Fortune & Fame: A Novel

I love writing novels, but these acknowledgments right here are always so difficult. I never want to leave out anyone because feelings get hurt, and folks stop speaking to you, and then you have to buy them dinner to get them to forgive you. It’s just too much! So because of that, I’ve limited my acknowledgments to the professional side of my life. Well, the professional side and the spiritual side because nothing I say, do, or write would be possible without God, who just keeps pouring His blessings down on me. He just doesn’t stop and I truly hope that I’m pleasing Him with my life and my writings. I thank God every single day for the life He has given to me.

I have written twenty-something novels, most of them with Simon & Schuster. The team at Touchstone is always so amazing and I look forward to writing twenty-something more! Thank you, Lauren Spiegel (I’m really looking forward to working with you), Shida Carr (we’ve been doing this for ten years and you are still the best, by far, publicist in the business; ask any author I’ve ever talked to, they’ll tell you!) and the rest of the Touchstone team, which makes me feel like I truly have a publishing home.

It wasn’t enough that I was blessed with a great publishing house; God blessed me with my agent, Liza Dawson. Thank you, Liza, for your never-ending support and belief in me and my talent. Every book I’ve written you’ve helped me to make
better, and I have such hope in this publishing journey because of you and the team at Liza Dawson and Associates.

I have been writing for over fifteen years (ouch!) and I love it. But there is nothing, I repeat, nothing like writing and working with ReShonda Tate Billingsley. With ReShonda, not only do I have a blast, but I learn about the important things in life, like where are all the designer discount shops on Interstate 95, and what happened on
Love and Hip Hop
last night. If I could write every book from now on with you, I would. Thanks for bringing the fun back.

I have to give a special shout-out to one of my best friends, Candy Jackson, who reads all of my novels first and is an honest enough friend to tell me when I need to get back to work. You rock, Candy! And Victor McGlothin, who came up with the catchphrase, or catch line, or whatever it’s called, for Jasmine Cox Larson Bush. Victor, who knew?

Finally I want to thank the readers, especially all the readers whom I have the pleasure of interacting with just about daily on Facebook. I truly wish I could list every single one of you, but the list might be longer than this novel, and I wouldn’t want to leave anyone out. The way you encourage me, support me, inspire me, and are willing to take off your earrings and Vaseline up (you know who I’m talking about!) . . . it all means so much to me. Thank you so, so much, and as long as you keep reading, I will keep writing.

Now, onto my next story. . . .

With every book, my editor has to dang near threaten to go to print, sans my acknowledgments. That’s because the book I write with no problem. The acknowledgments, or note from the author, as I like to call it, well, that one isn’t so easy. Particularly because I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for some really fantastic people. And since I’m not trying to create Encyclopedia Billingsley, I simply can’t name them all. But we’re at the ninth hour, about to head to print, and my wonderfully patient editor is like, “It’s now or never.” So the time is now.

Time now to say my usual thanks—to God, for blessing me with the talent to craft stories people want to read; my husband, for all his support; my three wonderful children, who are so patient in letting Mommy do what she does. Thanks also to my agent, Sara Camilli; the awesome folks at Touchstone who worked on this book—Lauren, Miya, Shida, and everyone else. Thanks also to the wonderful team at my home for the past twelve years, Gallery Books.

And of course, a huge chunk of gratitude to my yang, Victoria Christopher Murray.

It’s not often that you meet someone who could be so completely different (I’m a little bit country, she’s a whole lot of citified; I’m a Southern girl, she’s a true northerner; I’m the saint, she’s the sinner) . . . it’s not often you can meet someone
so different, yet you’re alike in so many ways. When it comes to what we create with our fingers (I won’t say “pen” because neither of us write longhand anymore), it’s like we are one. It’s amazing that this is our third book in the Rachel/Jasmine series and we haven’t changed one single word that the other person wrote. Not one. That shows you how in sync we are with each other when it comes to writing, and we hope the readers feel that. She gets me. I get her. Sounds like a sappy Hallmark card, but as seriously as I take writing, it’s refreshing to work with someone who feels the same. Not only is she an awesome writing partner, she’s an even better friend. So, VCM, thank you for teaching me, for challenging me, and being an all-around great friend and, yes, even my voice of reason when I turn into Psycho Mom.

I don’t want to get into naming a whole lot of other names, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a big hearty thanks to Pat Tucker, who always has my back and listens to my countless ideas, providing feedback and helping me work through story ideas.

To Yolanda Gore and Gina Johnson, I don’t know where I’d be without you two. To my Motherhood Diaries sisterhood, you ladies are phenomenal. And to my Facebook family, yes, social media, I couldn’t ask for better friends and supporters.

