Читать книгу Come Sunday Morning - Terry E. Hill - Страница 6

Cynthia Pryce scanned the pages of the Sunday paper. A silk robe sloped gracefully around the calves of her slender legs. Hair, the color of burnt caramel, curved leisurely over cheekbones that most women would gladly pay thousands to replicate. Cynthia looked perfect even with no one there to impress. She had no choice.

It was six o’clock on Sunday morning. The city lay at her feet as she looked from the twenty-third floor of the rooftop condominium. Morning light drifted into the penthouse while floating clouds peeked through the windows for a glimpse of the beautiful woman.

Crystal vases and glass tables throughout the condominium sparkled from the light flowing through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Soft beige carpet served as a lush backdrop for Cynthia’s expensive and eclectic taste in furniture. Scandinavian leather sofas and chairs stood in the center of the living room, and a Louis XV armoire held a state-of-the-art sound system and music collection that ranged from classical to gospel and included every genre in between.

Original paintings by Bearden, Barnes, and Motley hung in places of honor above the fireplace, behind the sofa, and at the head of the dining-room table. Freshly cut flowers, magenta, mauve, and pink, arranged by the skillful and nimble fingers of Cynthia’s favorite florist, were poised to greet visitors in the large foyer, as well as the dining and living rooms.

Hands and fingernails that never went a day without special attention lifted a second cup of coffee to her lips as she searched for mention of her pastor, Hezekiah T. Cleaveland, in the paper. Cynthia slammed the paper to the coffee table when the last page was turned, rattling her coffee cup and plate, which held the remains of a half-eaten poppy seed muffin. The story she had waited for was not there, as had been promised. She looked again to the front page. The headline read, FATHER KILLS FAMILY AND SELF, DESPONDENT OVER FINANCIAL LOSSES.

Cynthia pushed the paper to the floor.

Who gives a fuck? she thought while reaching for the cell phone on the dining-room glass table.

She entered the number that had been called frequently in the last month.

“Hello,” a raspy voice answered. “What do you want? It’s six o’clock in the morning.”

“Lance, it’s Cynthia. Where’s the story? You told me it would be in this morning’s edition.”

“My editor won’t run it until I give Hezekiah a chance to respond. I tried to convince him the evidence stands on its own, but he wouldn’t budge.”

Lance Savage sat up in bed and rubbed his squinting eyes. “I’ve got a meeting with Hezekiah tomorrow. He thinks I’m doing a story on the new cathedral. I can’t wait to see his face when I drop this bomb on him.”

“He’ll deny everything,” she said. “When you meet with him, make sure Naomi isn’t there.”

“Naomi isn’t available for the interview. I think Catherine will probably sit in, though.”

Cynthia laughed. “That’s fine. You’ll certainly get a reaction from Catherine if you can’t get one from Hezekiah.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. Does she know anything about this?”

“I doubt it. As far as Catherine is concerned, Hezekiah walks on water. If she does, let me know and I’ll deal with her later.”

The joy in the Sunday morning church service at New Testament Cathedral was palpable. Brass instruments, drums, violins, guitars, and pianos caused the auditorium to pulsate with rhythmic music. Images on the twenty-foot-high JumboTron screen alternated rapidly between sweeping images of the 15,000-member congregation standing, clapping, and singing, to the 200-member choir and orchestra performing songs of inspiration.

Shots of Hezekiah and Samantha Cleaveland standing at the front row, smiling and waving their hands in the air, filled the screen throughout the morning. The captions below their images read, “Visit our Web site at www.NewTestamentCathedral.com to make your love offering today!”

On cue, the pace of the music gradually shifted to a more melodic and reverent tone. A soprano sang a hypnotic tune and the audience obediently chimed in. A billowing hum from the crowd rolled from the front of the church to the top rear row and filled the room as congregants softly sang in unison and looked upward to heaven.

The camera followed Hezekiah as he walked up the steps to the center of the stage. Behind the pulpit to his left and right were waterfalls made of a series of stacked boulders, greenery, and gently flowing ribbons of water. The stage backdrop was an electric wall of light that periodically changed from blue to green, lavender and a hazy yellow to accompany the desired mood of each moment during the service.

