The First Lady Read online

  THE FIRST LADY

  CARL WEBER

  DAFINA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  850 Third Avenue

  New York, NY 10022

  Copyright © 2007 by Carl Weber

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  Dafina Books and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Nunber: 2006933346

  eISBN 978-0-7582-6300-1

  eISBN 0-7582-6300-1

  First Printing: January 2007

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to the Reverend Joseph Simmons, Minister Tyrone Thompson, Pastor Jerry Cannon, and Reverend Stanley Wright. Each of you has taught me a respect for the ministry in a different way. I’ll always appreciate it. God bless.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  1 BISHOP

  2 MARLENE

  3 MONIQUE

  4 BISHOP

  5 SAVANNAH

  ALISON AND THE FIRST LADY

  6 MARLENE

  7 BISHOP

  8 LISA

  9 SAVANNAH

  10 MARLENE

  11 MONIQUE

  12 BISHOP

  13 LISA

  14 MARLENE

  15 BISHOP

  16 MONIQUE

  17 BISHOP

  ALISON AND THE FIRST LADY

  18 LISA

  19 MONIQUE

  20 MARLENE

  21 MONiQUE

  22 BISHOP

  23 MONIQUE

  ALISON AND THE FIRST LADY

  24 BISHOP

  25 LISA

  26 BISHOP

  27 MONIQUE

  28 BISHOP

  29 LISA

  30 MARLENE

  31 MONIQUE

  ALISON AND THE FIRST LADY

  32 BISHOP

  33 SAVANNAH

  34 MONIQUE

  35 LISA

  ALISON AND THE FIRST LADY

  36 BISHOP

  37 THE PROPOSAL

  EPILOGUE: ALISON AND THE FIRST LADY

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1 KIM

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my editor, Karen Thomas, for all the things she’s done for me and my career. Not only have you been a great editor and colleague, but you’ve been a terrific friend.

  PROLOGUE

  “Hey, Charlene, you ready to get started?”

  My good friend and confidante, Alison Williams, smiled as she walked into my hospital room. I tried to smile back when she kissed my forehead, but the abdominal pains I was experiencing wouldn’t allow it. So, I lay there in my bed, grappling through the pain as I watched her sit in the chair next to my bed and pull out some of my personal stationery and a pen. I pressed the button that controlled the morphine drip in my arm, and Alison waited patiently for my pain reliever to kick in. Six months ago, I refused to use any type of pain medication, but now I understood why the Lord invented addictive drugs like morphine and Demerol. Without them, I probably would have died from the pain of my pancreatic cancer weeks ago. As it was now, I was pushing the darn drip button every fifteen minutes. I was on the highest dose there was, which meant I didn’t have long to live, probably a few weeks at best.

  I wasn’t afraid of dying, though. I’d lived a good life, married a wonderful man in Bishop T.K. Wilson, raised two fantastic children, and had the honor of being the first lady of absolutely the best church in New York—First Jamaica Ministries. So, if the Lord was ready to call me home, although I considered myself young at forty-four, I was ready to go. The only thing I was afraid of was what would happen to my family—more importantly, my husband—after I was gone. I was now making preparations to be sure my man was taken care of after my death.

  You see, as good and honorable a man of God as T.K. was, he was still just a man with desires and needs; and men, no matter how bright they may appear to be, are very naive when it comes to women, especially slick-ass churchwomen. I could see it now. Fifteen minutes after they put me in the ground, those church heifers would be in my house trying to figure out the best way to redecorate and move my shit out. Say what you might about my choice of words, but I’d seen these so-called churchwomen in action too many times in the past.

  Last year when Sister Betty Jean White passed away, within six months, her worst enemy, Jeannette Wilcox, had weaseled her way into Sister Betty’s house and was sleeping with her husband. A few months after that, they were married. If you walk in that house today, there’s not one sign that Sister Betty even lived there. So, I could envision T.K., in his moment of grief and loneliness, letting some church heifer manipulate him into doing just about anything she wanted, and I was not about to allow that.

  Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t trying to stop my husband from moving on with his life after I was gone. On the contrary, I wanted him to find someone to spend the rest of his days with and be happy. I just wanted to make sure that that someone had his best interests at heart and wasn’t just some ambitious, Biblecarrying gold digger with her own agenda. That’s why, with the help of Alison, I was planning on helping my husband pick my successor from the grave.

  I felt some relief when the pain medication finally kicked in, and Alison helped me as I struggled to sit up. She placed a pillow behind my head, then sat back in her seat to take notes as I began to dictate the fourth of several letters to be given out after my death. One would be for T.K., to let him know how much I loved him and that I wanted him to move on with his life. The next letters would be to the four women I thought were the top candidates to vie for my husband’s heart and become the next first lady of First Jamaica Ministries. In my opinion, not every one of these women was a suitable candidate, which was even more reason for me to be writing these letters. I had to steer the course of events so that T.K. would not end up with the wrong woman.

