Heaven Forbid

by Lutishia Lovely

Genres: African American

Synopsis

Popular author Lutishia Lovely has made a name for herself with novels exploring the relationships, sex lives, and secrets of a lively church congregation. In Heaven Forbid, the Gospel Truth Church has lost its pastor to a scandalous downfall and is in dire need of a new leader. But is Reverend Doctor Pastor Bishop Overseer Mister Stanley Obadiah Meshach Brook Jr. the answer? And what of Passion and Stanley’s marriage, which has taken a major hit thanks to Stanley’s flagging libido?

Release date: August 1, 2010

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Anyone watching the two men conversing quietly in the corner booth of the dimly lit restaurant would have thought their discussion serious. They would have been right. The seasoned seventy-something, gray-haired minister, looking important and dignified in his black, double-breasted suit, listened intently as the younger man, displaying a rugged handsomeness in his navy blue, tailored Kenneth Cole design, used his manicured fingers to underscore a point.

“Number one,” Stan Lee said, his finger in midair, “all sexual misconduct is sin, whether or not your members want to hear it. Before you came and laid down the law, the Gospel Truth congregation was way out of hand, from the pulpit to the vestibule. You know I’m right about it. Number two, it takes a tight rein to straighten out this kind of mess. And number three, Reverend Doctor O, I think you are the only preacher alive who can hold the rein tight enough to pull this backslidden church back in line with the Word.” Secretly, Stan wished the doctor could put somebody else in line—his wife. But that was another story.

Obadiah, officially known as the Reverend Doctor Pastor Bishop Overseer Mister Stanley Obadiah Meshach Brook, Jr., and affectionately called “Reverend Doctor O,” nodded in understanding. He liked this young man’s fervor when it came to strong morals, and he couldn’t help but agree with him. Doctor Stanley Morris Lee, the forty-eight-year-old pastor of Los Angeles’s Logos Word Church, was a prolific preacher in his own right. Obadiah affectionately called Stan his namesake, even though he’d gone by his second name, Obadiah, since childhood. He respected the Logos Word ministry and viewed Stan as a spiritual son.

Obadiah knew that Stan spoke truth: Gospel Truth Church was in a gospel mess following the nationally televised scandal of its former pastor, Nate Thicke, and it took a preacher well worth his salt to pick up the shattered pulpit pieces. Something of this magnitude was the only thing that could have pulled him out of retirement, though truth be told, he’d missed the pulpit and was glad to be back.

Obadiah ran a hand over his weary eyes as he remembered the fiasco. How one of Nate Thicke’s many women had managed to secretly videotape them during a sexual tryst, and how a portion of said tape was spliced into a holiday cruise promotion that was then shown during a national church convention. For about five seconds, Nate’s glistening, bare backside had been seen by many of the twenty thousand attendees before a quick-thinking technical director stopped the tape. It didn’t matter; the damage had been done. Nate was forced to resign, and his mother, Nettie Thicke Johnson, had immediately placed a call to her good friend Maxine, Obadiah’s wife. Nettie, like Stanley, had been convinced that someone of Obadiah’s stature, experience, and wisdom was the only one who could lead the congregation back down the straight and narrow. Goodness knew that during Nate Thicke’s pastoral reign, the members—and the minister—had gone buck wild.

Obadiah cleared his throat and leaned toward Stanley, his powerful orator’s voice near a whisper. “I know in my heart that every rule I’ve put in place and every change I’ve implemented at that there church is absolutely necessary. Narrow is the road that leads to salvation,” Obadiah continued, his voice rising slightly as he quoted scripture. He looked around the sparsely populated dining room, took in the rich chestnut walls accented with deep red–covered chairs and tablecloths and sipped his coffee. “But as right as I am, the church is failing. The Sunday offering is shrinking faster than a jackrabbit’s peter. And I’m losing the regular parishioners, especially the young folk. That’s why I brought you here, to lead a revival and staunch the flow of fleeing fornicators. If they end up over at that funeral home Jenkins is masquerading as a house of God, Thomas will turn over in his grave.”

Stanley’s chuckle was low and deep. “Aw, c’mon now, Reverend Doctor O. Why are you so hard on Reverend Jenkins? He’s doing the best he can. Besides, he’s older than you are, and most of his members have probably been with him the entire forty years he’s pastored that church.”

Obadiah let out an uncharacteristic snort but otherwise remained silent. He didn’t care to share the beef he had with Reginald Jenkins, a beef that went back those forty years of which Stanley spoke, a situation where Reginald took something that at the time Obadiah thought belonged to him.

