Pastor Needs a Boo Read online

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  This book is dedicated to my grandson, Malachi Elliott Price

  (MiMi loves herself some “Mali”).

  Acknowledgments

  The first thing I want to do is thank the Lord for blessing me with the opportunity to write and have this book published by St. Martin’s Press. Then, I want to thank my editor, Monique Patterson; her editorial assistant, Alexandra Sehulster; and the wonderful copy editor assigned to work with me on this manuscript, Rachel Burd. Last, but definitely not least, thank you, Pamela Harty. You are a super agent.

  My mom—thank you. My daughters—thank you. My family and my friends—thank you.

  And to my readers—thank you!

  “Then Naomi said to her, ‘Just be patient, my daughter, until we hear what happens. The man won’t rest until he has followed through on this. He will settle it today.’” Ruth 3:18

  This scripture was the inspiration for this novel because there are times when a good man simply needs himself a “Ruth.”

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Marsha Metcalf sat at her desk with her chin pressed in the palms of both hands. She picked up a stack of folders on her desk and dropped them back down on it. How in the world was she supposed to get all of this work done in two and a half weeks? Even if she worked a seventy-five-hour week, didn’t get sick, didn’t eat, didn’t bathe, and maybe didn’t even brush her teeth, this could not be done in that amount of time.

  Who was she trying to fool by putting on a brave face and acting like she could “make it happen”? No one person could do all of this work in this time, and her supervisor, Yolanda Richardson, knew it when she dumped all of it on Marsha’s desk.

  Marsha was one of five buyer-stylists at the exclusive Sebastian-Fleur Department Store in Durham, North Carolina. Her team looked high and low for the best merchandise at great prices, and they always made sure everything was always placed in the “just right spot” in the store. Marsha, one of two lead buyer-stylists, was so good at what she did that her coworkers were always telling her that she needed her own TV show.

  Being the best had its drawbacks, however. The harder Marsha worked, the harder Yolanda rode her. There was nothing Marsha could do to make the grade with Yolanda Richardson. Yolanda criticized Marsha’s every move. She checked and double-checked everything Marsha did, and sent her e-mails on everything, down to the way Marsha placed items on her desk and positioned her car between the parking space lines.

  No one at Sebastian-Fleur understood why Yolanda had such an intense dislike of Marsha. As far as the people who worked at the store were concerned, Yolanda Richardson had it all—a deceased husband who had left her plenty of money, a custom-built five-thousand-square-foot house in the swanky section of Brier Creek, a sleek black Mercedes, a closet full of expensive clothes, and a cushy job.

  Marsha Metcalf, on the other hand, was a single parent with sole responsibility of putting her only child, Marcus, through college on a ridiculously tight budget. She drove a 2006 Ford Escape that needed new tires and repairs, struggled to pay the rent on a modest town house, wore very economically priced clothes, and hadn’t been on a date in four years.

  If you put the two women side by side, one would think that Marsha had cause to envy Yolanda. But nothing could be further from the truth. While Marsha didn’t like Yolanda Richardson, she didn’t begrudge Yolanda’s having what she had. Marsha did not understand how Yolanda could have so much and still be so mean, selfish, and just downright hateful.

  What was it with women who acted like they had “the mean girl gene”? And why were they always so dagblasted mean to other girls or women who had so much less than them? One would think that as they matured, they would soften up, act right, and stop being so mean. But that didn’t seem to be the case. Mean girls actually grew up to become extremely hateful women.

  Marsha, who had suffered at Yolanda’s hands back in college, was beginning to think this kind of thing would never end. She graduated from Evangeline T. Marshall University confident that she didn’t have to see that particular mean girl again, only to walk in to church and then her new job and find, Whoop, there was Yolanda, in all of her pricey clothes, four-figure-designer-purse mean girl glory.

  Yolanda and Marsha were both members of New Jerusalem Gospel United Church in Raleigh, North Carolina. Marsha had joined the church many years ago, when it was still one of the smaller, homier congregations under the direction of Reverend Wendell Boudreaux, who was the quintessential pastor. Reverend Boudreaux was such a good minister that folk started thinking he’d make an even better bishop. It was a sad day when the pastor, now a newly elected bishop, got up in the pulpit wearing his same black robe with the red brocade crosses emblazoned down the front to preach his last sermon as the shepherd of New Jerusalem Gospel United Church.

  It was rare that a brand-new bishop didn’t show up to preach decked out in the purple regalia that signified that he was an official member of the episcopacy. It was even rarer for the bishop to break down in tears and ask the new pastor, Reverend Denzelle Flowers, to lay hands on him in prayer. As much as Marsha hated to see her beloved Reverend Boudreaux leave to join the ranks of the men who ran their denomination, she found herself intrigued by the idea of the younger, fly, and good-looking Reverend Flowers coming to take over the reins of their church.

