an abortion right before me and Tai got married. She denied it, but to this day I don’t know for sure if at one time she didn’t carry my child. We were, uh, very active let’s say, but then again, she was active with a lot of dudes.” King looked pointedly at Derrick.

“Guilty as charged,” Derrick said, a bit of macho mixed in with guilt. Tootie had been a favorite notch on a young man’s belt. “All of us were fortunate to not make a baby. I wasn’t even thinking about protection back then.”

“Nobody was, man, you kidding? I never liked putting the raincoat on. I’m pretty sure she was on the pill anyway, all the action she was getting.”

“I know one thing, we better shift this conversation. All this talk of Tootie is messing up my swing, not to mention my trying to let old things that have passed away, stay away.” Derrick swung his iron just over the ball, lining up with the hole, now barely five feet away. Taking a deep breath and settling into his stance, he lined up once more, swung, and sank the ball. He looked at King smugly. “Now, that’s what I’m talking ’bout.”

The conversation shifted to church matters, and their co-officiating plan for Hope’s wedding ceremony. Both were glad the wedding would be short and simple. They joked about Cy’s few remaining hours as a free man, but agreed he was a blessed man, too. King liked Hope, liked her spirit. Plus, she was fine. Cy had done alright for himself. An hour later, they neared the eighteenth hole. They finished without tallying scores; the game had been for the fun of it all.

Once in the parking lot, Derrick lifted his bag into the trunk of his pearl Jaguar. King followed suit. Derrick easily navigated the midday LA traffic as the two longtime friends enjoyed a companionable silence.

“I don’t know about you,” King said after a bit, “but all that walking worked up my appetite. I’m about ready for that steak place you’ve been bragging about.” King’s stomach growled as if to underscore the statement.

Derrick smiled, but said nothing. He was thinking about Tootie being back in Kansas, hoping King’s passion for his old flame had truly burned out. Little did he know, but King was thinking about Tootie, too, about how on fire their sex was back in the day. But King knew the lesson of fire better than anyone: if you played with it, you could get burned.

It had arrived, February 14, Hope’s wedding day. She lay staring at the ceiling, hardly able to believe that the moment was here. She yawned, stretched, ran her hand over Cy’s empty pillow. Cy, his father, and her father had spent the night in Cy’s cousin’s suite at the Ritz-Carlton. They, along with a couple of Cy’s business partners and classmates from Howard University, had held a bachelor party. She could only imagine what that crazy group had put together for him. Knowing the wild shenanigans that often took place, she’d had only one thing to say to him about it: “What happens at the bachelor party stays at the bachelor party.” Cy had assured her nothing would happen that he couldn’t share with her, or her mother for that matter. That had elicited a smile from the bride-to-be. Hope, her mother, Mrs. Jones, Frieda, Frieda’s mother, and four of Hope’s longtime friends from Oklahoma had enjoyed a bridal shower in the penthouse. They’d had it catered by P. F. Chang’s, Hope’s new Chinese food favorite, and amid great food and goofy presents, had laughed, cried, played games, and basked in Hope’s contagious happiness.

Hope rolled over and gazed out the floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows. With no nearby building as tall, their penthouse allowed privacy without having to close out the stunning ocean view. It was early, the sky still holding hints of night. But as she continued to look out over the ocean, wisps of light blue, orange, and pink emerged. This was going to be a beautiful Valentine’s Day.

After returning from the bathroom and morning ablutions, Hope picked up the poem she’d tweaked the night earlier. She sat on the bed and began reading it again, out loud:

A tear fell. And then another. Hope set down the poem and covered her eyes.
Thank you, Jesus, thank you, God,
she prayed inwardly. More tears fell, tears of thanksgiving, and relief. Over the years, when doubt crept in, she’d feared ending up old and alone in a quiet, one-bedroom senior’s complex, playing backgammon and cards with the neighbors, two or three cats for company. She cried harder. It was happening! She was getting married!

Suddenly a pair of arms went around her. She relaxed immediately, smelling her mother’s familiar perfume.

“Sh-h-h, now it’s gonna be all right, baby,” Mrs. Jones crooned softly. Hope leaned her head against her mom’s shoulder, willing the tears to stop. “You can’t believe it, can you?”

Hope shook her head no.

“God is faithful, Hope. I always told you that one of these days, when the time was right, he would come along. And now he’s here. God is good.”

This powerful truth made Hope start crying anew. She tried to talk through her tears. “I’m, j-j-just so th-th-thankful,” she sobbed. “I can’t believe I’m getting m-m-married.” Hope had revved up into an all-out boo-hoo.

Frieda burst into the room. “What the hell, oops, excuse me, Aunt Pat. Girl, what is the matter witchu?” She sat down on the other side of Hope. “I guess you’re trying to get your eyes all red and puffy so you can look like some kind of baboon up there at the altar, have Cy think Queen Kong is walking up to meet him; is that it?” Her words had the desired effect as Hope’s sobs turned to laughter.

“No, fool!” Hope answered, grabbing a pillow and attempting to hit Frieda upside the head with it.

