Holy Ghost Corner 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 © 2006 by Michele Andrea Bowen

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Warner Books with Walk Worthy Press ™

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web sites at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: June 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-446-53754-4

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Glory Girls

  This book is dedicated with much love to my sweet hubby, Harold, and our three daughters, Laura, Sydney, and Janina. Also, with a special dedication to my grandmother, Mrs. Jeffie Hicks, a.k.a. “my Da Da.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, Lord, in the name of Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior, for blessing me with the opportunity and ability to write and publish another novel.

  Thank you, Time Warner Books and Walk Worthy Press for publishing this book. It has been a blessing to work with all of the wonderful people who have helped me bring each book to fruition and then get them in those stores. Elisa Petrini, you have been a superb editor, who has guided me in transforming my manuscripts into the novels that they become. And Fred Chase, my copy editor at Warner, I appreciate your keen eye and gentle touch.

  Readers, it has been three years since I have published a new book and you all never failed to encourage me with kind notes, hugs, prayers and well wishes, and continued support of my first two novels, Church Folk and Second Sunday. God bless all of you.

  And I “ain’t got nothin’ but love” for my family and friends who support me and keep me lifted in prayer. While I can’t name everybody, I have to give a few shout outs.

  Harold (my sweetheart and armor bearer) and my girls—I couldn’t imagine doing what I do without the four of you in my life.

  To my mother, Minnie Bowen, I love you and appreciate all that you do to encourage me and my writing. I know you know how much I miss Daddy.

  To my cousins and aunts and uncles, with just a few words to lift up the incredibly “crunked” and, more importantly, anointed gospel CDs that my first cousins, Jonathan and Jason Nelson, have released.

  To my parents-in-law, Bessie Brown, and John and Mildred Spencer, who always promote my work. Granddad Spencer, I would not have been able to create the Rhodes, Rhodes, and Rhodes architectural firm if I had not had the pleasure of watching your illustrious career as a highly respected architect.

  And I can not end these shout outs without giving a special “hollah” to Ava Haskins Brownlee and Kenneth Brownlee, who are my sister and brother in the Lord, and make me wonder if we were “separated at birth.” Ava had my back in prayer and stood on the spiritual battlefield with me to fight off the fiery darts of the adversary. Ken listened patiently as I talked about the characters as if they were real people, and gave me the space I needed to “debrief” whenever I finished intense periods of working on this project.

  Then, there is my church and church family, St. Joseph’s AME Church in Durham, North Carolina, where my brother in the Lord, Reverend Philip R. Cousin, Jr., the Senior Pastor, and my sister in the Lord, first lady, Angela McMillan Cousin, have built a powerful, Holy Ghost-filled ministry. I know your ministry is going to revolutionize the AME church when you become Bishop and Mother Cousin in 2008.

  Last but definitely not least, thank you to my uncle, Bishop James D. Nelson, Sr. and my aunt, Mother Bessie Nelson, who demonstrate what a Holy Ghost-filled marriage and ministry is all about. Tell the folks at Greater Bethlehem Temple Apostolic Church I have been tremendously blessed whenever I have attended service at “super church.”

  Let everything that has breath and every breath of life praise the Lord! Praise the Lord!

  PSALM 150: 6

  Michele Andrea Bowen, January 5, 2006

  Chapter One

  THERESA ELAINE HOPSON WAS FEELING LOW, though it was one of those perfect mid-November Durham afternoons—a sunny, fifty-degree, Carolina-blue-sky day. It was a pine-tree-smelling day, a shopping day—the kind of afternoon when no sister could resist dropping by Theresa’s store, Miss Thang’s Holy Ghost Corner and Church Woman’s Boutique. To Theresa’s ever-growing numbers of satisfied customers, Miss Thang’s, as it was affectionately called, was the most perfect today’s-black-woman-friendly store in the Triangle cities of Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Sisters would wander by to spend a few minutes window-shopping, only to find themselves in the store hours later, captivated by all of that good-ole-black-girl stuff they hoped their designer and seriously ghetto-fabulous-faux-designer pocketbooks could handle.

  The store’s cash register rested on an antique glass display case, which held an assortment of crosses with exquisite jeweled settings, complemented by an array of matching cross earrings and bracelets. A corner table was dedicated to Bibles: classy leather-bound ones in black, pewter, and ruby along with chic Bible covers in rich suede, metallic leathers, velvet, and raw silk. Another lace-covered table held blessed and sanctified bottles of anointing oil—large, medium, small, and purse size. Right next to it, nestled in a nook, was a glass-doored corner hutch full of fine paper goods—sermons by the area’s best preachers, Prayer and Praise Report Journals, pastel note cards, and legal pads with Bible verses printed on them, which were such a big hit with the local university students that Theresa couldn’t keep them in stock.

  The purses and hats were also a big draw. Miss Thang’s purses were black-church-lady pocketbooks, pure and simple. Once, when asked by a friend, “Girl, what they look like?” a loyal customer held up her new black satin bag, with her church’s name embroidered in sequins, and replied, “Now, do you want one of these, or should Miss Thang order you and your sorority sisters some royal blue silk clutch bags with ‘Zeta Phi Beta’ printed on the front with pearly white bugle beads?”

