Lady Jasmine Read online

  “Ivy!” Hosea pulled back and, for the first time since they’d received the call, he smiled a little. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I’m visiting Sarai,” she said, turning to Mrs. Whittingham. “I hadn’t been home in a while and decided to take a sabbatical this semester. I’m so sorry about your dad, but I’m glad that I’m here so that I can help take care of you.”

  Jasmine cleared her throat and crossed her arms.

  “Oh, Ivy, you haven’t had a chance to meet my wife. This is Jasmine.”

  The woman smiled, revealing teeth that were far too big for her mouth.

  “Jasmine, this is Ivy, Mrs. Whittingham’s sister. Ivy and I grew up together.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you finally,” Ivy said, reaching for Jasmine’s hand. “Sarai told me all about you.”

  With a quick glance over her shoulder, Jasmine looked at Mrs. Whittingham. If she’d been talking about her, surely nothing good had been said.

  Turning back to Ivy, Jasmine said, “I didn’t know Mrs. Whittingham had any family.” She kept to herself the thoughts being hatched about the woman. “You’re her…sister?” That was hard to believe—Mrs. Whittingham looked like she was twenty, maybe even thirty years older than Ivy.

  Ivy gave a light chuckle. “People always say that, but she is my sister.” Then she faced Hosea. “Any news about your dad?”

  Pastor Wyatt tapped Jasmine’s shoulder. “Would you like one of these?” he whispered, holding the coffee tray in the air.

  “No, thank you.”

  She tried to turn back to Hosea, but Pastor Wyatt held her arm. “You sure?” His voice was still low, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  Jasmine looked down to where he gripped her arm, then slowly inched her glance back to his face. “I said”—she wiggled away from him—“no, thank you.”

  He chuckled as he strutted away, taking the tray to Mrs. Whittingham and Brother Hill.

  Jasmine frowned, wondering again about the pastor. It was never what Pastor Wyatt said, it was his flirtatious tone—he talked as if neither he nor she were married.

  “So are you sure you don’t want to share some of this java with me?” The pastor was back; he raised the coffee cup to his mouth and grazed the edge of it with his tongue.

  Jasmine hated herself when she sighed, but how was she supposed to help it? The man was six feet four inches of pure sex, dangerously tempting with his Terrence Howard looks, his Barry White voice, and his legs that she could imagine…

  She snapped out of it, hissed, “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want any of your coffee?”

  He squinted and shrugged as if he had no idea what had brought on her attitude.

  “Darlin’,” Hosea called to her, “do you want to sit down?”

  Jasmine took her husband’s hand, then sat next to him. On the other side, Ivy planted herself in the chair and chatted away as if Hosea was interested in all the details of her life.

  Across from them, Mrs. Whittingham and Brother Hill were in a whispered conversation. And there was Pastor Wyatt—right across from her. When he grinned, the deep dimple in his left cheek winked at her.

  Twisting so that he was not in her direct view, Jasmine leaned her head on Hosea’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

  Like Pastor Wyatt had said, this was going to be a long night.

  TWO

  THE DAY’S FIRST LIGHT CAST its morning shadows through the frosted windows. Jasmine pushed her legs forward and stretched, not sure how much longer she could sit.

  “I should’ve sent you with Pastor Wyatt,” Hosea said.

  She shook her head. “I’m staying with you.” There was no way she would have gone anywhere with that man anyway.

  Pastor Wyatt had stood up at about three and announced that he was leaving so that he would be fresh for church in five hours. She was glad when he left and took his lecherous glances with him.

  The door to the room where they’d waited all night opened and then a woman asked, “Samuel Bush’s family?”

  “Yes,” they said together and all jumped from their seats.

  Even though it was barely six in the morning, the tall, thin woman stood in front of them, dressed in a crisp navy pinstripe suit.

  “I’m Mrs. Corbin, one of the hospital administrators. I have Mr. Bush’s property here.” She held a plastic bag stuffed with clothes in one hand and a large envelope in the other.

