the powerful. So after she told Bishop Bailey that she doubted if Hosea would want to leave his father’s side on Saturday, she’d offered herself instead.
“Well, you know what, Mrs. Bush,” Bishop Bailey began after his long pause, “that might not be such a bad idea. I know there will be many who will be glad to see you…”
Jasmine’s grin widened.
He finished, “Because they’ll want to know what’s going on with Reverend Bush.”
Okay, so this wasn’t really about her.
“Maybe I’ll have you get up and say a few words. Yeah!” The bishop warmed to the idea. “I’ll make sure you’re on the program.”
Jasmine jotted down the details and ended the call with more pleasantries, more thank-yous, more promises to keep the bishop posted on any change in the reverend’s condition between now and the luncheon on Saturday.
With a smile, Jasmine hung up, leaned back in the chair, and imagined herself in front of the five hundred or so attendees of the two-hundred-dollar-a-plate mixer. But as she settled into the thought of standing on that stage, she heard the cackle, “What are you doing?”
Startled, Jasmine toppled, her feet left the floor, and the chair rolled back, banging into the wall. “Ouch!” she yelled as she hit her head.
But the pain on Jasmine’s face did nothing for Mrs. Whittingham. She stood with her hands on her wide hips and flames in her eyes. “What are you doing at my desk?” she asked, her voice sounding like there was a man rising up inside of her.
Still rubbing her head, Jasmine stood. “The phone was ringing and—”
“Stay away from my area,” she growled, as she pushed Jasmine aside to inspect the chair for damage.
Jasmine rolled her eyes. The woman didn’t even care that she might have a concussion. She spun around and marched toward her office, not giving another thought to Mrs. Whittingham. And even though her head still throbbed, Jasmine waspast her pain. Her focus was entirely on the luncheon. And who she would meet. And what she would say. And how she would dress.
Yesterday had been her debut at church, but Saturday would be her unveiling to the most important people in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut.
Being the first lady was paying off already.
FIFTEEN
N O ONE FROM THE MEDIA had the courtesy to call her back!
Not the New York Post, not the Daily News, not the New York Times. She’d placed a call to the Wall Street Journal and the local TV and radio stations, and even sent a press package to Oprah ! But after two weeks and a dozen messages, not one journalist (or Oprah) seemed interested in meeting the fabulous new first lady.
That’s why Jasmine decided to take destiny into her own hands—and go to the people who would listen. She prepared a press package and article for Gospel Today and Christian News. Surely, sophisticated church folks would want to read about the influence first ladies had on American culture.
She was so into writing her article that she didn’t hear the first knock on her door. Nor the second. It wasn’t until she heard the raspy cough that she looked up.
Mrs. Whittingham stood in the doorway, her face masked in a deep scowl adding dozens of creases to her already-wrinkled forehead.
Every time they’d passed each other since yesterday, Mrs. Whittingham had glared at her. As if that was Jasmine’s punishment for being at the woman’s desk. As if she even cared.
Mrs. Whittingham’s lips hardly moved when she spoke. “Hosea’s finishing up that conference call with the doctors, and he wants you to join him.”
“On the call?”
Mrs. Whittingham shook her head, and her face bunched into an even deeper frown as if the next words pained her. “He wants you to join him for a meeting with Jerome Viceroy.”
The woman turned away, but Jasmine called her back. “I have something for you.” She grabbed the papers she’d typed earlier. “Here’s the church bulletin for Sunday.”
Now there were hundreds of
“Well, you know what, Mrs. Bush,” Bishop Bailey began after his long pause, “that might not be such a bad idea. I know there will be many who will be glad to see you…”
Jasmine’s grin widened.
He finished, “Because they’ll want to know what’s going on with Reverend Bush.”
Okay, so this wasn’t really about her.
“Maybe I’ll have you get up and say a few words. Yeah!” The bishop warmed to the idea. “I’ll make sure you’re on the program.”
Jasmine jotted down the details and ended the call with more pleasantries, more thank-yous, more promises to keep the bishop posted on any change in the reverend’s condition between now and the luncheon on Saturday.
With a smile, Jasmine hung up, leaned back in the chair, and imagined herself in front of the five hundred or so attendees of the two-hundred-dollar-a-plate mixer. But as she settled into the thought of standing on that stage, she heard the cackle, “What are you doing?”
Startled, Jasmine toppled, her feet left the floor, and the chair rolled back, banging into the wall. “Ouch!” she yelled as she hit her head.
But the pain on Jasmine’s face did nothing for Mrs. Whittingham. She stood with her hands on her wide hips and flames in her eyes. “What are you doing at my desk?” she asked, her voice sounding like there was a man rising up inside of her.
Still rubbing her head, Jasmine stood. “The phone was ringing and—”
“Stay away from my area,” she growled, as she pushed Jasmine aside to inspect the chair for damage.
Jasmine rolled her eyes. The woman didn’t even care that she might have a concussion. She spun around and marched toward her office, not giving another thought to Mrs. Whittingham. And even though her head still throbbed, Jasmine waspast her pain. Her focus was entirely on the luncheon. And who she would meet. And what she would say. And how she would dress.
Yesterday had been her debut at church, but Saturday would be her unveiling to the most important people in New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut.
Being the first lady was paying off already.
FIFTEEN
N O ONE FROM THE MEDIA had the courtesy to call her back!
Not the New York Post, not the Daily News, not the New York Times. She’d placed a call to the Wall Street Journal and the local TV and radio stations, and even sent a press package to Oprah ! But after two weeks and a dozen messages, not one journalist (or Oprah) seemed interested in meeting the fabulous new first lady.
That’s why Jasmine decided to take destiny into her own hands—and go to the people who would listen. She prepared a press package and article for Gospel Today and Christian News. Surely, sophisticated church folks would want to read about the influence first ladies had on American culture.
She was so into writing her article that she didn’t hear the first knock on her door. Nor the second. It wasn’t until she heard the raspy cough that she looked up.
Mrs. Whittingham stood in the doorway, her face masked in a deep scowl adding dozens of creases to her already-wrinkled forehead.
Every time they’d passed each other since yesterday, Mrs. Whittingham had glared at her. As if that was Jasmine’s punishment for being at the woman’s desk. As if she even cared.
Mrs. Whittingham’s lips hardly moved when she spoke. “Hosea’s finishing up that conference call with the doctors, and he wants you to join him.”
“On the call?”
Mrs. Whittingham shook her head, and her face bunched into an even deeper frown as if the next words pained her. “He wants you to join him for a meeting with Jerome Viceroy.”
The woman turned away, but Jasmine called her back. “I have something for you.” She grabbed the papers she’d typed earlier. “Here’s the church bulletin for Sunday.”
Now there were hundreds of
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