Come Sunday Morning

Book 0: Sunday Morning

by Terry E. Hill

Genres: General Fiction; African American Christian; African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Charismatic young pastor Hezekiah Cleveland and his wife, the beautiful and ambitious Reverend Samantha, certainly have their hands full with managing their less-than-perfect marriage and their drama-prone congregation in this exciting debut! There's Danny St. John, who opens up Hezekiah to the underworld of being "on the down-low." Then there's Samantha's secret lover, Reverend Willie Mitchell, also Hezekiah's biggest nemesis, who's in cahoots with her to take over Hezekiah's New Testament Cathedral. When a shocking turn of events takes place the day Hezekiah decides to come clean about his double life, and catapults Samantha to position of the leader of the flock, how long will she be able to keep up her own charade?

Release date: February 1, 2011

Publisher: Urban Renaissance

Print pages: 304

Sample

Cynthia Pryce scanned the pages of the Sunday paper. A silk robe sloped gracefully around the calves of her slender legs. Hair, the color of burnt caramel, curved leisurely over cheekbones that most women would gladly pay thousands to replicate. Cynthia looked perfect even with no one there to impress. She had no choice.

It was six o’clock on Sunday morning. The city lay at her feet as she looked from the twenty-third floor of the rooftop condominium. Morning light drifted into the penthouse while floating clouds peeked through the windows for a glimpse of the beautiful woman.

Crystal vases and glass tables throughout the condominium sparkled from the light flowing through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Soft beige carpet served as a lush backdrop for Cynthia’s expensive and eclectic taste in furniture. Scandinavian leather sofas and chairs stood in the center of the living room, and a Louis XV armoire held a state-of-the-art sound system and music collection that ranged from classical to gospel and included every genre in between.

Original paintings by Bearden, Barnes, and Motley hung in places of honor above the fireplace, behind the sofa, and at the head of the dining-room table. Freshly cut flowers, magenta, mauve, and pink, arranged by the skillful and nimble fingers of Cynthia’s favorite florist, were poised to greet visitors in the large foyer, as well as the dining and living rooms.

Hands and fingernails that never went a day without special attention lifted a second cup of coffee to her lips as she searched for mention of her pastor, Hezekiah T. Cleaveland, in the paper. Cynthia slammed the paper to the coffee table when the last page was turned, rattling her coffee cup and plate, which held the remains of a half-eaten poppy seed muffin. The story she had waited for was not there, as had been promised. She looked again to the front page. The headline read, FATHER KILLS FAMILY AND SELF, DESPONDENT OVER FINANCIAL LOSSES.

Cynthia pushed the paper to the floor.

Who gives a fuck? she thought while reaching for the cell phone on the dining-room glass table.

She entered the number that had been called frequently in the last month.

“Hello,” a raspy voice answered. “What do you want? It’s six o’clock in the morning.”

“Lance, it’s Cynthia. Where’s the story? You told me it would be in this morning’s edition.”

“My editor won’t run it until I give Hezekiah a chance to respond. I tried to convince him the evidence stands on its own, but he wouldn’t budge.”

Lance Savage sat up in bed and rubbed his squinting eyes. “I’ve got a meeting with Hezekiah tomorrow. He thinks I’m doing a story on the new cathedral. I can’t wait to see his face when I drop this bomb on him.”

“He’ll deny everything,” she said. “When you meet with him, make sure Naomi isn’t there.”

“Naomi isn’t available for the interview. I think Catherine will probably sit in, though.”

Cynthia laughed. “That’s fine. You’ll certainly get a reaction from Catherine if you can’t get one from Hezekiah.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. Does she know anything about this?”

“I doubt it. As far as Catherine is concerned, Hezekiah walks on water. If she does, let me know and I’ll deal with her later.”

 

The joy in the Sunday morning church service at New Testament Cathedral was palpable. Brass instruments, drums, violins, guitars, and pianos caused the auditorium to pulsate with rhythmic music. Images on the twenty-foot-high JumboTron screen alternated rapidly between sweeping images of the 15,000-member congregation standing, clapping, and singing, to the 200-member choir and orchestra performing songs of inspiration.