  I started this day’s dictation with a letter for T.K.'s first love, Marlene, the mother of his illegitimate daughter, Tanisha. I never really told anyone this, but I liked Marlene, even if she was extremely rough around the edges. She had spunk, and from what I was told, a loyalty to T.K. that almost rivaled my own. I know it might sound strange for a woman, any woman, to have kind words about her husband’s ex-lover, but their relationship happened long before I met T.K. and before he found the Lord.

  I will admit, though, that at one time I had been glad that Marlene had moved to D.C. But that was before I was diagnosed with cancer, when I made it a point to keep any woman who might tempt T.K. as far away as possible. Now I was happy to hear that she had recently moved back to Queens and had even shown up at a few church services. She, unlike any of the other candidates, had a connection to my family, which made her a very favorable competitor in the race for T.K.'s heart. Her only flaw in my eyes was that she was a recovering drug abuser … but then again, so was my husband.

  The next letter was to be written to Savannah Dickens. Savannah was the church’s new choir soloist. She was a quiet, attractive woman in her mid-thirties who kept to he
rself. She’d grown up in our church but had been living in California for the past fifteen years. I didn’t know much about her except that she had a phenomenal voice and had just recently returned to the church and the community. I will admit I’m not much for quiet folks because they’re usually trying to hide something. She was, however, the daughter of Deacon Joe Dickens, so there was no denying that she would be at least considered for the position of first lady after my death. Her father was one of the more prominent older members of our church, and he was looking to become the chairman of the Deacons Board, so I was sure that after my death he would be trying his best to push T.K. and Savannah together in an effort to consolidate power. It was a move I wasn’t against, because it would probably benefit T.K. in the long run. The more people he had watching his back the better. What I didn’t like was the fact that Savannah was only thirty-five years old. I wasn’t objecting to her age so much; she was only ten years younger than T.K. I was worried that she was thirty-five and didn’t have any children. A woman under forty who hadn’t had a child probably wanted kids of her own, and that was out. The last thing T.K. needed after raising my son, Dante, and my daughter, Donna, and then putting them through college was another baby to support. Besides, he was now a grandfather. How would he look having a child that was younger than his grandchildren?

  The next letter was to my very good friend Sister Lisa Mae Jones. Lisa and I had been friends for years. She was the widow of Pastor Lee Jones, who passed away suddenly four years ago. She joined our church a year after her husband’s church hired a new pastor, and his wife replaced her as first lady. Lisa had everything it took to be a first lady. She was smart, attractive, had plenty of connections, and, most importantly, Lisa had enough attitude that she wouldn’t let these church heifers run over her or T.K. She also had a true loyalty to me. I didn’t know if she’d want the job, but one could always hope.

  Next in line was Ms. Monique Johnson, the first lady of plastic surgery and implants. Oh, she would swear she’d never been touched cosmetically except for the blessings the Lord had given her, but I’m sorry, there was no way a forty-year-old woman who’d given birth could have a body like hers without having something nipped and tucked. The way she walked around the church showing off her fake cleavage and that humongous booty of hers in those tight dresses was disgraceful. And not only was her body fake, but so was her personality. I’d never met a phonier woman in my entire life. She was always smiling in my face like she was my best friend, then grinning at T.K. like he was the last man on earth and she had to have him.

  Monique knew I was aware that she wanted my husband, but that didn’t stop her from disrespecting me by always trying to get in his face. I had a thought to slap her a few times over the past few years. The sad thing was that T.K. just couldn’t see it. I brought it up to him several times before I got sick, but he just dismissed it as me being paranoid. He might have been right to an extent, because I was paranoid. My husband was a powerful and handsome man in a position that put him in contact with many lonely, single women with low self-esteem. But paranoid or not, my watchfulness had served me well over twenty-plus years of marriage, and I never had a reason to think my man had strayed. I trusted my husband, but I wasn’t taking any chances with Monique or any other woman with her reputation.

  Rumor had it that she had had extramarital affairs with at least two high-profile members of the church. So, for years, I’d kept that wench as far away from my husband as possible. I planned to try to continue doing that even after my death. Some of my girlfriends from the church confirmed that Monique’s overtures toward T.K. had become even bolder since I was hospitalized. I was sure T.K. hadn’t even given the woman a second thought with me being sick and all, but a question still remained: Would he be strong-willed enough to stay away from her after my death? I could only hope.

  By the time we’d written Monique’s first letter, the pain was starting to return. I wanted to push the drip, but the machine only allowed me medication every fifteen minutes, and I’d just pushed it for the third time five minutes earlier. Being the concerned friend she was, Alison insisted that we’d done enough for the day. God willing, we’d finish the rest of the letters in the next few days. Although I’m not going to reveal their content, I can assure you that they would shake up a whole lot of people. Six months from now, I’d be dead, but I could guarantee that my presence would still be felt.

