The Sunday Only Christian Read online

  The Sunday Only Christian:

  Still Divas Series Book Three

  E.N. Joy

  www.urbanchristianonline.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Other Books by This Author

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Readers’ Guide Questions

  UC HIS GLORY BOOK CLUB! - www.uchisglorybookclub.net

  What We Believe:

  Author Bio

  Copyright Page

  Other Books by This Author

  Me, Myself and Him

  She Who Finds a Husband

  Been There, Prayed That

  Love, Honor or Stray

  Trying to Stay Saved

  I Can Do Better All By Myself

  And You Call Yourself a Christian

  The Perfect Christian

  Ordained By the Streets

  Even Sinners Have Souls (Edited by E.N. Joy)

  Even Sinners Have Souls Too (Edited by E.N .Joy)

  Even Sinners Still Have Souls (Edited by E.N. Joy)

  The Secret Olivia Told Me (N. Joy)

  Dedication

  I don’t do romance. Once upon a time I used to write secular books, which included erotica, but there was no romance. Either the books were hot like fire and full of lust and temptation, or they were as cold as ice, full of vixens and drama. There was none of that in-between stuff called romance. But all that changed with The Sunday Only Christian. Mrs. Brenda Jackson, I would have never been able to make this story as romantic as I did had I not decided to pick up your books and learn from the best. There is no Hatersville in this part of Ohio. Nothin’ but love for you. Keep schoolin’ ’em!

  Acknowledgments

  I don’t know how far I would be in my success as an author if it was not for the support of my grandparents, Oliver and Barbara Edwards. Thank you so much, Granny and Gramps, for reading ALL my books.

  For my husband, Nick “Bang” Ross, you wouldn’t let up until I penned and self-published my first book. Now with over twenty-five published writings later, outside of the gift of writing itself from God, I owe it all to you. Thanks for the push and for believing in me. Thank you for supporting me even when sometimes I felt you were the enemy. But I realize now that without the necessary pressure and constructive criticism you gave me, I would have settled for just doing the best I could. Thank you for making me do ALL that I could in a spirit of excellence. I love you like crazy, man!

  For my mother-in-law, Gwen Marsh, I think I’m out of words to dedicate and acknowledge you with. None are sufficient. The role you have played in my life is something I absolutely never foresaw almost sixteen years ago when I met your son. Your son has become my husband. Your daughters have become my sisters. Your mother, “Mama” (God rest her soul) my grandmother. Your siblings my aunts and uncles, cousins, etc.... But most importantly, your God my God. And it is your godly advice and wisdom, along with my sister-in-law’s, Nicole Ross Byrd’s, prayers and spiritual guidance, that has helped me breathe when I thought I was going to take my last breath any minute. The biblical story of Naomi and Ruth makes so much more sense to me now. I love you, Ma.

  For my four beautiful children; I have worked and prayed endlessly to make sure that you are nothing like the person who I was, and ten times better than the person I am today. Whenever I feel like giving up I picture your smiles—I hear your laughter. I remember that my work is not done in raising you in the Word. You make me better. You make me feel like going on. I thank God for you.

  Last but not least, ReShonda Tate Billingsley, Victoria Christopher Murray, and Pat O’Gorge: I watched you and studied you. You all have that special writing style and that special something that makes readers race out to the bookstore for your next project. If I could just do this old school—without measuring utensils—and take a dash of ReShonda Tate Billingsley, a touch of Mrs. O’Gorge, and a pinch of Victoria, I’d have the perfect meal to serve up to my readers. Thanks for your inspiration over the years.

  It’s much easier to act like a Christian at church than to be one at home.

  —E.N. Joy

  Chapter One

  “I up and left him for another man, so what on God’s green earth would make him want to take me back?” Deborah had been asking herself this question the entire drive to the book signing. And now, as she parked outside of the Barnes & Noble on 356 in Pickerington, Ohio, she still had no answer. Dreadfully, she knew her answer lay inside that one-level bookstore, in which the smell of flavored caffeine from the little Starbucks in the front corner of the store would assault her nose from the moment she stepped inside.

  Sitting in her car, stalling, she dug in her purse and pulled out the postcard she’d come across in the hair salon last week. She double-checked the date of the book signing on the postcard. She was hoping she’d gotten her dates mixed up and that the book signing had been yesterday. That way she wouldn’t have to risk the embarrassment and humiliation of rejection; if, in fact that’s what was about to happen: her being rejected.

  “Ughh,” she gasped. There was no mix-up. Today was the day.

  Next Deborah allowed her eyes to scroll over to the time of the signing. If there was a God and He had her back and wanted to prevent her from being disgraced and her ego from being shattered to pieces, there would definitely be a mix-up with the times. She would have missed the signing by an hour or two. All that would be left once she went inside would be a couple of unsold autographed copies of the New York Times bestseller and a handful of promotional bookmarks.

