The Eleventh Commandment (12 page)

C
y stepped out into the brilliant July sunshine and walked the short distance from the newly restored brownstone he'd just purchased to the restaurant where he'd meet Trisha. He'd dressed casually—jeans, sneakers, button-down black shirt, and no jewelry—but wealth still oozed from his pores. Because of the design of Southern California in general and his neighborhood in particular, people rarely walked to where they wanted to go. In DC, however, while attending school at Howard, he'd been a pro at walking and catching public transportation, interacting with the masses even if by no more than sharing a seat on the train. Taking in the activity around him on his way to the restaurant, including the street vendors selling artwork, jewelry, books, and more, he realized how far he'd gone from this lifestyle . . . and how much he missed it.

During a conversation with Hope, he'd decided on a lunch rather than a dinner meeting. It was one o'clock in the afternoon and the restaurant was bustling. To eat at the Red Rooster had been Trisha's suggestion, and Cy decided he liked it at once. It was open and airy with large picture windows at the front of the room. As his eyes adjusted from the bright sunshine to the room's interior he looked around, stopping as he noted a table where a woman sat alone. Her head was down, face intent as she either texted or typed on her phone. It had been fifteen years, and she looked smaller than he remembered, but there was no doubting that it was Trisha Underwood, the woman who at one time had been the love of his life and the one he thought would occupy the title of wife. He observed her a second or so more, his heart clenching at something indefinable . . . something different about her that he couldn't quite name.
Stop tripping, brothah. Nobody looks the same as they did in college.

“Hey, Tricky.”

Trisha's head came up slowly as she heard this pet name, a smile spreading across her face in the same fashion. “Hey, Cyclone.”

She pushed back her chair and stood to give Cy a hug. They embraced and Cy forgot all about the church hug that he was supposed to deliver. Now he knew for sure: she was thinner than when he'd known her, less voluptuous, less cushion as he squeezed her, and it seemed a lanky frame had replaced the curves that used to drive him wild. No matter. This was his little Tricky, the one who'd given him a run for his money when all the other girls were giving him open access. She'd taken the C out of his cocky and matched his attitude stroke for stroke. They'd dated three years, and he'd been crazy about her. And here she was again, in his arms. They stood back to look into each other's eyes, examine each other's faces, and then hugged again.

Finally Cy broke the hug and stepped around to get Trisha's chair. “It's good to see you, Tricky. It's been way too long.” He took his seat.

“I know, and I need to apologize about that, about never returning your calls and shutting down completely after ... what happened.”

“Ah, Trisha, I understand why you did that. I hurt you.”

“Perhaps, but we'd loved too long and shared too much for me to not have given you the benefit of the doubt or, at the very least, a chance to share your side of the story.” Her voice lowered as she continued. “It's one of my biggest regrets.”

An awkward silence ensued, into which walked the waiter with their water and menus. Neither of them knew it about the other, but they were both glad for the reprieve, the temporary diversion to focus on food instead of their complicated past and surprising yet interesting present—the fact that they were here, together, all these years later after that first shared kiss.

Cy browsed the menu. “So you say this place comes highly recommended?”

“I highly recommend it. Been coming here since it opened a few years ago. The owner is a famous chef, Marcus Samuelsson, who regularly appears on the Food Network. He also served as guest chef for Obama's first state dinner.”

“Wow, impressive. Can't wait to try his food.”

“He's cooked here occasionally, but the executive chef is Michael Barrett. According to the Web site, where I read all of this information, they've worked together for years. The food is really good.”

“What do you recommend?”

“I've never had anything here that I didn't like, but my personal favorites are the fried chicken Caesar, the shrimp and dirty rice, and the gravlax.”

“Grav who?”

Trisha chuckled. “It's a Scandinavian dish made with cured salmon. Delish.”

“Hmm, I've never heard of it, so I think I'll try that.”

They continued discussing the menu until Trisha made her selection and the waiter returned to take their order. Once he'd gone the silence returned, a silence filled with the presence of a much-needed conversation that had never taken place.

Cy leaned back in his chair. “How do you like living in Harlem?”

“I love it. Been living here for the past ten years. It's gone through many changes and is really getting a makeover these days. Brownstone prices have skyrocketed. I'm thankful that I bought when I did.”

“So you own a brownstone?”

Trisha nodded. “I renovated it so that I live in the top two floors and rent out the bottom.”