  Can you dictate the lives of your family, friends, and enemies from the grave? Those were the thoughts I contemplated as I waited for the new dose of pain medication to take effect. I could picture the scenario now: The first lady of First Jamaica Ministries is dead. Who will win the bishop’s heart and become the next first lady? Only time will tell.

  1

  BISHOP

  Six months later

  I leaned forward in my chair and opened my desk drawer, taking out two glasses and a bottle of cognac that I saved for special occasions. I poured myself a drink and one for my best friend, James Black. There was nothing like drinking some good oldfashioned cognac with James, especially after a day when the fish weren’t biting worth a darn. James and I spent a great deal of time together when it came to both business and pleasure. He was a loyal friend, a former deacon, and now the chairman of the board of trustees of our church. He was also my eyes and ears among the members of the church since my wife, Charlene, passed away, God bless her soul, six months ago.

  Lately, James seemed to be seeing and hearing more things that I was oblivious to in the church. I hated that because I tried to remain close to all the members of the congregation, but there are some things that church folks just won’t tell their pastor. That’s where my wife, and now James, had come in handy. They both had a knack for discovering things before they blew up in my face—my wife, because she was very nosy and intimidating, and James because … well, let’s just say he was a ladies’ man, and I had to turn my head every once in a while from his lustful behavior. Nonetheless, they both got the job done in their own way, and I was appreciative.

  “T.K.,” James said, swirling his cognac before taking a sip. He stared at me long and hard, as if he were trying to find the proper words to express himself. Normally, this was something James didn’t seem to have a problem with. I also noted that he’d called me T.K. instead of Bishop. He did that only when he wanted us to step aside from our roles as church heads and deal with each other as men of flesh.

  “What’s on your mind, James? You got something to tell me? You haven’t been yourself all day.”

  James took another sip of his drink. It was obvious he was stalling. “Well, yes, I do,” he finally said.

  “All right, then, man. Spit it out,” I encouraged.

  “All right. T.K., I’ve been talking to some of the sisters of the church, and well … they think it’s time.” He leaned back patiently in his chair, obviously relieved to get this off his chest. I just wished I knew what he was so relieved about. I didn’t have a clue what he thought it was time for.

  “Time? Time for what?” I stared at him as I lifted my glass and took a swallow.

  “Time for you to make a choice. So, I hope you’re ready because life around here isn’t going to be easy until you’ve made your choice.”

  “And what choice do I have to make?” I asked calmly, still not sure where he was going.

  “Whether we’re going to have Armageddon or peace around here,” he replied between sips, staring back at me with so little emotion, he could have been a professional poker player.

  I sat up straight in my chair, trying my best to read my friend’s face because Armageddon was not a word to be used lightly. “What are you talking about, James?”

  “T.K., there is about to be Armageddon in this church, and you’re about to be right in the middle of it.”

  There was that word again. James’s face still showed no emotion, but now his voice had a chill that had me concerned. Had James been given some divine message from God that I had bee
n left out of? Was there dissention in the congregation? Were they about to try to vote me out as pastor? I wasn’t sure what was going on, but before he left my office, my good friend James Black was going to explain himself.

  “James, you of all people know I do not like to play games. So, will you please stop beating around the bush and get to the point?” My voice was firm, and I’m sure he knew I was serious.

  “Look, I’m sorry about that, T.K. I just figured you’d want to hear this subtly.” He took a breath before he spoke. “The women of the church are about to tear this place apart, and it’s all because of you.”

  I searched my mind for reasons I might have upset the women of my congregation. “What have I supposedly done this time?”

  “It’s what you haven’t done, Bishop. These women are losing their minds. Haven’t you noticed what’s going on around here? The women are arriving at church a half hour early just to assure themselves a spot in the front. I’m not just talking about two or three women. There had to be fifty or sixty of them this past Sunday. And I bet you a hundred dollars there’ll be even more this week. It’s crazy.”

  I smiled at my friend with pride. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing, James. The word must be getting around that I give one heck of a sermon.”

  He laughed. “Are you really that naive? These women don’t give a damn about your sermons. They only—”

  I shot him a look, and he tried to clean up his words. “What I mean is, all they care about is you.” He pointed a finger at me. “They are all bound and determined by any means necessary to be the one to become your wife, the next first lady of the church.”

  For the first time, I understood what he was talking about, and I dismissed it immediately. Yes, I knew that every congregation wanted their pastor to be married. It just made sense, if you really thought about it. But my Charlene had been gone only six months. That was way too soon for me to even be entertaining the thought of dating, let alone remarrying.