  Cutting their lunch date short, that friend went straight to Miss Thang’s to order twenty-five Zeta clutches for the Sorors and also treated herself to a ruby silk church bag with Jesus embroidered on it with silver silk thread.

  And the hats—they were a visual feast, in every color and fabric. But everybody’s favorite section of the store was devoted to what Theresa jokingly called her “Saved Hoochie Mama” merchandise. Tucked away in an antique mahogany armoire were pajamas and lingerie in silk, satin, and sheer chiffon, embroidered with expressions like “Saved,” “Church Gurl,” “Miss First Lady,” and even “Bishop’s Boo.”

  More than once, Theresa had been scolded and prayed over, with laying on of hands and anointing oil, when a conservative, super-saved customer went into the armoire looking for roomy, waist-high cotton drawers, support hose, and big longline bras, only to find filmy slips and camisoles, lace teddies, thongs, push-up demi-brassieres, and satin tap pants to match. In an effort to keep the “saved patrol” off her, Theresa tried to appease them by ordering th
eir kind of underwear with “churchly” inscriptions. Now the big seller among the “saved patrol,” which had first been special-ordered by a Holiness Church evangelist, Mother Clydetta Overton, was big panties with embroidery across the front reading “Nobody But Jesus Can See.”

  But the truth was that after a sister got lost in the sheer pleasure of looking at and touching the lingerie, she often came to her senses feeling embarrassed, especially when her eyes fell on the “Holy Ghost Corner” sign beside the armoire. Plenty of women got saved after rummaging through all that fancy, sexy, delicate bedroom wear and found themselves shamefaced, purchasing a new Bible, study guide, sermon, or Prayer and Praise Journal to strengthen their walk with the Lord.

  The alarm system beep-beep-beeped, followed by a three-second blast of shouting music as the door swung open. Theresa’s younger brother, Calvin, or “Bug,” as he was called, insisted that the Holy Ghost had led him to wire that sound into the security system. Bug believed that if somebody came into the store who wasn’t right, the shouting music would drive him or her out.

  Theresa’s assistant, Miss Queen Esther Green, was pushing through the door with her elbows, arms full of uniforms for area churches’ Sunday morning service nurses in new colors—pale blue, pale purple, and off-white. She had a box of gloves gripped under one arm and in her free hand, a carton of Krispy Kreme doughnuts that smelled so good it would have made Peter forget his fear when he hopped out of that boat to walk on the water with Jesus.

  “Uhhh, baby? You gone keep standing in the middle of the floor, or you think you’ll come and help an old lady out before Jesus cracks across the sky?”

  Theresa rushed over to take the doughnuts out of Miss Queen Esther’s hand.

  “Baby, the doughnuts ain’t heavy but these uniforms are.”

  Sniffing at the doughnut box, Theresa gathered the uniforms from Queen Esther’s arms.

  “These hats just came in—met the UPS man just as I was pulling up.” Miss Queen Esther started dragging in two boxes from outside the door. “You know something, baby, that UPS man kind of cute. What church he attend?”

  “He doesn’t like organized religion. Said that on Sunday mornings, he grabs a cup of coffee and sits quietly, and then thinks about nature and science and agriculture and stuff like that.”

  Queen Esther frowned. “Well, then, we can forget about trying to get the two of you fixed up.”

  “Miss Queen Esther, the UPS guy isn’t my type.”

  “You right about that. A man who get up on Sunday morning dranking coffee and thinking about tomatoes, instead of studying his mind on the Lord, show ain’t your type. Baby, I should have known that something was up with him as soon as I saw them long dreadses hanging way back off of that big, half-bald head.

  “Baby, the Lord has often led me to discover that when people hiding stuff about themselves, they give off telltale signs with their clothes, their hair, the way they keep their house and such. So, that hair is a blessing in disguise. ’Cause it’s like the Lord saying, ‘He may be cute and available, but look at his head—just look at the brother’s head.’”

  Theresa helped herself to a doughnut and bit into it with a laugh. “Miss Queen Esther, you know yourself is crazy.”

  “I ain’t all that crazy, baby. I just depend on Jesus to help me see it and say it like it is.”

  Theresa shook her head, relieved that she’d escaped a lecture on being too persnickety about men. Single, forty-seven, and with no serious boyfriend, she felt awkward when Queen Esther kept pushing her toward the available men she came across. Though Theresa wanted badly to get married, she still hoped to find the right man: God-fearing, loving, as intelligent and hardworking as she was, and ideally, at least fairly attractive. But so far he hadn’t come along.

  Suddenly it struck her why she’d been so blue all day. The holiday season was rolling up on Theresa and she wasn’t ready to face it this year.

  She had a hard time with the holidays, and dreaded the thought of coming to dinner or a party alone and watching couples grinning and skinning all over each other and having fun. Sometimes her family, as loving as they were, didn’t seem to understand how that made her feel left out. Worse yet, they even acted like it was normal for Theresa to be on her own, with no man, when that was the absolute last thing she wanted in her life.