“That's smart.”

“It works for me.” Trisha eyed Cy as she took a drink of water. “You haven't changed, Cy.”

“Maybe not that you can see, but I've put on a pound or two. Not as fast or as fluid as I used to be. But I work out regularly, try and stay in shape. What about you, Tricky? You're smaller than I remember. Have you been doing Pilates? Or yoga? I know that those types of exercises can burn off all the fat.”

A wistful look tinged with sadness darted across Trisha's face before she quickly replaced it with a smile. “No, I can't say that I exercise much these days. I've, uh, had some health issues and have lost weight as a result.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Have you taken care of it? Are you better now?”

“I'm okay. So you're here buying up half of Harlem?”

Cy grinned. “Not quite. A partner and I are acquiring several of the commercial locations and a block of brownstones. Hope and I plan to renovate one for our family so that we can have a place on the East Coast. The rest will be renovated and then sold at a profit.”

“Hope—that's your wife's name?”

“Yes.”

“Cy, she's a very lucky girl.”

“I'm the blessed one, Trisha. Hope is a beautiful woman, inside and out, and a wonderful mother to our children.”

“How many children do you have?”

“A set of twins, Camon and Acacia. They're four years old.”

“One big happy family.”

Cy looked intently at Trisha, tried without success to gauge her feelings as he spoke about his family. “We're very happy,” he said at last. “I was taken aback that you'd remained single all these years.”

“Like I told you . . . could never find a man to take your place.”

“You can't possibly mean that.”

“Trust me, I tried. Dated several men, even lived with one for some years. But I could never give him what he deserved—my whole heart, my total commitment. He kept proposing and I kept putting it off. Finally he got fed up and moved on. And rightfully so. He got married within a year of our breakup. But we remained friends. I'm cordial with his wife as well. They have two children and one grandchild.”

“Trisha, I don't know what to say.”

Trisha shrugged. “There's nothing for you to say, really. I'm the one with so much to share with you, so much that I've wanted to say and never said.”

“What we shared was over a long time ago. Your contacting me lets me know that I've been forgiven. For me, that's enough.”

“Yes, I've forgiven you, Cy. But that's not enough.” Trisha's voice was firm, her expression intense. “I don't have—There are some things I've wanted, no, needed to say to you for a long time and . . . well . . . I didn't want another year to pass without trying to find you, without letting you know what's in my heart.”

The waiter brought out their appetizers. Neither Cy nor Trisha picked up their fork.

“When I was growing up,” Trisha began as soon as the waiter had left the table, “I watched my father hurt my mother by having affairs. He was and still is a great father and I adore him. But I also made a promise to myself that I would never put up with what my mother did. I had a zero tolerance for infidelity. One time and the man was history. That was my vow to myself since I was sixteen.

“Cy, I've never been so happy as when you and I were together, and for the first and only time in my life I envisioned a happy ever after. I had a confidence, a smugness even, that I'd found what my mom had not—a man who would be faithful, a man who wouldn't mess around on his wife. For three years, you were that man.”

“Trisha, I—”

“Shh, I know. But let me finish. I've waited so long.” Trisha picked up her fork and nodded to Cy. “Please.” He picked up his fork and took a bite of salad that he couldn't even taste. His appetite had lessened as he became emotionally filled with the impact of Trisha's words. “When Jeannetta told me she'd slept with you, she was beaming. She relished providing me with every sordid detail of what had happened, took great pleasure in describing your room—and your anatomy—so that there would be no mistaking that what she said was true. I was hurt, and angry, and very, very proud. So against everything I felt in my heart, I cut you out of my life. The emptiness that ensued as a result was excruciating, almost unbearable at times. But I kept reminding myself of a sixteen-year-old's promise to herself. Zero tolerance. First time and I was out the door. If I knew then what I know now, I'd have understood that sometimes a good man deserves not only a second chance, but a third, fourth, fifth one, that what you have is much more valuable than what you'd lose, and that someone's temporary dalliance can't match a lifetime based on a soul connection. I would have learned that every man shouldn't be sent packing, that some are worth holding on to . . . no matter what. That's what my mother understood, and that's why this year she and my father will be celebrating fifty years together. She knew, and tried to tell me, that that which didn't kill a relationship made it stronger.” Trisha's eyes shone with unshed tears as she looked at Cy. “I wish I would have listened.” Again, she picked up her fork, but instead of eating, just moved the greens around.

