A Sin and a Shame (3 page)

T
his is too early
,” Jasmine whined.

Serena peered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the West Side Regency Hotel lobby. She pulled her coat tighter as if she could already feel the barely-above-freezing temperature.

Jasmine said, “I need something to wake me up.”

“I need something to warm me up.” Serena shivered as she watched the yellow cabs and other cars speed by. There wasn’t a pedestrian in sight.

A moment later, Jasmine grabbed Serena’s hand and pulled her toward the glass doors.

“I’m not going outside until Malik pulls up in that cab,” Serena yelled, causing eyebrows to rise among the elite hotel’s patrons.

“You want something warm. Look over there.” Jasmine pointed across the street.

It took a moment, then Serena smiled.

The cashmere-coated doorman opened the door for them. “A friend is coming to pick me up,” Jasmine said to him, shivering as the frigid air rushed inside. “Please tell him we’re waiting over there.” She motioned with her chin.

She didn’t wait to see if the doorman agreed. The sisters dashed across the street, ignoring the car horns that blared at them. Seconds later, they settled into the warmth of Starbucks. The coffee shop was swarming with Sunday regulars layered in thick clothing and balancing bulky Sunday newspapers underneath their arms.

“This was a good idea,” Serena said, as she stood behind a blond man clad in a velour jogging suit and knitted cap.

Jasmine surveyed the crowd. When she turned back, the man in front of them smiled. Jasmine rolled her eyes. True, she was on a husband-finding mission, but a white boy would never do.

“May I take your order?” the young man behind the cash register asked.

“A venti cappuccino and a croissant,” Jasmine said.

“Ah, excuse me.” She turned toward the voice; the blond man who had been openly staring at her just a moment before, smiled again. “It’s not a croissant,” he said with a French accent. “It’s a croissan’,” he added, putting emphasis on the last syllable.

Jasmine looked over her shoulder, then turned back toward the man. “Are you talking to me?”

He nodded and stepped closer. “You said croissant, and that’s not the correct pronunciation. The
t
is silent.”

“Are you talking to me?”

The repeat of her question erased his smile, still he nodded. “I was trying to help you,” he said, as the barista called Jasmine’s name.

Jasmine sauntered closer to the man. “So you’re helping me? With my pronunciation.”

His smile returned and he nodded again.

Jasmine picked up her drink, tucked the bag with the croissant inside her tote, and said, “Well, pronounce this.” She lifted her right hand and stuck her middle finger in his face.

The coffee shop filled with laughter as the man stood still, shocked for a moment, before he rushed away.

Jasmine turned to Serena. “Have they made your drink yet?” she asked. “We’ve got to get to church.” She turned away and strolled toward the door.

The wind whipped across
Riverside Drive.

Serena jumped out of the taxi and dashed up the multi-dozen church steps before Jasmine and Malik were able to slip from the car. As Malik paid the driver, Jasmine glanced at the Gothic building with its twin towers that flanked several stained-glass windows; the sturdy structure looked as if it had been standing for centuries.

“It is too cold out here,” Malik, her six-foot-seven godbrother said, as he slipped his arm through hers before they raced up the steps.

Jasmine loved being with Malik. He’d been the one to make her two years in Pensacola bearable when she’d moved there from Los Angeles. She and Malik had been close growing up, but lost touch when he’d left California as a high school freshman to attend boarding school at Piney Woods in Mississippi. Jasmine had kept track of Malik, at first through his parents; but once his family moved to Florida, only the media kept her abreast of her godbrother’s rise to basketball fame, first in college at Georgetown and then in Miami where he was a second-round draft pick. When he’d first turned pro, Jasmine made an attempt to reach out, but when she never heard back, she didn’t bother again.

She’d been too consumed with her own life anyway, trying to inspire her ambitionless husband. But once she moved to Pensacola, she and Malik reunited and resumed their friendship as if twenty years hadn’t passed.

When two of Malik’s NBA friends convinced him to open a restaurant in New York—a sister restaurant to one they owned in Los Angeles—Jasmine had been devastated. But within weeks, her distress had flipped to delight when he asked her to join him as the restaurant’s project manager.

“I need someone to oversee the entire venture,” he’d said. “With your financial expertise and business savvy, you’d be great. Are you interested?”

“Are you kidding?” she’d asked.

“I’m willing to offer you a piece of this, Jasmine. Give you a vested interest.”

His statement had barely parted from his lips before Jasmine was on the Internet making airline reservations. With her father gone, there was nothing keeping her in Florida.

Malik pulled open the wooden door and the two stepped into the church’s vestibule. Serena stood next to an usher wearing a suit as bright-white as his smile.

“We have to wait until the prayer ends,” Serena whispered.

Jasmine took off her gloves and blew on the tips of her fingers. She peeked through the glass doors leading to the sanctuary; the church was Easter-Sunday packed. Malik had told her that City of Lights at Riverside was always filled to standing room only.

“You’re going to love Reverend Bush,” Malik whispered. “You’ll be dying to get to church every Sunday after you hear him.”

Jasmine doubted Malik’s words; all the Sundays she’d spent in church, there wasn’t a minister who could hold her attention. But still, she kept going because that was just what saved people did.

The usher opened the doors and Jasmine entered first. Drums and trumpets and saxophones blasted through the church as if it were a concert hall. She stepped into the last pew, but Malik took her hand and led her and Serena down the center aisle. The usher smiled, just like the one at the front door, and directed them into the third row.

