The Last Sunday (26 page)

Hattie removed the soiled gardening gloves from her trembling hands and dabbed her brow with a wrinkled handkerchief that was always kept in one of the apron pockets.

The foxgloves were in full bloom next to her and drooped from the weight of so many pink blossoms. She pulled a pair of gardening sheers from one of the apron pockets, expertly cut the tips from four stems, and placed them in her pocket along with the knife.

On her way to the back door, Hattie stopped and plucked three tomatoes and eight leaves from a bulging collard green stalk for tomorrow's Sunday dinner. It was the day that the first service in the new sanctuary was to be held, but somehow Hattie knew there would be plenty of time to cook her greens.

It was a starlit night at the estate. A full moon hung in the heavens, as if by design, just above the glowing main entrance. The grounds and the mansion were lit especially for the evening, giving the home a luminescent amusement park glow. Limousines, Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Mercedes, and every other imaginable top-of-the-line driving experience lined the road, waiting for their turn with the army of red-vested valets.

Each car had been briefly detained at the gate by armed security personnel to verify the occupants' names on the guest list. The instructions were clear. If a name was not on the iPad and accompanied by a photograph, the license plate number of the vehicle was to be written down, a photograph of the passengers was to be taken by the camera concealed in the tree just above, and the car was then to be discreetly directed from the property.

Helicopters whirled overhead, with spotlights and zoom lenses aimed at the partygoers as they exited their cars and entered the house. Once again, Samantha had garnered the world's attention, and everyone who was not on the guest list watched the aerial coverage on the evening news, wishing they had been invited.

Guests were welcomed by name by a member of the ministerial staff in the foyer. “Good evening, Ambassador and Mrs. Buchannan,” came one such greeting. “On behalf of Pastor Cleaveland and New Testament Cathedral, welcome to the Cleaveland estate. Pastor Cleaveland will be down shortly. Please enjoy your evening.”

The parade of celebrities, domestic and foreign dignitaries, millionaires, and billionaires seemed unending. By 7:30 p.m. more than two thirds of the three hundred guests had arrived, and the cars continued to flow through the gates.

The mansion was flawless, thanks to the creative hand of one of the country's most sought-after party planners, known only as François. His flamboyant manner, his earrings in both ears, his rubber wrist, and the ever-present “hiss” weren't enough for Samantha not to hire him. She winced every time he extended his hand to her with his palm turned down, revealing a ring on every finger, but he was the best, and the evening required no less.

Exotic floral arrangements, which were on nearly every surface, had been flown in from Italy. Candles designed in the shape of the glass cathedral glowed in every room. Stations serving up the most delicate and exotic hors d'oeuvres were positioned throughout. The centerpiece of each station was a four-foot glass cathedral carved in ice. Red bow-tied waiters pirouetted unobtrusively through the crowd, carrying silver trays of black beluga caviar, pâtés, truffled quail eggs, and other exotic delicacies selected by Samantha.

The oil painting of Hezekiah and Samantha that had once hung over the fireplace in the living room had been replaced by a portrait of Samantha standing alone. She didn't want him at the party.

The buzz of a hundred animated conversations in the living room was accompanied by the melodic chords of a string chamber ensemble in front of the grand piano. Flowing gowns and black tuxedos filled every inch of the living room and the adjoining rooms. The world of people with over fifty million dollars was very small, so most of the guests in the room were either old acquaintances or were familiar with everyone else in the room.

Cynthia Pryce dutifully followed behind Percy as he meandered from circle to circle. His instructions from Samantha had been to personally greet every person in the room and introduce himself as “the assistant to Pastor Cleaveland,” which he obediently did. Cynthia gritted her teeth and smiled every time she heard the words.

Just a little while longer, girl,
she said silently, girding herself.
Just a little longer and he'll no longer have to say that.

Her bloodred dress garnered disapproving glances from most of the women and admiring glances from the men. Her overflowing almond breasts were the first thing seen as she approached, and her snugly encased behind was the last thing viewed as she walked away. Whenever someone entered the room, she craned her neck to see if it was Scarlett. It was already 7:45 p.m., and she had not arrived.