  “I’ll take—” Before Mrs. Whittingham could finish, Jasmine grabbed the items. Mrs. Whittingham rolled her eyes, and for the first time in almost seven hours Jasmine felt a little bit of cheer.

  “Do you know anything about my father?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “You can’t tell us anything?” Jasmine exclaimed, as if the woman was incompetent.

  Mrs. Corbin’s eyebrows rose just a bit. “The doctor will get to you as soon as she can,” she said, returning Jasmine’s attitude. Then, glancing around at them, she took in the evidence of their all-night stay in their reddened eyes and crumpled clothes. In a tone now that was full of grace, she said, “I know this may be hard, but you should go home.” She held up her hand before anyone could protest. “At least some of you. Trust me, it’s better for the family to do this in shifts. If a few of you go and refresh, you’ll be able to come back and relieve the others.”

  Hosea nodded. “That’s a good idea.” When Mrs. Corbin left them alone, he said, “Why don’t you guys go?”

  Mrs. Whittingham began, “But, I want to—”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything. But please, I’ll feel better,” Hosea said, looking at Brother Hill and Ivy, “if somebody got some rest.” When he added, “Plus, it’s going to be important for you to be at church when Pastor Wyatt makes the announcement,” they all agreed to leave.

  Mrs. Whittingham said, “Do you want me to take that?” She pointed to the bag Jasmine still held.

  She handed Mrs. Whittingham the bag of clothes. “Let me look through this,” she said, raising the envelope. “Make sure there’s nothing important inside.”

  The way Mrs. Whittingham pursed her lips made Jasmine move even slower. She shifted through the contents—Reverend Bush’s cell phone, his keys, wallet, a Mont Blanc pen. There were some loose papers and an opened FedEx package. The return address on the envelope made her curious, and she peeked inside at the thick mound of papers.

  But before she could pull anything out, she heard, “Mr. Bush?”

  When Mrs. Corbin marched back into the room, Jasmine rose from the chair.

  Mrs. Corbin said, “I don’t know anything specific, but Doctor McCollors asked me to take you to her office.”

  It took a moment for Hosea to say, “Is my father—”

  “He’s alive,” Mrs. Corbin said, as if she knew that’s what they needed to hear. “But I don’t know anything else. If you’ll come with me. Just you.”

  “And my wife,” Hosea said.

  The woman nodded.

  He turned to the others. “I’ll call as soon as we talk to the doctor.”

  Jasmine handed the envelope to Mrs. Whittingham and then took Hosea’s hand. It had been an exhausting night, but now Jasmine was totally alert.

  It was her pounding heart that had her wide awake.

  THREE

  JASMINE STOOD AT THE ENTRY to the kitchen and watched Jacqueline lift the spoon to her nose, take a sniff, then dump the cereal back into the bowl.

  “I don’t want it!” she declared to Mrs. Sloss.

  “Jacquie, you have to eat before we can go to the park.”

  “Don’t want it!” she insisted.

  Jasmine smiled. “Hey, baby.”

  Her daughter looked up, then wiggled from the chair. “Mama!” she shrieked, toddling toward her. She grabbed her mother’s legs.

  Mrs. Sloss turned away from the sink, her face etched with lines of worry. “How’s Reverend Bush?”

&nb
sp; Jasmine put her index finger to her lips and shook her head.

  Jacqueline said, “Sing song, Mama. Sing song!”

  Jasmine lifted her daughter and laughed. “You always want to sing song.”

  The girl giggled and nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll sing, but only if you sing with me.”

  “Okay,” and then before Jasmine could begin, Jacqueline started in a musical key known only to a two-year-old, “He got…whole world…”

  Jasmine joined in, “In His hands.”

  Together they sang, and then at her favorite part, Jacqueline raised one arm in the air, as if she was testifying, and screeched, “He got Mama, Daddy, and Jacquie in His hands…”

  Jasmine laughed at her daughter mimicking what she’d seen adults do in church.

  After they sang the song three times, Jasmine lowered Jacqueline back into her chair. “Okay, time to eat your cereal.”

  A moment ago, she’d been singing, but now, with her lips pinched together, Jacqueline whipped her head from side to side. “Don’t want it!”

