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  Chapter

  1

  Rachel Jackson Adams

  “I think Jasmine is your sister.”

  Rachel Jackson Adams cocked her head. To the left. Then the right. She studied her father, zoning in to see if his eyes were dilated, his speech slurred. Something. It was obvious her father was on the brink of a stroke since he was uttering complete nonsense.

  “Jasmine? As in ‘Jasmine all-those-last-names’ Jasmine?” Rachel asked her father. Maybe he’d been outside working in his garden. The Houston heat was enough to make anyone delirious.

  “She only has one more name than you.”

  “Okay, Dad, you’ve got jokes.” Rachel stood up from her spot on the sofa, where she’d been sitting with her father watching their now-defunct reality show, First Ladies. When she’d walked into his house this afternoon, she’d been shocked to see that he’d had that show on. Again.

  When Rachel had joined the reality show on the OWN network last year, she had dreams of syndication, endorsement deals, and becoming a household name. Not to mention that she’d mapped out how she had planned to take Gayle’s place as Oprah’s BFF. They’d only done one season of the show—reality TV had proven to be too much for even Rachel, who considered herself a reformed drama queen. But her father, the Reverend Simon Jackson, was watching that show like it was the only thing on TV.

  “Really, Dad?” Rachel asked, grimacing as she looked at the TV. It was the scene where she, Jasmine, and Rachel’s husband’s one-time mistress, Mary, had visited a church for Women’s Day, and Rachel had been forced to deliver a Word. For some reason, Rachel had drawn a blank, so she’d just started reciting her favorite song lyrics. It had been the most embarrassing thing ever.

  “I like this show,” Simon said, finally smiling after delivering his cockamamie announcement. “Wait, here comes the part where you talk about if loving God is wrong, you don’t wanna be right.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “I’m glad you find it amusing.”

  He chuckled. “I thought you were gonna break out with ‘Meeting in the Ladies Room’ next.”

  “Back to this sister madness.” Rachel picked up the remote and pressed pause. The television froze with Rachel’s mouth wide open in the middle of a sentence. She shook her head at the image. “Ugh.” Then, she pushed the button to turn the TV off altogether.

  “I know you think I’m talking crazy.” Simon’s tone was serious again.

  “You are.” She tossed the remote back on the table.

  “No . . .” he said, scooting to the edge of his seat. Simon began sifting through a bunch of photos strewn all over the coffee table. Rachel hadn’t given them a second glance until now.

  “Why do you have all of these pictures out?” She picked one up.

  “I was looking for something.”

  “Oh, my God,” Rachel said, laughing as she looked at the picture. “Is this you?” She turned the tattered black-and-white photo of a much skinnier Simon Jackson in a multicolored button-down shirt and bell-bottom jeans. “Look at that Afro.”

  “I was superfly,” he replied as he continued to sift through the pictures.

  “Where’s Mom?” Rachel said, leaning over to peer at the piles. While she had given her mother, Loretta, major grief in her teen years, Rachel loved her something fierce. She’d died when Rachel was just nineteen, and her father had married his current wife, Brenda, shortly after, but Rachel’s love for her mother had never wavered. “I want to see some pictures of her.”

  “You can go through the pictures later. I need to talk to you about Jasmine. I have questions.” He glanced down at a tattered photo clutched tightly in his hand. “A lot of questions.”

  “Daddy, what is going on? You’re really not making sense.”

  “I told you, I really do believe Jasmine is your half sister.”

  “The only way that would be possible is if you were getting busy with Jasmine’s mother.” Rachel busted out laughing, but quickly ceased when her father didn’t laugh with her. “Umm . . . which is ludicrous since you don’t know Jasmine’s mother . . . right?” She studied her father, who suddenly couldn’t look her in the eye. “Right?”

  Instead of answering and with the slowness of a child waiting for his punishment, Simon extended his hand—and the photograph he was clutching—in Rachel’s direction.

  “Who is this?” Rachel asked, taking the picture. The black-and-white photo was also tattered, but the tall, stunning beauty in the picture looked familiar. Rachel’s heart dropped just a little. She looked . . . like Jasmine. “Who. Is. This?” she repeated.

  “That’s my first love . . . the first woman who ever captured my heart.” His eyes locked with his daughter’s. “And the woman I think is Jasmine’s mother.”

  Rachel studied the picture again. No. All the nos in no-dom. This was not Jasmine’s mother. This was a woman who bore a resemblance to Jasmine and her father had watched their reality show so much that his brain was making him see something that wasn’t there.

  Rachel handed the picture back to her father. Her parents had met in college, so the thought of him being seriously in love with another woman had never even been in the realm of possibility. “I’m not entertaining this. Your first love was my mother. You’ve always said that.”

  “No, I said Loretta was my greatest love. Doris was my first love.”

  Doris. Rachel’s mind raced, trying to recall Jasmine’s mother’s name. She was coming up blank.

  “So, you cheated on Mom?” Just the thought gave Rachel a sinking feeling in her gut. Her father had been a lot of things over the years—neglectful, strict, judgmental—but she never would have taken him for a cheat.

