Pastor Needs a Boo (23 page)

Marsha's expert eyes didn't miss a thing. She said, “So you do know what I'm talking about, huh.”

“I don't know what you are talking about, Marsha,” Denzelle responded, knowing that he was telling what his brother would call a bald-head lie.

“Yes, you do,” Marsha pressed, and shook her head. Preachers and cops could be so guarded and overly protective of themselves and others in the ranks. They acted like it was a crime to admit when they were wrong and doing stupid stuff.

“Okay, Marsha,” Denzelle said. “You're right. Preachers intimidate folk on purpose when they are in those huddles acting like they're talking about some important church business. A lot of times they aren't talking about anything worth standing there listening to.

“And there are times when the brothers in collars are in deep discussion about some fine sister with the perfectly shaped butt who walked by the group. They don't want you all to know somebody's trying to find a way to get baby girl's digits. So they act like they are standing there trying to figure out the next game move on behalf of the Lord.”

Marsha smiled back. It was reassuring to get confirmation that she was right about those preacher huddles. She always thought some of them were nothing more than some brothers standing around like they were on the block, taking note of the sisters they wanted to hook up with.

 

Chapter Fifteen

Marsha reached down into her tote bag and pulled out information she knew Denzelle would need for his upcoming campaign for bishop and laid it on his desk. He had given her the green light to put together a plan that would profile his natural style and swagger. But she also knew he needed these profiles about the other preachers who had announced they were running.

Denzelle could not believe the folk who had filed the paperwork to become official candidates in this race for an Episcopal seat. Most people assumed there were a lot of serious and highfalutin prerequisites to establish a candidacy for bishop in the Gospel United Church. Most people also assumed a lot more was required to file an application to run for president of the United States.

The truth was that the requirements to make the initial claims were not as difficult to reach as folk generally assumed they were. Yet while many could fill out a form to enter the race, it was an extremely rare number of people who were truly qualified to run for an office as noble as the United States presidency. Equally so, many could join the race for an Episcopal seat. But few men or women were truly qualified to even run for bishop.

It surprised Denzelle to learn that running for bishop was just as much of a calling as getting elected and serving. When folk ran for bishop, they articulated a campaign agenda that was in effect the groundwork for policy and the governing theological tenets of the denomination. That was serious business. Once those agendas were put forth on the campaign trail, they could affect the spiritual, financial, social, psychological, and Christian-based educational life of the church.

As far as Denzelle was concerned, there were too many preachers eager to hop in the race feet first without giving a single thought to the true nature of the office they were aspiring to hold. Twenty-six men and nine women had thrown their collars in the ring for one Episcopal seat. It was going to be a nasty, mudslinging, get-down-and-dirty race as far as he was concerned. When Denzelle read over this list of candidates, he wished he could run up in a big preacher's meeting with one of those huge clown canes and snatch as many of those jokers off the stage as possible.

Out of the crowded pool of candidates, Reverend Xavier Franklin from Winston-Salem would be Denzelle's most formidable opponent. Xavier Franklin was handsome and charming. Franklin presided over a large and popular church. Plus, the brother could preach a good, old-fashioned hand-clapping and foot-stomping sermon. Those attributes could carry a preacher a long way with delegates—especially many of the lay delegates, who made up half of the population of those selected to vote in the new bishops.

But Xavier Franklin was also a big crook. And lately he was making Denzelle wonder if he needed to contact the bureau and have Xavier put under FBI surveillance. The last time he encountered Xavier Franklin, Denzelle kept feeling like he had when he was around suspects who had committed a very serious crime.

This race for bishop was going to be real hard on a brother. Denzelle needed something that would set him far away from the scrimmage zone occupied by the other candidates. He sure hoped Marsha would come through with the right stuff for his campaign.

Marsha's first plan was to give Denzelle a makeover and redefine his style as a pastor. That idea had come as a surprise to her. It had never occurred to her that Denzelle needed the makeover, because he was a real cool brother with great style.