Shots of Hezekiah and Samantha Cleaveland standing at the front row, smiling and waving their hands in the air, filled the screen throughout the morning. The captions below their images read, “Visit our Web site at www.NewTestamentCathedral.com to make your love offering today!”

On cue, the pace of the music gradually shifted to a more melodic and reverent tone. A soprano sang a hypnotic tune and the audience obediently chimed in. A billowing hum from the crowd rolled from the front of the church to the top rear row and filled the room as congregants softly sang in unison and looked upward to heaven.

The camera followed Hezekiah as he walked up the steps to the center of the stage. Behind the pulpit to his left and right were waterfalls made of a series of stacked boulders, greenery, and gently flowing ribbons of water. The stage backdrop was an electric wall of light that periodically changed from blue to green, lavender and a hazy yellow to accompany the desired mood of each moment during the service.

“Good morning, New Testament Cathedral,” Hezekiah said when the music began to subside and the audience settled into their seats.

The room replied in unison, “Good morning, Pastor Cleaveland.”

Hezekiah was well over six feet tall. He wore a crisp white shirt and a sleek tailored black suit that was stitched to perfection around his muscular frame. A cranberry-colored necktie complemented perfectly his flawless skin, which seemed to glow under the bright lights.

Hezekiah flashed his radiant signature smile approvingly in acknowledgment and continued, “This is the day the Lord hath made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.”

For the next fifteen minutes the jumbo screen was filled with the image of Hezekiah Cleaveland delivering the Sunday sermon, interspersed with shots of members of the audience reading a verse in their Bible that he had referenced, nodding their head in agreement to a word of wisdom just shared, and his wife, Samantha, looking lovingly up at her husband and pastor. The sermon ended on a euphoric note that had all the attendees up on their feet, clapping, and Hezekiah looking pleased and exuberant at the podium.

After a final uplifting song from the choir and orchestra, Samantha joined Hezekiah on the stage. The last shot that appeared on the screen was that of the beautiful couple waving to the camera with a caption that read, “Always Remember, God Loves You And So Do We! To make a love offering, call us toll free at 1(800) 555-4455 or visit our Web site at www.NewTestamentCathedral.com.”

 

The service had ended and members of New Testament Cathedral gathered in the Fellowship Hall. The cavernous room was filled to capacity. It served as the meeting place for thousands of congregants after the morning service. Sunday hats, which seemed to defy gravity, dotted the room: swirling turbans, perfectly erect feathers, fluttering satins, and wilting silks crowned freshly coiffed heads and made-up faces. Colorful dresses and well-constructed suits filled every inch of the room.

The space vibrated from the roar of laughter and gossip. Words of encouragement were exchanged, assignations planned, schemes plotted, and reputations ruined. The multiple conversations fused into an indecipherable buzz above their heads.

“Pastor Cleaveland outdid himself this morning,” came a comment from a cluster of women in the center of the room.

“Jason got laid off last week. I don’t know what we’re going to do now,” was heard from two women huddled near the entrance.

“I can’t believe she wore that to church. Looks like she should be at a cocktail party,” a woman said while rolling her eyes and shielding her mouth.

“She should have left him years ago. He’s slept with half the women here,” was observed simultaneously by three different sets of women referring to three different men in the hall.

“Look at him over there in the gray suit. Girl, that man is fine. All he would have to do is smile at me and I’d give him whatever he wanted and a little more just to make sure he came back for seconds,” said a woman as she peeked from behind her leather-bound Bible.

Children balancing cookies on paper plates and spilling fruit punch from plastic cups wove through a forest of high heels and freshly shined leather shoes. The elder women of the church had taken seats against the rear wall of the hall, beneath a stained-glass window. Parishioners took breaks between animated conversations to kiss the church mothers weathered cheeks and tell them, “You’re looking good this morning, dear,” and that they were praying for them.