“Good morning, New Testament Cathedral,” Hezekiah said when the music began to subside and the audience settled into their seats.

The room replied in unison, “Good morning, Pastor Cleaveland.”

Hezekiah was well over six feet tall. He wore a crisp white shirt and a sleek tailored black suit that was stitched to perfection around his muscular frame. A cranberry-colored necktie complemented perfectly his flawless skin, which seemed to glow under the bright lights.

Hezekiah flashed his radiant signature smile approvingly in acknowledgment and continued, “This is the day the Lord hath made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.”

For the next fifteen minutes the jumbo screen was filled with the image of Hezekiah Cleaveland delivering the Sunday sermon, interspersed with shots of members of the audience reading a verse in their Bible that he had referenced, nodding their head in agreement to a word of wisdom just shared, and his wife, Samantha, looking lovingly up at her husband and pastor. The sermon ended on a euphoric note that had all the attendees up on their feet, clapping, and Hezekiah looking pleased and exuberant at the podium.

After a final uplifting song from the choir and orchestra, Samantha joined Hezekiah on the stage. The last shot that appeared on the screen was that of the beautiful couple waving to the camera with a caption that read, “Always Remember, God Loves You And So Do We! To make a love offering, call us toll free at 1(800) 555-4455 or visit our Web site at www.NewTestamentCathedral.com.”

The service had ended and members of New Testament Cathedral gathered in the Fellowship Hall. The cavernous room was filled to capacity. It served as the meeting place for thousands of congregants after the morning service. Sunday hats, which seemed to defy gravity, dotted the room: swirling turbans, perfectly erect feathers, fluttering satins, and wilting silks crowned freshly coiffed heads and made-up faces. Colorful dresses and well-constructed suits filled every inch of the room.

The space vibrated from the roar of laughter and gossip. Words of encouragement were exchanged, assignations planned, schemes plotted, and reputations ruined. The multiple conversations fused into an indecipherable buzz above their heads.

“Pastor Cleaveland outdid himself this morning,” came a comment from a cluster of women in the center of the room.

“Jason got laid off last week. I don’t know what we’re going to do now,” was heard from two women huddled near the entrance.

“I can’t believe she wore that to church. Looks like she should be at a cocktail party,” a woman said while rolling her eyes and shielding her mouth.

“She should have left him years ago. He’s slept with half the women here,” was observed simultaneously by three different sets of women referring to three different men in the hall.

“Look at him over there in the gray suit. Girl, that man is fine. All he would have to do is smile at me and I’d give him whatever he wanted and a little more just to make sure he came back for seconds,” said a woman as she peeked from behind her leather-bound Bible.

Children balancing cookies on paper plates and spilling fruit punch from plastic cups wove through a forest of high heels and freshly shined leather shoes. The elder women of the church had taken seats against the rear wall of the hall, beneath a stained-glass window. Parishioners took breaks between animated conversations to kiss the church mothers weathered cheeks and tell them, “You’re looking good this morning, dear,” and that they were praying for them.

Rev. Willie Mitchell stood in his usual spot in the center of the room. His bulging stomach made it impossible for him to button the coat of his favorite cream-colored suit. A red necktie formed a puddle on the top of his belly and then sloped down like a neon arrow advertising his oversized gold belt buckle. The thick hand in his pocket unconsciously caressed and massaged keys to a new appliance-white Mercedes-Benz. He threw his head back and laughed as Reverend Pryce’s wife, Cynthia, commented on the abrupt ending of the morning sermon.

“I guess Samantha was afraid she’d be late for her afternoon manicure,” she said, checking to ensure no one other than Reverend Mitchell had heard her. The silk flowers on her hat shook as she spoke.

“I’m glad he cut it short. I could hardly stay awake,” Reverend Mitchell responded.

Unlike Cynthia, the reverend didn’t look over his shoulder. He wanted everyone to hear his harsh critique of the morning service.

Hattie Williams graciously accepted kisses from the younger members. She sat embraced in the glow from the window and soothed by the warmth on her shoulders. Hattie was the senior mother of New Testament Cathedral. She had been a member since the first service held in the little storefront building ten years earlier.