To Regina King, Reina King, Shelby Stone, Queen Latifah, Shakim Compere and Flava Unit, Roger Bobb and your crew, everyone at BET and the amazing cast and crew of
Let the Church Say Amen,
including Naturi Naughton, who played the heck out of Rachel—thank you for bringing my words to the screen. I can’t wait for the world to see it!

Like I said, I could go on and on, but since my editor is waiting, I will end with my biggest thanks—to you, the reader, for your continued support! You are why I continue to write!

Until next time, enjoy!

J
asmine sat with her eyes opened wide and her mouth clasped shut. But even though not a word passed through her lips, the living room was filled with the joyful sound of laughter.

Slowly, Jasmine rose from the sofa, leaving Mae Frances sitting alone. There was no way her friend would be able to stand right now; Mae Frances was buckled over, laughing so hard that Jasmine was sure she was going to bust a vein.

But Jasmine didn’t turn her head to the left or the right. Her eyes remained focused only on the plasma TV centered on the wall.

“I cannot believe this,” Jasmine said, finally speaking.

She took two steps toward the television as if that would help her hear Shaun Robinson, the anchor for
Access Hollywood,,
a little better.

“This has to be quite an exciting time for you,” Shaun said. “Especially since you’re going to be on the OWN network.”

Rachel Jackson Adams stood next to Shaun, cheesing like she was in a Colgate commercial. Her hand was on her hip as
if she was posing for the camera, though she came off looking more like a posing seal.

“Well, you know, I was supposed to be on Oprah’s show last year,” Rachel said to Shaun, though her eyes were on the camera and not on the anchor. “But due to circumstances where somebody else acted like a fool, my appearance was canceled.”

“Fool?” Mae Frances cackled as she pointed at the television. “I think she’s talking about you. She just called you a fool on national TV.”

Mae Frances cracked up, and Jasmine’s eyes narrowed as she watched the unfolding interview. For a moment, she wondered if the steam coming out of her ears would set off the smoke alarm in Mae Frances’s apartment.

On the screen, Rachel spoke, her eyes still on the camera. “But even though that didn’t work out, Oprah and I kinda became friends and after we hung out a couple of times, Oprah said that I would be the perfect First Lady to be on television because there are so many misconceptions about pastor wives.”

“Liar!” Jasmine growled at the screen.

Still chuckling, Mae Frances said, “Why’re you calling her a liar? There
are
a lot of misconceptions about First Ladies.”

Jasmine shook her head. “I’m not talking about that part. This whole story about how she and Oprah are friends, you know that’s a lie. Oprah’s not her friend. Nobody’s Rachel’s friend. Anyone who knows Rachel for more than five minutes would never be a friend of hers.”

“Hmph . . . I thought you two were friends.”

“No,” Jasmine said, sinking back down onto the couch. “We’re more like frenemies. I would never call someone that I couldn’t trust a friend.”

“Y’all were sure acting mighty friendly last year when you were in Chicago. By the time we got down to the Caribbean, I thought you two would be BFFs forever.”

“Yeah, well,” Jasmine said, thinking about everything that she
had done for that juvenile-delinquent-on-the-loose. If it hadn’t been for her, Rachel would be sitting in a ten-by-ten concrete cell facing the death penalty for the murder of Pastor Earl Griffith. Of course, it might not have played out that way once the world discovered the truth that Earl Griffith wasn’t dead. But in her mind, right now, Jasmine had wonderful images of Rachel being dragged down a long corridor toward the death chamber.

“So, the reality show is set to begin soon, right?” Shaun asked Rachel.

Rachel nodded, though she still didn’t face Shaun. Her eyes were steady on the camera. “We’re going to begin taping in a few weeks, and Oprah told me she expects this show to be one of the fall hits.”

Yes, Jasmine should have definitely left Rachel rotting in that Chicago jail. If she had, then she’d be the one with a reality show. Not that being on one of those shows had ever been her heart’s desire. Reality TV was just not her thing. Jasmine found the women on those shows uncouth and classless. She had too much intelligence to sit in front of a television and watch women share the misery of their lives.

But the fact that Rachel was about to have a reality show made Jasmine reconsider. Maybe a reality show about First Ladies was just what America needed. A show with class and substance—the kind of show that had nothing to do with Rachel Jackson Adams.

“How in the world did this happen?” Jasmine wondered.

Though she hadn’t directed the question to Mae Frances, her friend answered, “That Rebecca girl must have more than those two brain cells you’re always talking about. Somehow she figured this out.”

“Her name is Rachel, Mae Frances!” Then she groaned out loud. “I can’t figure out how she kept this from me. I’ve talked to her at least a dozen times over the last year and she didn’t say a word.”