Rev. Willie Mitchell stood in his usual spot in the center of the room. His bulging stomach made it impossible for him to button the coat of his favorite cream-colored suit. A red necktie formed a puddle on the top of his belly and then sloped down like a neon arrow advertising his oversized gold belt buckle. The thick hand in his pocket unconsciously caressed and massaged keys to a new appliance-white Mercedes-Benz. He threw his head back and laughed as Reverend Pryce’s wife, Cynthia, commented on the abrupt ending of the morning sermon.

“I guess Samantha was afraid she’d be late for her afternoon manicure,” she said, checking to ensure no one other than Reverend Mitchell had heard her. The silk flowers on her hat shook as she spoke.

“I’m glad he cut it short. I could hardly stay awake,” Reverend Mitchell responded.

Unlike Cynthia, the reverend didn’t look over his shoulder. He wanted everyone to hear his harsh critique of the morning service.

Hattie Williams graciously accepted kisses from the younger members. She sat embraced in the glow from the window and soothed by the warmth on her shoulders. Hattie was the senior mother of New Testament Cathedral. She had been a member since the first service held in the little storefront building ten years earlier.

Hattie was eighty-two years old. She was a stately and imposing woman but her warm smile could melt away the fears of any troubled soul fortunate enough to be in her presence. Her silver upswept hair was held in place by a row of well-positioned black bobby pins. A shiny patent leather purse filled with tissues and peppermints matched her sensible Sunday shoes perfectly. Hattie wore a simple lavender floral-print dress with a white ruffled collar which she had made herself. In one hand she held a handkerchief used to occasionally dab perspiration from upper lip and in the other, the smooth curved handle of a wooden cane for maneuvering the steps in the church.

A barrage of emotions suddenly pulsed through Hattie as she clutched the handle of the cane leaning against her swollen knee. She knew the feelings were not her own but instead belonged to others in the room. Sifting through the hidden passions and pain of others each Sunday morning had almost become a game for her. She inherited the empathic gift from her grandmother. Once she thought it a curse but now she considered it a blessing. Silent prayers were said for the more desperate cases and stern rebukes issued to those with nefarious intentions.

She immediately recognized the pool of jealousy surrounding Willie Mitchell. That man’s going to have a heart attack worrying about how much money Pastor Cleaveland has, she thought.

Hattie looked to her left and saw Scarlet Shackelford handing a cup of red punch to a little boy in a black suit with his crumpled white shirttail hanging from the rear. Scarlet’s chiseled face resembled a tormented angel imagined only in the mind of an artist. Her pastel silk dress twirled gracefully around the calves of her slender legs.

Hattie preferred to keep a safe distance from the young woman. The pain she experienced in her presence was sometimes even too much for her to bear. That girl needs to forgive herself for having the pastor’s baby, she observed as she fought to block the still raw emotions pouring from Scarlet. It’s been over five years and still nobody knows anything about it.

Hattie suddenly felt Samantha Cleaveland enter the hall. Only Samantha carried with her such extreme feelings of anger and hate and only Samantha could so skillfully conceal it from others. The hate however, was transported in a body that rivaled the beauty of a marble statue intricately carved by the hand of a master.

Shoulder-length glimmering black hair surrounded her flawless pampered skin. The mint linen suit she wore had been designed to accentuate her sensuous curves. The heels of her elegant shoes were the exact height to contort her calves into the perfect feminine silhouettes. Proud, commanding, and in control, her body moved through the room as though carried on a horse-drawn chariot.

She’s going to hurt somebody one day. Lord, you better keep an eye on that one, Hattie thought as Samantha passed. Hattie acknowledged her only with a slight nod of her head.

The few remaining worshippers said their final good-byes in the parking lot.

 

Reverend Mitchell honked the horn of his lumbering Mercedes and waved to the security guard at the gate as he turned onto Hezekiah T. Cleaveland Avenue. The street had been named in Hezekiah’s honor the year he broke ground for the senior citizen housing complex behind the church. If there were any other exit from the parking lot Reverend Mitchell would have taken it. He often wondered why his backroom lobbying against the street name change had failed. Maybe I should have made a bigger contribution to the mayor for his reelection campaign, he thought while plunging the car into oncoming traffic.