“Young women don’t listen to old men like me,” Obadiah said after a pause. “Especially since I’m telling them to close their legs and take the ‘for sale’ and ‘for rent’ signs off their hot-to-trots and whatnot. This medicine will go down better coming from a young, handsome man such as yourself.” He looked over at Stanley, took in the sleek bald head, the smooth, honey-brown face, the square-jawed strength settled under dark brown eyes, and nodded his approval. “Yes, they’ll listen to you.”

Both men paused while the waiter came and took away their dinner dishes. They declined dessert but said yes to more coffee.

Stanley looked down at the outline Obadiah had brought him: a recap of the rules outlined in the newly developed Gospel Truth Member Manual. Among the dozens of the now forbidden activities for church members was wearing makeup or outlandish jewelry; getting tattoos; watching television (except for a list of family programs sanctioned by the committee); and touching, besides handshakes, any member of the opposite sex who was not their spouse.

“I’m going to come with the unadulterated word of God,” Stanley said. He leaned back casually in his seat while his countenance remained serious. “I’m not going to leave them with any questions in their mind. When I get done this week, they’ll understand that being saved and sanctified means no fornication, no adultery, no pornography, and definitely no masturbation.” His lips curled into a snarl as he all but spat out the last word, several unfortunate memories rising up unbidden in his mind. “If these women and men want to call themselves children of God, then they’ve got to live holy!”

The wives of Stanley Morris Lee and Stanley Obadiah Meshach Brook were visiting in the Brook home and having their own conversation on sexual matters . . . from quite a different point of view.

“He hates it!” Passion said passionately. “How can a grown man with three kids and oversized, working plumbing, if you know what I mean, abhor the natural act of sex so much? I just don’t get it, Mama Max.” Passion had been sitting on the plush, cream-colored chenille sofa, but now she paced back and forth across the carpet in Maxine Brook’s living room.

“Humph, that would be a blessing for some women. There’s plenty more that could go wrong in a marriage, child.” Mama Max tamped down the thought that had been nagging her since moving to Texas, about what could go wrong, and refocused her attention on Passion. “Now lookie here, is the man hitting you, abusing you?”

Passion stopped in her tracks. “No. Whatever would make you ask that question?”

“Because I want to know, that’s why.”

The truth was, she and Stan had begun to argue more, and once, just once, he had advanced toward her as if to strike. But he hadn’t. “No, Mama Max. Stan isn’t abusive.”

“Is he a responsible man, keeping food on the table and money in the bank?”

“Yes, ma’am, but—”

“But nothing. Is he a good father to his children?”

“The ministry keeps him busy, but, yes, when he’s around them, he’s a good dad.”

“Then count your blessings and get you a good book to read at night. Drink some of that camouflage tea so you can sleep easy.”

Passion didn’t try to hide her smile. “You mean chamomile, Mama Max?”

“Yeah, that too. Drink it and cool your frisky behind down!”

Passion returned to the sofa and sat close to Mama Max. “Mama, I’m only thirty-four years old. I want to share physical intimacy with my husband, not continue with this forced celibacy that Stanley has mandated. I was celibate for five years before I got married. I don’t intend to be horny and wanting with two hundred pounds of prime beef lying next to me! I’m sorry to be so blatant, Mama Max, but I haven’t been able to talk about this with anyone.”

“No apology needed, Passion. You can speak your mind in my house. Now, I can tell you’re frustrated, and I wish there was something I could say to make you feel better. I haven’t felt the flame of desire for nigh unto twenty years, and was never too crazy about the act of procreation when Reverend and I were busy creating King, Queen, Daniel, and Esther. Maybe I should have been. But as a wife, you do have certain rights. Have you tried talking to Stan about it?”

“Until I’m blue in the face,” Passion said, standing to pace again. “But he won’t even have the discussion anymore—says that as a first lady, I shouldn’t have such animalistic desires.

“It’s not like Stan can’t perform. Our sex life was fairly good right after we got married. Nothing too risqué, you understand, and only once, maybe twice a week. But we did it.”

“And then what happened?”

Passion hesitated. She respected Mama Max and her counsel, but could she share everything with her? Like what she’d discovered in Stan’s luggage after he’d returned from a minister’s conference three months ago? And how, upon further investigation, she’d found similar items hidden in a rarely used gym bag on a top shelf in their garage? And how any doubt as to the use of these items was cleared up when Passion came home one day, early and unexpected, and was shocked senseless by what she saw? Passion decided she wasn’t ready to tell anybody what she’d learned about Stanley Morris Lee. . . . She was barely able to admit this truth to herself.