Frieda jumped up and grabbed another pillow. “No, you’re the one who needs some whup’ass…in here crying like somebody died.”

“You’d better not, you’re gonna hit Mama!” Hope snuggled under her mom for protection.

Pat pushed her away, laughing. “Oh no, don’t be trying to get me to protect you. Take yo’ whuppin’ like a woman, a soon-to-be married woman. In fact”—she reached over and grabbed a smaller, decorative pillow—“take two whuppin’s.”

Hope rolled to the other side of the bed, grabbed two small pillows, threw one at her mother and one at Frieda. Frieda ducked and it almost hit Jackie, Frieda’s mother, who walked in at just that moment.

“What in the w—?”

“She’s trying to hit you, Mom,” Frieda warned, “said she was gonna get you back for beating her at bid whist last night.”

“Ooh, Frieda,” Hope said, in a menacing tone. “That’s not true, Aunt Jackie. I’m trying to get at your crazy daughter.” Hope ducked as Frieda threw the pillow back, and picked up another one to throw.

“Y’all stop,” Pat scolded. “You both need Jesus.”

“I need some breakfast, that’s what I need,” Frieda said, watching herself pose in the mirror. “And I need a man that can put me in a place with a view like this. Now, this is livin’. Hurry up and go on your honeymoon so I can come over here and get my groove on—I mean, so I can housesit.”

Three pairs of eyes gave her “the look.”

“Just kidding,” Frieda said sheepishly before flouncing out of the room. A trio of laughter followed her out.

The day flowed seamlessly. After a hearty breakfast, Cy, Simeon, and the fellas had enjoyed a game of basketball. Hope and the women spent their morning being treated to a full body massage, manicure/pedicure, and an in-home hair stylist. The limo picked them up promptly at three. Hope, exquisite and serene, now sat in the boat’s largest bedroom, waiting for the moment she became Cy’s wife.

Cy and his cousin, Simeon, relaxed quietly at a table, enjoying the view of sparkling water and sailboats. Wisps of conversation floated around them from the thirty or so guests who mingled on the luxury yacht Cy had chartered. It would be their last moments with Cy as a single man.

“Well, cuz, the water isn’t too deep here; still time to make the great escape.”

Cy raised up a bit as if gauging his chances for a successful jump; then he smiled. “Even with a gun to my head, there’s no way I’d leave. I’ve never been surer about any move I’ve ever made than I am now.”

“You’re a lucky man.”

“I’m blessed, Simeon. Nobody but God put Hope and me together.”

“Humph. You’re talking about her behind her back and she ain’t even yours yet.” Hope’s dad, Earl, punched Cy’s arm playfully as he sat down. The three men could have graced the cover of
Elegant Man,
if there were such a magazine. Cy’s tux fit flawlessly and Simeon’s blue Kenneth Cole suit was equally stunning. Mr. Jones was dignity personified in a charcoal gray double-breasted suit, with a silk blue shirt and complementing necktie. In fact, everyone on the boat looked quite refined.

Mr. Pheneas Taylor, Cy’s father, joined them at the table. An older, distinguishably handsome version of Cy, Mr. Taylor still turned the heads of women half his age. “Well, now that the
important
people are ready and on the scene,” he said, pointing to himself, “the festivities can begin.”

Earl’s eyebrows rose at that comment. “Careful now, you’re gonna be like that slave who showed up in the field with a tuxedo on, after a visit to the doctor’s office.”

“How you figure?” Pheneas asked with mock indignation.

“Well, when the other slaves asked him why he was in the field wearing a tuxedo, he told ’em,” Earl continued in an exaggerated southern accent, “‘since the doctor say’s I’se impotent, I’se might as well look impotent.’”

The men tried not to, but laughed anyway. Earl Jones was a character, one anybody would be hard-pressed not to like.

It was time. The guests lined the stern of the boat, leaving the middle empty. Three of the Musical Messengers, a guitarist, saxophonist, and keyboard player with drum machine, kept a low profile on the side. Soft sounds of smooth jazz emanated from their corner. Pastors Brook and Montgomery stood waiting with appropriate seriousness. King had chosen to wear a white pastor’s robe, complete with scarf bearing a solid black cross and fringe at each end. Derrick had on a stellar black tux.

Mr. Jones waited in the back, talking quietly with Hope, whom her mother had finally summoned.

After the parents and guests had been seated, an imperceptible nod from Mrs. Jones signaled all was ready.

Pastor Derrick began. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are here to celebrate another love affair that God has designed. Let our hearts be filled with love as we surround this couple, here and now, at the beginning of the rest of their lives.” With this, he and Pastor King moved to the side as Cy’s classmate stepped up to sing “The Lord’s Prayer” in a rich baritone.

Hope stood just outside the door, near the rear of the ship. She couldn’t see anyone, but heard the wondrous melody float like waves across the boat, now anchored in the middle of the ocean, halfway between the marina and Catalina Island. She closed her eyes and leaned against her father, whose eyes were misty. He was losing his only daughter, albeit to a fine young man.

