Not even the deep breath she took could stop Jasmine’s knees from knocking; this was really happening. She wiggled her butt against the wooden chair in the Langston Hughes Auditorium, but it was difficult to get comfortable, especially since she couldn’t stop shaking.
“You all right, darlin’?” Hosea squeezed her hand.
She could only give him a nod before her glance wandered again to the men in front of the stage. Their heads were bowed together, their voices low. Jasmine strained, wanting to take in even a single syllable of what they were saying. But it was impossible to hear their whispers through the chatter of the two hundred or so participants in the room.
She pressed her knees together. It wasn’t that she was nervous—this was all excitement. Because this was the day she’d been waiting for … the voting for the pastor who would represent the Northern region in the national election for president of the American Baptist Coalition. The region had actually postponed the election for more than three weeks under the guise of opening the ballot to more pastors. But though several had submitted their resumes, only Hosea’s had been accepted to go up against the four other pastors whose names were already on the ballot.
Now, just weeks after Hosea had declared that he would never run for president of the esteemed organization, Jasmine, Hosea, the Senior Reverend Bush, and a host of friends from their church filled the first two rows of the auditorium waiting for what Pastor Griffith had called the inevitable.
And this was all happening because of her.
Just like with everything else in their lives, she had taken charge, knowing what was best for her husband, even when he didn’t have a clue.
She hadn’t done it alone, though—no, a task like this had taken big names, big guns. It had taken Mae Frances. And her connections.
For the last eight years, every time Jasmine needed to win, her friend had handled it, had worked it out, had brought the victory home. And this time was no different …
“I agree, Jasmine Larson,” Mae Frances had said the morning Jasmine had barreled into her apartment, telling her that she needed her like never before. “This position would be wonderful for Preacher Man,” she said, calling Hosea by the nickname she’d given him when they’d met all those years ago. “And”—she paused for a moment—“this will be great for you.”
Not more than the beat of a second passed before Jasmine said, “And anything that’s good for me will be good for you.”
Mae Frances had reared back on the sofa that Hosea and Jasmine had given her, and released a hearty laugh. “You got that right. I always gets mine.” She was still chuckling, but then turned to her serious get-down-to-business tone. “So, tell me what you know.”
The two had moved to the mahogany dining room table, this piece of furniture a gift to Mae Frances from Hosea’s father, Rev. Samuel Bush. And as Jasmine leaned forward and relayed to Mae Frances everything that Hosea had told her, Mae Frances took notes as if making things happen was her job.
“So, that’s it?” Mae Frances asked when Jasmine stopped after two minutes.
Jasmine nodded. “I don’t even know that pastor—Griffith. I never heard of him before this morning.”
Mae Frances frowned a little. “I wonder if that’s Earl Griffith out of Chicago.”
Jasmine shook her head. Was there anyone her friend didn’t know?
“I don’t know where he’s from,” Jasmine said. “All I know is that he called and he wants Hosea to run … and I do, too. I want him to have that position … I need him to be the president.”
“Whoa! Hold on, Jasmine Larson.” Mae Frances held up her hands. “Calm down. You’ve been home being the good wife for the last couple of years and it shows. You talking like you’ve forgotten how to play this game.”
Jasmine’s frown asked her question.
“You’re acting like you’ve already hit the home run. The old Jasmine would know that you can’t get too far out in front—you’ve got to touch first, second, and third base before you can bring it home.” Mae Frances continued, “So, back to the business of getting Preacher Man to be the leader of the—”
“Not the leader, the president.”
“Whatever! You want him to be the head Negro in charge, right?”
Jasmine cringed at her friend’s choice of words, but still, she nodded. No one had ever accused Mae Frances of being loaded with class. But no one could deny that for an assignment like this, there was only one person who could make it happen … and that was exactly what Mae Frances had done.
She had sent Jasmine home with no information, but no worries, either, and by the time Jasmine maneuvered the thirty or so blocks from the Upper East Side to Central Park South, Mae Frances’s plan was already in motion.
It hadn’t even been a half hour from when she left Mae Frances until she stepped into her apartment, but when Jasmine walked inside, Hosea had not yet left to go to his office in the church. He was still at home, pacing the length of their living room, his cell phone pressed against his ear. With his eyebrows bunched together, and his forehead creased with deep wrinkles, Jasmine knew that the talk was serious—she knew it was about the ABC.
“I hear you, Steve,” Hosea said as Jasmine laid her purse on the table.
Ah, she thought. So that’s where Mae Frances had started. She’d begun with Hosea’s award-winning cable talk show. Steven Hager was the executive producer of Bring It On, and because of his and Hosea’s efforts, the show enjoyed ratings that rivaled some network programs. Bring It On was Hosea’s cherished project, his idea, his success. And Jasmine knew what Mae Frances knew—that Hosea would do anything to help the show thrive even more.