“Passion, baby . . . you all right? I asked you a question, about what happened to change how you and your husband . . . know each other.”

Passion shared what she could. “Stan has been traveling a lot, so I didn’t really notice it at first. When I finally asked him about it, he made excuses. Then, about three months ago, he started spouting Bible verses and using Scripture and religion as the foundation for denying me what is rightfully mine. He hasn’t touched me since and has made me feel guilty for wanting something perfectly normal!

“Things can’t go on this way,” Passion said, almost to herself, as she looked out Mama Max’s large picture window and beheld a beautiful, Texas fall afternoon. But the burst of color from the autumn purple ash tree in the Brooks’ front yard, the profusion of purple, red, yellow, and orange, was lost on Passion. Her eyes weren’t looking at the scenery out front, but rather at a scene from her past, the pictures she’d taken with her cell phone camera that had changed so many lives. She felt a strange camaraderie with Stan’s ex-wife, Carla Lee, now Carla Chapman, along with the guilt that never totally went away, guilt from what she felt was her part in Stan and Carla’s divorce.

“Passion, you need to take this burden to the Lord and leave it there,” Mama Max said into a room that had suddenly become overwhelmingly quiet. “God can fix whatever is broken.”

When Passion turned to face Mama Max, there were tears in her eyes. “I sure hope so, Mama,” she said in a whisper. “Because if God can’t fix it, a divorce court can.”

Shortly after divulging her dilemma to Mama Max, Passion asked to be driven to the guest pastor condo. Her marital admissions had made her tired, and she wanted to spend some quiet time alone with her thoughts before Stan arrived. Once inside the comfortably decorated abode, Passion undressed quickly and took a shower. She had no reason to believe that tonight would be any different from all the others, but she wanted to be clean . . . just in case.

As Passion walked into the closet to don a nightgown, Stan’s unlocked luggage caught her eye. Without pausing to think, she stepped over to it and lifted the lid. Inside, everything was compartmentalized and organized, much like Stan’s life. His underwear, including briefs, were neatly folded, his socks paired and lined against the side. Not wanting Stan to know that she’d snooped in his belongings, Passion gingerly lifted the undershirts, T-shirts, and casual polos. She ran a hand inside the zippered compartment and came up against belts, handkerchiefs, and ties. She was just about to pull out her hand when her fingers felt something else.

Passion closed her eyes and took a breath. She slowly pulled out what her hands clutched. Swallowing, she opened her eyes and sighed. The pink silky fabric was trimmed in frilly black lace. Passion didn’t have to hold them up to know, but she did anyway. It was just as she’d expected. The panties were extra large . . . just Stan’s size.

Stan eased up the privacy partition in the limo that had picked him up. The meeting he’d just had with Obadiah was at once invigorating and exhaustive. He loved spending time with this elder in the faith, loved sharing the Word with and learning from someone of Doctor Obadiah Brook’s caliber. Often, Stan didn’t feel on the same page with men his age, like KCCC’s pastor, Derrick Montgomery, or Mount Zion’s King Brook. True, they all preached from the same Bible and basically shared the same religious tenets, but whenever the talk turned personal, especially regarding the opposite sex, Stan shut down. How could these two virile men, who made love to their wives on the regular, understand what he was going through?

Stan smiled, remembering Obadiah’s comment about the only other Black Baptist minister in Palestine, Pastor Reginald Jenkins. The man was eighty if he was a day, which would have made him about forty when he took over First Baptist. That would have made Doctor O around thirty during that time. Stan remembered the snort and the frown that had flitted across Obadiah’s face before he covered it with his usually stern countenance. At one time, Obadiah had been a young man. It was the first time Stanley had given this fact any consideration. Maybe King Brook was more like his father than Stan realized.

Why am I thinking about that man’s past? Whatever happened forty years ago with him and Old Man Jenkins is none of my business. Maybe not, but what happened to Stan almost forty years ago was haunting him more and more these days. He’d successfully shut out what started on that rainy day in April, and the chain of events that followed, for a very long time, decades, in fact. Why are these memories coming back now? But Stan knew why—it was because he’d come face-to-face with his past three months ago, when souls weren’t all that had gotten revived in Detroit.

Luke Wilkes, the pastor of Spread the Word Cathedral, Detroit’s newest megachurch referred to simply as the Cathedral, could barely contain his excitement. He’d been trying for months to get one of the city’s most prominent and richest politicians, Bryce Covington, to join the church’s board. And now it looked like that just might happen. During a casual conversation a month before, Luke had mentioned Stan Lee and the upcoming revival. Turns out Bryce Covington had heard of Stan Lee, was impressed with his ministry, and wanted to meet him. Luke was also talking to Stan about being a board member at-large. It would be wonderful to have either of these men’s counsel, particularly regarding the business and outreach aspects of the ministry, but if he could get both, Luke knew it would be quite the Cathedral coup. He was hoping this meeting would solidify these desires.