  “Really? That’s too bad, because I was thinking, if you ate your cereal, then we could watch your favorite movie tonight.”

  Jacqueline smiled again, clapped her hands.

  Jasmine shook her head. “But we’re not going to because you won’t eat your cereal…”

  Now the glee was gone from her face as images of the Prince of Egypt faded away. Jacqueline stared at the bowl of soggy flakes, looked up at her mother with the saddest eyes, and then with a sigh and much effort, she said, “I eat it.”

  Drama Queen! Jasmine chuckled as she kissed the top of her head.

  “Mrs. Sloss, I’m going to take a shower.”

  The look in the nanny’s eyes said that she wanted some news. But Jasmine wasn’t going to discuss anything in front of her daughter.

  Inside her bedroom, Jasmine stood at the door, hoping to gather some of the peace that she always felt when she stepped into this space.

  When she and Hosea had returned from Los Angeles, she’d trashed their bedroom set (even though it was just a bit over a year old) and purchased all new furniture—all white. Stark white. From the bed to the dresser. From the ceiling fan to the chaise. The one-thousand-thread-count duvet that covered them with the gentleness of a cloud and the plush carpet that felt like velvet beneath her feet. She’d created an oasis that symbolized their love. Pure, untouched.

  Their heaven.

  But the serenity that always enveloped her when she entered this room was not here now. There was no tranquillity—only the burden of exhaustion. Her body ached, but what disturbed her most was the pain inside her head.

  That throbbing had been there for the last hour, from the moment Dr. McCollors had introduced her and Hosea to the intensivist, Dr. Lewis, the doctor who specialized in intensive care and was assigned to Reverend Bush’s case.

  But all Dr. Lewis had said was, “We’re not sure; the next few days will be critical to your father’s survival.”

  Jasmine closed her eyes, but behind her lids, the image was there—of Reverend Bush when she and Hosea had walked into the ICU. The man in the bed looked nothing like her father-in-law.

  He lay still, on his back, his eyes closed. He looked like he was sleeping—or at least that’s what Jasmine had told herself. He really looked like he was dead.

  It wasn’t because his head had been shaved that made her think that way. Nor was it because three-quarters of his head had been draped with heavy gauze and bandages. It was in his face where she saw death—his eyes were puffed; his cheeks were swollen, as if his mouth had been stuffed with cotton balls; his lips were distended. He didn’t look anything like the man she called Dad.

  She had stood next to Hosea, staring down at Reverend Bush, watching the very slight rise and fall of the cotton sheet that covered him. A whoosh of air traveled from the machine behind them through the thick tube that was thrust deep into his mouth. And she knew it was only because of that tube and the other equipment surrounding them—with their squiggly green lines and numbers that made no sense, that her father-in-law was even alive.

  Jasmine had to swallow the feeling of nausea she felt rising with those memories. She took deep breaths until the queasiness passed. Then she grabbed the telephone; she really needed to talk.

  Two rings and then, “Jasmine Larson, what took you so long to call me today?” Mae Frances huffed. “It’s after noon. I thought you were going to call before you left for church.”

  Jasmine settled back and rested in the familiarity of her best friend’s discontent. She wasn’t bothered one bit by Mae Frances’s tone—this is just how she was.

  Mae Frances asked, her tone sad, “Have you forgotten all about me down here?”

  “No, Nama,” she responded, calling Mae Frances by the name that Jacqueline had given her from the moment she started talking. “How’s it going in La Marque?”

  Mae Frances sighed. “How do you think? Today is just like yesterday. All my mother wants to do…”

  The rant was the same—every day since Mae Frances had left New York for La Marque, Texas, on New Year’s Day to take care of her mother.

  “I’m telling you, if Billie Jean wasn’t dying,” Mae Frances said, “I wouldn’t be here at all. Hmph, it wasn’t like she cared about me when I was growing up. I don’t know why I’m caring about her now.”

  “She needs you, Mae Frances. You’re doing a good thing,” Jasmine encouraged, just as she did each time they spoke.