Jasmine scurried in, between her sister and godbrother. As she shrugged off her coat, she glanced around the capacious cathedral.

This was nothing like the small Methodist church she attended in Florida. Here, there were as many white faces as black ones among the hundreds of parishioners in the sanctuary. And the music—this was as good as a gospel show.

Malik and Serena sang along, but Jasmine didn’t know the words. Still, the music made her move. Jasmine closed her eyes and swayed.

When the music softened, Jasmine opened her eyes and stood stone stiff. Only her eyes moved as her glance followed the man who’d entered the sanctuary. She watched, mesmerized, as he strutted, in his brown-stripe, single-breasted five-button suit, to the center of the altar. When he turned, he brightened the church with his smile.

Who is he?

It took everything within her not to run up and introduce herself, before a woman motioned for the congregation to sit.

“Good morning, church.”

While everyone returned the woman’s greeting, Jasmine silently stared.

“Do we have any first time visitors…”

Jasmine popped up from her seat.

“…this morning,” the woman finished.

Jasmine prayed that the woman would ask visitors to say a few words. So she could introduce herself. So the man would notice her.

“On behalf of Reverend H. Samuel Bush and the entire congregation here at City of Lights at Riverside, we’d like to welcome you to our services…”

Get on with this,
Jasmine said inside, keeping her eyes on the man in the brown suit.

When he looked at her, her chest poked out a bit more and her smile widened. She hoped he could see her dimples.

You are one fine man.
She tried to push her thoughts to him.

When the visitors sat, the focus of her desire stood. He said, “Good morning, church.”

“Morning, Reverend,” echoed through the air.

Jasmine’s mouth opened wide. “That’s Reverend Bush?” she exclaimed, a bit loudly.

“Ssshhh.” Malik admonished as he searched his Bible for the scriptures Reverend Bush gave to the congregation.

But while Malik and Serena followed the reverend’s directions, Jasmine didn’t open her Bible. She had no intention of taking her eyes off that man.

“In this new year of 2004, we must all begin to understand every facet of God. We must understand the difference between His grace and His mercy,” the reverend sang in a bass that almost made the walls resonate. “Many a dictionary will tell you those words are synonyms. But let me tell you, saints, His grace and His mercy are very different.”

Jasmine twisted in her seat.

“You see,” Reverend Bush continued, “grace is getting something you don’t deserve.”

When I get a hold of you, you’ll be thanking God for His grace.

“And, mercy is
not
getting something that you
do
deserve.”

Jasmine almost laughed.
Maybe you’ll be begging God for mercy.

As the reverend continued, Jasmine followed his movements. She loved the way his hands glided through the air as if he were conducting a symphony. She loved the way he swiveled his hips, just slightly as he emphasized points. She loved the way he danced across the raised step in front of the altar. She loved him.

He’s the one,
her inside voice said with surety.
The man I’m supposed to marry.

Only then did it occur to her that he could already be married. She leaned forward, squinting to see better. She didn’t want to go back to that sin. But then, if he was the man whom God wanted her to be with, would it be a sin to take him away from his wife? She peered at the reverend’s fingers as he gestured. No gold, no silver, no platinum band in sight.

Reverend Bush held his Bible in the air. “Understand that as God’s children, we are blessed with grace and mercy. But understand the difference and you’ll begin to truly understand your blessings.”

Jasmine chuckled. She understood her blessings. She’d been in New York for less than a week, and God had already answered her prayer. This was all about her blessings. That’s why Malik had started attending this church months ago. He’d found City of Lights—and Reverend Bush—for her.

Reverend and Mrs. Samuel Bush. Mrs. Samuel Bush. Mrs. Jasmine Larson Bush.
The synergy of those syllables sounded wonderful.

She crossed her legs and noticed the way the hem of her pants leg rose slightly. And the wheels in her head turned. Next week, she’d wear a skirt. And sit in the front row.

I’ll have my man in two weeks.

She chuckled and it wasn’t until both Malik and Serena stared at her that she realized she’d made the sound out loud. She covered her mouth, turned in her Bible as Reverend Bush gave another scripture. Yes, this was a day that the Lord had made. This was the day that she fell in love.

Jasmine had never been
so glad to see her sister go.

She waved as Serena stepped onto the down escalator leading to Track 14. As soon as her sister was out of sight, Jasmine grabbed Malik’s hand.

“Why are you in such a hurry? Let’s at least wait to make sure her train takes off on time.”

“I’m not going to leave the station.” Jasmine looked at her watch and then glanced through the congestion of the Sunday afternoon Penn Station crowd that bumped around her. “We need to talk,” she spoke above the announcement blasting through the station’s speakers. She pointed. “Let’s wait there.”

“I thought you wanted to go to the Shark Bar.”

“This will have to do,” she said. Jasmine marched into Houlihan’s, past the sign that asked for customers to wait to be seated. She chose a table along the window, overlooking the end-of-the-weekend chaos.

Malik strolled behind Jasmine, shaking his head. “So,” he began, as Jasmine tapped her fingers on the table, “what’s set you on fire?”

For the first time since her new man left her sight, Jasmine smiled. “Our reverend.”

He grinned. “I told you he was good.” Malik signaled for a waiter.

“Oh, I can imagine how good he is,” she said, as the waiter handed them menus. She tossed hers aside.

Malik lowered the menu from in front of his face. “Jasmine.” He said her name slowly.

“Is Reverend Bush married?”

“Oh, no,” he moaned, and slumped a bit in his seat. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Just answer me.”

“He’s a widower.”