The Retreat. Dijorn Moss

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СКАЧАТЬ did not mind if their wives and girlfriends attended church, so long as they did not boast about their male pastors too much. Men are very territorial and competitive by nature; that is why Bishop Dawkins took pride in the fact that, though low, the male membership was still higher at Greater Anointing than at other churches in the area.

      His flock was the result of his approach. His teachings were sound, scripturally based, and community focused. He demanded accountability, especially from men. As a middle-aged, single pastor, he was mindful of his interactions with the women in the congregation, avoiding any hint of impropriety that would tar him with the whisper of “womanizer” or “hypocrite.”

      “As you know, around this time of the year, the men of Greater Anointing get together for our annual Men’s Retreat,” Pastor Dawkins’s raspy voice bellowed.

      The men in the congregation started to clap and shout praises to God. The first weekend in October brought forth the rebirth of the sanctified male. With one hand on the razor-thin Bible pages, Bishop Dawkins took a look back at the few men in the choir.

      “Our theme for this year is ‘Stand Up and Be Accounted For,’” Bishop Dawkins said.

      Men stood up, they smiled and clapped. Bishop Dawkins turned back toward the congregation. To his delight, there were men and women who stood up as well to cheer him on.

      “Sisters, I need your help. I want you to sign up your husbands, your sons, and your crazy uncles.” Bishop Dawkins paused to laugh for a moment and rub his copper, bald head.

      “I want them to come and join us this weekend. We will experience a move of God unlike anything we have ever seen, and the men you knew will return on fire for God, ready to take back their homes and their communities.”

      A joyful ovation punctuated his pitch. And he needed to be pitch-perfect this weekend. As the congregation’s approval died down, Bishop Dawkins said a prayer to himself: Father, watch over my brothers. There will be numerous snares that will try to prevent them from coming, but I pray that your angels will protect them and that your perfect will will be done. Amen!

      Chapter One

      Quincy could not think of a better way to spend a Monday than under a clear October sky, playing a round of golf. After an early lunch with his business partner, Gregg, they both decided to forgo the rest of the day and get eighteen holes in. First, Quincy would need to go home and change out of his power suit into something more casual.

      “Tee off is at two o’clock.” Gregg pointed at his watch.

      “The 405 shouldn’t be crowded.” Quincy patted his stomach. “That’ll give me plenty of time to work off the roasted crab and garlic noodles. I’ll be there.”

      Gregg gave Quincy a fist bump as Quincy walked over to the driver’s side of his Range Rover. He met the valet and exchanged a fifty dollar bill for the keys to his SUV.

      “Thank you very much, sir,” the valet said.

      Once in the driver’s seat, the noise that defined a busy Southern California day was now neutralized by the sound of contemporary R&B. Quincy worked his way through the surface streets and entered the nearest 405 freeway ramp. Eighty-five miles per hour didn’t feel like a moving violation as Quincy maneuvered his way through light traffic.

      The time on the touch screen read 12:45 P.M., and still there’d been no word from Karen, his wife. Quincy and Karen would talk frequently throughout the day, but the conversations were trivial and contributed more to their stagnation as a couple than to their actual growth. Their routine was monotonous, but it remained safe and secure. Quincy relied heavily on security, so he attached his Bluetooth ear piece and placed a call.

      “Hello?” Karen said.

      “What up, babe? I haven’t heard from you today. I was calling to see what’s up.”

      “Nothing, I’m just very busy. Quincy, you sound like you’re in the car.”

      “Yeah, Gregg and I grabbed a bite to eat at Crustaceans. I’m leaving.”

      “It’s been a long time since we ate at Crustaceans.”

      Already Quincy regretted the call. It was as if Karen looked for every opportunity to remind Quincy that he was not up to par in his husband duties.

      “Anyway, Gregg and I are heading over to Virginia Country Club to play a round. I’m going to stop by the house first.”

      “You’re headed home?” Karen’s voice fractured.

      “Yeah, I need to change first.”

      At first, the silence seemed like an indication that the call had dropped.

      “Hello?” Quincy asked.

      “I’m here. What about work? What about the Culver City project?”

      “That’s the beauty of being your own boss: you make your own hours. And the Culver City project is a slam dunk. We close this deal by the end of the week.”

      Her silence grew more awkward and teetered on suspicious. Suspicion brought forth his acute hearing.

      “Where are you?” Quincy asked.

      “I’m at work.”

      Lie. As an architect, Quincy built his empire around the principle that the devil is in the details. It could be something as small as the sound of Karen’s Swiss clock that echoed throughout her subdued office, or something as big as the sound of their retired neighbor, Daryl, mowing his lawn.

      The absence of one sound and the presence of another brought Quincy to the conclusion that his wife was not at work, but at home.

      “I’ll tell you what, why don’t I come pick you up and we have lunch together? I’m still a little hungry for something sweet. Perhaps we could share something on the dessert menu.”

      “Oh, no no no! You go and play your game. I’ll probably go to lunch with Amber.”

      Karen’s certain spike in her voice indicated that she was frantic.

      “Humph. Okay, I’ll see you later,” Quincy said.

      “Okay, babe, have a good game,” Karen replied.

      The call ended. Quincy imploded and the Range Rover hit one hundred miles per hour. This is not happening; Karen is not having an affair. Quincy was certain that he would have to apologize for his overreaction. There were only two reasons why his wife of twenty years, this devout woman of God, would lie to him, her husband: either she was throwing him a surprise birthday party (but Quincy’s birthday wasn’t until April 28), or she was having an affair.

      “Come on, man! Move out of the way!” Quincy’s horn signaled for the slow cars to move out of the way. He kept his eyes locked on the rearview to make sure the police were not in sight. It was inevitable that during the forty-minute drive from Beverly Hills to Signal Hill, Quincy would pass a police car or two. He just had to get home.

      When Quincy finally did get home, it was empty. Karen’s car was not in the garage. No sense in being coy, СКАЧАТЬ