  “No,” Simon said, inhaling. “This was before your mom.” He shifted as if he was uncomfortable. “Do you want something to drink? I can have Brenda bring you some tea or someth—”

  “No, Daddy. I don’t want anything to drink.” Rachel cut him off. “I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

  “Sit.” He motioned toward the sofa and she eased back into her seat. Simon leaned back, ran his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair, and said, “Where do I begin?”

  • • •

  Sweet Home Baptist Church in Smackover, Arkansas, might have only boasted a membership of seventy-three, but they quadrupled that number when it came time for the annual Bible Revival. Reverend Horace Jackson may not have been able to pack folks into his church on any given Sunday, but they came from all over for his two-week-long Revival.

  That’s why when the rickety bus with the words Pilgrim Rest Missionary Baptist Church, Mobile, Alabama, emblazoned on its side rolled into the dusty parking lot, none of the kids playing in front of the church batted an eye. There were already churches visiting from Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas for the annual event.

  Then, a vision of loveliness stepped off the bus.

  Simon had been playing kickball with some of his friends and all of them stopped. The young woman had the longest jet-black hair he’d ever seen, the prettiest doe eyes, and a smile that got off the bus before her.

  All the boys stared at the girl like she’d just stepped out of the p
ages of their favorite book.

  “Doris, you wait right here,” an elderly woman said to her. “I’m gonna go see where pastor wants us to go.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Doris said, before turning toward the group of boys. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” several of them mumbled. Simon couldn’t seem to find his voice.

  “What’s your name?” Her eyes zeroed in on Simon, or at least he thought they did.

  “I’m Clevester,” Simon’s friend said, jumping in front of the young woman. Simon should’ve known he would lay first dibs on the pretty girl. Clevester got all the girls.

  “Actually,” she said, leaning to the side and pointing directly at Simon, “I was talking to him.”

  “And why you need to know his name?”

  Simon groaned as Minnie, his Amazon of a sister, stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the pretty stranger.

  “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to say anything to your boyfriend,” the girl said.

  “Ugh! I’m not his girlfriend,” Minnie replied. “I’m his sister.”

  That brought the smile back to the girl’s face and she stood up tall as she twirled her ruffled skirt. “I’m Doris. Doris Young.” She stuck her hand out to shake. Minnie didn’t take it. But Doris just kept grinning.

  “Why you always grinning? You special? Something wrong with you?” Minnie asked, her arms folded across her chest as she gave the girl the once-over.

  Doris shrugged. “Guess I’m just a happy person.” She leaned over to look again at Simon, who was all but hiding behind his sister. “Does your brother have a name?”

  “Maybe,” Minnie snapped.

  “It’s, um, it’s S-Simon Jackson,” he said, finally stepping out of his sister’s shadow.

  “My brother is shy.” Minnie rolled her eyes. “Unless, of course, you put a Bible in front of him. Then he turns into Martin Luther King Jr. or something.”

  “You a preacher?” Doris asked.

  Simon shook his head. “Nah. I-I just like spreading the gospel.”

  “The gospel is good,” Doris said. “My grandfather is a preacher. You kinda young, though.”

  Simon stood erect. “I’m about to turn fifteen.”

  “I’m fourteen,” she said.

  “And that makes you too young for him,” Minnie said, stepping back in front of Simon.

  Simon pushed his sister aside. “Minnie, go somewhere.”

  She cut her eyes at him. “Fine. I can tell when I’m not wanted.” She grabbed Clevester’s hand. “Come on, Clevester. I want you to come pick me some plums off this tree.”

  After Minnie dragged Clevester away, Simon relaxed and before he knew it, he and Doris were inseparable. She was everything he was not—vibrant, social, funny, and beautiful. If ever there was such a thing as love at first sight, Simon Jackson definitely thought he’d found it.

  • • •

  “We spent every day, all day together for the revival,” Simon said, wrapping up the story. “But then she went back home and, of course, we didn’t have cell phones or email, but we wrote to each other constantly. Every letter, I fell more and more in love with her.”

  “Okay, cute story,” Rachel said, eyeing her father strangely. “But just because some woman from your past looks like Jasmine, doesn’t make her Jasmine’s mother.”

  He motioned for her to be quiet. “Would you let me finish?” The nostalgic smile returned to his face as he continued. “Doris came back to the revival the next summer and our love only grew stronger. And then, the summer after that, we were already making plans to one day get married.

  “But when she returned home after that, she stopped answering my letters. Just stopped. I was devastated.” Simon shook his head like even recalling that time of his life was painful. “I never could get a straight answer,” he said. “My sister’s nosy behind did some digging. She wrote one of the boys who had been at the revival from Mobile. He told us Doris had a baby.”

  “A baby? So her parents made her stop communicating with you because she had a child?” Rachel’s mouth dropped open as if a realization had set in. “Wait. Was it your child?”

  Simon shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, his tone softer. “I tried to get some answers, but my father was adamant that I ‘leave well enough alone.’ Doris wouldn’t answer my letters, and in fact, they started being returned to me as undeliverable. My parents convinced me that the pregnancy was just a rumor and that I needed to go on about my life.”