  She looked down at her watch. She chuckled at the fact that she could very well be the only person she knew who still bothered to wear a watch. Most people relied on their cell phones to keep up with the time. It was 7:45 P.M. No mix-up in the time department. According to the postcard, the signing was from six to eight.

  Deborah had deliberately waited to catch the tail end of the event. If she was going to be shamed with rejection, it sure wasn’t going to be in front of a full crowd of fans. It would only be in the presence of those few still milling around, trying to get him to read a chapter or two of their own works in progress, and then provide feedback, of course. Then there were the couple of people who would monopolize a great deal of his time, asking questions about the process they need to take in order to become published. Bo
th kinds of people would be the ones who never even bothered to purchase his book. She’d seen it a million times. But no matter who or how many people were still lingering around, did Deborah really want to get rejected in front of even one?

  “Perhaps I should just sit here and wait; catch him coming out,” Deborah pondered. “No. No. I should go in there and act surprised that he’s even there. I could pretend as though I just happened to be in the bookstore on the day of his signing.” That last idea wouldn’t be too farfetched. After all, Deborah did own her own literary consulting agency. She did book editing and some agenting. To find her in the bookstore would be normal—believable.

  Five minutes went by as she sat in the car wracking her brains on how she was going to approach the man who, if she were him, would never ever talk to her again. She’d played him to the left, right, front, and back. And for what? For a man who fed her a fairytale that he’d marry her and they’d live happily ever after. They’d go start a new life in Chile where he played professional basketball and he’d make sure she had the world. It all sounded good to Deborah. And it was good, until she found out that they couldn’t live happily ever after together until he got a divorce from his wife; a wife who Deborah had been none the wiser of—in the beginning anyway. But that was neither here nor there. Right now she had to focus on exactly how she was going to play this thing out.

  Pulling her keys out of the ignition and grabbing her purse, Deborah, in an attempt to be a little more optimistic, thought that maybe things wouldn’t turn out to be so bad. Besides, since when had she become this Debbie Downer, so to speak? When had she started thinking the worst of everything? Maybe she should have been asking herself why on God’s green earth wouldn’t this man want to take her back. And that’s exactly what she thought as she got out of the car and closed the door behind her. But she hadn’t even taken two steps before those negative thoughts resurfaced.

  “A girlfriend! A fiancée! Heck, even a wife!” Deborah said out loud as the thought reached down and punched her right in the gut. Those certainly were things that would make him not want to take her back. So much time had passed since she’d walked out of his life, or rather flew out of his life, anything was possible. Heck, he could even have a kid by now. After all, she did.

  One minute she’d been on the perfect date with Mr. New York Times Bestselling Author, then the next minute her first love had swooped back into town and into her life, convincing her to join him on a plane to Chile to start a new one with him. And just like that, like that episode in Sex and the City when Carrie got on that plane to Paris with Mikhail Baryshnikov’s character, Deborah had done it. Carrie had left what could have been with Mr. Big and Deborah had left what could have been with Mr. Perfect.

  “I can’t do this. I can’t.” She turned to head back to her car and that’s when a loud horn scared the bajib-bies out of her. “Oh, God!” Deborah screamed as the car came within inches of hitting her. The driver looked just as petrified as she did. “I’m so sorry. So sorry,” Deborah apologized.

  The woman in the car, with her hand grabbing her chest, nodded. Once again, Deborah let out a verbal apology that the driver accepted with a second nod and then drove off.

  “Lord have mercy, I almost got killed over thoughts about this man. No way am I turning back now.” And just like that, after a life-altering moment, Deborah found the courage to strut inside that Barnes & Noble like she owned the place; or at least had a great deal of stock in it. With her medium-brown complexion now glowing with excitement, she batted her thick eyelashes, ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair, then strutted like a fashion model on a New York runway during Fashion Week.

  “Hi, welcome to Barnes & Noble,” a clerk stacking books at the Summer Beach Read table greeted Deborah. “Can I help you find anything?”

  “As a matter of fact, you can,” Deborah said confidently. “I’m here for a book signing—Mr. Lynox Chase’s book signing. Can you please point me in the right direction?” Deborah asked, knowing in just a matter of minutes, her God of second chances just might give her a second chance at love. For real this time.

  Chapter Two

  Deborah didn’t know how to feel after hearing the clerk’s words.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Chase sold out about an hour into his signing,” the clerk said with pride, as if she were his publisher, agent, or something and not just a store clerk. “Folks had been lined up long before he even arrived. We practically could have sold out of his books before he ever even showed up had we a cash register outside to ring the folks up.” She shot off a half laugh/ half snort. “He hung around, autographed copies, read from his book, and did a Q and A; then he left.” She shrugged as if to say, “Sorry about your luck.”

