PRAISE FOR VICTORIA CHRISTOPHER MURRAY
“Murray has always impressed me with her ability to live the life of her characters and make them come alive with each turning page.”
—Indianapolis Recorder
“Victoria is an exceptional writer who knows how to deliver a story.”
—Kimberla Lawson Roby, author of Changing Faces
Praise for Too Little, Too Late
“An excellent entry in the Jasmine Larson Bush Christian Lit saga; perhaps the best so far…Fans will appreciate this fine tale…. A well-written intense drama.”
—Midwest Book Review
“One would think it isn’t possible, but like fine wine, Victoria’s writing has improved with her newest novel.”
—RomanceInColor.com
“[In this book] there are so many hidden messages about love, life, faith, and forgiveness. Murray’s vividness of faith is inspirational.”
—The Clarion-Ledger (Jackson, Mississippi)
“Juicy Jasmine Larson Bush returns…Murray efficiently illustrates the importance of honesty and trust in marriage, and manages to contain Jasmine’s outrageousness within the context of Christian faith.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise for The Ex Files
“The Ex Files is a moving-on song in four-part harmony.”
—Donna Grant and Virginia DeBerry, authors of Tryin’ to Sleep in the Bed You Made and Gotta Keep On Tryin’
“My girl, Victoria Christopher Murray, has done it again! I love her work and this book will bless you, so read it.”
—Michele Andrea Bowen, author of Church Folk, Second Sunday, and Holy Ghost Corner
“The lessons of growth, love, and faith are what Victoria does best…. [An] excellent read.”
—Naleighna Kai, Essence best-selling author of Every Woman Needs a Wife
“The engrossing transitions the women go through make compelling reading…. Murray’s vivid portrait of how faith can move mountains and heal relationships should inspire.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This is a book everyone can enjoy…and more important, this is a book that can reach out to the brokenhearted no matter who they are and where they are.”
—Book Bit (WTBF-AM)
“Reminds you of things that women will do if their hearts are broken…Once you pick this book up, you will not put it down.”
—UrbanReviews.com
“Murray does it again and definitely delivers a great story. This one will grip your heart.”
—APOOO Book Club
“Victoria Christopher Murray continues to confront real-life issues in her latest novel…. A heartfelt read.”
—AOL Black Voices
Praise for A Sin and a Shame
“As with Murray’s previous novels, A Sin and a Shame is intriguing and well written. If you loved and hated Jasmine in Temptation, you’ll love and hate her again.”
—Indianapolis Recorder
“A Sin and a Shame is Victoria Christopher Murray at her best…. A page-turner that I couldn’t put down as I was too eager to see what scandalous thing Jasmine would do next. And to watch Jasmine’s spiritual growth was a testament to Victoria’s talents. An engrossing tale of how God’s grace covers us all. I absolutely loved this book!”
—ReShonda Tate Billingsley, Essence bestselling author of I Know I’ve Been Changed
“Riveting, emotionally charged and spiritually deep…What is admirable is the author’s ability to hold the reader in suspense until the very last paragraph of the novel! A Sin and a Shame is a must read…Truly a story to be enjoyed and pondered upon!”
—RomanceInColor.com
ALSO BY VICTORIA CHRISTOPHER MURRAY
Too Little, Too Late
The Ex Files
A Sin and a Shame
Grown Folks Business
Truth Be Told
Temptation
Joy
Blessed Assurance (contributor)
Touchstone
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Victoria Christopher Murray
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Murray, Victoria Christopher.
Lady Jasmine: a novel / by Victoria Christopher Murray.
p. cm.
“A Touchstone Book.”
1. Bush, Jasmine Larson (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. African American women—Fiction. 3. Christian women—Fiction. 4. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.U795L33 2009
813'.54—dc22 2008043781
ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-8714-7
ISBN-10: 1-4169-8714-2
Visit us on the Web:
http://www.SimonandSchuster.com
To my literary goddaughters: Courtney Parker, Sherri Lewis, Tia McCollors, Rhonda McKnight, Mikasenoja, and DiShan Washington.
I am so proud of each of you, walking in the path God has set for
you. Continue to do His work and He will make your way great.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
MARCH 2007
PROLOGUE
DEATH WAS ON HER MIND, but Jasmine wasn’t thinking of her own demise. Her hands still trembled as she looked down at the letter she held.