Samantha Cleaveland waited patiently in the rear of the black Lincoln Town Car and watched as Hezekiah handed a twenty-dollar bill to a young man wearing a wrinkled shirt and pants too short for his long legs.

“Who was that?” she asked as Hezekiah folded his body in next to her.

“That was Melanie Jackson’s son, Virgil. He used to play drums for the youth choir. I had to fire him after the police caught him trying to break into the church. He was released from jail a couple of months ago. He said he’s been off drugs for over a year. You remember him.”

“Yes I do remember him. He doesn’t appear to be off drugs. Don’t get involved with him, Hezekiah. He looks like he could be trouble,” Samantha said with contempt as the limousine turned onto Cleaveland Avenue.

She prayed the driver would go faster and turn quickly off the street that bore her husband’s name. The sooner she was off that road the better she would feel. She regretted all the campaign contributions she had made and the luncheons she’d hosted to get the street named in his honor. Now I’ve got to look at those damned signs every time I come to church, she thought as the car idled at a missed red light. Maybe I should pay that thug Virgil to knock them all down. It would take the city years to replace them in this neighborhood.

“What did you think of my sermon?” Hezekiah asked. “I think I should have spent more time on the Twenty-third Psalm. People hear it their whole lives but never really understand its true meaning.”

“It was fine, Hezekiah,” she said. The tiresome chore of reassuring him of his oratory prowess had been part of their Sunday-sermon debriefing for the last ten years. “I’m sure everyone enjoyed it very much.”

“Next time I think I’ll do a sermon on the entire chapter.” Hezekiah looked pensively out the window and continued. “Willie Mitchell slept through my entire sermon. At least he pretended to be asleep. Why doesn’t he go to another church if he dislikes me so much?”

“I’ve told you before, we need him here. He’s already donated a million dollars toward construction of the cathedral and he’s hinted that he might double that. Just smile, shake his hand on Sunday mornings, and let me handle him.”

“I know you like him, Samantha, but sometimes I’m not sure if the money is worth the trouble.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t like him either but we need him.”

“One day he’s going to push me too far and…”

“And what, Hezekiah? You’ll kill him?”

Hezekiah laughed. “No, something worse. I’ll sic you on him.”

Samantha quickly changed the subject. “You should use the cordless microphone more often. You look stiff standing behind the podium for the entire sermon. I wish you’d move around more. The audience and the cameras would love it.”

“I’ll try to remember next Sunday,” he said as he laid his head on the headrest. Without looking in her direction, Hezekiah continued to speak. “Do you want to preach next Sunday? I think I could use a break.”

Samantha’s heart fluttered when she heard the words. She was rarely offered the opportunity to preach at the coveted Sunday-morning service. She had earned her doctorate in theology six years earlier and was a gifted and inspiring ordained minister, but her more frequent role was that of the expensively dressed mannequin smiling at Hezekiah’s side on their weekly television program.

The 15,000-seat sanctuary had always been filled to capacity on the rare occasions she had been given the opportunity to preach. Television ratings would skyrocket, primarily due to channel surfers forced to pause by the striking and charismatic woman who flashed on their screens.

Men loved Samantha for one reason. She was beautiful. At thirty-five she commanded the adoring attention of deacons, cameramen, lighting technicians, and every heterosexual male within range of her seductive voice. She never flaunted her looks. Everyone in her presence took notice of them without any effort on her part. Instead, she focused her energy on perfecting the image of a sacrificing wife and mother who stood by her man, come what may.

Women had the predictable love-hate reaction to Samantha Cleaveland. They loved her devotion to the man they admired but envied the command she had over every inch of her body. No part of her was unattended, unnoticed, or unappreciated.

She only wore clothes designed especially for her voluptuous figure or those from her favorite boutiques in Beverly Hills, New York, and Paris. Even if other women could afford the clothes and accessories she took for granted, they could never assemble them as masterfully as she. It took years to perfect the look and most people didn’t have her patience, skills, or her means.