  Her eyes teared up as Queen Esther started to reconsider her opinion of Yoda the UPS man.

  “Of course, baby, you just might be the Lord’s way of reaching out to that Yoda. Technically, he really is a decent-looking man. All he need to do to look good is shave his head bald . . .”

  Luckily, Queen Esther didn’t notice her tears, distracted by the box she was cutting open. Pulling aside the gold tissue paper, she gently lifted out the hat inside and set it on the counter, next to the register. It was a fluffy confection made of the palest creamy yellow netting, twinkling with rhinestones. “Baby, you ought to keep this one for yourself. It is simply breathtaking.”

  She handed the hat over to Theresa so she could try it on.

  Theresa settled the hat on her head and walked over to the full-length mirror near the Mary Kay cosmetics. The hat was so dreamy and romantic that she fell in love with it on sight.

  “Baby, that hat is you,” Queen Esther said. “Who made it?”

  “Miss Bettie Lee Walker, the new designer with Essie Lee Industries in St. Louis.”

  “She young or old?” Queen Esther asked.

  “Miss Walker is seventy-two.”

  “Young woman, huh?” Queen Esther said. She was seventy-six herself.

  Theresa gave her a crooked grin in the mirror.

  But Queen Esther missed it. She was shuffling through the rack of dresses and suits. “Here,” she said. “This will knock that hat right out.”

  She was lifting the plastic off a pale, creamy yellow silk chiffon chemise and matching sheer tulle coat with ruffled sleeves designed to drape gracefully over the wrists. It was the kind of ensemble that delicately hugged the body and swayed with the wearer’s every move—an outfit that would make a church man say, “Lawd, ha’ mercy and thank you, Jesus.”

  “Oh yes, you gone need this.” Queen Esther lifted the hat off Theresa’s head and then proceeded to take it, along with the ensemble, to Theresa’s office in the back.

  “Miss Queen Esther . . .” Theresa began when she returned.

  “Maybe it can be your Thanksgiving outfit.”

  “I think it’s more for the springtime.”

  “Well then, Easter. That woman in the Bible days poured out some high-priced perfume and washed Jesus’ feet with her hair and tears. So, I really don’t think it’s asking too much for you to look your best on Easter Sunday. And besides, you need a good man-catching suit, one to show off those long legs.”

  “We’ve got a customer,” Theresa said to change the subject.

  A Pepto-Bismol-pink Cadillac Escalade had whipped into the parking space in front of the store. The driver, who stepped down carefully, was dressed in pink from head to toe, wearing a pale pink silk pantsuit with a mint green silk tulip on the right lapel, a mint green and pink silk scarf draped over her shoulders, and pink alligator pumps with a matching shoulder bag. That outfit made Glodean Benson-Washington’s exquisite chocolate skin look like the finest velvet. Though she was sixty-nine years old, not one wrinkle marred her beautiful complexion, enhanced only with a soft stroke of rose blush and shimmering rose lip gloss.

  Glodean was notorious both in her own right and because she was married to Sonny Washington, one of the Gospel United Church of America’s most controversial bishops. Back in the 1970s, after creating yet another major scandal at a church convention, Bishop Washington was exiled to a modest congregation in Fuquay-Varina, North Carolina. During his first year as pastor, Glodean urged her husband to persuade the members, who needed money for major repairs on the church building, to sell him and the first lady the twenty acres of land it stood on. After graciously deeding a few acres bac
k to the church, Glodean proceeded to develop the rest into a strip mall with stores catering to the black community.

  The thriving mall had made Mother Washington a millionaire several times over. And according to Gospel United Church gossip, that was how Glodean managed to get her husband, Sonny—an old-school, mean-as-a-snake street fighter if there ever was one—to stop beating her tail. Mother had pimp-slapped the bishop with so much money that if it even crossed his mind to look at her wrong, he had to stop and remember which side of the bread the butter was spread on—Glodean’s side.

  Emerging from the passenger door of the SUV was Charmayne Robinson, a real estate attorney, who did consulting work for high-roller developers and black business owners throughout the state. Theresa had known Charmayne since childhood, when they both lived in the Cashmere Estates, a now abandoned and blighted low-rise housing project in Durham. But while Charmayne could hardly bear to acknowledge the connection, her ruthlessness in business led many to observe that, beneath all that platinum-and-diamond jewelry and fancy clothes, she was still a “’hood rat,” who had yet to shake the “ghetto dust” off her $400 stiletto-heel pumps.

  The two women paused before the store’s black-edged-with-pewter welcome mat, and Theresa could see Glodean taking in the facade. She was proud of the sign, with calligraphy script spelling out “Miss Thang’s Holy Ghost Corner and Church Woman’s Boutique” in velvety orchid neon light. She was glad that she’d decorated the windows for the holidays with silver and lavender silk ivy, glinting with tiny Christmas bulbs in starry white. And she felt a guilty satisfaction when Glodean demanded of Charmayne, in a shrill voice that carried from outside, “Why haven’t you recommended some of these ‘boutique touches’ for my stores?”