Second Sunday Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2003 by Michele Andrea Bowen

  Excerpt from Up at the College copyright © 2008 by Michele Andrea Bowen

  Reading Group Guide copyright © 2005 by Hachette Book Group

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Grand Central Publishing

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  Originally published in hardcover by Hachette Book Group

  First eBook Edition: March 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-446-55011-6

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Part 1: A Little Women’s Revolution, Right Up Here in the Church

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Part 2: The Devil Is Very Busy in Church

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Part 3: Mr. Oscar

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Part 4: All in a Day’s Work

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Part 5: A Love That Only God Can Give

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Part 6: God Ain’t Playin’ with You People

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Epilogue

  Reading Group Guide

  GLORIOUS PRAISE FOR MICHELE ANDREA BOWEN’S NOVELS

  Second Sunday

  “Fresh, passionate, and laugh-out-loud funny.”

  —Dallas Morning News

  “Strong . . . humorous . . . Conspiracies, drama, and political intrigue abound. Bowen offers lessons on a myriad of issues including the power of love and forgiveness and the strength of community.”

  —Greater Diversity News (NC)

  “Bowen’s writing humorously explores familiar terrain for anyone who has witnessed church politics. [This] book contains important messages about redemption and love—that we are imperfect people who serve a gracious and merciful God.”

  —Black Issues Book Review

  “Bowen [has] an astute sense of character and sharp, humorous dialogue.”

  —Pathfinders Travel

  “Readers won’t regret meeting the spunky, hilarious members of Gethsemane Baptist.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

  Holy Ghost Corner

  “Ms. Bowen is truly blessed and it shows in her work.”

  —Birmingham Times

  “Both humorous and uplifting.”

  —Herald Sun (NC)

  “Michele Andrea Bowen has done it again! I found myself laughing out loud . . . hilarious and romantic.”

  —Shades Of Romance (sormag.com)

  “Thoroughly enjoyable . . . a funny, juicy story with plenty of Scripture thrown in to keep us humble.”

  —NightsandWeekends.com

  “Filled with delightful characters.”

  —Southern Pines Pilot

  “I loved the setting of Durham, North Carolina, and the characters that she so deftly brought to life.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “Awesome . . . will have you laughing, crying, and praising all at the same time.”

  —Birmingham Times

  “Coupled with quirky characters, Holy Ghost Corner tells a tale of love almost missed and opportunities overlooked.”

  —RoadtoRomance.com

  “Peopled with hilarious characters . . . A lighthearted and humorous look at the issues facing today’s black Christian woman.”

  —BookLoons.com

  Church Folk

  “Exceptional . . . Church Folk really tells it like it is! . . . Lots of emotion and plenty of truth! Full of the African-American culture in its richest form—church life.”

  —Salisbury Post (NC)

  “Readers will embrace this steamy morality tale, with its bold themes and fallible characters . . . [They] will enjoy the rich glimpses into the spirit-filled African-American church of the 1960s, complete with politicking, blackmail, [and] colorful dialogue.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Charming . . . some very unexpected twists and turns . . . A joyful and enriching first novel.”

  —BookReporter.com

  “Will please churchgoing readers.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “An entertaining, fast-paced story filled with colorful characters and dialogue . . . Explores the challenges and morality issues church folks face in their Christian walk.”

  —Irmines.com

  Books by Michele Andrea Bowen:

  Church Folk

  Second Sunday

  Holy Ghost Corner

  Up at the College

  This book is dedicated in loving memory to my cousin, Mack Earl Sanders (1955–2003).

  On hot St. Louis summer days, when I was six and Mack was eight, we watched the clouds as I told him some of my first stories.

  Acknowledgments

  My first novel, Church Folk, was put on bookshelves across the country. What an incredibly joyous and blessed experience. And it didn’t stop there. Because you, the readers, responded to my little ole country story about the folk at “chutch” in a remarkable way. Thank you with all of my heart.

  Now I have been blessed with the release of my second novel, Second Sunday. And nothing as big as publishing a novel happens without the help and support of so many wonderful people. I know I can’t name everybody, but I want to give a few shout outs to a few.

  Elisa Petrini, my editor. Thank you so much, girl. I really appreciate your understanding of my work and what I try to accomplish with each story. I am very fortunate to be able to work with you. You are absolutely the best (and “good people,” too).

  Hachette Book Group and the artist who creates my beautiful book covers—thank you.

  My family. What can I say about y’all? You have been there for me through it all. I appreciate your help and support and ceaseless prayers.

  Thank you, Mama, for helping me with the girls. I couldn’t tour and travel without your help.

  Thank you Laura and Janina for being so patient with all that Mommy has to do with work.

  My friends in St. Louis (including the “Theodosia Girls” from back in the day), and in Durham, Richmond, and all the other cities where my loved ones live.

