A Sin and a Shame (12 page)

Her forehead creased with confusion. “You’re not coming up with me?”

“No, definitely not. I only planned to drop you off, make sure you got to your door safely.”

“That’s it?” she asked, then lowered her voice as Henrikas turned toward them. She stepped from the elevator and pulled him to the side. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head. “Why would you ask me that?”

“I thought we were enjoying each other and—” She stopped and both of their minds finished her sentence. Took them to the same place.

“Oh, no,” he said so strongly, she stepped back a bit. “That’s not how I roll.”

This had to be a joke. But as seconds passed and he stood stoic, her eyes narrowed. She held up her hands as if she were surrendering. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Hosea.” She stomped into the elevator. Didn’t turn back. Just pressed the Close button until the doors obeyed.

Turned out that the son wasn’t that different from the father.

“Maybe,” she talked to herself, “this is a sign to leave these Bush men alone.”

Still, her mind replayed the evening. Remembered the times they’d talked and the even better moments when they didn’t.

When she reached her apartment, an emptiness that she hadn’t experienced with the senior Bush blanketed her. But before an hour had passed, Jasmine traded the sadness for determination. Accepting defeat was not part of her DNA. “I just need another plan,” she said. She would come up with something because she would never give up. She lived to play—and win—this game.

T
he moment she stepped
out of the meeting, Tina said, “Jasmine, you have a million messages.”

“Oh, no,” she moaned. “Who’s calling now?” A mental checklist of the calls she was supposed to return was already lodged in her mind. This morning, her desk had been piled with urgent messages from construction workers, suppliers, and designers. And she even had a few from people already requesting invitations for the opening.

“It’s not business,” Tina whispered as she scurried behind Jasmine. “You’ve gotten a million calls from Hosea Bush!” She spoke his name as if he were a star.

With her eyebrows raised, Jasmine turned to Tina.

“He’s called every ten minutes or so, even though I told him I would give you the message as soon as you were free.”

“Did he say what he wanted?” Jasmine asked casually, although she felt her heart beat speed up. She had tossed all night, wondering why their evening had gone astray. Wondered if the senior Bush had said something to thwart her plan.

“All he said was that he wanted to talk to you. So,” Tina said, and then sank into one of the chairs, “you know Hosea Bush.”

“Yeah,” Jasmine said.

“I love him,” Tina gushed. “I watched him on cable and I can’t wait for his new show. He’s so funny, which is one of the reasons why I think he’s so sexy. And he’s so compassionate. And he so loves God,” she panted. “And another thing,” she lowered her voice, “he’s not that hard to look at.”

“I’ll call him.” Jasmine sighed as if that was the last thing she wanted to do. When Tina stayed in place, Jasmine added, “Would you mind closing the door on your way out?”

Tina stood. “I hope he comes to our opening. I’d love to meet him. He’s single, isn’t he?”

He’s mine,
Jasmine wanted to scream.

Once alone, Jasmine leaned back in her chair. She was relieved that he’d called. And so soon. And not once, not twice. She counted the sheets. Eight times.

She couldn’t help her smile. He regretted missing out on the promise their night had held. He’d probably dreamed about what could have been.

She picked up the phone.

“I’m glad you called me back,” he said after they exchanged hellos. “I was thinking that maybe you wouldn’t after the way we left each other last night.”

She said nothing.

“Anyway,” he continued, “do you have some time this afternoon? Your assistant said your day was full, but I just need ten, fifteen minutes.”

It surprised her again, that he was the one making the moves. It was her plan, but at times, it didn’t feel that way.

She glanced at her desk. There was another stack of calls she had to return. In an hour she was supposed to be on-site with the club’s designers, and give a final interview to the woman she hoped to hire as the club’s floor manager.

But her most important project was on the phone.

She said, “I can meet now.”

“Great,” he sounded relieved. “Do you want me to come to your office?”

“Definitely not,” she said, having no intention of dealing with the eyes and ears there.

It took no time to determine to meet at the meeting place of all quick meeting places—in thirty minutes they would meet at Starbucks on Twenty-third and Sixth.

Jasmine settled at one
of the small tables jammed into the back of the coffee shop. She took a quick sip of her latte, then waved when Hosea rushed through the door. He bypassed the order line and made a beeline straight to her.

“Hey, you.” He squeezed her hand.

It felt comfortable, natural, the way he greeted her. As if he hadn’t left her last night wondering if they’d ever share the same space again.

He scanned the shop, packed almost to capacity even though they were in the between time, the hours between the morning dash and the lunch rush.

When he turned back to her, she whispered, “Don’t worry. No one will be listening to us. This is New York and everyone in here is up to their cappuccinos with their own problems.”