Jasmine peeked into the living room from the foyer and waved to Hosea, letting him know that she had returned. But he’d only nodded, distracted by his conversation. She pretended to have her own distraction, glancing through yesterday’s mail, which she’d already sorted. But though her eyes were turned away, her ears were at full attention.
“Yeah, it would be great for the show, but if I were going to take a position like that, it would have to be for much more than just good ratings,” Hosea said, still pacing.
Then more silence, peppered every few seconds with Hosea grunting, “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Then something on the other end of the line made Hosea stop. Made his eyes widen. Made him sit down … slowly.
Jasmine’s heart pounded.
“You’re kidding me?” he whispered. “Jeremiah Wright?”
Jasmine pressed her lips together, but it was still hard to keep the scream inside. It pressed through her lips—a little yelp—just enough to make Hosea look up and at her for just a moment.
“Well, yeah,” Hosea said. “If he thinks I should do it … if he thinks I can bring something to the Coalition.”
There was more silence, but at the mention of Jeremiah Wright’s name, Jasmine knew that Mae Frances had hit that home run. Hosea might say no to Pastor Griffith, and even no to her. But not to the man whom he considered a stand-up guy, a hero, a mentor, even though he’d never met him.
“Okay,” Hosea said. “Yeah, definitely give Reverend Wright my number.” His voice was filled with an excitement that Jasmine had not heard in a while. “I’ll call Pastor Griffith back now.”
Hosea hung up and turned to a nonchalant Jasmine. “You are not going to believe this.”
“What?” she asked, her eyes still on the mail.
“Jeremiah Wright.”
“Oh, did you speak to him?” When Hosea frowned, Jasmine realized that maybe she was being a bit too casual. So she added, “Really?” as if she were surprised.
It was enough to get Hosea back on track. “No, I didn’t speak to him, but he called Steve over at the studio. He said he heard that the ABC was considering me and that he’d followed me and the show after all that we went through with Jacquie.” He paused and sat down on the sofa. “He really wants me to run and represent the North in the national election.”
“Babe, that’s great!” This time, Jasmine didn’t have to add anything to her voice. Her excitement was enough. “So, if Reverend Wright is taking an interest in this, then …”
She left the sentence open for Hosea to finish. “Then, I have to do it.” He nodded. “I don’t have any choice.” Glancing at Jasmine, he smiled as he stood up. “I need to make another call. I’m going to call back Pastor Griffith.”
Within an hour, Hosea had reneged on his promise to never run and had faxed his resume to Pastor Griffith. An hour after that, Hosea Bush’s name was on the ballot to represent the Northern region.
From that point, it was a done deal. Three candidates who’d been in the running dropped out—very quietly, but quickly. Only a single pastor, Reverend Penn, remained. William Penn, a sixty-seven-year-old small-time pastor, was the leader of New Hope Baptist in Springfield Gardens, Queens. New Hope was Pastor Penn’s seventh church, and interestingly, he’d had as many wives, changing spouses every time he was moved to a new congregation for one reason (or scandal) or another.
But while the Northern board had been able to convince the other pastors to step away, no one had been able to persuade Reverend Penn to do the same.
“This is my rightful position,” the reverend had complained when he found out that Hosea was now in the running. “I’ve been trying to be president for the last twenty-three years!” He’d whined and stomped his foot like a child, but no one listened—no one except for his thirty-eight-years-younger wife, a synthetic-hair-weave-wearing leggy blonde who’d left her porn career behind when she married the pastor.
When Jasmine had first heard that Reverend Penn refused to drop out, she’d had Mae Frances pull a dossier on the Penns. But then she’d met the pitiful couple and told Mae Frances to forget it. If justice didn’t prevail, if Hosea couldn’t beat this false prophet and his trick of a wife, then he didn’t deserve this position.
“So, the votes are in.”
The voice of Pastor Griffith dragged Jasmine away from the memories of the past weeks. She smiled at the pastor, and did her best to have only pure thoughts about the sexiest preacher that she’d ever seen. Pastor Griffith (yes, Earl Griffith; yes, a connection of Mae Frances’s) may have been a man of the cloth from Chicago, but if he’d ever decided to walk away and onto the stage, any movie producer would gladly scoop him right up. Even though he was in his sixties, he had the suaveness of that back-in-the-day actor Billy Dee Williams, and the swagger of President Barack Obama. Jasmine was in love—or she would have been, had she not been married and loved Hosea so much.
As if he felt her stare, Pastor Griffith glanced over at Jasmine and granted her a small smile.
“You okay, darlin’?”
Jasmine had to shake her head a little, to take her eyes off of Pastor Griffith. “What?” she said, turning to her husband. “Oh. Yeah. I’m fine.” This time, she squeezed Hosea’s hand, but turned her eyes back to Pastor Griffith.