Please don't screw this up for me, Scarlett,
she thought between extolling the architectural wonder of the new cathedral to pampered faces.
I need you, Scarlett. I can't do this without you.

At 7:47 p.m. Scarlett entered the room alone. The exquisite tailoring of her aqua-blue lace gown coupled with her perfect feminine silhouette turned heads as she walked through the crowd, directly toward Cynthia.

“Would you excuse me for a moment, darling?” Cynthia said to Percy as he regaled a group of three with stories of Samantha's bravery. “Scarlett just came in. I want to extend my condolences.”

“Why is she here?” he said in a whisper, turning his head slightly away from the three guests. “David hasn't even been buried yet.”

“I don't know, darling,” she responded through a gritted smile. “Maybe she didn't want to be alone tonight.”

“Please give her my condolences as well,” he said, grabbing her arm before she could walk away. “Tell her I'll speak with her later tonight.”

“I will, darling. Just keep making your rounds. I'm sure Samantha is watching,” she said condescendingly.

The two women wove their way through the crowd and met in the center of the room. Cynthia extended her arms in an exaggerated motion and embraced Scarlett. The half smile on Scarlett's face told of the recent loss and the troubled plans ahead.

“Where have you been?” Cynthia said through her painted smile. “You're late. I was worried you had changed your mind.”

“I almost did,” Scarlett said, unable to conceal her nervousness. “But I'm here. I'm ready. Do you have it?”

“Yes. Right here,” Cynthia said, slightly raising the red beaded clutch. “We don't have much time. Samantha is making her entrance at exactly eight o'clock. Meet me in the bathroom on the second floor, at the end of the hall.”

With that, the two women parted. Cynthia returned to Percy's side, and Scarlett made her way to the foyer and up the staircase, and then vanished down the hall.

Hattie Williams sat alone in a chair near the fireplace with her black patent leather purse resting on her lap. The comfortable chair offered little relief for her throbbing knee. Guests were periodically introduced to her and addressed her with the respect due a senior statesman.

“Mr. Governor, may I introduce you to Mrs. Hattie Williams,” was one such introduction. “Mrs. Williams is one of the founding members of New Testament Cathedral. Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland often referred to her from the pulpit as one of his most trusted confidants.”

“It is an honor to meet you, Mrs. Williams,” said the governor, bending down to take her hand. “My condolences on the loss of your pastor. He was a very good man, and we all were saddened by his untimely death.”

After a few moments of obligatory banter, the conversations typically ended with, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Williams. I can see why Pastor Cleaveland trusted you so deeply. He was a lucky man to have a friend and counselor like you.”

Hattie graciously accepted the compliments and gentle touches on her hand, but she never took the corner of her eye off Cynthia and Scarlett when they spoke in the center of the room.
I can't let them do it, Lord,
she thought.
I can't sit by and watch two more lives being ruined.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Cleaveland, but your guest's name is not on the list,” said the apologetic security guard.

“I don't care if his name isn't on the list,” Jasmine said from the passenger seat of Gideon's car at the gate. “If you don't open my gate immediately, I will call my mother,” she snarled, “and ask her to come here personally and tell you to let him in. And trust me, she will not be pleased.”

The guard took a step away from the car and spoke into a receiver on his wrist. “She said he's her guest,” he said softly. “Gideon Truman.” There was a pause then. “Yes, sir,
the
Gideon Truman. Yes, sir.”

The guard returned to the window and said, “I'm so sorry for the misunderstanding, Mr. Truman. Please enjoy the evening.”

With that the gate glided open, and Gideon entered the property. “You really can be a bitch when you want to be,” he said with a nervous smile.

“I learned from the best,” was her reply.

“Have you decided what you're going to say to her?”

“Not yet,” she said, looking directly ahead at the glowing house. “I won't know until I'm looking her in the eye.”

“One word of advice,” Gideon said as the car rolled to a stop in front of the house. “This is a private family matter. There's no need to make a scene.”

The valet stood patiently at the car door.

“After all you've been through with my family, you still don't understand the Cleavelands, do you?” she said, opening her door. “Scenes are what we do best.”