He chuckled. “You’ve figured out New Yorkers, huh?”

She shrugged. “I thought I did…until I met you.”

The smile he’d worn faded and he leaned forward, his face just inches from hers. “I had a great time last night.”

“It didn’t seem that way.”

“I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression, but I did enjoy being with you.” He leaned back, took a deep breath as if he were inhaling strength. “There’s something you need to know.” He stopped again. “I’m living a sanctified life.”

She frowned. She’d only heard two types of people use that word—ministers, and anyone who sang along with Sly and the Family Stone who “felt sanctified” back in the day. She had a good notion which group Hosea identified with most, but still she asked, “What does that mean?”

“I’m celibate. And I plan to stay that way.”

Of all the things she’d imagined, “I’m celibate” were not the words she expected. She thought he was going to tell her that he prayed three times a day, or attended church every other night. But celibacy? She said, “Are you saying, you’re…a virgin?”

He shook his head. “Can’t say that.” His eyes glazed over as if he harbored memories that held regrets. “But that’s the way I’m living now. And it’s been a couple of years, so I’m not about to mess up. I’m just going to wait.”

“Oh.”

When Jasmine said nothing more, he said, “I bet you haven’t heard too many men say this before.”

Men, no. Women, yes. She’d heard these words a lot from Serena, who was always talking about living holy. But these words from a man? She couldn’t believe there were men who were celibate by choice.

As she sipped her coffee, she completed a quick scan of Hosea. Besides the few extra pounds, there was nothing wrong with him. So it was difficult to match those words with this man. Why would a healthy, able-bodied, apparently heterosexual man make a conscious decision not to have sex?

“So,” she began finally, “you’re celibate and you’re waiting. Waiting for—”

“My wife.”

The way he looked dead into her eyes put a lump in her throat.
This is my plan, my game,
she reassured herself.

He said, “When I find my wife I want to offer her a piece of me that no one has had.” He shrugged and added, “At least no one has had in a long time.”

Any other man, in any other place, would have been buckled over by now, laughing hysterically, waving his hands wildly, yelling, “Gotcha” through his chortles.

Then it occurred to her. Her eyes narrowed. “Does this have anything to do with your father?”

“Yes, with my Father in heaven.”

“Oh, please,” the words escaped before she could stop herself. “I mean,” she began again, “do you really think God expects you not to have sex?”

“No, I think He expects that I will have plenty. And I plan to.” He grinned. “Right after I get married. But for now, I’m trying to live my life so that it’s pleasing to God.”

Jasmine took another sip of her coffee, but inside, she chuckled. This man sounded just like her sister.

He asked, “So are you interested?”

“In what?”

“Courting.”

She couldn’t help it—she laughed.

“I’m serious,” he said, although he smiled with her. “I’m not interested in casual dating, but courting, that’s different.”

“I’ve only heard old people use that word.”

“Too bad, because we young folks should be the ones using it. Courting is just dating with a purpose, and that’s what I want.” He paused. “I’m interested in getting to know you better. I wanna see where this might lead.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you saying you want to marry me?”

“No.”

That word pushed her back against the chair.

“What I’m saying,” he continued, “is that I’d like us to date…with a purpose.”

She was glad for the little bit of coffee left in her cup that allowed her to take a long sip. She needed time to decide the best way to play this.

But before she could respond, Hosea pushed back his chair. “Think about it,” he said as he stood.

She put down her cup. “Wait.”

He shook his head. “Take time—think this through. Decide if you can do this.” Before she could move, he leaned over and whispered, “This is another one that’s on you. I’m not going to call, but if you’re still interested, call me.” Then, he was gone.

It took a few minutes, but slowly, her smile came. She was on the verge of victory. He was already moving toward marriage. This had been entirely too easy.

As she buttoned her coat, then stepped outside, she thought about how different this was from her plan. Sex had always been her surefire way to win. But it really didn’t matter—the prize was still the same. And the truth was, she knew she could have Hosea Bush in any way and at any time she wanted.

She was almost trotting as she rushed back to the office. Actually, it was better this way. She’d have time—before she got him into bed—to fix him, mold him into the man he should be. An image of Brian Lewis flashed through her mind, and the thought stopped her dead in the middle of the street.

“Watch it,” a man growled as he bumped into her.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” she stuttered and stumbled. Regaining her balance, she shook away the vision. She didn’t need, didn’t want anyone else. Everything she had needed to go into making sure that in a year, Hosea would have achieved his purpose, and she would be his wife.

S
he was still in charge
.

And Hosea needed to know it. That’s why Jasmine decided she would wait before she called him back. Not call for two days, make him sweat.

