Sex In The Sanctuary

by Lutishia Lovely

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

Synopsis

From exciting new author Lutishia Lovely comes a steamy debut in the manner of Victoria Christopher Murray and Kimberla Lawson Roby. Set in a church community on fire for the Lord-and for each other-Sex in the Sanctuary is filled with scintillating sisters, playing brothers, and church matrons trying to run everybody's business . . . As first lady of Kingdom Citizen's Christian Center, Vivian Montgomery has it all: a beautiful home, lovely children, and a pastor husband who makes her shout Hallelujah-and not just in church. There's no doubt Pastor Montgomery has a healthy appreciation for the Lord and for the pleasures of the flesh, namely his wife's flesh. If only Vivian's best friend, Tai, was so blessed . . . A first lady herself, Tai's husband, King, is pastor of Mount Zion Progressive Baptist Church. But with two affairs under his belt, Tai wonders just what "progressive" means. In fact, she strongly suspects her husband is at it again. Now she can follow her mother-in-law's example and threaten to shoot any would-be-husband-stealing floozies, or she can take Vivian's advice and listen for God's instruction. But Tai's husband isn't the only one fighting temptation. Whether trying to wait until marriage or just waiting until the next mating opportunity, these congregations are filled with members whose eyes are on more than Jesus! The result is a page-turning read, not soon to be forgotten.

Release date: February 1, 2007

Publisher: DAFINA

Print pages: 384

Sample

When I think of gratitude, acknowledgements, thank-yous, and of all the people and experiences that ultimately helped me co-create this moment, I am reminded of just how blessed I am, of how amazing this journey called “life” is, and of how everything and everyone is connected. All of those thank-yous would equal the size of this novel!

But there are those whose thoughts, words and deeds are intricately woven into the fabric of this particular work. Your talent, energy, positive attitudes, senses of humor and love helped it happen. And it is you I thank now.

To Spirit, the I Am, for allowing and enabling me to reflect Your light in the earth. In the beginning was the Word…and we’re still writing. I am so grateful…

To my earliest mentors and, in addition to being my parents, two of my best friends: Willie and Flora Hinton. I love you! To my nieces, nephews, brothers and especially my sisters, Dee and Marcella, for our crazy conversations, laughter and tears, down through the years. Y’all know. To Aunt Ernie (Jackson), for believing in my writing and for living in New York, one of my favorite cities.

To my special family of friends: Sherri Roulette-Mosley, Kai Aiyetoro and Fadzo Chanakira (Wu-Wu!) for your invaluable input, feedback, suggestions and critiques through the rewrites, and through life. To my twin, Storm, for being a much needed sounding board and breath of fresh air. To Micki Guzmán and Tino Struckmann for the unexpected yet treasured friendships during our literary journeys. You’re next! To mi amigo Hugo Perez. Gracias para todo. And to my heart, Cuezalin; my world shines brighter with you in it…tlazohcamati.

To the Kensington crew: My fearless and flawless editor Stacey Barney (there I go with the adjectives!), Karen Thomas, the pivotal Hilary Sares, Are you sure you don’t want me to read this? Also Lydia Stein, Karina Mikhli, Barbara Bennett and Brendan Finnel.

To Kristine Mills-Noble, Jo Tronc and Tracy Marx for the reason this book is flying off the shelves…the cover! Speaking of shelves, to bookstores and booksellers everywhere.

To my legal counsel and the Author’s Guild, Robin Davis Miller and the amazing Anita Fore. Your commitment to writers is first class! To agents Sha Shana Crichton and Natasha Kern. What you women do is no joke!

And to you, yes you, the one who’s so graciously picked up this novel and turned the page. What would a writer be without a reader? Exactly. I pray God’s blessings on your life and your dreams.

