Flawfully Wedded Wives by Shana Burton Page A

looks like a nice-size church.”
    â€œClick on the ‘Meet Our Pastor’ link,” instructed Lawson.
    Sullivan obeyed. A picture of Pastor Samuel Sullivan and his family lit up the screen.
    Lawson pointed at the church’s pastor. “Is that him?”
    â€œThat’s him.” Sullivan leaned back in the chair and exhaled deeply. “That’s my father.”
    â€œAre you sure?” Angel squinted her eyes to get a better look at the picture. “I mean, you said yourself you haven’t seen the man in about twenty-five years.”
    â€œ That’s him! ” insisted Sullivan. “I’m positive that’s my father. He’s got the same smile and everything.”
    â€œSo now what?” asked Lawson. “Are you going to call him?”
    Sullivan sucked her teeth. “And say what? ‘Hey, I’m the daughter you abandoned years ago’?”
    â€œIt’s a start,” said Angel.
    Sullivan shrugged. “What the heck?” She got the church’s contact number and dialed.
    â€œAre you calling him?” Angel asked, shocked.
    â€œYeah . . . shush. It’s ringing.”
    Lawson tried to take the phone. “Sully, maybe we need to ask the Lord about this first.”
    â€œIt’s a blessed day here at Friendship Temple!” greeted the voice on the other end of the line. “May I help you?”
    â€œYes,” answered Sullivan. “I’m looking for Pastor Sullivan, please.”
    â€œMay I ask who’s calling?”
    Sullivan hesitated. “Um . . . Lawson Banks.” Lawson angrily nudged her. Sullivan signaled to her to be quiet.
    â€œHold please.”
    â€œWhy did you give them my name?” spewed Lawson.
    Sullivan flung her hand to silence her. “Calm down. Nobody knows you.”
    A deep baritone voice piped through the phone. “Hello. Pastor Sullivan speaking. How can I help you?”
    Sullivan was suddenly lost for words. She didn’t recognize the voice on the other end of the line and realized she had no idea what she was going to say.
    â€œHello?” repeated the voice.
    â€œYes . . . hello, Pastor Sullivan. I think you can help me with something, at least I hope you can.”
    â€œI’ll try.”
    â€œDid you ever live in Savannah, Georgia?”
    Samuel Sullivan hesitated but then answered her question. “I grew up there.”
    Sullivan muted the phone. “He’s from Savannah!” she whispered. “I think this is really him!”
    Sullivan cleared her throat and unmuted the line. “Um, do you know a woman by the name of Vera Jackson?”
    â€œIs she a member here?”
    Sullivan began pacing the floor, her heart pounding a mile a minute. “No, she’s lives on St. Simons Island, but she used to live in Savannah.”
    â€œSister, I haven’t lived in Savannah for nearly a hundred years! If I did know anyone by that name, the memory is long gone. Is there anything else I can help you with? If not, I need to get back to the church’s business.”
    â€œAre you positive you don’t know a Vera Jackson?” Sullivan asked, nearly convinced that the man on the other end of the line was her father. “She has a daughter. She was named Sullivan after her father . . . you.”
    Pastor Sullivan had no response.
    Sullivan didn’t know what to think. “Hello? Are you still there?”
    â€œAll right, who is this, and what do you want?” demanded the pastor, his voice now somber.
    â€œI just need to know if I’m talking to the right man,” explained Sullivan. “Did you father a child with Vera Jackson thirty-three years ago in Savannah, Georgia?”
    â€œI told you, I don’t know anybody named Vera Jackson or her child. I suggest you tell me what you want right now, or hang up and don’t call back!”
    Sullivan was offended. “I don’t want anything from you, not the way