17
The next morning, Bea laid aside her anger with Sasha and called her. Together, they'd contacted some of the other church mothers and apologized for their behavior and that it caused a small setback in their conference plans.
They'd already decided that they'd apologize to the conference center manager, too. They would return, early, to the conference center and eat however much crow was needed to put things back on track. In their minds, it wouldn't be good business for the conference center to cancel the conference after their performance. Bea and Sasha were confident that their apology would be successful, so they told the other mothers that the conference was back on even before they'd left the hotel.
Knowing that nothing ever went as planned, Bea and Sasha also decided that if they didn't arrive in time to see management and apologize, they'd act as though they thought the conference was still on. And, if the management insisted it wasn't, they'd act like the crazy old women they were.
Bea arrived alone. No matter what she'd told Sasha, she was still a little miffed and didn't want to share a cab with her.
Bea sat on a small red velvet sofa that looked like a replica of a sombrero, inside the conference center lobby. She was dressed in her proper Mothers Board attire. Her skirt was white but not the same shade of white as her blouse. For Bea it was typical. If she ever wore anything that matched or complemented her plus-sized figure, it was by accident. There was even a slight run in her stocking that had the shiny evidence of clear nail polish. It was an old trick most of the older women used to repair a snag or a run.
As the other members of the Mothers Board arrived and went through the lobby, Bea nodded appreciatively toward some and completely ignored others. And the same was done to her. Every one of the women had her own agenda.
A few of the mothers actually came to network and see how they could improve their ministries. They were the newest members and stood out immediately. They were mostly in their early sixties and full of hope. “Ain't God good?” they'd asked, clutching the straps of their Bible tote bags, inscribed with the words
WOMEN OF GOD
, stitched with bold-colored threads.
Then there were some mothers and a few missionaries who wanted the other women to know that they were avid Bible readers. Their Bibles had bookmarks placed throughout the pages. They'd come prepared with the appropriate Bible verses memorized and just the right amount of indignation to use readily on anyone or any situation they didn't deem appropriate. The one thing they all had in common was the Mothers Board member war kit.
The war kit always contained a small Bible for practical use and a larger one for show. The kit also had small vials of blessed oil.
Only Bea and Sasha carried their precious demon chaser and blessing enhancer liquid in a spray can. It was something they'd decided to do before they'd left Pelzer. In their minds the spray canister would serve a dual purpose. They could spray away evil spirits, ensure blessings, and spray any ashy ankles they saw, with just a few squirts of the flammable liquid. With their quick tempers the spray canisters were lethal weapons. Bea and Sasha were more than capable of setting a place or person on fire while ignoring their own particular sins.
Bea kept looking around for Sasha, but she wasn't there, and by now it was too late to find management and apologize.
I could apologize without her,
Bea thought as she sat on the edge of the sofa,
but it's her fault we're in this mess
. With her mind set on Sasha taking the blame, Bea didn't budge.
While the other mothers laughed and heaped their sage advice upon each other, Bea continued to ponder. Earlier, she'd finally realized why the strange young woman looked so familiar. She didn't know why she hadn't seen it before. She also didn't know why Sasha would lie about not noticing the same thing. It was so obvious. The young woman looked like she could've been Sasha's niece Ima's twin sister.
Sasha's niece, Ima Hellraiser, had that same mocha complexion, the same beautiful almond-shaped hazel eyes, and both young women had shapes that rivaled any Victoria's Secret model. However, there was a huge difference in their demeanors from the little Bea had seen.
The true carrier of Sasha's DNA, Ima Hellraiser, was a witch on wheels. True to the Hellraiser genes, Ima wasn't happy unless she was causing pain. At one point in her life Ima could've taught S and M to the Marquis de Sade. During their recent cruise vacation Bea had witnessed another side to Ima. Ima had met a young man, a minister, aboard the ship and obviously fell head over heels. Of course, true to form, Ima had doused the romance fire before it'd barely ignited. Ima couldn't keep a man if she and the man were Siamese twins.
“You're too good to ride in the same car with me?” The voice was snippy, almost venomous, and definitely unapologetic.
Bea looked up slowly. She had not seen Sasha come in. “I thought you'd left already.” The lie rolled off Bea's tongue effortlessly.
“I see,” Sasha replied. “I thought it might've been something else.”
“Like what?” Bea struggled to stand. Her hips seemed to lock from sitting so long. “What else could be wrong?” There, she'd opened the door for Sasha to acknowledge the obvious.
But Sasha, being Sasha, simply strutted her tiny hips and walked away.
Like Sasha and Bea, Sister Betty had arrived, too. One of the other mothers had contacted her and feigned surprise that Bea and Sasha hadn't told her about the meeting. Not having Sister Betty at the conference was like not having rain in a desert; it'd be dull and dusty. Besides, when the three old women came together it was always entertainingâa bit dangerous, but entertaining.
Sister Betty gave hugs and quick pecks on the cheeks to some of the other Mothers Board members. She wasn't used to politics and didn't know whether to linger or just move on inside the room.
“Mother D'Claire had to leave so suddenly,” one of the other women said.
Sister Betty didn't know much about politics but she knew the signs of gossip. Instead of responding, she smiled at the woman's feeble attempt to engage in idle chatter.
The rebuke in Sister Betty's silence and her smile hit its mark. The woman moved on. A moment didn't pass before Sister Betty heard that same woman make the same remark to another. When she saw the other women gather around the gossipmonger, she sighed.
“Why didn't you tell us that June Bug worked at this conference center?” Sasha's question was more of an accusation as she approached. She tapped her cane slightly and refused to take her eyes off Sister Betty. “Where's your Jesus love?”