If you didn’t see your name, and you believe yours is a name that should be seen? The sequel’s coming, darlin’s. Keep reading…

It squeezed her booty without apology. But that was only part of the beauty of a St. John suit. The other was its flawless design—its intricate stitching—its wrinkle-free fabric. The way it hugged every inch of her curved, firm body. She was a perfect St. John size six. Thirty-eight years and two children later, a perfect St. John size six and she was proud of it.

Vivian Elise Stanford Montgomery stepped back and briefly inspected her image in the mirror. She moved to the dresser and, pushing aside the two-carat diamond studs, decided on the round ruby dangles with matching choker. The black onyx jewel setting provided a fitting backdrop to the precious stones and complemented the black piping around the jacket as if they had been designed specifically for the occasion.

The ruby and the black and the herringbone all worked to complement Vivian’s unblemished, coffee-colored complexion. Well, coffee with a wee bit of cream. She’d been pretty her whole life, although she didn’t always think so. It took Sistah Lillie and Brotha Benson’s son Titus to convince her she was really pretty, worth a Snickers candy bar and the faux-pearl ring he got out of his Cracker Jack box, but that’s another story. To this day she still wasn’t sure whether Titus really thought she was pretty or if he just wanted her to play hide-and-go-get-it behind Brother Armstrong’s toolshed, but again, that’s another story. She could remember being in the Sunbeams and having the mothers of the church comment, “Ooh, ain’t she a pretty little black thang?”

Her shoulder-length black hair framed her face softly in a trendy flip style, a style that accented the Asian slant of her wide, brown eyes. Sitting at the vanity, she finished her make-up, adding just a hint of blush and a subtle layer of ruby red lipstick to her full, well-defined lips.

Vivian opened the set of double doors to her dressing room and grabbed a snazzy pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps, black with a patch of ruby and black herringbone fabric encased between the leather toe and heel. She slid into them effortlessly while eyeing the matching bag on the lower shelf. She glanced briefly at her watch, and amidst the dazzle of diamonds that caught the light from every direction, was the message that she’d better hurry.

Crossing to the dresser, Vivian splashed on a generous amount of Spikenard, a present from her best friend Tai’s most recent visit to the Holy Land. With one last glance in the full-length mirror, rather a stop-pivot-turn, stop-head-back-pivot-turn again, Vivian exited the spacious master bedroom and entered the hallway.

“Derrick! Elisia! Let’s go!” She never stopped walking as she knocked on each child’s door and headed for the stairway. She knew that Anastacia, the housekeeper and children’s nanny, would have them dressed and ready to go. “We’re down here, Mama!” yelled Elisia, all satin and lace. Derrick was sitting on the settee in the foyer, already looking like a deacon at the ripe old age of seven. Why did he insist on dressing like that? Because it made him look like his father, that was why, and his father was his hero.

His father, Dr. Derrick Anthony Montgomery, was many people’s hero. Senior pastor of Los Angeles’ latest soul-saving sensation, Kingdom Citizens’ Christian Center, he was a preacher’s son, preacher’s preacher, scholar, teacher, much-sought-after conference speaker and one of the finest brothers this side of glory. Vivian smiled as this last thought popped into her head. But how could she help it as she looked at her husband’s spitting image, albeit thirty years younger, in front of her?

You know how people say when you meet your husband you’ll know? Well, Vivian had that very experience when she laid eyes on D-2’s daddy fifteen years ago. Lord! Where had the time gone? And why did the moment seem like yesterday?

 

It was back in her home state of Kansas at the Kewana Valley District’s annual Baptist Convention. Vivian hadn’t wanted to go. The only reason she, a twenty-one-year-old communications graduate on her way to becoming the first Black Barbara Walters, had agreed to revisit her old religious stomping grounds was because her best friend’s husband was being installed as the new and youngest assistant moderator of the district, and her friend thought Vivian’s attending would add a bit of “celebrity” to the affair.