Would the charge be first degree murder or would it be more like manslaughter? Either way, she would go to jail for both before she allowed anyone to reveal this secret.
Jasmine read the words that she’d already memorized: Get your husband to step down from the pulpit or else everyone will know what you did in the summer of 1983.
Hours had passed since she’d first read the letter last night, and she still trembled. Until a few weeks ago, those days had been totally forgotten; expunged from her mind many years before. The summer of ’83 was just a small blip on her life’s radar. A mistake. A secret.
But it was a big secret that she’d kept from everyone—including her husband, Pastor Hosea Bush.
Jasmine closed her eyes and remembered the question Hosea had asked her just five months before when they were in Los Angeles.
“Are there any other secrets, Jasmine? Any other lies?”
She’d told him then every truth she could remember, revealed every lie that she’d ever told—how she was forty-three and not thirty-eight. How she’d been married before. She’d even told him how much weight she’d really gained since she’d had her baby. She’d told her husband everything she could think of.
But she hadn’t told him this.
“I have to talk to Hosea,” she whispered, remembering the commitment they’d both made never again to keep secrets.
She could tell him—convince him—that this was something she’d simply forgotten. But even as she had that thought, she knew that would never happen. There was nothing that would ever make her tell this truth. If Hosea found out about this, she’d lose more than her husband: Hosea might even try to take their daughter, Jacqueline, away from her. This was an unforgiveable sin; at least it would be in Hosea’s eyes.
No, she would commit murder before she allowed this to come out. No one could ever know that she’d spent the summer of ’83 hanging high and swinging low from a pole.
No one could ever know that Jasmine Cox Larson Bush, the first lady of New York’s City of Lights at Riverside Church, used to be a stripper!
A FEW WEEKS BEFORE
ONE
THE SHOCKING SHRILL PIERCED THE black quiet of midnight, but Jasmine had no intention of answering the telephone.
“Don’t stop, baby,” Jasmine panted when Hosea lifted his head from beneath the sheet.
“Gotta get that,” he gasped. “Might be important.”
Hosea still knew how to take her straight to heaven. And it was even better now, since he’d stopped thinking about their having a baby. Once conception was taken out of the equation, only pure pleasure remained.
Like tonight. He’d had her singing praises in seventeen languages. And she still had a few native tongues she wanted to test, so whoever was calling, whatever the reason, it had better be worth interrupting some of the best—
“What!” Hosea shouted and clicked on the lamp. “I’m on my way!”
Jasmine sat up straight. “What’s wrong?”
“Pops! He’s been shot!”
Tossing aside the satin duvet, Jasmine ignored the shock of the cool air as it wrapped around her nakedness. “Shot?” She stood stiff as Hosea leapt from the bed and dashed into his closet.
“That’s all Brother Hill said,” Hosea yelled back. “He’s at Harlem Hospital with Pops now.”
The shock finally released her, and Jasmine ran into her own closet. Her mind swirled with questions as she stuffed herself into a pair of jeans, then grabbed a sweatshirt. Shot? By whom? Where? When? By the time Hosea stepped from his closet, Jasmine was ready.
He said, “You don’t have to go. I’ll call you.”
“I’m going with you.” Her tone said there would be no further discussion. “I’ll check on Jacquie and wake up Mrs. Sloss.” She took two steps, then turned back and held Hosea in her arms. “He’s going to be okay,” she whispered.
His eyes shined with fright, but he nodded like he agreed.
Taking charge, she said, “Instead of driving, let’s take a cab. I’ll meet you downstairs.” She dashed from their bedroom across to the other side of the apartment and tiptoed into their daughter’s room.
For her second birthday last month, Jasmine had transformed Jacqueline’s bedroom into a princess’s pink haven. She peeked into the four-poster toddler cot and straightened the comforter that was bunched around Jacqueline’s feet. She kissed her cheek, then knocked on the adjacent door.
“Ms. Jasmine,” Mrs. Sloss, their live-in nanny, began the moment she opened the door, “something wrong with Jacquie?” Her voice was filled with sleep, but her eyes were wide.
“No.” Jasmine was already rushing toward the living room. “Hosea’s godfather just called. Someone shot Reverend Bush.”