Hattie was eighty-two years old. She was a stately and imposing woman but her warm smile could melt away the fears of any troubled soul fortunate enough to be in her presence. Her silver upswept hair was held in place by a row of well-positioned black bobby pins. A shiny patent leather purse filled with tissues and peppermints matched her sensible Sunday shoes perfectly. Hattie wore a simple lavender floral-print dress with a white ruffled collar which she had made herself. In one hand she held a handkerchief used to occasionally dab perspiration from upper lip and in the other, the smooth curved handle of a wooden cane for maneuvering the steps in the church.

A barrage of emotions suddenly pulsed through Hattie as she clutched the handle of the cane leaning against her swollen knee. She knew the feelings were not her own but instead belonged to others in the room. Sifting through the hidden passions and pain of others each Sunday morning had almost become a game for her. She inherited the empathic gift from her grandmother. Once she thought it a curse but now she considered it a blessing. Silent prayers were said for the more desperate cases and stern rebukes issued to those with nefarious intentions.

She immediately recognized the pool of jealousy surrounding Willie Mitchell. That man’s going to have a heart attack worrying about how much money Pastor Cleaveland has, she thought.

Hattie looked to her left and saw Scarlet Shackelford handing a cup of red punch to a little boy in a black suit with his crumpled white shirttail hanging from the rear. Scarlet’s chiseled face resembled a tormented angel imagined only in the mind of an artist. Her pastel silk dress twirled gracefully around the calves of her slender legs.

Hattie preferred to keep a safe distance from the young woman. The pain she experienced in her presence was sometimes even too much for her to bear. That girl needs to forgive herself for having the pastor’s baby, she observed as she fought to block the still raw emotions pouring from Scarlet. It’s been over five years and still nobody knows anything about it.

Hattie suddenly felt Samantha Cleaveland enter the hall. Only Samantha carried with her such extreme feelings of anger and hate and only Samantha could so skillfully conceal it from others. The hate however, was transported in a body that rivaled the beauty of a marble statue intricately carved by the hand of a master.

Shoulder-length glimmering black hair surrounded her flawless pampered skin. The mint linen suit she wore had been designed to accentuate her sensuous curves. The heels of her elegant shoes were the exact height to contort her calves into the perfect feminine silhouettes. Proud, commanding, and in control, her body moved through the room as though carried on a horse-drawn chariot.

She’s going to hurt somebody one day. Lord, you better keep an eye on that one, Hattie thought as Samantha passed. Hattie acknowledged her only with a slight nod of her head.

The few remaining worshippers said their final good-byes in the parking lot.

Reverend Mitchell honked the horn of his lumbering Mercedes and waved to the security guard at the gate as he turned onto Hezekiah T. Cleaveland Avenue. The street had been named in Hezekiah’s honor the year he broke ground for the senior citizen housing complex behind the church. If there were any other exit from the parking lot Reverend Mitchell would have taken it. He often wondered why his backroom lobbying against the street name change had failed. Maybe I should have made a bigger contribution to the mayor for his reelection campaign, he thought while plunging the car into oncoming traffic.

Samantha Cleaveland waited patiently in the rear of the black Lincoln Town Car and watched as Hezekiah handed a twenty-dollar bill to a young man wearing a wrinkled shirt and pants too short for his long legs.

“Who was that?” she asked as Hezekiah folded his body in next to her.

“That was Melanie Jackson’s son, Virgil. He used to play drums for the youth choir. I had to fire him after the police caught him trying to break into the church. He was released from jail a couple of months ago. He said he’s been off drugs for over a year. You remember him.”

“Yes I do remember him. He doesn’t appear to be off drugs. Don’t get involved with him, Hezekiah. He looks like he could be trouble,” Samantha said with contempt as the limousine turned onto Cleaveland Avenue.

She prayed the driver would go faster and turn quickly off the street that bore her husband’s name. The sooner she was off that road the better she would feel. She regretted all the campaign contributions she had made and the luncheons she’d hosted to get the street named in his honor. Now I’ve got to look at those damned signs every time I come to church, she thought as the car idled at a missed red light. Maybe I should pay that thug Virgil to knock them all down. It would take the city years to replace them in this neighborhood.

