When Sunday Comes Again (2 page)

Read When Sunday Comes Again Online

Authors: Terry E. Hill

Tags: #Fiction, #African American, #General, #Urban

BOOK: When Sunday Comes Again
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Samantha stopped reading and quickly scanned the rest of the article in search of her name.
Cleaveland is survived by his daughter, Jasmine Cleaveland, and wife, the Reverend Samantha Cleaveland. Shortly after his death, Reverend Samantha Cleaveland was installed as the interim pastor of the multimillion-dollar church and television ministry. Mrs. Cleaveland has yet to speak to the press about the circumstances surrounding her husband's death. It has been rumored, however, that she will give an exclusive interview to Gideon Truman in the coming weeks.
The article went on to tell of her courage, strength, and commitment to her husband's dream of completing the construction of the church's new twenty-five-thousand-seat, glittering crystal cathedral in downtown Los Angeles.
Samantha had been hounded by the press since her husband's death. Local, national, and international news networks, talk shows, and newspapers from around the world had been covering the investigation from day one, but she had skillfully avoided any contact with the media. Her silence had served only to increase her fame. This was just as she had planned.
Samantha closed the paper and walked back to the window. She looked out at a flock of salty white seagulls skimming the ocean surface in the distance, trees dancing in the wind and clouds drifting by.
Gideon Truman,
she thought silently.
I wonder if it's true what they say about him. If it is, I'm sure Hezekiah would have liked him.
 
 
Cynthia Pryce paced the living room floor in the twenty-third-floor penthouse. The blue sky dotted with clouds and the sun rising over rolling green hills in the distance were overshadowed in her presence. The glow of her morning skin rivaled the splendor of the panorama outside her window. Luxurious strands of burnt-caramel hair responded obediently to every tilt of her head. A creamy peach satin robe swirled around the calves of her long legs as she made a series of sharp turns in front of the windows. The face of Samantha Cleaveland on the front page of the
Los Angeles Chronicle
taunted her from the coffee table.
“Interim pastor,” she muttered softly as she continued her march. “This isn't over, Samantha. Don't get too comfortable.”
She felt a sharp snap of jealousy as she silently recalled the events of the last three weeks.
If only those idiots, Hezekiah and Lance Savage, hadn't gotten themselves killed, Percy would be the pastor of New Testament Cathedral today.
She pushed the image of Samantha standing at the center of the pulpit before the entire congregation and all the cameras from her mind. A rage that she could hardly contain swelled in her stomach.
Pull yourself together, girl,
she thought.
This isn't over. You almost destroyed Hezekiah. You can do the same to Samantha.
The slight glimmer of hope that her husband could still one day become pastor made the sight of Samantha's smug face on the front page of the newspaper hurt a little less. She reached down and, without looking at the paper, turned it over on the coffee table.
Just as she stood up, her husband, the Reverend Percy Pryce, entered the room. His tall frame was dressed in a smoky gray suit, a butter-yellow shirt, and a tie that picked up the hues in the suit, the shirt, and his rich almond skin.
“Is the paper here yet?” he asked coldly, without greeting her.
“It's on the coffee table. Of course, she's on the front page again.”
“Why does that upset you so much?” he snapped. Cynthia turned sharply toward him and said, “It upsets me because you should have been appointed pastor, not her.”
“The trustee vote was unanimous. It's over, Cynthia. Samantha is the pastor. We just have to live with it.”
“Wrong. They voted unanimously to appoint her as interim pastor. If everyone was so convinced that she was the best successor for Hezekiah, they would have made her permanent pastor. So it's not over. There's still a chance for us . . . for you to prove to them that you are the best person for the job. Hezekiah would have wanted it that way, and you know it.”
“It doesn't matter what Hezekiah wanted at this point. If God wanted me to be pastor, he would have made me pastor. We have to live with the decision.”
“Why are you so naive? It was Samantha's scheming that got her the position. God didn't have anything to do with it. The only thing we have to do is expose her for the conniving, greedy woman she is. If you would only do what I tell you and let me—”
Percy walked rapidly toward her at the window and cut her off. “You've done enough already. Lance Savage is dead because of you,” he said.