Her best friend was Twyla “Tai” Nicole Brook. Vivian and Tai (so named because her goddaughter and namesake couldn’t say Twyla. It always came out “tie-la,” so they eventually settled on Aunt Tai, and the name stuck) had been friends since the ninth grade. That’s when Vivian’s father, Victor L. Stanford, had made a sizeable contribution to Kewana Valley District’s Higher Learning Scholarship Fund, and in doing so had become even more important than his propensity for eloquent speech and impenetrable loyalty already afforded him. Her father had been invited to join the district’s board, and shortly thereafter invited to a board meeting, family included, in the Florida Keys. Vivian dreaded the trip because she thought she’d have to endure a week of “old fogies” and was delighted when she met fourteen-year-old, auburn-haired, freckle-faced Twyla in the lobby of the posh Hilton Keys Hotel. They had run off to their rooms, donned modest two-piece swimsuits, headed to the beach and shared lifetime secrets, dreams and aspirations that only thirteen-and fourteen-year-old girls could share. They were fast friends from that very day, and even a hundred-mile distance—for that was how far they lived from each other at the time—could not separate them. They wrote each other every week and talked on the phone almost every day from the ninth grade through Vivian’s first couple of years of college.

Just before her senior year in high school, Tai informed Vivian that she was getting married. Vivian was not surprised. Tai’s singular goal after graduating was to become a wife and mother, and she had talked nonstop about King Wesley Brook from the moment she met him. She surmised after their first kiss that he would be her husband, and after their first unofficial date a short time later, a surreptitious meeting in the church parking lot during a midnight revival, said he would be the father of her children. She was right on both counts and became Mrs. King Wesley Brook shortly after her nineteenth birthday and six months before their first child, Michael Wesley Brook, was introduced to the world.

 

Tai had asked Vivian to deliver a motivational speech at the Saturday Night Youth Extravaganza. Vivian went to the Friday night services to gauge the type of crowd attending the meeting. She wasn’t sure whether to be more spiritual, religious or political. It was a fine line during this time, the ’80s, and with her ever-increasing personal relationship with God and widening social and political views as a news correspondent, she was always walking that line.

She tried to sneak in after the devotional (which she found boring) and before the offering (where she wanted to be sure and give back to God). She excuse me’d down to the center of the pew three rows from the back and had just opened her program when the lady to the left tapped her and nodded toward an usher who was motioning, for her to follow him. She looked around and saw Tai’s widened eyes which said “come on girl,” so she dutifully excuse me’d back down the row, avoiding a few angry eyes but not missing the “umph”s and “tsk”s of a few sisters before bowing her head and following Mr. Black-Suit-White-Shirt-Pinstriped-Tie down to the second row.

She barely had a chance to squeeze Tai’s arm, giving her a little pinch, when she saw him. He came in with the pastors and others designated to participate in the evening’s program. She was staring without knowing it and, even after she knew it, couldn’t stop. She checked him out from the top of his s-curled, collar-length hair to the soles of his buffed and polished snakeskin boots. Snakeskin boots! Who was this brother?

“Who’s Mr. Snakeskin Boots?” she hissed at Tai. Tai just smiled and rolled her eyes while rocking to the choir’s fiery rendition of “Jesus Is A Rock.” Vivian tried to regain her composure, but snakeskin boots had cooked her collards. He was wearing a dark navy, double-breasted suit that emphasized his broad shoulders which narrowed down—can we say “vee”—into a highly huggable waist and then fanned out, oh-so-slightly, to reveal a perfectly shaped, hard butt…Jesus! What was she thinking? And in the middle of church service no less. Right in between “rock in a weary land” and “shelter in the time of storm.” Pull yourself together, girl!

She tried to divert her eyes as he sat down and even joined Tai in a rock, clap, rock, clap as the choir bumped it up an octave. She threw in an “amen,” raised her arms and closed her eyes, trying to capture the image of Jesus as a rock. But all she could see was curly hair and snakeskin boots, and it was making her hot! She opened her eyes just in time to see Snakeskin staring at her intently. She closed her eyes again and tried to start singing, but since she didn’t know the words it just looked as if she were singing in tongues, and they didn’t play that at the Baptist Convention in 1985! When she stole another peek Snakeskin was smiling broadly, as if he knew she’d been thinking of him.