“What did you think of my sermon?” Hezekiah asked. “I think I should have spent more time on the Twenty-third Psalm. People hear it their whole lives but never really understand its true meaning.”

“It was fine, Hezekiah,” she said. The tiresome chore of reassuring him of his oratory prowess had been part of their Sunday-sermon debriefing for the last ten years. “I’m sure everyone enjoyed it very much.”

“Next time I think I’ll do a sermon on the entire chapter.” Hezekiah looked pensively out the window and continued. “Willie Mitchell slept through my entire sermon. At least he pretended to be asleep. Why doesn’t he go to another church if he dislikes me so much?”

“I’ve told you before, we need him here. He’s already donated a million dollars toward construction of the cathedral and he’s hinted that he might double that. Just smile, shake his hand on Sunday mornings, and let me handle him.”

“I know you like him, Samantha, but sometimes I’m not sure if the money is worth the trouble.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t like him either but we need him.”

“One day he’s going to push me too far and…”

“And what, Hezekiah? You’ll kill him?”

Hezekiah laughed. “No, something worse. I’ll sic you on him.”

Samantha quickly changed the subject. “You should use the cordless microphone more often. You look stiff standing behind the podium for the entire sermon. I wish you’d move around more. The audience and the cameras would love it.”

“I’ll try to remember next Sunday,” he said as he laid his head on the headrest. Without looking in her direction, Hezekiah continued to speak. “Do you want to preach next Sunday? I think I could use a break.”

Samantha’s heart fluttered when she heard the words. She was rarely offered the opportunity to preach at the coveted Sunday-morning service. She had earned her doctorate in theology six years earlier and was a gifted and inspiring ordained minister, but her more frequent role was that of the expensively dressed mannequin smiling at Hezekiah’s side on their weekly television program.

The 15,000-seat sanctuary had always been filled to capacity on the rare occasions she had been given the opportunity to preach. Television ratings would skyrocket, primarily due to channel surfers forced to pause by the striking and charismatic woman who flashed on their screens.

Men loved Samantha for one reason. She was beautiful. At thirty-five she commanded the adoring attention of deacons, cameramen, lighting technicians, and every heterosexual male within range of her seductive voice. She never flaunted her looks. Everyone in her presence took notice of them without any effort on her part. Instead, she focused her energy on perfecting the image of a sacrificing wife and mother who stood by her man, come what may.

Women had the predictable love-hate reaction to Samantha Cleaveland. They loved her devotion to the man they admired but envied the command she had over every inch of her body. No part of her was unattended, unnoticed, or unappreciated.

She only wore clothes designed especially for her voluptuous figure or those from her favorite boutiques in Beverly Hills, New York, and Paris. Even if other women could afford the clothes and accessories she took for granted, they could never assemble them as masterfully as she. It took years to perfect the look and most people didn’t have her patience, skills, or her means.

“Why didn’t you ask me earlier?” she hissed. “I won’t have time to prepare a sermon by next Sunday. I’ve got a busy week.” Anger took over after the initial shock from the unfortunate timing of his request. Titles of the dozens of sermons she’d written but never had the opportunity to deliver flashed through her mind.

“You don’t have to do anything new. How about preaching the one on wives supporting their husbands?”

Samantha marveled at the arrogance of her husband. His one-dimensional view of her caused her blood to run cold. She had spent their entire marriage in the shadow of Hezekiah’s greatness. Her beauty and talents only served to propel him higher.

She responded sharply, “I’ve got more important things to say than to remind women of how great their husbands are.”

“I know you do, honey. I just thought it was a good sermon.”

“Drop it, Hezekiah. I won’t be able to preach next Sunday.”

“All right, baby, maybe the following Sunday,” he said while rubbing her knee. “I think I’ve got at least one more good sermon in me.”

Hezekiah stared out the tinted limousine window. He braced himself and hoped that the next exchange would be quick and painless. “Reverend Duncan is in town,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Who’s Reverend Duncan?” Samantha asked with a hint of suspicion.