As they walked up the front stairs, Jasmine took Gideon's hand and said, “I'm going to my room to change. I'll meet you back here in a few minutes.” She then clenched his hand tighter and said, “Gideon?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for coming with me. I couldn't do what I have to do tonight without you.”

The haunting words caused Gideon to pause in the foyer as Jasmine walked up the stairs and disappeared into the hallway.

Jasmine went straight to her mother's office and closed the door. It was dark. She could hear the music from downstairs through the vents. As she walked to the desk, she prayed that it would be unlocked.

The desk drawer slid open with ease. Jasmine rifled through the contents until her hand touched the cold metal at the back of the drawer. She slowly removed the gun and stared at it in her hand. She instinctively knew it was the gun that had killed her father. She could almost feel the pain it had caused him burning into her palm. The first tear that fell from her eye was followed by a stream as she placed the gun in her pocket and left the room as quietly as she had come.

 

 

At 8:00 p.m. exactly, Samantha appeared alone at the top of the foyer staircase. She wore a Christian Dior mocha-toned gown created especially for her body and for that night. The A-line bodice was sleeveless and was covered in Austrian Swarovski crystals. The heart-shaped neckline dipped suggestively to reveal the top of her securely braced bosom. A 69.42 carat Cartier diamond dangled casually just above the V of her breasts. The lower portion of the gown billowed with each step from layers of sheer organza in hues of cream, mocha, and brown over a formfitting satin skirt.

Dolce & Gabbana strap sandals barely touched the marble as she glided down the stairs. At the halfway point, she was greeted with applause from the guests, who steadily streamed into the foyer to witness her entrance.

“Good evening, my very special friends,” she called out, gently waving her diamond-wrapped wrists as she continued her descent. “Welcome to my home. Thank you, everyone, for coming. How lovely you all look tonight.”

At the foot of the stairs she was greeted with air kisses from everyone who had assembled at the base. As she worked her way through the crowd and into the living room, she received a flurry of comments.

“You look fabulous, Pastor Cleaveland.”

“Thank you so much for inviting us.”

“The cathedral is magnificent.”

“We are honored to be in your lovely home.”

“Hezekiah would be so proud.”

“Darling, who are you wearing?” several guests asked.

“Dior,” was her modest reply each time.

Victoria greeted her with an air kiss from one foot away. “Bitch, you look fierce,” she whispered into Samantha's ear. “You should have killed that bastard years ago if this is how fabulous you look as a widow.”

“Thank you, darling,” Samantha replied, with every available tooth showing for the curious eyes around her. “Who are you wearing?”

“Versace, darling. That old queen might be dead, but he can still make me look like a diva.”

The two women exchanged a muted party laugh.

“You sure got a house full of rich motherfuckers here tonight,” Victoria said through a clenched smile, without moving her lips.

“And you better believe I'm going to squeeze every dollar I can out of every one of them,” Samantha said, leaning in close.

“Mr. Governor,” Samantha said, touching his arm as he walked past. “Have you met my dearest friend in the world, Victoria Johnson, the wife of Pastor Sylvester Johnson?”

“Yes, I'm very familiar with Mrs. Johnson and her husband. I don't see him here. I hope he's all right. He owes me a golf game. The last time we played, he cleaned up the course with me.”

“He's just fine, Governor. He's in Augusta this weekend. He hated missing this evening, but it couldn't be avoided,” Victoria replied.

“Can I get you a drink, Mrs. Johnson?” the governor said as Samantha was pulled into an adjoining conversation.

“I thought you'd never ask, Governor,” Victoria said suggestively, taking his arm. “Are you alone tonight? I haven't seen your wife.”

It was a glorious evening. The rich and beautiful were assembled under Samantha's roof, and their wallets were within her grasp. Every flower was in a perfect state of bloom. Every champagne glass was in the right hand, and every morsel of food was prepared to perfection.

 

 

At 8:05 p.m. Cynthia made her way up the stairs and into the bathroom where Scarlett was waiting nervously.

“Where have you been?” Scarlett asked urgently. “It feels like I've been in here forever.”