After the solo, Frieda and Simeon took their places. Cy came next. The keyboardist began playing the instrumental wedding march, Luther Vandross’s “Wait for Love.” When the saxophone joined in with the melody, Hope, led by her father, came around the side of the boat. She was radiant. Every eye was on her. Her eyes were on Cy. A solitary tear slid down her face as he stood beaming.

After Mr. Jones had escorted his daughter to the front, he joined his ex-wife. Having a child together created a lifetime bond, and both had put differences aside, even if temporarily, to be united in this moment. Cy reached for Hope’s hand and held it gently as her poem, “The One,” was read by a childhood friend. They turned and looked into each other’s eyes as Eric Benet’s duet with Tamia, “Spend My Life,” was performed with enchanting loveliness:

In these moments, Cy’s only thoughts were for the ceremony to be over, the guests to be gone, and Hope to be in his arms. Hope was thinking the exact same thing. The rest of the ceremony went by in a longing-induced fog, repeating the vows, the ring, the kiss, purposely chaste so as not to fan the already searing flames of desire.

And then it was official. Cy and Hope were pronounced man and wife. Bubbles were blown as the couple walked around the boat lined with guests, hugging and thanking each one for their presence. While this was happening, the caterers set up a sumptuous feast of tenderloin steak, baked chicken and fish, a roasted vegetable medley, and rice pilaf. Simeon toasted the couple, who in turn toasted the guests with their choice of either Krug’s Clos du Mesnil champagne or sparkling juice. Once the bubbly started flowing, the evening began in earnest. By the time the almond-vanilla frosted carrot cake had been eaten, toasts made, dances danced, and the boat finished sailing around the marina and docked outside the Ritz-Carlton, folks were speculating on who could get married next so they could have an excuse to enjoy such fun all over again.

Cy and Hope faced each other in the middle of the king-sized bed. Maria, Cy’s housekeeper, had cleaned up the day’s mess and, with Frieda’s help, had set a romantic stage in the bedroom, with candles, orchid petals, and burning, scented oil. The newlyweds each held a glass of sparkling champagne with bobbing strawberries. Both were naked, having enjoyed a relaxing, sensual bath in the penthouse Jacuzzi. They’d explored and pleasured each other’s bodies. Their senses heightened by months of agonizing celibacy, the first orgasms came quickly. It was just the beginning, though. Cy planned for Hope to be thoroughly satisfied from head to toe before the night was over. Hope had likewise secretly vowed to make her husband’s pleasure her singular focus, believing that if she took care of his needs, she too would be satisfied.

“A toast to you, Mrs. Hope Taylor,” Cy began, “the woman of my dreams.” He reached out and gently pinched her nipple, which took notice immediately. Hope’s quick intake of breath made him smile. He leaned over, nipped it, licked it, and continued. “It will be my life’s mission to make you happy, woman, to satisfy you in every possible way. I’m so happy you’re in my life, baby, and I will spend a lifetime trying to repay you for how happy you’ve made me.”

Hope drank in his words of love. She tried not to cry—there had been enough tears for the day. But she was so happy, beyond her wildest imaginings. She took a breath and returned a toast of her own. “When I prayed to God for a husband, it was you I longed for in my heart. I didn’t know your name, or what you looked like, but I knew how I’d feel when I was near you…like I do right now. I love you, baby.”

They raised their glasses and toasted new love. Finishing quickly, they fed each other the strawberries, followed by passionate kisses. Hope felt desire pool in the pit of her stomach, and spiral lower. Cy moved over and placed Hope in the middle of the bed. He straddled her, lay full weight on her body. His shower of kisses began. He kissed her lavishly, their tongues dancing, dipping, the heat rising. He kissed her eyes, ears, neck, before lifting up a bit to move down farther. He grabbed her perfect breasts in his hands, tasted and blew on them softly. A quiet moan escaped from between his lips as he eyed the feast that had been set before him. Hope writhed beneath him, her hands in his hair. His exploration continued as he kissed her stomach, her navel. He nipped her hips playfully, causing bubbling laughter from his bride. “Ooh, that tickles, Cy.”

“Hmmm…” was his quiet reply as he continued his journey, down into the valley of her paradise. He sighed softly. He would especially savor this moment. Placing soft kisses into her furry mound, he gently spread her legs. Hope was beside herself with anticipation. For so long she’d waited, dreamed, desired, yearned for her man. Cy took his time, honoring every crevice with skilled finesse. It had been a long time, but just like riding a bicycle…He alternately licked and kissed her inner walls, flicking her love button with his tongue. Hope’s escalating moans assured him his skills had not diminished from lack of use. She tried to move from his sexual assault but he simply changed positions, placed her on her side, grasped and gently lifted her thigh, and licked a slow, wet journey down the crevice of her lush buttocks before thrusting his tongue deeper into her hot feminine flower. It was a delicious way of making love, the best Hope had experienced. She grabbed Cy’s head, grinding her hips against his mouth, murmuring his name over and over. Her body shook with another release, and Cy drank her as he would the finest nectar.