“What are you talking about? I didn't have anything to do with his death.”
The image of the
Los Angeles Chronicle
reporter Lance Savage lying dead on the floor of his home on the canals in Venice flashed in Percy's mind. “If you hadn't leaked the story about Hezekiah being gay to Lance, he would still be alive,” he replied, barely containing his anger.
“The police don't know who killed Lance, and they haven't said anything about his death being linked to the story he was writing. Besides, who would kill him because of that?”
Percy looked away when he heard the question. No one, other than Associate Pastor Kenneth Davis, knew of his visit to Lance's home on the day he was murdered. Only they knew he had pushed the reporter to the floor when he refused to accept $175,000 in exchange for not running the explosive story detailing Hezekiah's homosexual affair. No one knew that they had fled the home, leaving the reporter's lifeless body on the floor, only to be discovered the next day by his housekeeper.
Cynthia continued, “Look at me, Percy. You have to be a man and fight for what is rightfully yours.” Cynthia walked to him and put her soft hand on his cheek. “Darling,” she whispered, “you were born to be pastor of New Testament Cathedral. We can make that happen. You just have to listen to me.”
Percy bowed his head and tried to look away, but the soft touch of her hand caused him gradually, and unwillingly, to succumb to her breathless commands.
Cynthia was relentless. She raised his head and looked directly into his eyes. “I have it all figured out, baby. You have to trust me. Do as I tell you and everything will work out in our favor.”
She drew him closer and placed his head on her shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her sweet breath on his ear. She expertly kissed his neck and lips. The intoxicating smell of her body replaced the fear and guilt with longing.
“I love you, Percy,” she whispered. “Make love to me, baby. I need you inside me.”
As she pulled him closer, she could feel the rigid evidence of his desire. His hands grudgingly tugged at the cord of her robe. He slowly removed it from her bare shoulders and let it drop to the floor, exposing her naked body for all to see in the floor to ceiling window. Percy caressed every inch of her creamy skin and felt her moistness as they panted in unison and pressed their lips together.
With nimble fingers she unzipped his pants and released his throbbing member. Cynthia raised her leg and rested it on the leather belt above his hip. With one hand she guided him into her and released a gasp when he thrust deep inside her.
“Just do as I say, baby,” she repeated over and over as he made love to her in the window of the penthouse apartment. “Just do as I say.”
 
 
Mondays were the hardest for Danny St. John. For him, the day marked the beginning of another week without Hezekiah. Another week he would not hear his voice whisper, “I love you, Danny.” Another week he wouldn't feel his arms around his waist or taste the sweetness of his kiss.
Danny had rarely left his apartment in the three weeks since Hezekiah's murder. The air was stale and musty. All the shades were drawn, and the windows were closed tight. At times, he found himself stumbling through the house, wearing only baggy shorts, to the refrigerator for orange juice, or to the cupboard for saltine crackers and canned soup. He had no appetite for anything more substantial.
Parker never let Danny out of his sight. The scruffy gray cat followed his master from room to room. He sat on Danny's lap on the couch and curled next to him when he lay crying in bed.
The television in his bedroom had been on for three weeks. It was always either tuned to the local news, CNN, or the Home Shopping Network. Whenever he heard Hezekiah's name mentioned, he turned up the volume. The CNN reporter Gideon Truman offered the most comprehensive coverage of the killing. Although much of the information he reported was inaccurate, Danny found it difficult not to listen to the handsome journalist's account of the life and death of the man he had loved so deeply.
Newspapers were piled in heaps on the floor next to the couch in his small apartment. Each day the articles served to remind him that he would never see Hezekiah again. The headline on the Monday after the murder blazed
PROMINENT LOS ANGELES PASTOR GUNNED DOWN IN FRONT OF HORRIFIED CONGREGATION.
Wednesday's announced
WORLD MOURNS THE DEATH OF PASTOR HEZEKIAH T. CLEAVELAND.