Luke’s assistant tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Pastor? Mr. Covington is on the line for you.” Luke excused himself from the elite gathering of people in his office to take the call confirming the city councilman’s attendance at the luncheon.

“Bryce, it’s Luke. Hope this call doesn’t mean you’re not coming.”

“To the contrary, Luke, I’m on my way. I just called to see if Stan had made it there yet. I’ll have only about ninety minutes before having to leave to catch a plane to D.C. Wanted to make sure my timing was right.”

“Your timing is perfect. Wish you could stay for the service.”

“I’ll be back to praise the Lord. In the meantime, make sure my office gets DVDs of these services.”

“Will do, brothah.”

“Appreciate that.”

“No problem, just come on through. We’re waiting.”

Twenty minutes later is when the world that Stan had carefully constructed over the past twenty-five years came crashing down on him. As soon as he saw Bryce’s face. As soon as he saw the man with whom he’d had his one and only homosexual encounter, the one and only time he’d truly been sexually satisfied.

“This is the surprise I told you about,” Luke had announced during introductions, proud that he could have a part in bringing together two such important men. “Stan, Bryce is a staunch supporter of the Cathedral and what we’re trying to do in the community. Bryce, Stan is one of the finest men of God—or of men period for that matter—that I know.”

After the luncheon, and the formal announcement that both Stan Lee and Bryce Covington would be joining the Cathedral’s overseer board, the two men found a moment to speak privately.

“Did you know I was coming?” was the first thing Stan said to this former friend and college roommate from two decades ago. Not “Hi,” “How are you doing?” “Kiss my ass” or “Hey, what’s up?” He wanted to know if he was the reason Bryce had shown up at church.

“It’s the only reason I’m here.” Bryce’s dark brown, almost black, pupils bore into Stan’s equally chocolate ones. Stan fought hard to maintain his composure as he stared at the man nicknamed PB—Pretty Boy—by those in the close-knit circle to which these men once belonged. Bryce had only gotten better-looking with age. His curly black hair was shorn almost to his head, but his eyelashes were just as long and thick as ever. A thin mustache framed his succulent lips, the bottom one larger than the top, just as Stan remembered. The faintest crow’s feet appeared around Bryce’s eyes, and the slightest wisps of gray brushed his temples. Stan’s heart skipped a beat, in spite of itself.

Stan turned away from the love he saw in Bryce’s eyes and found his voice. “I’m a long way from whatever you’re thinking,” he said, looking past Bryce to the group of men laughing on the other side of the large conference room. “What happened back then was a mistake, one I’ve not repeated. I’m married—”

“For the second time,” Bryce interrupted. “To Passion Lee, who used to be Passion Perkins. Before that, you were married to the talk show host Carla Chapman. You had two children with her and adopted her oldest child, a daughter.”

Stan’s eyes widened. “How in the world—”

“Don’t panic, Stanley. It’s not too hard these days. Besides, I’ve never forgotten you, have followed you off and on for years. Remember Eddie?”

“Eddie West?” Of course, Stan thought belatedly. Eddie, a successful attorney in Washington, D.C., and head deacon at a megachurch there, was the only man from those days with whom Stan had kept contact. He’d had no idea that Eddie and Bryce were also in touch. Stan never brought him up, and Eddie had never mentioned him either. So he had no way of knowing. Until now. “What do you want, Bryce?”

“You,” was Bryce’s immediate response. “I’ve never stopped loving you all these years. Never stopped hoping—”

“I’m a happily married man,” Stan said, even as Passion’s frowning face swam into his consciousness. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “A happily married, heterosexual man.” Stan threw a head nod at one of the preachers across the room who’d waved his good-bye. Determined to regain his composure, Stan forced himself to look Bryce dead in the eye. “Believe it or not, it’s good to see you, Bryce. I hope we can work together to benefit the kingdom and the citizens of this city. But that’s all we’ll do together, understand? If you exhibit one hint of impropriety with me, or ever bring up our past again, I’ll resign the seat I just accepted.”

“Damn,” Bryce whispered, his voice like silk, his demeanor unruffled. “Your forcefulness, that brute strength, is what always turned me on so much. You haven’t changed a bit.” He laughed loudly and held out his hand. Stan had no choice but to shake it because others had turned to see what was funny, as Bryce had intended. Stan pasted a smile on his face, even as he felt the jolt of electricity when the two touched palms. This long-ago lover then walked away, and after shaking a few more hands and thanking the host, Bryce left the room.