The only thing was, Denzelle's style, no matter how cool, still marked him as a preacher. Most of the folk at New Jerusalem rarely saw Reverend Flowers dressed in something other than a sharply tailored suit. Her strategy was to get him out of the suits and into some clothes that would make folk want to relax around him more than they did. One problem most bishops had was being perceived as aloof and unapproachable. The more connected to the folk Denzelle appeared, the more he would become endeared to the delegates.

Marsha pulled out a folder with pictures of clothes and swatches of materials and laid it out in front of Denzelle. She said, “You are going to need a fashion makeover.”

Denzelle thought he was hearing things. Did Marsha just tell him some girlie-man–sounding nonsense about needing a fashion makeover? He was running for bishop, not for a spot as a contestant on
The Bachelorette
. He laughed, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Have you lost your mind? Do I look like a brother who thinks about makeovers? Next thing, you are going to pull out some Mary Kay samples of man makeup.”

Marsha rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling.

“Look, Denzelle. I have to make you more approachable to all of the delegates who are not preachers. You are intimidating, just like a whole lot of your colleagues are intimidating. The delegates need to feel comfortable coming up to you to talk and find out where you stand on some key issues for the church. They are not going to do it if you are walking around like you are going to arrest them if they don't know all seven verses of ‘Amazing Grace' by heart.”

“Oh, really?” he asked. Denzelle ran a church the size of a small corporation. He'd better have a firm presence that made folk tread carefully with him.

“Yes, really,” was all Marsha said. She was not backing down. She had a good plan, and Denzelle Flowers was going to listen to her.

“Look, candidates for bishop can talk a good game and say what they think the delegates want to hear. Then they can make it difficult for the delegates to come up to them and discuss matters important to the church. They need to know where you really stand when you are not standing behind a podium, Denzelle.”

“I like folk being scared to roll up on me, Marsha.”

“That's cool if you are running for FBI agent of the year. But it's not if you are running for bishop in the Gospel United Church. People don't need to be too scared to come up to you at church and at the conferences.”

“You know something,” Denzelle said, “I want to hear something better than this to help you earn your keep.”

Marsha could not
believe
he went there. That hurt, and it exemplified exactly what she was trying to tell Denzelle about himself and his ways. She felt tearful. But Marsha would pluck out her own eyeballs before she let Reverend Pastor Special Agent Denzelle Flowers see one teardrop fall from her eyes. She said, “I think you better watch how you are talking to me. I may need this job real bad, Re-ve-rend Flo-wers. But I will go out there and spread hot tar on the road with my bare hands before I sit here and let you talk to me like that.

“I know what I am doing, Denzelle. And if you didn't think I knew what I was doing, you would have given me something else to do.”

Denzelle knew he had gone too far with Marsha. But his emotions were running rampant, and he was trying to keep some control over this situation. He hated not being in control. And he hated it that Marsha got under his skin.

When Marsha felt Denzelle was taking too much time to apologize for being a butt hole, she began gathering up her things to leave. She didn't know what she was going to do about a job. And she hoped he didn't ask for the money, because she didn't have it to give back to him and the church, anyway.

Denzelle came from behind his desk and put a firm hand on Marsha's shoulder to stop her from leaving.

“I'm sorry,” he said in a low, soft voice. “If you say I need a makeover, then I need a makeover.”

Marsha blinked back tears. Denzelle was so difficult to deal with at times. And this thing she had for him was only made worse by all of this interaction with him. Why did she have to like him? As a matter of fact, why did she have to like anybody? Why couldn't she just be likeless?

Denzelle felt like the big bad wolf. Why was he being so mean to Marsha? Last thing he wanted to do was hurt Marsha and make her cry. He opened his arms, hoping she would come to him.

Marsha held her ground, even though his arms looked so inviting. She feared if she went over there to that man, she'd never leave that spot. She sniffled and tried to sneak and wipe her nose on her sleeve.