  Thank you Valerie Ann Johnson for taking my picture for this book.

  A special thank you to the extraordinary pastors in my life. My church home, St. Joseph A.M.E. Church, Durham, North Carolina, Rev. Phillip R. Cousin, Jr., Pastor. My home away from home, Mount Level Missionary Baptist Church, Durham, North Carolina, Rev. Dr. William C. Turner, Pastor. Bethlehem Temple Apostolic Church, Baltimore, Maryland, my uncle, Bishop James D. Nelson, Sr., Pastor.

 
And most of all, thank you, Lord, for letting me know what it feels like to be exceedingly and abundantly blessed.

  Part 1

  A Little Women’s Revolution, Right Up Here in the Church

  I

  In September 1975, just nine months before Gethsemane Missionary Baptist Church was to celebrate its hundredth anniversary, its pastor, Pastor Clydell Forbes, Sr., died. Some church members cried, others immediately started cooking food for the First Lady and her three boys, and Mr. Louis Loomis, one of the senior deacons in the congregation, said out loud what others were secretly thinking: “Why couldn’t that cross-eyed, carrying-on stallion of a preacher hang on till the church was a hundred and one? If the boy had to up and die, at the very least he could have had the common decency to get us through the church’s hundredth year.”

  Pastor Forbes was only in his fifties and hadn’t occupied Gethsemane’s pulpit all that long; just six years to be exact. No one expected that they’d lose him so soon, and at the worst possible time. A church anniversary without a pastor was like a Sunday worship service with no Hammond organ—the pastor was that central—and the centennial was the most momentous occasion in Gethsemane’s history. The pastor was the one who would appoint and supervise the centennial committees, oversee fund-raising, and, most important of all, determine the celebration’s theme, developing the sermons to herald and commemorate that special day which, for Gethsemane, was the Second Sunday in June.

  Now all the planning was brought to a screeching halt until the Forbes family and the church family got through the man’s funeral. And it was an ordeal—a long tear-jerking service that became a spectacle when three of his “special-interest” women fell out, crying and screaming with grief, and had to be removed by the ushers. Then the congregation pitched in to help his widow pack up the parsonage and get resettled with her children in a new home. So it was some time before Bert Green, the head of the Deacon Board, thought it appropriate to resume business and called a meeting of the church officers to discuss hiring a new pastor.

  As they chewed over the list of potential preachers to interview, Bert’s wife, Nettie, walked into the room, carrying a tray loaded down with sandwiches, potato salad, pickles and olives, caramel and pineapple coconut cakes and sweet potato pies cooked by one of the church’s five missionary societies. Bert grabbed himself a thick, juicy, home-cooked ham sandwich as his fellow Deacon and Finance Board members heaped their plates high with food. Nettie had gotten an earful of their conversation on her way up from the kitchen, and it hadn’t escaped her that the men had quit talking the moment they saw her struggling with that tray in the doorway.

  Now they all sat there so self-satisfied, with that we-is-in-the-Upper Room look on their faces—the same men whose political head-butting had led to the appointment of Clydell Forbes, as spineless and weak a pastor as the church had ever seen. Helping them to their choice of iced tea or fresh coffee, Nettie pressed her lips together, mad enough to want to shake up these smug, never-did-know-how-to-pick-a-good-preacher men.

  So she ignored Bert’s signals that they were impatient for her to leave. Avoiding his eyes, she asked, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, “So, who’s on this list y’all talking about?”

  No one seemed to hear her but Mr. Louis Loomis, the oldest member of both boards, who was chewing on the fat from his ham sandwich. He slipped his reading glasses down to the tip of his nose and resumed where he’d left off. “Like I said, some of these here preachers out of our price range.”

  Bert looked at the paper without acknowledging Nettie, picked up his pen, and asked, “Which ones?”

  “Rev. Macy Jones, Rev. David O. Clemson, III, Rev. Joe Joseph, Jr. . . .”

  Bert started drawing lines through those names until Cleavon Johnson, the head of the Finance Board, stopped him. “Keep Rev. Clemson on the list,” he said.

  “Why?” Mr. Louis Loomis shot back. He and Cleavon Johnson mixed like oil and water. Cleavon might be a business leader who had grabbed hold of the church’s purse strings, but to Mr. Louis Loomis he was still the arrogant punk he used to belt-whip.

  “Because—,” Cleavon started to say, then slammed his mouth shut, staring pointedly at Nettie.

  Pretending not to notice, Nettie grabbed one of the chairs lined up against the wall, pulled it up to the conference table, and sat down like she belonged there. Then she looked straight at Cleavon and asked, still sounding innocent, “Just what is it that we’re looking for in our new pastor?”

  Cleavon Johnson glared at her, as if to say, “Woman, you way out of line.” His “boys” on the Finance Board coughed and cleared their throats, Bert’s cue to get his woman straightened out. But Bert locked eyes with Wendell Cates, who was married to Nettie’s sister, Viola, and caught his smirking wink.

