The Last Sunday (6 page)

Don't you think you should at least go in and say hello to your mother?” Etta asked as Jasmine walked past her to the staircase.

Without turning around or altering her stride, she replied curtly, “I said I'll talk to her later. Please have someone bring my bags up.”

Her bedroom suite was the size of a three-bedroom apartment. It had a private marbled bath with a Jacuzzi tub and gold fixtures, a book-lined study, a walk-in closet dripping from ceiling to floor with clothes and accessories from the trendiest designers, and a king-size bed strewn with stuffed animals and antique dolls and flanked by freshly cut flowers in crystal vases, which were mysteriously replaced every Monday afternoon.

When Jasmine entered the suite, she immediately felt like a trapped little bird in a luxurious gilded cage.

There was a tap on the door, accompanied by, “Jasmine, honey, it's Mommy.”

“Come in,” came the exasperated reply.

Samantha entered with a smile and outstretched arms. “Welcome home, honey. I missed you,” she said while hugging her rigid daughter. “How was it? Are you feeling any better?”

“It was horrible. Why did you send me there?”

Samantha released her from the embrace. “Because you almost died. I had just lost your father, and I didn't want to lose you too.”

“Would you have even noticed?” she asked coldly.

“Don't be ridiculous. Of course I would notice. What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

Jasmine busied herself with emptying the contents of a Louis Vuitton overnight bag onto the bed.

“No, I don't. Please explain yourself, young lady.”

Jasmine turned sharply to Samantha. “Daddy and I were just props to you. Pieces you trot out when the cameras are rolling or you need to impress some large donor. The perfect Cleaveland family. Well, look at us now. Not so perfect, are we? My daddy is dead, and I wish I was too. But you look great. You must be very happy now. Daddy is out of the way, and now everything belongs to you.”

Jasmine's last words were greeted with a stinging slap across her cheek from Samantha.

“Just because your father is no longer with us does not mean you can speak to me like that,” Samantha said, causing the stinging on Jasmine's cheek to intensify. “I will not be spoken to in that tone. Do you understand me?”

A look of terror crept across Jasmine's face as her mother loomed, ready to strike again. For the first time she saw evil on her mother's hardened face. She saw a gleam in her eye that was unfamiliar. Menacing, almost dangerous. Her beloved father was no longer there to serve as a buffer between the two of them. She was suddenly afraid to be alone in a room with her mother.

“You hated him, didn't you?” Jasmine finally said, holding her burning cheek. “And you hate me too.”

Samantha softened her stance and smiled warmly. “You know that's not true, don't you, honey? I love you. You are all I have in the world.” As she spoke, she took a step closer to Jasmine.

Jasmine moved quickly backward. “Stay away from me,” she said with a slight tremble in her voice. “Don't come near me. I hate you.”

“I know you don't mean that, darling,” Samantha said with a smile. “You're just tired. I'll let you rest now. We can talk more later.”

Samantha turned toward the door and walked the expanse of lush rose carpet. She then spun around on her heels and said, “Your father is gone now, Jasmine. I won't tolerate any more of your nonsense. It's just you and me now. Understand?”

 

 

Tour buses rolled through the grounds of New Testament Cathedral, filled with tourists who gawked at fountains at every turn, crosses hewn from Italian marble, amphitheaters, and at the center, the glass cathedral. It was an ecclesiastical Disneyland. The eyes of the world were focused on the ten-acre plot of heaven in downtown Los Angeles. News vans dotted the compound, chronicling for the world the week of activities before the grand opening of what was now the most famous building in the world.

The week's agenda included dinners at the Cleaveland Estate with the mayor, governor, and other assorted dignitaries and a prayer breakfast with clergy from every faith. Samantha was center stage every second of the week. She had outfits laid out for every event and a cadre of staff to assure that each went off without a hitch.

Samantha sat at the head of the table in a glass conference room with twenty religious leaders from around the world, who had assembled for the highly publicized prayer breakfast. They each had been flown in on private jets, courtesy of New Testament Cathedral, and accommodated in hotel suites around the city. The conference room had been transformed into a formal dining room, complete with imported linens, vases with elaborate floral arrangements, silver, and an army of servers.

Chatter in the room was interrupted by a gentle tapping of a fork on a crystal water goblet. “Thank you all for joining us on this historic occasion,” Samantha said, standing to her feet. “I am honored to be surrounded by some of the most powerful spiritual leaders of our great country and the world.”

Seated to her right was Rabbi Sherman Gottlieb from Temple Shalom in New York. To her left was the Reverend Joseph Bentley, president of the National Baptist Convention. Next to him was Reverend Henry Phillips, pastor to the last three presidents of the United States. Each of the twenty prominent people around the table was the head of his or her faith, and together they represented millions of dollars of free publicity.