The tragic headlines continued on Friday:
SLAIN PASTOR TO BE LAID TO REST. MILLIONS EXPECTED TO VIEW TELEVISED SERVICE.
The stories never seemed to end, and they all landed with a thud on Danny's doorstep each day, courtesy of the
Los Angeles Chronicle
. The telephone on the nightstand next to his bed rang several times a day, but he never answered. The most frequent calls came from his friend Kay Braisden. “Danny, it's Kay again,” her messages would say. “Honey, I know how you must be feeling right now. Please pick up the phone.” When there was no response, she would continue. “Danny, I know I hurt you the last time we spoke. I'm sorry. I am so sorry. Please forgive me. I was just so surprised when you told me you were involved in a relationship with Hezekiah Cleaveland. I didn't know how to handle it. I was wrong.”
On another day the message was, “You are my best friend, Danny. I should have been there for you, and for that I apologize. But I want to be there for you now. Please call me. I'm going to keep calling for as long as it takes for you to forgive me. I love you, Danny, and I'm praying for you.”
Danny's eyes filled with tears each time he heard a message from Kay. He wanted to speak with her, but the right time had not yet come.
Chapter 2
Scarlett Shackelford's eyes were red and puffy from all the tears she had shed since Hezekiah's death. She now had the face of an angel touched by sorrow. Three weeks had gone by, but she had found only fleeting moments of relief from the agonizing grief she felt over the loss. This morning she sat at the dinette table in the kitchen window of the modest stucco tract home she shared with her second husband, David, and her daughter, Natalie.
The morning sun reflected off every surface in the bright and cheery kitchen. A tea kettle simmered on the stove. White-glazed tile countertops held stainless-steel appliances, a neatly lined row of cookbooks, and a ceramic rooster cookie jar that required beheading before it would yield its sugary treats.
The fact that Samantha Cleaveland was now the pastor of New Testament Cathedral only added to her misery. This was the same woman who had treated her so cruelly as a young girl; the woman who had fired her as Hezekiah's secretary after learning she was pregnant with his child; and the woman who she, in some remote corner of her heart, believed was involved in the death of the father of her daughter.
Only three people on earth knew Natalie was Hezekiah's daughter: Samantha Cleaveland, Hezekiah, and herself. Now only two were left to guard the secret. The responsibility of keeping such a secret was a heavy burden that she managed as best she could under the circumstances. She had told her husband, David, that Natalie was the product of her first failed marriage. Another tear escaped as she sat in the window. The kettle on the stove began to boil, but Scarlett's thoughts were on matters more important than the whistling water.
“Scarlett, turn off the kettle,” came a booming voice from another room.
She did not respond.
“Scarlett, are you in the kitchen? Would you please turn that thing off?”
Still there was no reply.
Finally, David Shackelford huffed into the room, wearing only a robe and carrying the front section of the morning paper. The rich timbre of his voice matched perfectly his handsome face and muscular, six-foot-four frame. The robe he wore was stretched to the limit to conceal his well-contoured chest, and long runner's legs peeked through the front flap with every step he took.
“Honey, don't you hear the kettle? Why didn't you turn it off?”
Scarlett was startled when she heard his voice. “What?” she asked, looking blankly up at him.
“The kettle, it's been whistling for five minutes.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't hear it,” she said as she stood from the table. “My mind was somewhere else. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Scarlett, what is wrong with you?”
She turned her back to him and mechanically began preparations for the tea. “Nothing is wrong. I just didn't hear it.”
David walked behind her and sat the newspaper on the countertop. Samantha Cleaveland's face on the front page looked up at Scarlett. He took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face him.
“Scarlett, this has got to stop. This is unnatural. I know you cared for Pastor Cleaveland. It was tragic, but you have to be strong and accept the fact that he's gone. I know you're worried about the church, but Samantha will be fine as the new pastor. Everything will work out in time.”
Scarlett jerked away from him and shouted, “Everything will not work out. You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know her. She'll ruin everything that is good about New Testament Cathedral. You don't know that woman like I do.”