  Wendell’s expression told Bert, “Your girl on a roll. Let it be.” Bert gave Wendell a sly smile that implied, “I hear you,” and sat back to watch his wife give Cleavon a good dose of her down-home medicine.

  When it became clear that Bert was not going to chastise his woman, Cleavon decided that he had to intervene. Puffing himself up to his full dignity as head of the Finance Board, he began authoritatively, “Sister Nettie, the senior men of this church, including your husband, have carefully formulated this list based on reliable recommendations . . .”

  Nettie stole a glance at Mr. Louis Loomis, but all he did was adjust his glasses and crumple his napkin, as if to say, “My name is Bennett and I ain’t in it.”

  Taking that as approval, she interrupted, “What I’m asking is, who—”

  Cleavon tried to cut her off. “You’ll meet our choices along with the rest of the congregation—”

  “Or rather, what kind of men are being ‘formulated’ and ‘recommended’ to be our new pastor?” she continued, as if he were not talking.

  “Sister Nettie,” Cleavon scolded, “it’s time for you to run along, like a good girl. You have your own proper duties as one of the church’s handmaidens. We have ours, and you are stopping us from carrying them out.” His voice grew stern. “You are not a duly appointed officer of this church, and until you are I think it would be wise on your part to let the heads of this godly house run this house.”

  Nettie pushed her chair away from the table, rose, and wiped her hands on her apron. Cleavon thought it was a gesture of defeat, that she was accepting his rebuke. But Nettie wasn’t conceding defeat or retreating. She was retrenching as she stacked the dirty dishes and mustered up her sweetest, most chastised-woman-sounding voice to say, “Brother Cleavon, only the Lord knows what moves you. Only the Lord knows what makes you so forceful in what you do and say. But I am thankful that you express yourself so openly. Pray my strength.”

  As Nettie left, Cleavon nodded self-importantly to the group, not realizing she had just told him that he was in a class by himself and too dumb to try to keep it to himself.

  Bert and Wendell stifled chuckles, but felt unsettled by Nettie’s exit. She had to be up to something more than needling Cleavon Johnson. The encounter felt ominous, leaving them both with the impression that Nettie was throwing down a gauntlet, as a declaration of war.

  When Nettie got back to the kitchen, she slammed her tray down on the counter so hard that she almost broke some of the heavy, mint green glass cups, plates, and saucers that were always in plentiful supply at church.

  Her sister Viola jumped up, startled, and Nettie cussed, “I be doggoned and banned from heaven!”

  “What’s all this banging and ugly talking?” Sylvia Vicks demanded. “Nettie Green, you ain’t out in them streets. You up in church. And you just best start remembering that.”

  “Sylvia, pray my strength, ’cause I am so mad at our men up in that room.” Nettie pointed toward the ceiling, shaking her head in disgust. “I mean, they should have learned something worthwhile about hiring a preacher after Rev. Forbes. But they not even talking about character and morals—”

  She stopped herself—“Forgive
me, Jesus, for speaking ill of the dead”—then continued, “Lord only knows how much money they wasted bailing Clydell Forbes out of his women troubles—”

  “What ‘women troubles,’ Nettie Green?” asked Cleavon’s wife, Katie Mae Johnson. “I never heard about the church spending money like that. With Cleavon on the Deacon Board and being head of the Finance Board, I think I would have heard if he was making payoffs to errant women.”

  “Humph,” Sylvia interjected. “Don’t know how you missed all that, with the way Pastor Forbes had such a weakness for loose-tail women in booty-clutching dresses—bigger and fatter the booty, the better, I hear. And sad thing, Sister Forbes had a big fat rumpa-seat hangin’ off the back of her. Don’t know why he wanted all those other women, seeing what he had laying up next to him in his own house.”

  “Y’all, we should not be up in this church, talking all in Sister Forbes’s business and up under her clothes like that. It ain’t right, and it sho’ ain’t Christian.”

  Viola sighed out loud and raised her hands high in exasperation. “Katie Mae, it’s Christian charity to tell the truth about the truth.”

  “And you should have known something, Katie Mae,” Sylvia added. “We all keep telling you that Cleavon keep too much from you. He your husband, and all he ever tell you is that you think too much and read too much and always working your self up over some nonsense. Then he go out in the streets, and when he come home, be acting like he just got through passing out the two fish and five loaves of bread to the multitudes.”

  Katie Mae sneaked and wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron. Sometimes even your best friends didn’t truly understand the magnitude of your pain. She sniffed once and put on a brave face before saying, “Aww, Sylvia, you can’t judge my Cleavon by your Melvin. Melvin Sr. tells you pretty much everything and lets you run your house. But in Cleavon’s home, the woman is beneath the man. He believe in the strict Bible ways.”