Come Sunday Morning. Terry E. Hill

She remembered the therapist’s recommendation to admit their only child into a drug rehabilitation program. Her stomach tensed at the thought of the public scandal it would cause. The daughter of a prominent pastor spending the tithes given by grandmothers on pensions to support her addiction to Ecstasy and alcohol.

      No further words were exchanged until the car turned into the driveway of the Cleaveland estate. Hezekiah never liked the enormous house that overlooked Los Angeles but Samantha felt it appropriate for a family of their prominence. An eight-foot white stucco fence surrounded the grounds. Lower points in the rolling fence allowed passersby brief glimpses of the magnificent home. A wrought-iron gate emblazoned with the initials “HC” quietly parted at the sight of the car and gently closed behind it. Palm trees that lined the winding driveway quivered gently as the car drove past. Meticulously manicured grounds surrounded the home and seemed to spill down the hill into the skyline. To the left was a freshly painted green tennis court with sharp white lines. A whitewashed gazebo stood to the right, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and a two-story guesthouse could be seen tucked behind a grove of trees. At the final curve of the driveway, the trees unfurled like a stage curtain and the house could finally be seen. It was an off-white Mediterranean villa, nestled behind pine and oak trees, sitting on a sloped crest with spectacular views of the city and Pacific Ocean. Double stone stairways ascended to the grand main entrance under a covered porch, which was held by four twenty-foot-high white carved pillars. Each window on the front of the home was topped by cream-colored arches and flanked by stone columns. Branches dripping with lavender and white wisteria spilled from a deck on the second floor.

      The car stopped at the foot of the stairway.

      “Are you coming in?” she asked coldly.

      “No,” came the abrupt reply.

      “What time will you be home?”

      “I won’t be gone long.”

      Samantha slammed the car door and walked up the steps to the house without turning to see her husband being driven back down the hill.

      Etta Washington, the Cleavelands’ housekeeper and cook, opened the massive double wooden doors as Samantha approached.

      Etta had been with the Cleavelands for five years. She was forty-eight years old but appeared much older. She wore a white apron, knotted at the waist, over a simple black dress which fell just below her knees. Samantha insisted she wear the uniform at all times. Etta had never married and had no children. To Etta, the Cleavelands were her family, but to Samantha, Etta had never risen above the rank of hired help.

      The opulent exterior of the house was mirrored in its interior. Sunlight poured through a skylight in the two-story foyer and coated the oval-shaped room in a warm glow. Double living-room and dining-room doors framed in oak were to the right and to the left. A round marble table holding a massive floral arrangement sat in the center of the room and on each side symmetrical stairways molded into the curve of the walls and climbed to a second-floor landing which overlooked the room. Black wrought-iron banisters provided a stark contrast in the bright room. Directly ahead hung the first of two original Picassos in the Cleaveland home. The painting was in the center of the foyer rear wall and the first thing seen when entering the home. The dreaming woman’s hands rested suggestively in her lap. Her head was slightly tilted to the right and her closed eyes hinted of erotic sweet dreams. Parts of her deconstructed face provided a glimpse of the thoughts that seemed to give her such serene pleasure.

      Antique furniture and European oil masterpieces were skillfully displayed throughout. A well-thought-out floor plan of wing-backed chairs, marble and glass-topped tea tables, and satin-swathed couches created the optimum setting to impress and entertain the rich, the pious, and the famous. Crystal chandeliers and Lalique vases glittered throughout, while plush pastel carpets softened the hard edges of each room. A sleek black baby grand rested in front of a wall of glass which overlooked the grounds and a shimmering cobalt blue infinity edge swimming pool. The second Picasso hung over the fireplace in the living room. The five women of Les Demoiselles d’Avignon looked approvingly over the elegant room. Their faces resembled primitive tribal masks and the jagged edges of their pink flesh formed sharp angles that pointed in every direction.

      An oil painting of Hezekiah and Samantha was on the opposite wall. The two smiling faces countered the seductive and horrifying image of the five women across the room. Hezekiah’s and Samantha’s smiles in the painting absorbed all the light that streamed through the room’s many windows. As lovely and masterfully executed as the dueling paintings were, their beauty was eclipsed when Samantha entered the room.

      “Good afternoon, Mrs. Cleaveland.” Etta took her coat and hung it neatly over her arm. “How was church today?”

      “It was fine, Etta. I’m sorry you had to miss it.”

      “Will Pastor be home for dinner?” Etta asked.

      “No,” Samantha said. “He’s having dinner with a pastor from out of state. How’s Jasmine? Has she been out of her room today?”

      “No, ma’am, she’s been up there all day. I knocked on the door a few times but she told me to go away.” Etta knew an addict when she saw one but had been sternly warned by Samantha not to get involved in Cleaveland family matters. “Will you be having dinner in the dining room, ma’am?”

      “No. I think I’ll have it in my study. I’m going to check on Jasmine first. I’ll ask if she wants dinner.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      From birth Jasmine had two strikes against her: she was an only child and a pastor’s kid. To others her life was a fantasy: two loving parents, a beautiful home, the finest private schools, a new convertible BMW on her sixteenth birthday, and lots of attention from the many people who loved her parents. But it was a nightmare for her. She often referred to herself as “a theater prop” used by her parents to illustrate their idyllic Christian life.

      Years of being “the perfect little angel” had taken their toll on her. She ran away from home for the first time at thirteen. Her first abortion was at fourteen and the second at fifteen. She added the use of Ecstasy to her already nagging alcohol problem at the exclusive Catholic high school. Jasmine ran with the most privileged kids in the school, and soon she even ran them. The drug use turned from recreation to abuse. Now, at sixteen, she was rapidly heading for what appeared to be a tragic ending, but only her mother was able to see the signs.

      Samantha put her black patent leather Gucci clutch under her arm as she climbed the staircase. At the top she looked over the banister into the vestibule below to ensure Etta had gone back to the kitchen.

      “Jasmine, honey, open the door,” she said, accompanied by a gentle tap. “Jasmine, it’s Mommy.”

      “Go away,” came the hostile reply from a hoarse voice behind the door.

      “Young lady, open this door right now.”

      Jasmine crawled out of bed and abruptly swung open the door. “What do you want?” she moaned as she crawled back into bed.

      Samantha, with determination, stepped into the room. It was dark and musty. The room still looked as it did when it was designed especially for Jasmine when she was ten years old. Pink was the dominant color. A dusty pink floral paper covered the walls and a pile of satin and silk pink pillows lay jumbled beneath a brass headboard. Cherubic faces of the favorite boy bands from her innocent years still hung on the walls. A collection of over one hundred dolls from exotic lands she and her parents had traveled stared down on the groggy teen from shelves around the room. Pink shades were drawn and designer clothes were strewn on the bed and floor. Samantha immediately pulled up the blinds and began picking up clothes.

      “Why are you still in bed?” she asked. “Get up this minute, take a shower, and get dressed. Dinner is ready, and I want you downstairs.”

      Jasmine shielded her eyes from the light and asked, “Where’s Daddy?”

      “He’s having dinner with a minister from Detroit.”

      “Then why do I have to come