Scarlett began to cry and tried to walk around him, but he blocked her path. “Wait, honey, we have to talk about this. You can't go on like this. It's ruining our marriage. You're neglecting Natalie and—”
When she heard her daughter's name, she began to cry harder and fell into his arms. David stroked her head and tried unsuccessfully to calm her. “Honey, it's going to be all right. Hezekiah is in a better place, and there's nothing we can do about it. You've got to come back to us. Natalie and I need you.”
“You don't understand, David,” she said through her sobs. “Everything is so complicated.”
“Then help me understand. I love you. We can work through whatever it is together.”
“I can't . . . I can't tell you. You'll hate me if I do.”
“I could never hate you, Scarlett. Now, tell me what is upsetting you this much.”
Scarlett slowly pulled away from his chest, walked back to the dinette table, and sat down again in the window with her back to him. David did not move. She pulled a white paper napkin from a holder at the center of the table and dabbed her wet cheeks. The tears continued to flow, but the sobbing slowly subsided.
David waited to allow her to compose herself and then reiterated, “I love you, Scarlett, but you have to let me know what's upsetting you before I can help.”
Scarlett looked out the window at a large blooming magnolia tree in her front yard. Their Japanese gardener raked leaves into a neat pile and waved to her, but she didn't wave back. His adolescent assistant revved a gas lawn mower in another corner of the yard. The loud roar of the engine suddenly filled the room.
David walked behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Talk to me, Scarlett.”
She clutched the soaked napkin in her fist and held it to her mouth. “I lied to you, David.”
David planted his slipper-clad feet firmly on the yellow linoleum floor but did not speak. His hand remained on her trembling shoulder.
Scarlett placed her clasped fists on the table and took a deep breath. “My first husband is not Natalie's father.”
David removed his hand from her shoulder and said, “Michael is not her father? Then who is?” He knew the answer before he said the last word.
There was a long silence before she spoke again.
“I was young, pregnant, afraid, and had no job. The only choice I saw at the time was to marry Michael and persuade him that Natalie was his. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want to give her up. She's my baby. She is my world. I wouldn't give her up for anyone. I paid dearly for that mistake. Four years of hell. You know the story already. When Michael wasn't drinking, he was abusive.”
David took a step backward but did not take his eyes off the back of her head. The wall around her well-kept secret crumbled with every word she spoke. There was no turning back now.
“Samantha tried to force me to give her up for adoption, but I refused. She didn't care about me or my baby. She only cared about her reputation. She only cared about how it would look for her husband to be the father of a child that was not hers. She only cared about how much money they would lose if anyone found out that Hezekiah was the father of my child.”
David barely heard her last words over the lawn mower howling outside the window. His heart pounded in his chest. It took all of his strength to remain standing in the middle of the kitchen.
“I'm so sorry, David. Once the lies started, I couldn't stop them. But you have to believe I did it all to protect Natalie, not to hurt anyone, especially not you. I've tried a thousand times before to get up the nerve to tell you, but I couldn't.” The sobbing began again. Scarlett placed her head on the table and cried into her arm.
David stood frozen in the middle of the room. He wanted to speak, but the words would not come. The churning lawn-mower engine drowned out the sound of her wrenching sobs and the pounding of his heart.
 
 
Dino Goodlaw, Samantha's driver and security guard, pulled the black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows in front of the Cleaveland estate at exactly 10:00
A.M.
, just as he had been instructed.
Dino served as the loyal bodyguard, driver, and keeper of all things secret for Samantha and Hezekiah. His muscular frame and uncanny ability to disappear into the background made him perfectly suited to stand between the Cleavelands and dangers seen and unseen. But in the silence of his world, he also blamed himself for Hezekiah's murder.
“If only I had been closer to the pulpit, I would have been able to get Hezekiah to the floor before the second shot to his head,” he had told the police hours after the murder. “Hezekiah would still be alive if I had just been a few feet closer.”
From that moment on, he had vowed that he would die before any harm came to Samantha. “Any bullet aimed at Samantha will have to go through me first,” he would say to his reflection in the mirror each morning while shaving.