  Marsha shook her head at herself, thinking, “Why am I sitting here with all of this work to do and thinking about Bishop Boudreaux, Reverend Flowers, and that skanky Yolanda Richardson?”

  She flipped through the folder of her favored project and let out a sigh of relief.

  “It’s about time Yolanda did something decent and give me the official green light on this project.”

  Marsha had been waiting for Yolanda to get approval from the store’s regional manager to continue working with her friend, Takara Anderson, and a team of chemists and botanists over at Evangeline T. Marshall University on a new line of skin care and cosmetic products for the store. Takara was a whiz at coming up with natural products that were good for the skin and made you look good. Marsha had the eye for colors and textures and had helped them create some beautiful palates f
or eye shadows, blushes, and lipsticks.

  She read the memo approving the project more carefully and frowned. Yolanda had done a loop-da-loop on her with this project.

  “She is so rachet-acting and cheap!” Marsha exclaimed through clenched teeth. “I cannot believe this heifer allocated a budget that doesn’t even cover a month’s worth of gas for my car. I can’t do anything with this chicken feed mess.”

  Marsha took in a deep breath and practically spit it out of her mouth. She didn’t need to let Yolanda upset her like this. Plus, getting all anxious always gave her hot flashes.

  She reached for a water bottle. It wasn’t cold. Marsha couldn’t stop this hot flash from popping up on her with room-temperature water. She needed something icy cold. Her body felt like an oven from the inside out.

  “Whew. Calm down. It’s gonna be okay. God said He’d supply your every need in accordance to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus. It’s gonna be okay.”

  The scripture helped. Marsha calmed down, drank a few sips of the water, and flipped open her red laptop. She started pulling up a list of names of folk who might want to add funds to help this project’s coffers.

  The first name she saw was Charles Robinson, the owner and proprietor of Rumpshakers Hip-Hop Gentlemen’s Club. She knew Charles wouldn’t hesitate to help her. But Marsha wasn’t so sure about being partnered up with strip club money. Every time she passed the counter with his makeup on it, she would always wonder how many times a stripper had clapped her behind to make it rain hard enough for Charles to put all of that money in the pot.

  “Nahh … not old boy.”

  Marsha sat back in her chair and tried to think of someone else.

  “Lamont Green would be perfect.”

  She pulled out her phone and was about to call Lamont’s wife, Theresa, when she heard some shuffling and whispering outside of her door.

  “Do you think she’s in there?”

  “Of course she is in there, stupid,” Marsha heard Yolanda whisper so loudly, she couldn’t help but wonder if the girl wanted her to know she was standing on the other side of her office door.

  “So, how are you going to tell her?”

  “Tell her what?” another voice whispered.

  “This,” was all Marsha heard Yolanda say, right before she saw a sheet of Yolanda’s trademark baby blue linen paper being slid up under the door. All of sudden the whispering stopped, as if the folk on the other side of the door were practically holding their breath in anticipation of what would happen next.

  Marsha picked up the paper and read “YOU’RE FIRED,” written in cursive with a bold, black marker. She stared at the paper, wondering if this was some kind of mean girl joke, when she noticed that there were more words.

  “p.s., Yes, you read this note right” was written in Yolanda’s handwriting.

  “We have to cut back and WHOOPS, you lose. Clean out your desk and be out of the building before five today.

  “Security is on the way over to your office. A guard will escort you to your car. We’ll mail your last check to you next week, Yolanda Richardson, MBA.”

  Marsha stared at the note and blinked hard, as if that would make the words on that paper pop up and go away. This was unbelievable—not to mention terrifying. What was she supposed to do without a job? Pay the rent?

  It had been quiet on the other side of the door, as if they were practically breaking their eardrums to hear what she was doing with that note. She heard somebody whisper, “Do you think she read the note?”

  Hot and heavy tears formed in Marsha’s eyes, ready to drop and stream down her face, all up under her nose, and into her mouth. What kind of people stood outside someone’s office door waiting to hear what they would do after being fired?

  Marsha held her head back and whispered, “Lord, please don’t let me break down and cry like some little wuss who can’t fight.”

  Her heart ached in the most horrible way and pulled down in her chest like it was too heavy for her body. How in the world was she going to get through this? There was her son’s college tuition. There was the rent. There were bills. There was her health insurance. There was her hair!

  There was too much to think about and worry about and take care of without the security of a job. She didn’t know what to do. And she definitely didn’t know how in the world she was going to get up out of this chair, open that office door, and walk out past all of those people—especially Yolanda Richardson.

  Marsha picked up her phone to call her friend Veronica Washington but stopped when she remembered Veronica was starting her new job today.