“He’s from Shiloh Church of God in Detroit. I’m having dinner with him today.”

“I wish you would have told me this morning. Etta has been home all day preparing dinner for us.” She knew there was no Reverend Duncan.

“I didn’t know about it then,” Hezekiah snapped defensively. “He called before this morning’s service. Where was Jasmine? I didn’t see her at church.”

“She wasn’t feeling well.” Samantha had no intention of allowing him to use their daughter as a diversion for his lies. “I can go to dinner with you.”

“He wants to talk to me alone. I think he’s having marriage problems.”

Samantha was almost embarrassed by the perverse pleasure she took in his obvious discomfort. “Then he might benefit from a woman’s perspective,” she said looking directly at him.

“Damn it, Samantha, he said he wanted to talk to me alone.” Hezekiah knew he had overreacted as his words reverberated through the car.

“Hezekiah, I know you’re seeing someone. You haven’t been yourself for months now. The least you can do is come up with more original lies.”

“Can I have dinner with a fellow pastor without you thinking I’m sleeping with another woman?” he snapped. “Your paranoia is getting out of control.”

“It’s not just dinner, Hezekiah. You’ve been sulking around the house for weeks now. You could never hide your feelings from me.”

“Maybe if you had a life of your own I wouldn’t have to hide my feelings.”

Samantha sat erect in the plush leather seat. “A life of my own? You wouldn’t have a life if it weren’t for me. You’d still be in that storefront preaching to neighborhood kids and old ladies. Everyone knows I made you and without me you’d be nothing.”

“I don’t want to argue with you, Samantha.”

“I’m not arguing. I simply want you to tell me the truth for once. I can’t keep pretending not to know something is wrong. I deserve better than this.”

“I’m not seeing anyone, Samantha. I’ve just had a lot on my mind. You can believe it or not. I don’t care anymore.”

The intersections rushed by in a blur. Samantha’s mind raced as she thought. When this is done, I should send his body to whoever the bitch is and let her bury him.

The car turned onto Sunset Boulevard, toward the whitewashed towers at the West Gate of Bel Air, and began the familiar ascent up the hill. Rolling estates quickly replaced the grime and congestion of the city streets below. Lush trees on each side of the winding road tilted inward and formed a green lace canopy over the street. The center median was filled with vibrant flowers and cement fountains poured water from the mouths of lions at each intersection. Pristine terra-cotta-tiled roofs peeked over the tops of densely clustered shrubs and waving palm trees. Couples wearing matching jogging suits strolled leisurely along the paved sidewalks with their sprightly Lhasa Apsos and prancing Irish setters in tow.

Samantha’s thoughts shifted to her daughter, Jasmine. She remembered the therapist’s recommendation to admit their only child into a drug rehabilitation program. Her stomach tensed at the thought of the public scandal it would cause. The daughter of a prominent pastor spending the tithes given by grandmothers on pensions to support her addiction to Ecstasy and alcohol.

No further words were exchanged until the car turned into the driveway of the Cleaveland estate. Hezekiah never liked the enormous house that overlooked Los Angeles but Samantha felt it appropriate for a family of their prominence. An eight-foot white stucco fence surrounded the grounds. Lower points in the rolling fence allowed passersby brief glimpses of the magnificent home. A wrought-iron gate emblazoned with the initials “HC” quietly parted at the sight of the car and gently closed behind it. Palm trees that lined the winding driveway quivered gently as the car drove past. Meticulously manicured grounds surrounded the home and seemed to spill down the hill into the skyline. To the left was a freshly painted green tennis court with sharp white lines. A whitewashed gazebo stood to the right, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and a two-story guesthouse could be seen tucked behind a grove of trees. At the final curve of the driveway, the trees unfurled like a stage curtain and the house could finally be seen. It was an off-white Mediterranean villa, nestled behind pine and oak trees, sitting on a sloped crest with spectacular views of the city and Pacific Ocean. Double stone stairways ascended to the grand main entrance under a covered porch, which was held by four twenty-foot-high white carved pillars. Each window on the front of the home was topped by cream-colored arches and flanked by stone columns. Branches dripping with lavender and white wisteria spilled from a deck on the second floor.