A steel-gray handgun in his shoulder holster was visible for a brief moment as Dino exited the vehicle. He quickly buttoned his black suit coat to conceal the weapon before Samantha opened the front door.
The air was clear and smelled of ocean mist. Palm trees lining the winding driveway leading to the stately home stood like sentries guarding a king's palace. A cluster of butterflies fluttered around a bed of flowers at the foot of a double elliptical stone stairway leading up to the grand entrance of the home. The neo-Baroque covered porch with cream-colored wrought-stone columns and twelve-foot double doors served as the perfect stage for the statuesque woman.
Dino stood near the rear car door at the foot of the stairs. He checked his watch nervously and resisted the urge to pace the granite cobblestoned surface. When the front door finally opened, Samantha emerged, carrying a brown leather case. Strands of hair flowed like molten lava around her face as she walked down the stairs. She wore dark sunglasses and a mint-green pantsuit over a simple cream silk shell that only hinted of the perfect form that was beneath.
“Good morning, Pastor Cleaveland,” Dino said as she descended. “Another beautiful day today.”
“Good morning, Dino,” she responded with a smile normally reserved for cameras, full arenas, and six-figure donors. However, Samantha and Dino shared a unique bond. They were the last people to touch Hezekiah when he was alive, and the first to touch his body when he lay dead on the pulpit floor. “How are you today, Dino? I hope you're sleeping better. I worry about you.”
“That is very kind of you, Pastor Cleaveland, but it's my job to worry about you. Please don't give it another thought. I know you have enough on your mind these days.”
Dino opened the rear door of the Escalade when Samantha reached the bottom step. She handed him the brown case and entered the plush automobile. When she settled in the rear, he passed the case back to her and firmly closed the door.
“I do have a lot on my mind, Dino,” she said from the rear as the car drove down the rolling driveway, “but you were very brave on that day, and you've been kind to me through this entire ordeal. Just knowing that Hezekiah's killer is still out there somewhere makes it difficult some days for me to even leave the house. I'm still afraid, but knowing you're here makes me feel much safer.”
Dino tensed when he heard the words. “With all due respect, Pastor, I may have been brave, but it wasn't enough. I failed you and Hezekiah,” he said, approaching the wrought-iron gate at the end of the winding driveway.
“That is not true. You did everything possible to save him. No one would have guessed in a million years that someone would shoot him in front of the entire congregation. It took an astonishingly bold person to do something that brazen, and no one, not even you, could have stopped it.” A faint smile crossed her lips as she spoke the words. “It was God's will, Dino. We have to learn to accept it and get on with the business of living.”
Samantha soon grew weary of comforting the hulking Dino. He recognized the impatient look in her eye when he glanced at her in the rearview mirror, and simply replied, “Yes, Pastor Cleaveland. Thank you.”
The estate's wrought-iron gate glided open at the sight of the car. Dino waved good morning to a uniformed security guard who was posted in the gatehouse. The man waived at Samantha as well. The tinted windows of the car shielded the guard from the look of disdain she gave in return to his greeting.
Dino merged cautiously into a trickle of Mercedes, red Ferraris, SUVs, and the stray Rolls Royce. Three cyclists in full yellow, red, and black riding gear kept pace with the flow, demanding their rightful place on the single-lane road. The tiled rooftops of other estates straddling the hillside could be seen through dense trees on the left; and a sheer cliff dropping to the bottomless canyon below, on the right.
As the two drove in silence, Samantha's cellular telephone rang. “This is Pastor Cleaveland,” she answered in a tone befitting a recent widow.
“Good morning, Pastor Cleaveland,” replied the apologetic voice on the telephone. It was Samantha's assistant, Veronica Cotton. “I'm sorry to disturb you.”
“I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Is this something that can wait?” Samantha snapped.
“I have Gideon Truman on the line, Pastor Cleaveland. He insisted you would want to speak with him.”
“Did I ever tell you I wanted to speak with him?” Samantha snapped again. “I don't want to speak with him, and tell him that I requested he stop spreading rumors that I've agreed to give him an exclusive interview.”

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