The First Lady by Carl Weber Read Free Book Online Page A

sure this was all the bishop’s idea, wanting me to prepare a dinner for him?”
    “He said himself that he just loves that peach cobbler of yours,” Daddy said, nodding toward the oven.
    “Oh, yes, the cobbler. Thanks for reminding me,” I said as I hurried over to set the timer.
    “Timer? Your mama never cooked with no timer. She could wake up out of a deep sleep and know that it was time to take the food out of the oven.” He shooed with his hand. “But anyway, why wouldn’t the bishop want to have dinner with you, Savannah?”
    I shrugged. I mean, certainly I could think of a few reasons, but if I dare got started, the list would certainly take us into Monday morning’s breakfast. Of course, there was my age to consider. Being thirty-five years old didn’t make me a spring chicken, but with the bishop being ten years my senior, it still pushed me into the “younger woman” stereotype that most men try to avoid after a divorce or the death of their spouse. Oh, that would definitely give the church gossipers something to talk about. Some of the other folks in the choir already commented about all the solos I did, solos of which I felt I was most deserving. I might not be able to reach five octaves like that Mariah Carey, but I knew that God had indeed anointed me with the vocals to minister His word. But just imagine if the bishop were to show me any special kind of attention. Oooh, them heifers would sure enough have something to say then.
    And there was the fact that I was not nearly as outgoing and aggressive as some of those other women at the church. Of course, the bishop appeared to be oblivious to the fact that ever since the first lady passed away, the dresses had been getting shorter and the slits in the skirts had been getting higher. I’ve always been a quiet girl, though, and I didn’t plan on changing to get no man, either. But then again, we weren’t talking about just any man; we were talking about the bishop.
    “I can’t think of a reason why the bishop wouldn’t want to have dinner with you, either,” Daddy said with conviction. “Savannah, sweetheart.” Daddy walked over to me and took my hands. “Don’t doubt who you are. You are worthy. Look what all you’ve been through. The Bible says the suffering can’t be compared to the glory. Well, now it’s time for you to partake in the glory. You deserve this.”
    I couldn’t believe this was actually my father holding my hands and speaking to me with such heartfelt sincerity. I had almost forgotten just how critical of me he could be. But it didn’t take long for him to remind me.
    “I mean, sure, every now and then you hit a bad note during your solos, and you could stand to change that hairdo of yours every once in a while, but overall, you’re a good girl, Savannah. A good woman. And you’re gonna make a good wife someday, too, with a little hard work. I mean, ya gotta start doing more with yourself. You know what I mean. A woman’s gotta use her body to get what she wants sometimes.” He slugged me on the shoulder as if I were one of his pals.
    “Yeah, well"—I sighed—"you know the Lord gives us a spirit of discernment, and something just tells me that—” Before I could finish my sentence, the doorbell rang.
    “It’s him!” Daddy said, sounding more excited than I felt that the bishop was coming for dinner. Come to think of it, he probably
was
more excited, because
nervous
more accurately described the emotion I was overcome by. “You go on to your room and get dressed. I’ll keep the bishop company.”
    I looked down at the outfit I had picked out for dinner with the bishop. Before I could tell Daddy that I was, in fact, already dressed, he raced out of the kitchen, straightening his tie. I quickly followed him out of the kitchen and headed to the back bedroom while he answered the door.
    The back bedroom used to be the bedroom my mother and father had shared during their forty-two years of marriage. But once