  “Maybe it was a rumor.”

  “That’s what I convinced myself.” He was quiet for a moment, then, as if he was talking to himself, he added, “Until I got a good look at Jasmine. She favors my grandmother and . . . I tried looking on that Internet, but I can’t find out Jasmine’s exact date of birth because all the stuff that’s on there is conflicting.”

  “That’s because she’s always lying about her age,” Rachel grumbled. “But I think she’s like fifty or sixty, so she couldn’t be your daughter.”

  Simon shook his head. “No. No. She looks just like Doris.”

  Rachel stood to leave. She couldn’t process this conversation any longer. “Yes, this Doris woman resembles Jasmine. But I assure you that’s a coincidence. I mean, Daddy, you’re really reaching. Because if Jasmine is your daughter, that . . .” Her words trailed off, then she took a minute to gather herself before she continued. “That would make her my half sister.” The thought made Rachel shudder.

  “Do you know anything about Jasmine’s mother?” Simon asked.

  It was Rachel’s turn to shake her head. “I don’t know anything. Except you must be getting senile in your old age. Either that or you’re feeling some kind of nostalgia. But Jasmine is from Florida, not Alabama.”

  “Well, her mom could be from somewhere else,” Simon said. “I need to talk to Jasmine. I need to ask her some questions.”

  Rachel blew out an exasperated breath. Maybe her father was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s or one of those other debilitating mind diseases, but she could tell from the look on his face that he wouldn’t rest until he got some answers. “What do you need to know, Dad? I’ll find it out.”

  “You’ll talk to her?” His voice was full of relief.

  “Yes, I’ll ask her her mother’s name and when she was born. I will get all the details you need so that we can shut this foolishness down.” Rachel chuckled. “You need to lay off that prune juice because it’s messing with your mind.” She leaned in and kissed her father on the forehead. “But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll call her so we can nip this in the bud.”

  Rachel stared at her father, let out a small laugh again, then grabbed her purse and said, “Me and Jasmine related? Oooh, Daddy, you need to be a comedian.” Her laughter trailed after her as she walked out the door.

  Chapter

  2

  Jasmine Cox Larson Bush

  Jasmine had one foot out of the cab, but she looked up and wondered if she should get right back in. It was the two women stepping out of Melba’s who made her have that thought. Two women who threw a glance her way.

  “What are you doing, Jas?” her sister, Serena, asked. “Get out.”

  Slowly, Jasmine eased out of the taxi, but as the women kept their stare on her, she cringed. It was coming. She could see it in their eyes. First, they frowned, then the look of shock when complete realization set in.

  In her head, Jasmine counted; One, two, three, four, five . . .

  “Oh, my God! Jasmine Cox Larson Bush,” the two women said together as if they’d practiced for this moment.

  Then they giggled like schoolgirls, even though Jasmine was sure both were at least forty, maybe even fifty years old.

  More “Oh, my God” before the taller one, who looked like she could have been an on-fire basketball player back in her day, raised her hand above her head and snapped her fingers. “That’s what divas do and I’m done!”

  The two busted out laughing as if Jasmine’s catchphrase from her realit
y show was something they’d just created.

  Jasmine fixed a smile on her face and attempted to step around the strangers. But the two had formed a blockade, preventing Jasmine and Serena from entering the restaurant.

  “Excuse me,” Jasmine said.

  “Oh, we’re sorry,” the shorter one, who was decked out in all things leopard, said, though neither made any effort to move out of Jasmine’s way. The woman kept talking. “You were absolutely awesome on the show.”

  “Yeah, you were my favorite,” the other said. “That Rachel chick was always throwing shade ’cause she was jealous of your class, you know?”

  “Right?” Ms. Leopard said, as she high-fived her friend.

  Jasmine was not the president of Rachel Jackson Adams’s fan club, but it was like some kind of sister/girl thing—she could talk about Rachel, but no one else could. Yes, what these women said about Rachel was true, but they didn’t know that for sure.

  That’s what Jasmine wanted to tell them, but she wasn’t about to get into a debate on the corner of 114th and Frederick Douglass Boulevard in Harlem with two people who didn’t matter. So, all she said was “Thanks” as she once again tried to maneuver around the women.

  But even as she moved, they didn’t.

  “Can we just have your autograph?” Ms. Basketball Player asked. Before Jasmine could respond, the girl snatched a brown paper bag from inside her bootleg designer purse and thrust it in Jasmine’s face.

  A paper bag? And these two had the nerve to question Rachel’s class?

  Pulling a pen from her purse, Jasmine shook her head. This was not how it was supposed to be. When she set out to do First Ladies, Jasmine was all about the fortune she was sure to amass. She cared not one bit about the fame. But the fortune had evaded her and fame was what she had found. She couldn’t believe the number of people who recognized her. It didn’t matter where she was—today it was her favorite restaurant, yesterday it had been in the shoe department in Saks.

  As Jasmine signed the bag, the girls glanced at Serena.