It wasn’t just his amazing looks that made Jasmine admire the man. It was the way he did business. As the Northern director, Pastor Griffith was in charge. So, he had changed the election date to give the membership time to read about, and get to know, Hosea. And then, he’d told her and Hosea that there wasn’t a single thing to worry about.
“It’s gonna go down the way I want it to go down,” he’d said in his deep, melodic, Barry White voice.
Hosea hadn’t been pleased, always wanting to do everything by the good book. But Jasmine had melted. Pastor Griffith’s words, the way he handled things, were as pleasing as the sound of his voice.
Now Pastor Griffith cleared his throat, adjusted the microphone, and said, “By a vote of ninety-three to seven percent, Pastor Hosea Bush will represent the Northern region in the national election for president of the American Baptist Coalition.”
The applause was strong and loud; there was hope in the cheers as so many saw Hosea Bush as their first real chance of victory in more than sixty years.
Hosea stood and hugged Jasmine. But while there was nothing but smiles all around as the entire City of Lights assembly congratulated Hosea, Jasmine’s face was pinched with a scowl.
Ninety-three to seven? Who had the nerve to vote against Hosea?
“Well, congratulations, Pastor Bush.”
Reverend Penn’s scratchy voice infiltrated their celebration. “It was a hard-fought fight,” the reverend said.
No, it wasn’t. The only reason Jasmine kept that thought inside was because Pastor Griffith had stepped down from the podium to offer his own congratulations—and she needed him to know that she was a proper—the perfect—first lady.
“Thank you, Reverend Penn.” Hosea responded with a slight bow, gracious, as always. “I hope that I’ll have your support when we get to Los Angeles.”
“Of course, of course,” Reverend Penn said. Though his words were positive, his tone told them all that he wasn’t going to do a damn thing.
“And you can count on my support, too.” The reverend’s wife swung her waist-long fake hair so hard over her shoulder that both Reverend Bush and Pastor Griffith, who were standing behind her, ducked. “We definitely want one of our own to win finally,” she purred, with her lips and her chest poked out.
His wife sounded way more sincere than her husband, and Jasmine wondered if she would have been as affable in defeat. But then all good thoughts of the woman evaporated when Mrs. Penn licked her full, ruby-red-colored lips. With her eyes planted on Hosea, she said, “I’ll do whatever I can to help you win, Pastor Bush. Whatever!”
Jasmine could almost feel Hosea hold his breath when she jumped in front of the ex–porn star. But he didn’t have a thing to worry about. She wasn’t going to act like a crazy fool—not in the Langston Hughes Auditorium. Not in front of all the people who were going to work to get her husband elected.
Jasmine simply reached for the woman’s hand. “Thank you. Hosea and I are both looking forward to working with you.” A smile was on Jasmine’s face, but she held the woman’s hand even after she stopped talking. Squeezed it a little, then stepped back. Her eyes stayed glued to Mrs. Penn. Don’t mess with me, Jasmine told the woman telepathically.
From one man-stealer to another, the message was received. Mrs. Penn stumbled back, turned away, and scurried out of the room like she was being chased.
Hmph! Jasmine grinned; it was good to know that she still had it.
“Well,” Pastor Griffith said, “I guess we all need to get home and do some packing.”
“Yes, definitely,” the senior Bush said. “We just have a week to get ready for Los Angeles.”
And a week after that, I’ll be first lady to every African American Christian in America. And Hosea will be president, too.
The victorious group edged up the aisle. But as everyone talked about their plans, Jasmine had no time to participate in the petty chatter. Her thoughts were on Mae Frances.
It was so unlike her friend to miss an occasion like this. And Hosea had been disappointed when Mae Frances had called that morning and told him that she wasn’t feeling well. But that had been the lie that Jasmine and Mae Frances had conjured up. The truth was that her friend had stayed home because she had much work to do. Pastor Griffith had assured them that Hosea had this election—there was no need for any last-minute manipulations. So, Mae Frances had stayed home to move forward to phase two.
“Babe, I’m gonna go check on Mae Frances,” Jasmine said, once they all stood outside.
“Oh. But Pops wants to take us out to dinner for a celebration.”
“Yeah, I figured we’d head over to Sylvia’s,” Hosea’s father added.
“I’m sorry, but I really want to make sure she’s okay,” Jasmine said, her face pinched with concern for their friend. “Being that she’s home alone and everything.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Go on.” Hosea kissed her. “I’ll bring a plate home for you.”
“That would be great,” Jasmine said, already rushing to a cab that’d stopped in front of the group.
She blew Hosea a kiss before she gave the driver Mae Frances’s address. Then she leaned back and closed her eyes. Okay, they’d gotten to first base. Really, second and third base, too. Now Jasmine wanted to know how they were going to hit that grand-slam home run.
Jasmine couldn’t wait to see her friend. She couldn’t wait to find out what the plan was to make sure that Hosea won the national election.
She couldn’t wait to hear how they were going to bring Pastor Lester Adams down!