But all the pins and needles seemed to belong to her. Even as she tried to stay distracted all day with the club’s designers and contractors, she’d rushed to the phone every time her cell rang. But not one call came from Hosea.

Now, Jasmine half-smiled at Henrikas as she entered her building and waited for the elevator. She glanced at her watch and sighed. It was barely seven. Tonight would be more difficult than the day had been. But making Hosea wait was part of the plan.

She needed something to focus on, anything to fill these Friday night hours.

When the elevator doors opened on her floor, she stood frozen for a moment staring at the sight of Mae Frances slumped over at her door. She ran down the hallway.

“Mae Frances?” Jasmine called out. “Are you all right?”

Her neighbor moved as if she were trying to nod and pull herself up at the same time.

Jasmine noticed her keys on the floor. “Let me get you inside.”

“No, I’m okay,” Mae Frances insisted, finally standing straight. “I don’t want you in there…”

Jasmine frowned. The woman had to be delirious. She opened the door and then helped Mae Frances into her apartment.

“I said…I was…okay.” Mae Frances slowly lowered herself onto the couch. Her eyes were like foggy glass.

Jasmine dropped the keys on the table, then eased the coat from Mae Frances’s shoulders. “Were you going out?”

Mae Frances shook her head. “No, coming in.”

“What happened?”

She shook her head. “I went for a walk. I’m just tired, I guess.”

Jasmine wondered why Mae Frances was walking anywhere. She herself would never be caught on foot if she had a driver.

“Okay.” Jasmine helped her stand. “Let’s get you into the bedroom.” Once there, she asked, “Do you want to undress?” She eyed the snug wrapped dress that she’d seen Mae Frances wear often.

“No.” She settled on her bed and Jasmine sat next to her.

“I don’t want to leave you alone. What time will your husband be home?”

Mae Frances’s eyes became clear. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

Jasmine sat up straight. Stared at her neighbor. “I’m going to make you some tea, Mae Frances.”

“No.” But her protest was weak and she closed her eyes.

Jasmine sat with her for a minute more, just watching. When she stood, she decided to make the tea anyway.

She stepped into the front room and, this time, noticed Mae Frances’s home. Old was the first word that came to mind. In its day, most of the massive furniture was probably fashionable, and perhaps expensive. But that day had passed, and now the extra long brown velvet couch and oversized wooden chairs and tables just seemed dark. And heavy. And old. And the apartment smelled like a twisted mix of old and Mae Frances’s perfume.

In the kitchen, Jasmine opened the cabinets and gasped. The shelves held only a single box of rice, salt and pepper shakers, and an almost empty bottle of hot sauce. The refrigerator was almost as bare: a jug of water, a half an egg carton, and a jar of jelly.

Slowly, Jasmine closed the door. What was going on? Surely, this woman who wore minks and sported diamonds had food somewhere.
Maybe she eats out all the time.

On the counter, Jasmine noticed two bottles and picked up one. This wine couldn’t have cost more than two dollars.

Jasmine shook her head and then crept back into the bedroom. She took a small blanket from the edge of the bed and covered her neighbor.

Then she left.

Jasmine considered this heavy lifting.

She carried the four shopping bags that the grocery clerk had just delivered to her, to Mae Frances’s door. She knocked. Knocked again. A minute passed before she turned the knob. The door was unlocked, just as she had left it.

“Mae Frances,” she called softly. When there was no answer, she took the bags into the kitchen, then walked back to the bedroom. Three hours had passed and it seemed as if Mae Frances hadn’t stirred a bit.

Stepping quickly, Jasmine returned to the kitchen and stocked the cabinets with her purchases. It had been a long time since she’d visited a grocery store, but she’d walked through the aisles, filling the basket with items that seemed easy enough to prepare. Within minutes, the shelves were stocked with cans and boxes. The freezer was packed with chicken and fish. The refrigerator was filled with yogurt, milk, and cheese. This shopping expedition would feed Mae Frances for a couple of weeks.

At her neighbor’s bedroom door, she stood for a moment.
What is going on with you?
As she watched her, a new thought came to her mind. She rushed into her own apartment. From her nightstand, she grabbed the Bible that Serena had given her.

When she returned, Mae Frances had shifted, kicked the cover to the floor. Jasmine laid the Bible on the bed table then adjusted the blanket once more.

In the kitchen, she tore a single sheet from a pad by the telephone, scribbled a note, turned off the lights, and then locked Mae Frances’s door behind her.

When she settled into her own bedroom, the clock surprised her. It was almost eleven. No wonder she was exhausted. But what was even better was that she hadn’t had a single thought of Hosea. And she wasn’t tempted to call him now; she had no energy left. Her eyes were shut tight before her head touched the pillow.