He left the room, but not Stan’s thoughts. Seeing Bryce again opened a door Stan had thought locked and bolted, with the key thrown away—a door that was created forty years ago, when Stan was eight years old. Since this surprise meeting with Bryce, Stan had begun doing things he hadn’t done since college, and he hadn’t been able to make love to Passion since he’d shaken Bryce’s hand. He thought he’d been delivered from this desire. Now Stan knew he had only been fooling himself. . . .

“Doctor Lee? Doctor Lee?” The limo driver tapped on the partition, and after not getting a response had lowered the glass just enough to speak to his client. “We’re here at the condo, sir. Unless there’s somewhere else you’d like me to take you.”

Stan looked up at the well-lit complex with its stone architecture and neatly trimmed bushes. He’d been totally unaware of the passing scenery during the twenty minutes it had taken to get from the restaurant where he’d met Obadiah to the condominium that housed guest pastors. He nodded at the driver, and once the door opened, stepped out and took a deep breath of the cool evening air. Stan thought of his wife waiting inside the apartment and shook his head, as if doing so would rid him of the memory of Bryce and their shared history. If only it were that easy.

Nettie and Mama Max beamed from the back of the church. If this first night of revival was any indication, the month-long promotional campaign announcing this impromptu round of meetings was a success.

“The church hasn’t been this full since Nate left,” Nettie gushed.

“Those flyers the girls passed out did the trick,” Mama Max said, her thoughts slightly distracted as she eyed every person who walked through the door. “I knew putting Stanley’s face on the paper would draw these women to the pews like bees to honey.”

“Now you just go on, Mama Max. I’m sure these women have gathered to hear a good sermon and praise the Lord. No doubt it’s remembering his preaching skills from Nate’s anniversary celebration that has them flocking like flies to poop.”

“Uh-huh, and if you believe that, I’ve got some oceanfront land in Mississippi to sell you.” Nettie joined Mama Max in laughter. “That’s a handsome man if there ever was one,” Mama Max continued. “It’s such a shame that . . .”

Nettie quickly looked over at Mama Max. “Shame that what?”

“Nothing.” Mama Max shared almost everything with Nettie, but she would never dream of breaking a confidence. What Passion Lee had told her would go no further than the distance the words had traveled from Passion’s lips to Maxine’s ears.

Conversation dwindled as the two women watched the mostly female audience vie for the few remaining seats in the eight-hundred-seat sanctuary. In addition to the flyers, the Gospel Truth Church had bought air time on a couple of AM radio stations and cable channels in Dallas and had posted the news about Stan Lee’s guest minister appearance in the surrounding area’s local papers. Stan’s office had sent out an e-mail to all of their ministry partners in Texas, Louisiana, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Mississippi. Everyone intimately involved in the Gospel Truth ministry knew the importance of a full sanctuary every night of this five-night revival. Tithes and offerings had fled along with the saints running from Obadiah’s fire-and-brimstone teaching. Attendance had dropped almost fifty percent in three short months. A successful revival would ensure that the Gospel Truth bank account was saved right along with the saints’ souls. Failure was not an option, because not only was the mortgage late, but the insurance, utilities, and employee paychecks were also past due.

Thirty minutes later, a poised and confident Stan Lee took the pulpit, along with Obadiah and several associate and visiting members. Stan sat in the large middle chair. Its high back of intricately carved oak and its plush, deep blue velvet cushion held to the wood with solid-gold fasteners was a throne fit for the main speaker of God’s Word. He perused the crowd briefly before closing his eyes and resting his chin against strong, steepled fingers. As the choir neared the end of their song, Stan rose slowly from his seat, crossed the podium, and took the microphone, joining in effortlessly with his melodious baritone and singing the words to the song he requested, a song he hoped would prepare the palates of those attending the night’s service. “Lord, I want to be a Christian,” he sang, “in my heart.”

Passion Lee sat in the front row, between Nettie Thicke Johnson and Mama Max. She watched her husband as he orchestrated the setting, looking fine, fit, and fabulous in a tailored chocolate-brown suit that accentuated both his shoulders and his honeyed skin color. His face was clean-shaven, save for a neatly trimmed goatee that he’d grown at Passion’s suggestion. Six feet of manly muscle, his look was the epitome of a lover who could more than please, a man who could take you in his arms, place you up against the wall, and . . . Passion shook her head to rid herself of such thoughts. Stan hadn’t placed anything anywhere in way to. . .