“God has called me to serve as the head of this great ministry,” she continued. “It's not a position I sought or ever wanted. I was very happy serving and supporting my husband, the late Reverend Dr. Hezekiah Cleaveland. I thought I would be doing that until the day I died. But God had a different plan for my life.”

As she spoke, waiters dressed in black waist-length jackets filled water glasses and poured coffee into waiting Wedgwood cups.

”Many of you knew my husband. He spoke very highly of everyone at this table. He would be pleased that you each have come to share this occasion with us. He was a great man, and I miss him deeply, but as everyone at this table knows, we are all presented with challenges on a daily basis that we have no control over. They are tests designed to prove ourselves as worthy servants to an almighty and all-knowing God.

“It is my mission in life to prove myself worthy of the tasks God has laid before me. With your prayers and God's guidance, I am confident that we will succeed in building New Testament Cathedral into one of the greatest ministries the world has ever known, one that serves as a messenger of God's word and as a place of refuge for those in need of God's love and direction.”

Samantha went on, recounting the early days of the church with a nostalgic smile. “Fifteen years ago Hezekiah and I started this ministry in a little storefront on Imperial Highway, only blocks from where we are now sitting. There were twelve members at the first church service we held. We rented the nine-hundred-square-foot space from the owner, who ran a neighborhood grocery store next door.

“We never imagined back then that the ministry would grow to include millions of supporters and viewers worldwide, a twenty-five-thousand-seat glass cathedral, and broadcasts in thirty-four countries, and that it would be ranked as one of the fastest-growing churches in the world. Please, if you will, stand and join me in a toast to my husband, the late great Hezekiah Cleaveland.”

Everyone at the table reached for the nearest glass and stood to their feet.

“To Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland,” Samantha said, hoisting her glass. “This is for you, my darling. We did it. May your soul find peace and rest cradled in the loving arms of our Lord.”

As she spoke, a glimmering tear could be seen on her perfect cheek. Everyone at the table was moved by her undying devotion to the man she apparently loved so deeply.

“To Hezekiah!” everyone chorused in response to her heartfelt toast. “To Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland!” Glasses were raised around the room in honor of the man whose life had been cut short by the beautiful widow standing at the head of the table.

Danny was asleep in the guest room. His wound had been attended to by Gideon, who had cradled him in his arms until he drifted into sleep. Gideon now paced the floor of his study. With each thought he had of Samantha, his anger increased and his steps grew more rapid.

The idea of losing Danny so soon after he met him caused his stomach to churn.
I'll destroy her,
he thought as he walked the length and width of the room.
I'll expose her for the murderer she is.

Gideon's mind whirled as he contemplated his next move. Each idea he devised proved to him to be inadequate punishment for the woman who had tried to rob him of the love he had searched his entire life for. Each scheme was too tame, and each punishment too humane for someone who had killed a man and had lied to a world of gullible believers, who only wanted her to be the perfect wife and mother she professed to be.

Gideon sat down at the desk and removed from the top drawer the file containing the e-mails between Hezekiah and Danny. He pulled a random sheet of paper from the file and read the e-mail printed at the top.

Danny's reply, printed on the same sheet of paper, came seven minutes later.

Hezekiah wrote back immediately. His reply occupied the bottom of the sheet of paper Gideon held.

Gideon leafed through the stack of e-mails and pulled out another sheet of paper. He read the first e-mail on it.

Danny's response came one hour and twenty-two minutes later.

Hezekiah wrote back immediately.

Danny's response was short and simple.

Gideon could feel the disappointment in Danny's short response. At that moment he vowed to never disappoint Danny. It suddenly became very important that Danny never again feel the emptiness he had experienced with a married man. That he never be second in line for the love he deserved. That he never be alone in his bed or in his heart.

Without thinking, Gideon reached for his cell phone at the corner of the desk. He searched for Samantha's private telephone number, which she had given him in preparation for his last interview.

Before he knew it, the telephone was ringing. He had no idea what he was about to say to the woman he now hated so deeply.

“Hello.”

Gideon did not respond to the familiar sultry voice.

“Hello? Who is this?” Samantha said, growing impatient.

“Pastor Cleaveland, this is Gideon Truman.”

“Gideon. I'm surprised to hear from you. I thought after our last interview I may have offended you.”

“You mean after you threw my crew and me out of your home.”

“What did you expect? You practically accused me of having something to do with my husband's death.”

“Did I?”

“I don't have time to play word games with you, Mr. Truman. Why are you calling me? I hope you're not expecting another interview.”

“No, I won't need another interview from you. I have all I need to know about you to compile a very . . . revealing exposé.”