“Why didn’t you ask me earlier?” she hissed. “I won’t have time to prepare a sermon by next Sunday. I’ve got a busy week.” Anger took over after the initial shock from the unfortunate timing of his request. Titles of the dozens of sermons she’d written but never had the opportunity to deliver flashed through her mind.

“You don’t have to do anything new. How about preaching the one on wives supporting their husbands?”

Samantha marveled at the arrogance of her husband. His one-dimensional view of her caused her blood to run cold. She had spent their entire marriage in the shadow of Hezekiah’s greatness. Her beauty and talents only served to propel him higher.

She responded sharply, “I’ve got more important things to say than to remind women of how great their husbands are.”

“I know you do, honey. I just thought it was a good sermon.”

“Drop it, Hezekiah. I won’t be able to preach next Sunday.”

“All right, baby, maybe the following Sunday,” he said while rubbing her knee. “I think I’ve got at least one more good sermon in me.”

Hezekiah stared out the tinted limousine window. He braced himself and hoped that the next exchange would be quick and painless. “Reverend Duncan is in town,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Who’s Reverend Duncan?” Samantha asked with a hint of suspicion.

“He’s from Shiloh Church of God in Detroit. I’m having dinner with him today.”

“I wish you would have told me this morning. Etta has been home all day preparing dinner for us.” She knew there was no Reverend Duncan.

“I didn’t know about it then,” Hezekiah snapped defensively. “He called before this morning’s service. Where was Jasmine? I didn’t see her at church.”

“She wasn’t feeling well.” Samantha had no intention of allowing him to use their daughter as a diversion for his lies. “I can go to dinner with you.”

“He wants to talk to me alone. I think he’s having marriage problems.”

Samantha was almost embarrassed by the perverse pleasure she took in his obvious discomfort. “Then he might benefit from a woman’s perspective,” she said looking directly at him.

“Damn it, Samantha, he said he wanted to talk to me alone.” Hezekiah knew he had overreacted as his words reverberated through the car.

“Hezekiah, I know you’re seeing someone. You haven’t been yourself for months now. The least you can do is come up with more original lies.”

“Can I have dinner with a fellow pastor without you thinking I’m sleeping with another woman?” he snapped. “Your paranoia is getting out of control.”

“It’s not just dinner, Hezekiah. You’ve been sulking around the house for weeks now. You could never hide your feelings from me.”

“Maybe if you had a life of your own I wouldn’t have to hide my feelings.”

Samantha sat erect in the plush leather seat. “A life of my own? You wouldn’t have a life if it weren’t for me. You’d still be in that storefront preaching to neighborhood kids and old ladies. Everyone knows I made you and without me you’d be nothing.”

“I don’t want to argue with you, Samantha.”

“I’m not arguing. I simply want you to tell me the truth for once. I can’t keep pretending not to know something is wrong. I deserve better than this.”

“I’m not seeing anyone, Samantha. I’ve just had a lot on my mind. You can believe it or not. I don’t care anymore.”

The intersections rushed by in a blur. Samantha’s mind raced as she thought. When this is done, I should send his body to whoever the bitch is and let her bury him.

The car turned onto Sunset Boulevard, toward the whitewashed towers at the West Gate of Bel Air, and began the familiar ascent up the hill. Rolling estates quickly replaced the grime and congestion of the city streets below. Lush trees on each side of the winding road tilted inward and formed a green lace canopy over the street. The center median was filled with vibrant flowers and cement fountains poured water from the mouths of lions at each intersection. Pristine terra-cotta-tiled roofs peeked over the tops of densely clustered shrubs and waving palm trees. Couples wearing matching jogging suits strolled leisurely along the paved sidewalks with their sprightly Lhasa Apsos and prancing Irish setters in tow.

Samantha’s thoughts shifted to her daughter, Jasmine. She remembered the therapist’s recommendation to admit their only c. . .