“Oh, no!” The nanny followed behind her. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Just take care of my baby.”
As she waited for the elevator, Jasmine paced and tried to think. But even by the time she ascended to the lobby, she couldn’t make sense out of this news.
“Mr. Bush is waiting for you,” the doorman said, as he held the door for her. Jasmine stepped outside and paused to say a quick prayer. Then she jumped into the waiting cab and they sped off into the midnight quiet of the February night.
Their steps echoed like rapid fire through the hospital’s hallway. Jasmine squeezed Hosea’s hand right before they stepped to the nurses’ station.
“I’m here to see—”
“Hosea!”
When Brother Hill ran up behind them, Jasmine’s eyebrows raised a little at the sight of the man in a jogging suit. She’d never seen the church deacon without a tie.
“Where’s Pops?” Hosea asked right after he embraced his godfather.
“He’s in the Trauma Unit.” With his hand on his shoulder, Brother Hill led Hosea toward a room as if his godson had come alone.
Jasmine took a deep breath and followed the two men. It took everything within her not to be upset with the way Brother Hill ignored her. She had to remember that this wasn’t about her—this was about Reverend Bush, a man she’d grown to love.
But the truth: it was hard not to go off. Taking insults from Brother Hill and his band of bandits—the decades-long friends of Reverend Bush who didn’t think she was good enough to be Hosea’s wife—had become part of her life. These old-timers who’d known Hosea since his childhood were still holding on to her past; they’d never forgotten how Hosea had fallen in love with her while she was secretly sleeping with (and becoming pregnant by) another man. And they certainly hadn’t forgiven her for tricking Hosea into believing he was the father of her unborn child.
What was their problem? If God had forgiven her, and Hosea had forgiven her, and Reverend Bush had forgiven her, who were these people to treat her as if she was some kind of sinner?
The sound of her husband’s voice brought Jasmine back. “So tell me, what happened?”
Brother Hill started shaking his head before he even began to speak. “We walked out to the parking lot—we’d been at the church late reviewing the fiscal report and he was still working on his sermon for tomorrow. But when I got to my car, I realized I’d left my keys. I went back inside, and that’s when I heard the gunshots. By the time I got back to Samuel—” He stopped. “The doctors gave us this room so that we could have privacy.”
When they stepped inside, Mrs. Whittingham, Reverend Bush’s assistant and one of Brother Hill’s bandits, stood and hugged Hosea. The woman hesitated, then gave Jasmine a loose embrace. Turning back to Hosea, Mrs. Whittingham asked, “How you holding up, baby?”
Hosea’s eyes blinked rapidly. “This doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone shoot Pops?”
Mrs. Whittingham said, “Detective Foxx was one of the first policemen there,” she said, referring to one of the City of Lights members. “He thinks Samuel got caught in the middle of some gang fire.”
“How bad is he?” Jasmine asked.
Brother Hill shrugged. “The doctors haven’t told us anything. We’ve been waiting for—here’s one of the doctors now.”
Jasmine’s eyebrows rose slightly as the African American woman clothed in surgical s
crubs approached.
Brother Hill made the introductions. “Doctor McCollors, this is Reverend Bush’s son, Hosea.”
Shaking hands, Hosea asked the doctor, “How’s my father?”
“Well, he was shot twice—once in his shoulder. But it’s the shot that he took to his head that’s the serious problem.”
“Oh, my God!” Jasmine whispered the words that were spoken by all of them.
The doctor continued, “It’s caused a lot of swelling and bleeding. We’re going in to remove some of the pressure.”
“I want to see him,” Hosea demanded.
“We’re taking him into surgery now. It’ll be a couple of hours.”
“Doctor McCollors?” A policeman, standing outside the room, motioned to the doctor.
“Excuse me,” she said, before leaving the foursome standing in stunned silence.
Seconds later, the quiet was broken by, “Hosea!”
The high-pitched woman’s voice made Jasmine frown before she swiveled around. She watched Pastor Wyatt, the associate pastor at City of Lights enter the room with a slight woman. The mousy-looking female, whose hair was upturned in a sixties-style flip, handed the tray of drinks she held to the pastor before she rushed to Hosea and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman squeaked over and over.