Vivian was thankful when a lady two rows behind her got happy and started jumping up and screaming, “My Rock, my Rock!” That brought other members of the audience to their feet, and before she knew it Tai was on her feet, thankfully blocking Vivian’s view of Snakeskin. About this time Tai’s husband, King Wesley Brook, mounted the podium along with his father, the Reverend Doctor Pastor Bishop Overseer Mister Stanley Obadiah Meshach Brook, Jr., Vivian’s father and a group of other board members. The song had reached a feverish pitch, and the choir was rocking, literally. Just before delivering the song’s final lyric, they paused. The choir, director with hand in midair, pianist, organist, drummer, lead singer—everybody stopped. It seemed everyone in the audience was frozen, too, holding their breath, all except for the “happy” woman two rows back whose “My Rock!” had toned down to a quiet “Rock” between sobs as she was furiously fanned by two ushers in white. Oh, it was on now! The Holy Spirit was moving, people were remembering how Jesus had been their Rock and there was shouting and crying and dancing going on all around. All that time the choir remained frozen, as did Vivian, but she for a totally different reason. Slowly the lead singer, a Karen Clark-like soprano-alto, sang the final line. She hit every note on the musical scale as she brought the song to its dramatic conclusion. Adding several syllables to each word, she belted out, “Jesus is my Rock.”

The drummer started a roll on the snares, the guitarist held on to a string, the note reverberating in the air, the pianist and organist seemed to be in a competition as to who could hit the most keys in the shortest amount of time and the lead singer had gone on a journey to find notes that heretofore had not been hit. The song never really ended. It just faded away. The lead singer started her own personal praise as she walked back to the choir loft, the musicians were in their own player praise and the audience added their adorations to the Lord.

Vivian had sat there quiet and still, a small smile playing on her face as she felt the power of God. She stayed that way a long time, through the shouting and the clapping and the praise pause and the player praise. She opened her eyes when she heard the voice of a man that reminded her of her father’s soothing tremor, but the voice was raspier, lighter. She cocked her head as she opened her eyes and stared into those of Snakeskin Boots himself, Derrick Anthony Montgomery.

 

“Are you ready to go?”

Vivian jumped, shaken from her walk down memory lane. She was sitting in the living room, waiting for her husband to come down. And here he was in front of her, still melting her just like he did fifteen years ago when she watched him deliver his eloquent tribute to King Brook at the Kewana Valley District’s Baptist Convention.

“Yes, I’m ready,” she responded as she grabbed her purse, and, rising from the couch, kissed him lightly on the mouth. They headed to the garage and the iridescent, pearl white Jaguar waiting there. They all settled in as Derrick hit the garage door opener, started the car and drove down the long, winding driveway.

“King called,” Derrick began after a brief silence.

“When?”

“Just now.”

“Must have been important,” Vivian pondered aloud. “He knows how busy Sunday mornings are. What did he want?”

Derrick’s brow creased slightly as he tried to figure that out himself. “I don’t know. I told him I’d call him later today, between services maybe.”

Vivian leaned back and looked out the window. It was a beautiful Sunday in Los Angeles with clear blue skies, fluffy white cumulus clouds and picture-perfect palm trees lining the streets. Her mind drifted to the conversation she and Tai had a couple days ago. Tai had seemed unusually quiet and reserved, and when Vivian asked her if everything was okay, Tai had said she was just tired. Since they had four, Vivian had assumed it was the children. Now she was wondering if it was the kids, or something else?

Tai feigned illness to get out of morning services. Well, she didn’t really lie. She was sick—sick of perpetrating a fraud, acting as though everything was hunky-dory when it wasn’t. She just didn’t think she could go through the motions of blessed-first-lady-without-a-care-in-the-world today. She went downstairs and crossed the lovely yet cluttered atmosphere of the living and formal dining room and entered the large, ranch-style kitchen. At one time this had been her favorite place.