Now it was Denzelle who had had enough of nonsense. He came over to Marsha, grabbed her, and held her close.

“Marsha,” Denzelle whispered. “I am so sorry. You have been through the wringer, and I am making it worse for you.”

He could feel her holding back on him, and knew she didn't want to break down in his arms. But that is exactly what Denzelle Flowers wanted from Marsha Metcalf—a meltdown in his arms.

“I'm not a punk, Denzelle,” Marsha said through the tears. “I … I … I…”

He stroked her hair. It was soft and smooth to the touch. He kissed the top of her head and said, “You are the last person I would think of as a punk. That's part of your problem, Girl. You are strong, resilient, and sweet. Some men can't handle that combination very well.”

Marsha sniffled in his arms. Denzelle was in good shape, but she'd never thought his arms were so strong they would feel like an iron grip. And he smelled so daggone good, it should have been against the law.

Denzelle closed his eyes and wished that he could hold a crying Marsha in his arms forever. She felt so good—just a firm handful of fine woman. Rodney had to have been out of his mind to leave a woman like Marsha. It was taking everything in him not to lean down and kiss her. But Denzelle knew that if he started kissing Marsha, he'd be a goner. And he had not come this far in keeping the upper hand with women to lose out in the game to a Suzy Saved like Marsha Metcalf.

“You better?” he asked, smiling, hoping the smile made him look like he was in complete control of the situation.

“Yes,” Marsha answered, hardly believing she had broken down in Denzelle Flowers's arms. Keisha kept telling her to be careful about losing her edge when she was around this man. She had told Marsha, “Girl, you got it bad for that man. And don't let Pastor fool you, either. He got it just as bad for you. Only problem is that you know you got it bad and can pray on it. Pastor doesn't quite know it yet. And he is going to cut the fool with you to try and not feel like he does where you are concerned.”

As true as those words were, they didn't give Marsha much comfort. Why did she have to be the one who had to deal with a man who liked her but didn't want to deal with her because he didn't want to like her like he did? Just thinking about that—like that—was making Marsha's head hurt.

“Denzelle,” Marsha said, hoping her voice was sounding stronger and more in control to him than it did to her.

“Yeah,” he responded, voice all soft and tender. It made Marsha think about what a man sounded like when he was wrapped around you, spoon fashion, and the two of you talked in a dark and quiet room.

“I'm sorry to get all upset in your office like this.”

“Girl,” he said, laughing, “you can get all upset on me any time you please. Okay?”

She wiped her face and said, “Okay,” with a smile. Marsha hoped her face didn't look crazy. She could feel the sticky specks of mascara under her eyes.

“Uhh, yeah, you do have raccoon eyes. But they are cute raccoon eyes,” Denzelle told her, thinking she looked absolutely delightful with her mascara running under her eyes. A woman who still looked good to you with damp mascara on her face was some fine workmanship.

He pulled a few tissues out of the Kleenex box on his desk. “Here, this might be better than the backs of your hands.”

“Yeah,” she answered, trying not to sniffle. “The tissue is better. Where is your bathroom? I think I'm going to need a mirror to get my face back right.”

“It's down the hall on your right.”

Marsha went into the guest bathroom, impressed by how cozy it was. Denzelle was full of surprises. This bathroom complemented the decor of the living room, and he had plenty of toilet paper on the roll.

She looked in the mirror and squelched the urge to shriek. She looked like a hot mess. Her mascara was running, and her eye shadow was all smudged down on her cheeks, too.

“I can't believe that I came to this man's house and cried myself into looking like the upset girl psychopathic in a Lifetime movie.”

Marsha wet a paper towel and fixed her face as best she could. She wished she had her purse, so she could add some liner and put on lipstick. Right now she was looking rather plain with practically no makeup.

“Oh, well. This will have to do.”

She patted her hair, used the toilet, washed her hands, and went back to Denzelle's office. Marsha saw an open door leading to what had to be Denzelle's bedroom. There was a pile of clean underwear on the bed.