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you’re looking for something to fret about, you should worry about that hazardous car you’ve got me riding around in. I don’t feel safe with it knocking that way.”
    â€œBaby, I told you to take it downtown and let Mike fix it.”
    â€œMike who?”
    â€œMichael Matthews from the church—older gentleman, married to Roslyn.”
    â€œWho’s Roslyn?”
    â€œShe directs the praise team.” Charles sighed. “Sweetheart, I wish you’d make more of an effort to get to know our members.”
    â€œWhy should I? I know what those pseudo-sanctimonious heifers say about me behind your back.”
    â€œThe congregation loves you, Sullivan. A few members just wish you would make more of an effort to be friendly, that’s all.”
    â€œYour parishioners don’t have to like me; they just have to respect me.” She began examining her pores in the mirror. “Now, what about the car?”
    â€œJust take it to the shop in the morning. You can trust Mike. He’s been taking care of all of the church’s vehicles for years.”
    â€œAnd you expect me to wait around at some greasy chop shop all day? Send one of your church peons to do it. Isn’t that what you pay them for?”
    â€œThose church peons are ordained ministers. They were hired to conduct the church’s business, not to do my wife’s bidding for her. Drop the car off, and I’ll have someone pick you up and drive you where you need to go.”
    She huffed, “If that’s the best you can do.”
    â€œI was about to go over my notes for Sunday’s sermon, but I would love it if my gorgeous wife joined me for a glass of champagne out on the terrace instead.”
    Sullivan swiveled her body, stunned by the suggestion. “You mean the great and powerful Pastor Charles Webb is going to foul his body with Satan’s elixir?” she posed mockingly.
    â€œOnly on special occasions, and tonight counts as one. You’ll understand once I explain everything to you.”
    â€œFine, whatever,” grumbled Sullivan. Conversation on the terrace with Charles she could resist. Conversation on the terrace with drinks was another matter entirely.
    Charles left to get the champagne as Sullivan threw open the French doors leading from their bedroom to the balcony that overlooked their sparkling swimming pool. She leaned against the ornate railing, replaying Reginell’s question in her head. Was her life really the way she’d thought it would be? Yes, she had the rich, successful husband. Yes, she had the 4,000 square foot Mediterranean house nestled on three acres. And, yes, she did look fabulous, but none of those things even came close to making her happy.
    Charles had always been dapper and charming, especially when she met him right after graduating from college. Having the then prominent forty-year-old pastor lavish her with attention and the social status of being First Lady of Mount Zion Ministries was enough to lure anyone. However, no one warned her about the monotony and boredom that came along with being a pastor’s wife. She didn’t know that she’d be expected to conduct herself as a doting, supportive spouse who smiled through hours of sermons and shouted “hallelujah” on cue. She detested the conservative suits with large, bird-like hats to match that Charles liked her to wear, nor did she delight in being confined to the ways and routines of the church. Everything about her rigid life with Charles contrasted with her wild, carefree spirit, and a part of her hated him for it.
    Time hadn’t been as kind to Charles as it had been to her either. He now had a portly belly from indulging in too many covered dishes from the deaconess board. His hair had started to gray and recede, and dark bags had gathered under his eyes from reading his Bible late into the night. He was a sharp contrast to the strapping young guest pastors