lines in Mrs. Whittingham’s forehead. “What are you talking about? I do the bulletin.”
“I wanted to bring the bulletin into the twenty-first century. So I’ll be working on it from now on.”
Mrs. Whittingham poked out her lips as she read through the pages. And when her eyes stopped moving and her eyebrows rose, Jasmine knew exactly what part she was reading.
She said, “You want this to go inside the bulletin?”
Jasmine crossed her arms. “Yeah!” she said with a what-about-it attitude.
Mrs. Whittingham read the words out loud: “Mrs. Jasmine Larson Bush, the first lady of City of Lights at Riverside Church, will now be referred to as Lady Jasmine.” She shook her head, as if she thought those words had been written by a fool. “You want this to go into the church bulletin?” she repeated.
Saying nothing, Jasmine stared her down until Mrs. Whittingham walked away.
Alone, Jasmine sighed, the weight of working with that woman was becoming too much. It was always so difficult to find good people. But there was not a thing she could do about Mrs. Whittingham. She was a fixture in this church—like the old pipe organ that still sat in the sanctuary, even though it hadn’t been played in a year’s worth of Sundays.
Jasmine straightened the silver frame of the picture ofHosea, Jacqueline, and her taken last Christmas. She’d brought the photo in to put atop her desk this morning, hoping to make Mae Frances’s office feel a bit more like her own. She didn’t plan to move too many things around, though, because her friend had reminded her that this space was hers.
“Remember,” Mae Frances had begun brusquely when Jasmine told her this morning that she was moving in, “that office belongs to me, and when the good reverend and I get back there, we have a lot of work to do.”
Stepping away from the desk, she took a quick glance around. This space was much smaller than the one she had at Rio. And the cherrywood furniture was far from the modern glass-and-chrome pieces that she was used to.
But this room—with its one shelved wall stuffed with Bibles and Christian commentaries, with its tiny, single window that faced the parking lot, with its industrial gray carpet—felt so much like home. Maybe it was because here, she was closer to Hosea. Or maybe it was because here, she was closer to God. Whatever…being here made her happy.
She grabbed a pad before she marched down the hall. Hosea was still on the phone, but he motioned for her to come in; it wasn’t until she stepped inside that she noticed Jerome Viceroy already sitting on the sofa.
He stood up, dressed, as always, in one of his trademark suits. Today it was brown with gold stripes. He licked his lips. “How are you, First Lady?”
She smiled when he called her that. Jerome Viceroy had never been a man whom she liked much—he seemed too smooth (in a throwback-to-the-eighties kind of way). But if he started calling her Lady Jasmine, then the two would become great friends.
A moment later, Hosea joined them.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He shook Jerome’s hand, then motioned for Jasmine to sit next to him.
They’d barely sat when Jerome said, “I wanted to tell you,Pastor, that was some sermon you gave Sunday.”
“Thank you.”
“Hallelujah, thank you, Jesus,” Jerome said. “After listening to you, I knew I’d done the right thing. It’s a new day at City of Lights.”
On one accord, Hosea and Jasmine frowned.
Jerome continued, “Yes, Jesus. Giving my approval in the board meeting so that you could become the senior pastor, that was the right thing to do, Amen!”
Jasmine wondered why her husband didn’t remind the good councilman that his approval had not been needed.
But Hosea just sat. And smiled. And waited.
“Honestly”—Jerome leaned forward and lowered his voice—“I was glad to hear about your father’s letter.” He held his hand in the air as if he was about to testify. “Because, frankly,
“I wanted to bring the bulletin into the twenty-first century. So I’ll be working on it from now on.”
Mrs. Whittingham poked out her lips as she read through the pages. And when her eyes stopped moving and her eyebrows rose, Jasmine knew exactly what part she was reading.
She said, “You want this to go inside the bulletin?”
Jasmine crossed her arms. “Yeah!” she said with a what-about-it attitude.
Mrs. Whittingham read the words out loud: “Mrs. Jasmine Larson Bush, the first lady of City of Lights at Riverside Church, will now be referred to as Lady Jasmine.” She shook her head, as if she thought those words had been written by a fool. “You want this to go into the church bulletin?” she repeated.
Saying nothing, Jasmine stared her down until Mrs. Whittingham walked away.
Alone, Jasmine sighed, the weight of working with that woman was becoming too much. It was always so difficult to find good people. But there was not a thing she could do about Mrs. Whittingham. She was a fixture in this church—like the old pipe organ that still sat in the sanctuary, even though it hadn’t been played in a year’s worth of Sundays.
Jasmine straightened the silver frame of the picture ofHosea, Jacqueline, and her taken last Christmas. She’d brought the photo in to put atop her desk this morning, hoping to make Mae Frances’s office feel a bit more like her own. She didn’t plan to move too many things around, though, because her friend had reminded her that this space was hers.
“Remember,” Mae Frances had begun brusquely when Jasmine told her this morning that she was moving in, “that office belongs to me, and when the good reverend and I get back there, we have a lot of work to do.”
Stepping away from the desk, she took a quick glance around. This space was much smaller than the one she had at Rio. And the cherrywood furniture was far from the modern glass-and-chrome pieces that she was used to.
But this room—with its one shelved wall stuffed with Bibles and Christian commentaries, with its tiny, single window that faced the parking lot, with its industrial gray carpet—felt so much like home. Maybe it was because here, she was closer to Hosea. Or maybe it was because here, she was closer to God. Whatever…being here made her happy.
She grabbed a pad before she marched down the hall. Hosea was still on the phone, but he motioned for her to come in; it wasn’t until she stepped inside that she noticed Jerome Viceroy already sitting on the sofa.
He stood up, dressed, as always, in one of his trademark suits. Today it was brown with gold stripes. He licked his lips. “How are you, First Lady?”
She smiled when he called her that. Jerome Viceroy had never been a man whom she liked much—he seemed too smooth (in a throwback-to-the-eighties kind of way). But if he started calling her Lady Jasmine, then the two would become great friends.
A moment later, Hosea joined them.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He shook Jerome’s hand, then motioned for Jasmine to sit next to him.
They’d barely sat when Jerome said, “I wanted to tell you,Pastor, that was some sermon you gave Sunday.”
“Thank you.”
“Hallelujah, thank you, Jesus,” Jerome said. “After listening to you, I knew I’d done the right thing. It’s a new day at City of Lights.”
On one accord, Hosea and Jasmine frowned.
Jerome continued, “Yes, Jesus. Giving my approval in the board meeting so that you could become the senior pastor, that was the right thing to do, Amen!”
Jasmine wondered why her husband didn’t remind the good councilman that his approval had not been needed.
But Hosea just sat. And smiled. And waited.
“Honestly”—Jerome leaned forward and lowered his voice—“I was glad to hear about your father’s letter.” He held his hand in the air as if he was about to testify. “Because, frankly,
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