She poured a cup of coffee and even though it was only ten in the morning added just a touch of Bailey’s Irish Cream. Tai didn’t drink often. In fact, she’d never drunk alcohol before until a friend’s baby shower, when she was twenty-six. Not that she thought it was a sin. It was just something she’d never been exposed to, or interested in trying. But this morning she felt that she had some serious soul-searching to do, some decisions to make. And she didn’t think God would mind too much if she asked Mr. Bailey to join her in the process.

Tai leaned back on the island counter and stared out the window into their spacious backyard. She didn’t really see the large oak tree or her children’s brightly colored swing set and battered jungle gym. She didn’t hear the sounds of the robin and crow vying for attention in God’s feathered friends’ choir. Tai didn’t notice that the tulips she and her daughters had planted were budding open with bright color swatches of pink, purple, yellow and red, and had formed a nature necklace around the oak tree’s huge trunk. When Tai looked out into this Sunday morning all she could see was Hope Jones. Petite and powerful, funny and fiery, spiritual and seductive, she was in many ways the exact opposite of Tai’s subdued, almost shylike personality. Hope reminded her a bit of Vivian, except Vivian had more class in her toenail than this woman did in her whole body.

It was, in fact, her similarity to Vivian and her zeal for God that Tai had initially appreciated when Hope had come to the church as a transplant from Tulsa, Oklahoma. She even had the same hourglass figure as Vivian, much to Tai’s weight-gaining chagrin. Hope had landed a job in Kansas City and said the second thing on her agenda after finding a place to live was finding a church home. She’d fit in immediately with the members of Mount Zion Progressive Baptist Church, a place where the membership, two thousand strong and growing, was more like family than anything else. Hope had attended the same type of close-knit church in Tulsa, though that congregation was much smaller, and she was always searching for the things of God. She had been active in her home church from the time she was baptized at the age of seven, until she left Tulsa. She’d been first a student and later a teacher in their Sunday School, a member of the drama department and lead singer and codirector of the church choir. Her father was head of the Deacon Board, a group of men who carried out the business of running the church under the pastor’s direction. Her mother had been the pianist for years, until she and Hope’s father divorced and her mother had moved her membership to the Methodist church on the other side of town. Hope had stayed at the Baptist church with her father and her friends and by the time she left had become a leader who was now sorely missed. At least those were the facts as told by Mrs. McCormick, and Juanita normally got her facts pretty straight.

Hope had literally exploded onto Mount Zion’s small scene, a kaleidoscope of energy and enthusiasm, just what the church’s youth department needed. She’d immediately become invaluable to its director, Sister Juanita McCormick, and—although Tai didn’t notice it at first—to her husband as well.

It wasn’t his first affair. That had happened years ago, right before Princess, their second child, was born. That one she had seen coming a mile away. Tootie “the Floozie” Smith had been her nemesis since high school, a woman who always wanted what she couldn’t have. She’d had an on-again, off-again relationship with King until Tai and King got married. And she was a sore loser. Not only that, but Tai thought Tootie had as much use for God as a blind man for reading glasses. So when Tootie Smith walked into a Wednesday night prayer meeting wearing a loud, multicolored jacket over what basically amounted to a cat suit, Tai knew that one of the devil’s helpers had just entered the building.

She didn’t blame Tootie entirely. It took two to tango, and like Tai always told King, “She didn’t make a vow to me, you did.” Things had been a little rough during the first part of their marriage. After much soul-searching she’d finally admitted that one, maybe she had been too young to get married, and two, they’d had no time to really adjust to being a married couple before their son Michael was born. At that time King was working sixteen-hour days trying to get the church established, and Tai, along with being a new mother, was supplementing the income with a full-time secretarial job at Sprint. They barely saw each other those first three years, and when they did they were either too tired or too frustrated or both to share quality time.