“For months I beat myself up for what I did to you. It was my fault that our relationship ended. Yes, someone coerced me into doing what I did, but I was a grown man and she wasn't holding a gun to my head. It was an unfortunate decision that changed the course of both our lives. I know it's been a long time in coming but . . . I'm sorry for what I did to you, Tricky. So very sorry for the hurt I caused, and how that choice affected your life.

“Like I said when we talked by phone, I often thought about you over the years. Every time I did though, I imagined you married to some über-conscious, world-changing dude, yours a strong presence beside him as you conquered the world, possibly with a baby tied to your back. I always knew you were going places, were going to do great things with your life.” They were silent a moment. “So you decided against a family. What about your career?”

Trisha explained that she'd most recently been the artistic director of a program for at-risk youth in the heart of Harlem. They talked about that briefly before the conversation meandered back to their past: long-forgotten stories from those college years, catching up on each other's families, news of mutual friends. By the time they'd finished dessert, the heavy air that had existed earlier had lightened and laughter had been a common punctuation mark.

“This was nice, Tricky,” Cy said, as he motioned for the bill. “And since I'll be coming up here more often, perhaps we can become friends again. I'd like you to meet Hope. I think the two of you would like each other.”

Trisha's smile dimmed somewhat. “I'm sure she's a good woman. You wouldn't have married her otherwise.”

“So you're agreeable to meeting her?”

“Perhaps.” And once again that look, focused and intense, dark almost black orbs connecting with Cy's equally attentive ones. “But first, Cy, I'd like to ask you a favor. It's a lot to request from a long lost friend, but you granting it would mean absolutely everything.”

“Okay.” Trisha talked and as Cy listened, he felt his stomach churn.

S
tacy eased back from the computer and stretched in her chair. She'd been online for more than an hour, arranging and rearranging her resume, and looking for innovative ways to use her marketing background to do something she liked. She'd been considering this for a while now, getting back into the workforce. Not only because in the future she and her family might need the money, but also because of a recent, startling revelation: slowly, and almost imperceptibly, she'd become Tony's wife and DJ's mom and in the process lost the old Stacy Gray.

When did you lose yourself, girl? What happened to your having a life?
The phone rang. Stacy looked at the ID and was reminded of the first time who she was took a backseat to what she wanted. “Hey, Bo.”

“Hey, Stacy.”

“What?” For almost as long as they'd known each other, Bo had greeted her as Spacey Stacy. “Something must be wrong.” She heard a heavy sigh through the phone.

“I'm so damned tired of people going after my husband.”

“Women can be scandalous. But history has proven that you have nothing to worry about.” She knew that Bo knew exactly what she was talking about.

“I wish it were a woman, instead of a gorgeous, famous actor with more money than God.”

“Ooh. Who is it?”

“Paz the Ass.”

“Who?”

“Pascual Demopoulos, known to moviegoers the world over as Paz Demo.”

“Shut. Up.” Stacy stood and walked into her kitchen. “I just rented his last movie the other week. That man is fine forever.”

“Just what I need . . . somebody who feels the same way Dee does.”

“Darius told you that he thought homeboy was fine?”

“He's told me and showed me. That same movie you watched is part of our collection. Darius has watched it no less than five times.”

“Oh, Bo,” Stacy said, having stood in front of the open refrigerator for a minute before settling on the bottle of flavored water now in her hand. “It sounds like Darius has a harmless crush. I don't think you have anything to—Oh, wait. You said Paz was after Dee?”

“It takes a while to warm up, but eventually that brain of yours remembers how to function.”

“Forget you, Bo.” She took a drink. “What happened that makes you think he wants your man?”

Bo told her. “Darius thought that by us all hanging out in New York, that I'd chill and be less suspicious. But now knowing that that man is as beautiful in person as he is on screen, I'm freaking the hell out. Darius loves beauty and I can't see him resisting that kind of temptation forever. Hell, if Dee didn't have me all lost and turned out I'd screw the man myself!” Silence, and then, “It's been so good between us these past few years. Guess the good times can't last forever.”

Stacy leaned against the couch, her voice just above a whisper. “I know what you mean.”

“Girl,” Bo replied, drawing the word out as only a sistah could, “you've got to tell me how you know this.”