  She went down the contact list on her phone, and stopped again when she heard the loud mall security cop golf cart outside of the office window. “Let me get my black behind up out of here and quick,” Marsha whispered to herself, while staring out of the window like she was a fugitive running from the real police. There was no way she was going to be escorted out of Sebastian-Fleur like she was the mall thief. And in front of Yolanda and those people? No way … nada.

  She hurried and looked in her desk drawers and found two of those reusable Sam’s grocery bags and filled them up with her things—fancy pens, calculator, folders, stationery, designer paper clips, and staplers. She saw a box of her business cards with the Sebastian-Fleur logo all over them.

  “No way in hell I’m taking those with me.”

  Marsha threw the box of fancy business cards in the trash and took one more fast look around her tiny office.

  “Oh, snap,” she whispered. “The plans for the skin care line. Yolanda will never get her nasty, monkey-fool paws on this information—not on my watch.”

  She scooped up those folders, with all of that information in them, stood up, and placed the big, heavy bags on each shoulder. She tossed the remaining folders with the information for her newest work assignments in the trash can with the business cards, snatched up her purse, and grabbed the laptop.

  Marsha sighed in relief that she had everything she needed. The only thing left to do was to call her folks at Eva T. Marshall and tell them to pull the plug on their project with stuck-up Sebastian-Fleur. Marsha looked at her watch. She had about ten minutes tops to get out of the store with her dignity intact.

  She took in a real deep breath, balanced all of the stuff she was carrying, and opened the door.

  Yolanda had been all on the door trying to hear what Marsha was doing and hoping she was in the office crying herself silly. She fell right into the office as soon as the door swung open because Marsha jumped aside to make sure she didn’t block the fall. Yolanda grabbed the inside of the doorframe to stop from tumbling on her face, and winced when it squeezed in on her fingers.

  “Maybe Cato Fashions will want to hire you,” Yolanda snarled through a pained smirk. She was trying to regain her balance by attempting to stand back up on the outsides of her boots. Yolanda’s ankles were twisted down toward the floor. It was a very awkward and painful position. It was also an opportunity to give Marsha a peek at the red soles of her boots. The price tags on Christian Louboutin boots was not for the faint of heart. And Yolanda knew that Marsha couldn’t even afford a pair of these bad boys at the consignment shop.

  Marsha didn’t know why people like Yolanda didn’t know when to leave folk alone. She’d already messed with her livelihood. She was trying to humiliate her by calling security to escort Marsha to her car. And now, Yolanda thought she was adding an additional insult to this injury by practically standing on her ankles to reveal the red soles of those fancy boots.

  But Marsha was now so beyond responding to the antics of her brand-new former boss. And she certainly wasn’t paying heed to Yolanda’s attempts to profile those shoes—the newest status symbols for working folk with high salaries. Marsha didn’t even dignify that gesture over the boots with a passing glance.

  “Yolanda, why do you care where I work, since I no longer work for your stank butt? And for the record, there’s nothing wrong with Cato Fashions.”


  “You would say that,” Yolanda said, and scanned Marsha’s white denim capris and the white denim jacked trimmed with ruffles, her black-and-lavender tank, and her black-and-lavender, patent-leather, T-strap–styled pumps.

  The irony in all of this was that Marsha’s suit really had come from Cato Fashions even though her shoes had been pulled from the clearance-clearance rack bin at this very store. Marsha always found the best and cheapest shoes, because the brother in charge of pulling shoes and putting them on clearance was her buddy. He always kept as many pairs of shoes for her in the back room as he could.

  She glanced down at her stylish shoes, which were accentuating her shapely legs, and then let her eyes focus on those superexpensive boots gaping out from Yolanda’s stick-figure legs. Unfortunately there was not a pair of boots expensive enough to compensate for that.

  “You know something, Yolanda,” Marsha said quietly and evenly. “You spend all of that money on all of those clothes and high-end designer shoes, and you still look like an untrained zoo monkey.”

  “At least I have a man,” Yolanda spat out. She knew she was not all that cute and always hoped she could hide it with her clothes.

  “Yes, you do,” Marsha replied evenly. “And you treat him like he is supposed to stand on his head and bark because the ugliest and most ill-mannered woman in Durham gave him some after her husband died.”

  “Daaannnng,” somebody whispered in the crowd of onlookers. Nobody had ever talked to Yolanda Richardson like that. And nobody had ever told her the truth about her looks.

  “You are just jealous because nobody wants you, Marsha Metcalf. You can’t keep a man or get a man. Why, for all of your so-called talents and smarts, you can’t even keep a job,” Yolanda spat out.

  Yolanda started to walk away, and then paused, “Just so you know, Miss Marsha Metcalf/used-to-be Mrs. Bluefield, your late ex, Rodney, had you waiting on him many an evening while he was finishing up with me.”

  Marsha had always suspected Rodney went creeping with Yolanda while they were still married but could never prove it. Rodney was dead. But it still hurt to have it confirmed that he had cheated on her with this woman.