  “A good thing? Shoot, I’m darn near a saint. There’s a special place in heaven for me—right next to Jesus. And when I get there and sit down with Him, there’re a few things I’m gonna say.”

  It wasn’t hard to imagine Mae Frances telling Jesus how He needed to run things. What was amazing, though, was that Mae Frances even talked about Jesus. Just four years ago, when she and Jasmine first met, the cantankerous sixty-something-year-old woman had cared nothing about God, family, or friends. She’d been a bitter woman who’d spent three decades hating her ex-husband for divorcing her after she’d had an affair. But a little affection from the Bushes had brought love—and forgiveness—into her life.

  “What took you so long to call?” Mae Frances asked again. “You know I need to hear from you so that I know what’s going on in New York or I’ll absolutely lose my mind. And what are you doing home from church already? I know Reverend Bush must’ve preached up a storm.”

  Those words reminded Jasmine that there was little room for joy in her life right now.

  “I have something to tell you,” Jasmine began.

  “Oh, Lawd, sounds like bad news. What did you do now, Jasmine Larson?”

  “I didn’t do anything—”

  Mae Frances continued anyway, “Oh, I know. You slept with somebody and Preacher Man found out. Oh, Lawd.”

  Jasmine sat up straight on the bed. “No!”

  But her protest didn’t stop Mae Frances from rolling with the story. “Don’t worry, Preacher Man always forgives you. How many times have you lied to him—”

  “Mae Frances!”

  “He always comes back. That man is a boomerang. You toss him out; he flies around for a little while, but he always comes back. And he should. He’s from good stock. Just like his daddy. So who did you sex up this time?”

  “I didn’t sleep with anyone,” Jasmine said, not hiding her attitude. “I’m not like that anymore.”

  “Oh, I forgot. So what is it then?”

  Jasmine took a long breath. This wasn’t going to be easy news to share. Mae Frances was a de facto member of the Bush clan. She was like a mother to Jasmine, a grandmother to Jacqueline, and to Reverend Bush…well, it was clear that Mae Frances held a special place in her heart for that man of God. Jasmine was sure that if Mae Frances had been a decade younger, her claws would have already been hooked in him.

  She pushed the words out, “Reverend Bush was shot last night.”

  “What?”

  “Las
t night, coming out of the church. Someone shot him.”

  “Is he—”

  “No,” Jasmine rushed to say before Mae Frances could ask. “But it’s serious. He was in surgery all night, and then this morning, the doctor met with Hosea and me—”

  “What did they say?” Mae Frances wailed.

  “Well, there’s some good news.” Jasmine decided to start there. “The doctor said he’s lucky the bullet didn’t get lodged in his brain. They were able to get it.”

  “Thank God!”

  Jasmine imagined Mae Frances with her hands in the air, getting ready to do a holy dance. “But…there was a lot of bleeding,” she continued. “Blood that gathered and pushed against his brain.”

  “Well, they just need to get in there and get it out!”

  “They did. When they opened his skull—”

  “Lord Jesus!”

  “They drained the blood, but—” This was where she had to stop. This was the part at which, when the doctor had spoken, Hosea had gasped and she’d started to cry. She could feel the tears rushing to her eyes now. “There might be a lot of damage from the swelling and pressure inside his skull,” Jasmine sniffed. “They just don’t know. Said it was too early to tell.”

  There was a long silence before Mae Frances said, “I’m coming home.”

  “You can’t do that,” Jasmine said, although she wished that her friend was with her right now. Since they’d met, Mae Frances had been by her side through her toughest times, and she really needed her. But so did Mae Frances’s mother. “You have to stay in Texas.”

  “Billie Jean can take care of herself.”

  “How’s she supposed to do that?” Jasmine asked.

  Mae Frances’s eighty-three-year-old mother, after a drunken night of holiday celebrating, had fallen and broken her hip. She’d had surgery and was confined to bed for weeks.

  “Stay in Texas,” Jasmine encouraged. “That’s what Hosea would want. I’ll keep you posted every day.”

  “Call me three times a day.”

  “I will.”

  “And make sure you take care of Preacher Man and my grandbaby.”

  “I will.”