Like Michael, Princess wasn’t planned. She came along on one of those rare Friday evenings when King came home early and Tai wasn’t tired. They’d shared a nice dinner and then moved to the den to watch a movie. King popped popcorn while Tai put Michael to bed, and it wasn’t long before their own passion surpassed that of the lead character in Spike Lee’s She’s Gotta Have It. That movie had stirred up controversy in the Baptist circles, and some clergy had urged their members not to see it. Well, King and Tai had rented it to see what the fuss was about. But they never saw the ending. Nine months later, the King had his Princess. But not before Tootie had him.

Tai, seven months pregnant, had taken Michael and headed to Chicago to attend her brother’s graduation from Northwest University. King had planned to go, too, but a last minute crisis at the church had prevented him from leaving. Tootie could barely wait until Tai got back to give her the news. She and King had slept together, at their home, in their bed. Tai never slept in that bed again. In fact, she and King moved to a new house and bought all new furniture shortly after Princess was born.

Tai had been devastated, but she never thought about divorcing King, although she did move to her parent’s home for a couple of months. She was pregnant when she found out about the affair, and it was over before the delivery. King swore it was a one-weekend fling, a seventy-two-hour period where in Tai’s words, “He lost his frickin’ mind!” Indeed, Tai saw Tootie only once or twice after the incident. Word had it she moved to Los Angeles to pursue a singing career. King promised her it was a mistake that would never happen again, and for the next few years, they were very happy. That happiness led to twins Timothy and Tabitha, born three years after Princess. This pregnancy was planned; having twins was not. Yet having been fruitful and having multiplied, the Brooks felt their family was complete. King then visited the doctor for a little “snip-snip” to ensure their childbearing days were over.

The twins were almost a year old when Tai found out about Karen Ward. Like Tootie, Karen was not a member of their congregation; in fact, Karen never stepped foot inside the church. That placed her a miniscule step ahead of Tootie in the class department, but still won her no brownie points. She occasionally attended The Good Shepherd Community Church, with a mostly White congregation, on the city’s north side. Tai and King met her when they went to Byron White’s Fourth of July party. Byron was King’s best friend at the time. Karen was Byron’s cousin from the small town of Iola, about one hundred miles from Kansas City. When King met Karen, Tai had almost put his and Tootie’s affair behind her—almost. She still remembered feeling just a twinge of something when during the course of the afternoon she saw King and Karen laughing together and then later saw Karen staring at King before Tai caught her eye and Karen quickly looked away. Thinking she was just being oversensitive, Tai shook off her feelings of discomfort, and if not for the innocent ramblings of a little child, she may never have learned the truth.

She’d agreed to take the Sunday School’s beginner’s class, those between the ages of six and eight, to the park and then for pizza. This in celebration of their successfully completing the “I’m in the Lord’s Army” study course, which included among other things, memorizing the Lord’s Prayer and Twenty-third Psalm. She and the two other chaperones had spent a vigorous, yet for the most part unchallenging, day at the park and were chomping on pepperoni pizza from Chuck E. Cheese when little Danielle, Byron’s daughter, walked over to her.

“Hi there, Miss Angel,” Tai cooed as she opened her arms for a big hug from Danielle.

“Hi, Queen Bee,” the child cooed back, using the title the church family had bestowed on their much loved first lady. “Where’s Pastor King?”

“He’s probably at the church or at home studying. You like our pastor, don’t you?”

Danielle nodded her head yes and inched even closer into Tai’s embrace. “Aunt Karen likes him, too. She likes him a whole bunch.”

Tai became stock-still at that point, and Sharon, one of the other chaperones, almost shushed the child. But Tai held her hand up and encouraged Danielle to keep talking.

“I’m sure she does,” Tai continued, smiling pleasantly at the little cherub-cheeked messenger whom she was sure God had sent. “All of God’s children are supposed to like each other, right?”

“Uh-huh,” the girl conceded. “But I didn’t know we were supposed to kiss and hug the way Pastor King and Aunt Karen do when they see each other.”