  Deborah felt sorry all right. And no matter how much she tried to hide it, she was certain it had shown all over her face. Instead of feeling sympathy, the clerk continued to pour salt in the wound. “And you should have seen him.” She blushed. “He’s exactly what you’d expect someone with the name L.C. who wrote a book titled The Fantasy Fairytale to look like.” She sighed and her eyes took a mini vacation to la-la land. “Tall, dark, handsome, exuding confidence with a bit of conceit. And you should have seen his—”

  “Trust me,” Deborah shot, cutting her off, “I’m sure I’ve seen his . . . his . . . whatever you were gonna say. Anyway, thanks for your help.” Deborah turned on her four-inch heels. In her peacock strut of an exit, she tripped, nearly falling to the floor. “Dang shoes,” she fussed, wishing she’d never taken a chance—on the shoes or seeing Lynox.

  The highest heel Deborah had ever worn was three inches. But for some reason she just had to have those Mary Jane–looking tan suede pumps with red bottoms that some booster had carried into the hair salon. Not for some reason—for one reason. It was moments after she’d picked up the flyer about Lynox’s book signing when the middle-aged, clean-cut man had entered the salon rolling his very own makeshift department store. With the flyer in hand, Deborah had been visualizing an encounter with Lynox after not seeing him for over two years. Those shoes just seemed to be the cherry on top of the vision. Deborah could picture Lynox drooling at the mouth, among other places, upon seeing her long, slender legs in those babies. They would make him forget all about their crooked past, and dream about their straight future.

  “One hundred seventy-five dollars,” the booster had requested of the shoes. A small price to pay, Deborah thought, for the opportunity to be in the arms of the most suave, debonair man she’d ever met in her life. Not to mention caring. Not to mention a man who could have loved her like she’d always dreamed of being loved.

  A small price to pay out of her pocketbook anyway. Her conscience tapped her on the shoulder and reminded her, though, that there was never a small price to pay when it came to sin. And it just might have been a sin to buy those shoes from that booster for $175 after seeing the department store sticker on them that clearly read $800.

  Heck, but he’s worth it, Deborah had concluded after giving the man a hundred dollar bill and four twenties, then telling him to keep the change. But now, as two teenagers pointed and giggled at her near fall, as she felt the clerk’s eyes burning a hole through her back, burning up the pages of a story she’d fantasized about all week, she felt none of it had been worth it; certainly not those dang-on shoes.

  With nothing left to lose, Deborah kicked off the shoes in anger, and embarrassment, and as she exited the store, pitched them in the trash bin. There were no good memories attached to those shoes, probably the same way Lynox had no good memories of his and Deborah’s short-lived romance.

  “Ouch! Ouch! Ugggghhh!” Deborah roared out in pain after feeling a large shoe come crashing down on her bare foot. The pain was excruciating. She immediately looked down at her battered toe and let out an expletive. She was immediately embarrassed and conflicted by the Holy Spirit, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to look up at the person who had just stomped her foot and ca
ll them an expletive or two.

  She knew that’s exactly what she would have done had she dared look up at the person; so, instead, she focused on her injury while she hopped around on one foot while holding the other in her hand. It hurt so bad that tears began to stream down her face. Now she was really embarrassed. Here she was just a-cursing and a-crying, hopping around, looking like some crazy woman. She wanted to bury her head in the sand. But instead, she just kept it down, squeezing her eyes shut, hoping to stop the pain. Hoping to stop the tears. Deborah just couldn’t distinguish which tear represented which type of pain. Was it the physical pain from her throbbing foot, or the pain from her throbbing heart?

  “I’m . . . I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’m so sorry,” the pain inflictor apologized.

  “Sorry?” Deborah shouted, her eyes still squeezed closed. “Do you think the word ‘sorry’ is going to make me feel better? Do you?” Deborah cried, opening her eyes and eyeing her foot, on which the big toenail was ripped down to the skin.

  “Please, let me take a look at it,” the very sympathetic male voice requested.

  “Why? Are you a doctor or something?” Deborah snapped, trying not to gag from the grossness of her toe.

  “No, but—”

  “Then there’s no need for you to look at it, now is there? Seems like what you need to look at is where in the heck you’re walking.” Deborah meant to say the word “heck,” but that certainly wasn’t what it sounded like had actually come out of her mouth. That darn cursing demon was rearing its ugly head to the tenth power. She buried her head even deeper in shame. This was not how a Christian woman was supposed to be acting, supposed to be talking.

  “Look, I said I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do—”

  “Yeah, there’s something you can do; watch where you’re walking.” Since Deborah was already looking down, she allowed her eyes to roam over to the man’s feet. “And maybe get a license for those big boats before you go sailing them across someone’s feet. How about that?”