Come Sunday Morning. Terry E. Hill

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COME SUNDAY MORNING

      COME SUNDAY MORNING

      TERRY E. HILL

       www.urbanbooks.net

      Acknowledgments

      For Scot Harrison, who taught me to love unconditionally and to laugh without fear.

      For Michael Pincus, who taught me it’s okay to get mad as long as you remember that love and integrity trump all.

      To Sha-Shana Crichton, for her commitment to writers, readers, and literature.

      Contents

      Acknowledgments

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      1

      Sunday Morning

      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