“That's a good question. It's where it's always been.” Without giving it a second thought, Sister Betty turned and walked away. She was shocked and saddened by her response. Why had she let Sasha back her into a corner? Back in Pelzer, that would've never happened. She'd have prayed and smiled while not giving the devil an inch.
Only the third day in Las Vegas and she'd found out her salvation and love wasn't as strong as she'd thought. But why would God cause her to come to Las Vegas to discover it? Why didn't He do what He always had?
Again, she'd found something in common with the Bible's Jonas's disobedient spirit. Jonas had fled rather than preach to those he considered heathens. Except, in her case, she'd have gone voluntarily into the belly of the big fish, rather than deal with Bea and Sasha.
All the while Sister Betty, Bea, and Sasha were stewing in their personal dramas, the other Mothers Board members observed. For most of them, the new and the old, Bea and Sasha's behavior was no surprise. However, seeing Sister Betty teeter on the brink of her precious relationship with God was shocking.
The women finally entered the conference room and were surprised that no one told them to leave. Of course, there wasn't food, or water, or pencils and pads either. Yet, Bea and Sasha claimed a victory refusing to believe that their meeting hadn't been discovered yet. They'd preferred to believe that they had favor. They weren't aware that management discovered that Chandler Lamb's godmother was a part of the group. Management needed to figure out what to do, so until then, they'd do nothing.
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Later that evening, long after others had gone home for the day, Chandler was still upstairs in his office.
With his suit jacket thrown over one of the chairs instead of hung up and his shirt and tie unbuttoned and loosened, he poured over a pile of papers. Frustrated, Chandler closed the folder full of paperwork that lay atop his desk. He'd done everything but concentrate on its contents.
A vision of torn hosiery revealing creamy thighs invaded his concentration. “Zipporah Moses,” he mumbled, not in an angry way, but in amazement. In two weeks he'd have to give the “talk” to Zipporah. He'd have to tell her whether or not she could keep her job. There'd be polite conversations before then, hopefully, if he had any grievances or suggestions on how she could improve. He could only imagine she'd do her best not to snicker as he tried to act professional.
“Okay, June Bug,” he imagined she'd say, “if you feel that I can do better.” She'd probably stifle her laughter as she fought for control. “And you want me to take you serious, June Bug?”
Chandler's hands were shaped like a church steeple supporting his chin when Mandy walked in. He'd forgotten she was still there.
“Yes, Mandy.” By the look on her face he wasn't sure if he'd spoken quietly or shouted at her. He had to get Zipporah Moses out of his mind before he completely lost it.
“I was trying to wait for you to give me the last report to type.” Mandy stretched out her hand, indicating he should place the folder in it. “I'm starting my vacation tomorrow and I'd like to get a head start.”
“I'm sorry, Mandy. I'd completely forgotten.” He reopened the pages and thumbed through them. It was all an act. He couldn't remember what he was looking for.
“I know you said that you didn't need an assistant while I'm gone, but if you don't give me those papers, right now, you will,” Mandy predicted.
Without meaning to do so, she'd handed him an excuse. “Mandy, you're absolutely right. Don't worry about this report and go home. I'll get one of the other girls from guest services to type it. It's no big deal.” He didn't know if that was something that was appropriate or not. He'd never asked anyone in guest services to perform something not in their job description.
“Good luck with that.” Mandy didn't know what Chandler's problem was, but she wasn't about to let it interfere with her vacation plans. It was going on eleven o'clock, way past her six o'clock quitting time, and she had an early morning flight.
“I've got packing to do,” Mandy said. She was still watching him struggle with whatever had taken his attention. He hadn't bothered to ask where she was vacationing, so she told him, “I'm going to beautiful Hawaii, the island of Kauai to be exact.”
Chandler didn't look at her but he did respond. “Make sure you pack a coat.” He hadn't paid attention and thought he'd covered the fact very well.
“I'll do that.” Mandy shut the door hard as she left his office. He was her boss but that didn't mean she couldn't let him know that she wasn't pleased with his lack of attention.
Thirty minutes later Mandy was gone and Chandler had turned off the office lights. During that time he'd had no further thoughts about Zipporah or his embarrassing old nickname, June Bug. But by the time he'd entered the underground garage and turned the key in his 2007 Avalon Limited, thoughts of Zipporah had returned.
It had taken one look at a bra advertisement. It was the Victoria's Secret model Selita Ebanks. The creamy, coffee-colored complexion, well-proportioned body, and inviting smile; it all reminded him of Zipporah. All that was missing from Selita was Zipporah's sexuality and enticing hazel-colored eyes. He had hazel eyes, too, but he wouldn't call them sexy. He stuck his head out the car window and peeked again at the billboard. His smile was appreciative. “Beautiful.” Selita's eyes were dark brown but gorgeous nonetheless.
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It was well after one in the morning. Zipporah wrestled with sleep. She'd arrived back at the West Strip shelter before the midnight curfew. If she was grateful for anything else, it was that Miss Thompson was supposed to be away for another week. The woman watched her like a hawk and Zipporah had already stayed beyond her time. If she could manage to pass her two-week orientation, she'd have the job permanently. She ran down a laundry list of things she needed to do better than just survive.
If she combined her salary with adequate tips, which she was determined she'd earn, she could move into a cheap kitchenette or a studio. She craved a place with her name on a mailbox and a key that she controlled. She'd rent a place where she didn't have to hear the sound of another person's voice, if she didn't want to. She wanted out of that shelter.