The car stopped at the foot of the stairway.

“Are you coming in?” she asked coldly.

“No,” came the abrupt reply.

“What time will you be home?”

“I won’t be gone long.”

Samantha slammed the car door and walked up the steps to the house without turning to see her husband being driven back down the hill.

Etta Washington, the Cleavelands’ housekeeper and cook, opened the massive double wooden doors as Samantha approached.

Etta had been with the Cleavelands for five years. She was forty-eight years old but appeared much older. She wore a white apron, knotted at the waist, over a simple black dress which fell just below her knees. Samantha insisted she wear the uniform at all times. Etta had never married and had no children. To Etta, the Cleavelands were her family, but to Samantha, Etta had never risen above the rank of hired help.

The opulent exterior of the house was mirrored in its interior. Sunlight poured through a skylight in the two-story foyer and coated the oval-shaped room in a warm glow. Double living-room and dining-room doors framed in oak were to the right and to the left. A round marble table holding a massive floral arrangement sat in the center of the room and on each side symmetrical stairways molded into the curve of the walls and climbed to a second-floor landing which overlooked the room. Black wrought-iron banisters provided a stark contrast in the bright room. Directly ahead hung the first of two original Picassos in the Cleaveland home. The painting was in the center of the foyer rear wall and the first thing seen when entering the home. The dreaming woman’s hands rested suggestively in her lap. Her head was slightly tilted to the right and her closed eyes hinted of erotic sweet dreams. Parts of her deconstructed face provided a glimpse of the thoughts that seemed to give her such serene pleasure.

Antique furniture and European oil masterpieces were skillfully displayed throughout. A well-thought-out floor plan of wing-backed chairs, marble and glass-topped tea tables, and satin-swathed couches created the optimum setting to impress and entertain the rich, the pious, and the famous. Crystal chandeliers and Lalique vases glittered throughout, while plush pastel carpets softened the hard edges of each room. A sleek black baby grand rested in front of a wall of glass which overlooked the grounds and a shimmering cobalt blue infinity edge swimming pool. The second Picasso hung over the fireplace in the living room. The five women of Les Demoiselles d’Avignon looked approvingly over the elegant room. Their faces resembled primitive tribal masks and the jagged edges of their pink flesh formed sharp angles that pointed in every direction.

An oil painting of Hezekiah and Samantha was on the opposite wall. The two smiling faces countered the seductive and horrifying image of the five women across the room. Hezekiah’s and Samantha’s smiles in the painting absorbed all the light that streamed through the room’s many windows. As lovely and masterfully executed as the dueling paintings were, their beauty was eclipsed when Samantha entered the room.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Cleaveland.” Etta took her coat and hung it neatly over her arm. “How was church today?”

“It was fine, Etta. I’m sorry you had to miss it.”

“Will Pastor be home for dinner?” Etta asked.

“No,” Samantha said. “He’s having dinner with a pastor from out of state. How’s Jasmine? Has she been out of her room today?”

“No, ma’am, she’s been up there all day. I knocked on the door a few times but she told me to go away.” Etta knew an addict when she saw one but had been sternly warned by Samantha not to get involved in Cleaveland family matters. “Will you be having dinner in the dining room, ma’am?”

“No. I think I’ll have it in my study. I’m going to check on Jasmine first. I’ll ask if she wants dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

From birth Jasmine had two strikes against her: she was an only child and a pastor’s kid. To others her life was a fantasy: two loving parents, a beautiful home, the finest private schools, a new convertible BMW on her sixteenth birthday, and lots of attention from the many people who loved her parents. But it was a nightmare for her. She often referred to herself as “a theater prop” used by her parents to illustrate their idyllic Christian life.

Years of being “the perfect little angel” had taken their toll on her. She ran away from home for the first time at thirteen. Her first abortion was at fourteen and the second at fifteen. She added the use of Ecstasy to her already nagging alcohol problem at the exclusive Catholic high school. Jasmine ran with the most privileged kids in the school, and soon she even ran them. The drug use turned from recreation to abuse. Now, at sixteen, she was rapidly heading for what appeared to be a tragic ending, but only her mother was able to see the signs.