“Where did you see them together?” Tai asked, her voice barely above a whisper and her hand absently stroking the little girl’s long, twisted braid.

Danielle, happy to be the center of attention with what was obviously a pretty important story since it held two adults spellbound, continued on in the blind ignorance that only six-year-olds enjoy. “Oh, at Daddy’s house, and one time when I was staying with Aunt Karen, Pastor King came over to her house and helped us bake cookies.”

“Really?” Tai whispered, her eyes shining with tears but not spilling over.

“Yes,” Danielle replied thoughtfully and in a whisper, too. “Then they went in Aunt Karen’s bedroom while I watched Barney. Then I fell asleep.”

Tai hugged the child close while wiping her eyes quickly. Sharon grabbed her hand and spoke silent volumes of “sistah-girl sympathy.” Tai looked at her with the obvious question in her eyes. Sharon, a longtime member of the church and staunch supporter of her first lady, leaned over and whispered, “As God is my witness, I won’t tell a soul.” She never did. About a year later her husband was promoted and their family moved to Texas. Tai still marveled at Sharon’s trustworthiness and ability to keep a confidence. She no longer, however, liked Chuck E. Cheese.

Tai never knew when the affair started or how long it lasted, but again, King promised her it was the last time. That it had been only a physical thing that meant nothing to him. Tai didn’t believe him. Nor did she care. At least that was the lie she told herself. He had taken the very thing that her life with him had been built on, trust. He’d destroyed her self-esteem, already eroded after four children and fifty extra pounds.

This time it was King’s mother, Sister Maxine Brook, who saved the marriage and Tai’s sanity. She and King had again separated following his adultery. This time King moved out, or rather got kicked out, by his very pissed off wife. Hoping other people’s problems would lessen her own, Tai immersed herself in Oprah, The Young and the Restless and white wine. King returned, but the children became her primary focus, and if not for them, she’d have had to look strenuously for a reason to go on living. Mama Max had phoned one day when Tai was feeling particularly low. Two hours later, she knocked on the door with a meatloaf, a pot of spaghetti, a huge apple cobbler and a dose of age-old attitude that only a mother of the church could possess.

“Baby,” Sister Maxine began as she warmed the food on the stove, pushed up her sleeves and started cleaning a kitchen that hadn’t seen soap for days. “I know you’re hurting. I understand. And I also know you can let this do one of two things. Break ya or build ya.”

Tai reached for her glass of wine and countered, “But, Mama, you don’t understand, you’ve never been down this road.”

“Oh, yeah? You think you’re the first one who’s had to deal with one of them bitches!”

Tai almost choked on her chardonnay. In all this time of knowing Sister Maxine, she’d never heard her say so much as “darn.” Yet here was this matronly diva, still the epitome of style with straight-legged black pants, an extra-large jungle print top that reached midthigh and coiffed hairdo swept up and secured into a fashionable French bun, rolling “bitch” off her tongue as if it wasn’t the first time. Tai stared at her wide-eyed.

“Mama Max!”

Mama Max just gave her a look and then swiveled around to stir the spaghetti. “You got any more of that?” she asked without looking back.

“What?” Tai asked, still amazed Mom had “gone there.”

“That what you’re drinking.” She replaced the lid on the spaghetti and reached for the loaf of French bread and butter. “Pour me a glass and I’ll tell you a story. And shut your mouth before a fly gets in.”

Mama Max went on to tell her about the time almost twenty years earlier when “the Rev acted like a plum fool.” It had been while they were out of town, at a convention in the big city of Dallas, Texas. Sistah Max had been born and raised in a small town and moved to an even smaller town when her husband got his first church. Their marriage experienced its share of ups and downs, but she’d been happy. She’d gone back to the hotel right after service and was in a sound sleep when the phone rang. “Sistah Brook,” an unfamiliar voice had whispered into the receiver. “I don’t mean to be nosy or . . .