Samantha put her black patent leather Gucci clutch under her arm as she climbed the staircase. At the top she looked over the banister into the vestibule below to ensure Etta had gone back to the kitchen.

“Jasmine, honey, open the door,” she said, accompanied by a gentle tap. “Jasmine, it’s Mommy.”

“Go away,” came the hostile reply from a hoarse voice behind the door.

“Young lady, open this door right now.”

Jasmine crawled out of bed and abruptly swung open the door. “What do you want?” she moaned as she crawled back into bed.

Samantha, with determination, stepped into the room. It was dark and musty. The room still looked as it did when it was designed especially for Jasmine when she was ten years old. Pink was the dominant color. A dusty pink floral paper covered the walls and a pile of satin and silk pink pillows lay jumbled beneath a brass headboard. Cherubic faces of the favorite boy bands from her innocent years still hung on the walls. A collection of over one hundred dolls from exotic lands she and her parents had traveled stared down on the groggy teen from shelves around the room. Pink shades were drawn and designer clothes were strewn on the bed and floor. Samantha immediately pulled up the blinds and began picking up clothes.

“Why are you still in bed?” she asked. “Get up this minute, take a shower, and get dressed. Dinner is ready, and I want you downstairs.”

Jasmine shielded her eyes from the light and asked, “Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s having dinner with a minister from Detroit.”

“Then why do I have to come downstairs?”

“Because you don’t need to be in this dark room all Sunday.”

“I’m not hungry. I still feel sick. Just leave me alone, please.”

Samantha threw her purse onto an overstuffed pink chair under the window and sat down on the edge of the bed, which was partially covered by a satin pink down comforter. She pulled the comforter back to reveal Jasmine’s tired face. She was a young and beautiful female version of Hezekiah Cleaveland. Her skin was still taut and clear but her eyes told of the troubles she had seen.

“Honey, you’ve got to let me help you with this problem.”

Jasmine recited her well-rehearsed denial. “I’ve told you, I don’t have a problem. I was just out too late last night. I’ll be fine if you would leave me alone.”

She knew well the fine line between her mother’s love and rage. Jasmine skillfully stopped short of pushing her to the edge.

“Jasmine, I’m not stupid. You smell of alcohol. Your eyes are red and you’ve been in this room all day. I won’t have this in my house. You’re going to have to get some help, or else…”

“Or else what?” Jasmine blurted out. “You’ll throw me out? How would that look? The daughter of the perfect Samantha Cleaveland living on the streets and begging for food. Maybe I could sit on the steps of the church with a sign that says, ‘Pastor’s daughter—will work for food.’”

Samantha’s eyes tightened. “You know that’s not what I was going to say. Why are you doing this to me? I love you and it’s killing me to watch you destroy yourself like this.”

Jasmine turned to avoid her mother’s eyes. “I’m not destroying myself. I told you I’m just tired. Now please leave me alone.”

“I won’t put up with this much longer.” Samantha stood and picked up her purse from the chair. “I’m not going to let you embarrass this family with your behavior.”

She slammed the door of her daughter’s room and stood for a moment to compose herself before walking back down the stairs.

Samantha took keys from her purse and unlocked the door to her private study. Hezekiah had never understood why she needed a private study but he didn’t protest when the locksmith came and installed the dead bolt. The room provided a startling contrast to the décor of the other rooms in the house. A sleek Swedish couch and two modern leather chairs, too perfect and erect for comfort, floated on a bloodred island rug in the center of the room. Sparkling modern light fixtures served more as art than illuminators. Stark teak planks covering the floor guided every step taken in the room. Samantha’s glass desk glowed at the rear of the room from light shining through floor-to-ceiling French doors that overlooked the lush grounds of the estate.

Samantha locked the door behind her. Sitting at her desk, she opened the purse and removed her BlackBerry. Next she removed a pack of cigarettes and then a small black revolver. She found the weight and cold steel of the pistol strangely erotic as she held it in her hand. A sudden knock on the door startled her and she quickly placed the gun back into the purse.

“Mrs. Cleaveland,” Etta called through the locked door, “I have your dinner, ma’am.”