Stacy didn't hesitate. As crazy as the mind of Bo Jenkins was, he was in full supply of common sense. Her girls, Hope and Frieda, were biased. Bo would tell it straight up like it was. “Tony's been tripping too.”

“Girl, shut the front door and run out the back! With who?”

“No, not like that. Trying to get another woman is the last thing on his mind right now.”

“Well, honey, if it ain't the kitty cat, then what can it be? Brothah man hasn't changed lanes has he?”

“Hardly.”

Bo clucked. “Well if it ain't sex, then it must be money.”

“It'll be about money soon enough. Right now, it's about Tony's job.” She gave him the short version of Tony's attempts to rejoin the NFL and his increasingly erratic mood after each rejection.

“So he didn't get the job with the Sea Lions?”

“We don't know yet. I pray he does though. He's become a different person than the one I married. And while I never begrudged his penchant for the finer things in life, I worry about our future, especially DJ.”

“You know Darius is going to make sure that boy wants for nothing.”

“I know. But I'm thinking of myself as well. What will I do if Tony and I split?”

“Dang, girl, it's that bad?”

“Not yet. But I'm not trying to wait until things go from bad to worse before I start making plans.”

“What kind of plans, other than moving back to LA?”

“Those for sure. You're not the only one who wants out of the heat.” Stacy's tone turned serious. “I'm updating my resume.”

“What?! Resume as in thinking about getting a nine-to-five? How does Tony feel about that? And how will that work anyway? You know how Dee feels about people he don't know looking after his child. He wasn't too pleased when you let him spend the weekend with your brother, and he's the boy's uncle.”

“I don't know how he'd feel about it, because I haven't told him and don't plan to. And I don't want you to tell Darius either. I'm not sure what the future holds, but I know that the way things are doesn't feel good right now. Tony is scared of his career ending, true, but I think he's just as concerned about taking care of his family. Plus, he's so prideful. Whatever job he gets after football will have to have the same type of status that comes with being a pro baller.” Stacy was tempted to tell him about the Ponzi scheme and all the money that Tony lost as a result of it, but she'd promised not to tell anyone and so far had kept the promise. Barely.

“Then why doesn't he do like some of those other retired players and become a sportscaster?”

“That's an option, but Tony would much rather work on the field.”

“Mommy!”

“Bo, we'll talk more later. DJ just woke up from his nap,” Stacy headed toward the stairs. “Thanks for listening and remember to keep this between us.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“And don't worry about Dee, Bo. At the end of the day, he's a family man and he knows that DJ is crazy about you. He wouldn't want to do anything to jeopardize that.”

“I hope you're right, Spacey.”

“Bye, Little Bo Peep.”

 

Several hours later, Bo was still thinking about his conversation with Stacy. One part in particular played like a loop inside his head, while fixing dinner, as he and Darius ate and chatted about the day's events and now, while Darius showered and Bo checked his phone. More texts between his husband and Paz. And a phone call too. Bo's jaw clenched as he remembered what had happened last week at the restaurant, when Bo had excused himself to go to the restroom but had instead found a covert spot behind a large potted plant to watch the interactions between Darius and his competition. Paz had wasted no time getting his flirt on, placing a hand on Darius's arm while looking at the R & B superstar as though he were a menu choice. It had taken all of Bo's will (and a few days off his life) for him not to run over and slap the taste out of the handsome, gregarious actor's mouth. In the end the only thing that stopped him was thoughts of Darius, and how much his husband hated a scene. So he'd gone to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and stopped by the bar for a double shot of Courvoisier. After downing it he'd returned to the table and openly flirted with the waiter. That tit-for-tat action had brought about the tense atmosphere Bo had hoped for. The dinner had ended without dessert, he and Darius had argued when they returned to the suite, and the night had ended with explosive makeup sex. Bo thought things had chilled between Darius and Paz. Wrong.

Bo watched dispassionately as Darius walked out of the shower, wearing his favorite lounging outfit—nothing. It had been eight years, but Bo never tired of Darius's eight inches: watching it, holding it, loving it. He loved how it hung neatly over Darius's dual sac, and swayed gently from side to side as Darius crossed the room. Acting like he was reading the latest
LA Gospel
magazine, he continued to surreptitiously eye his lover. Darius's booty was one of God's most amazing designs. It was round and juicy and sat high above big, muscled thighs. He stood at six feet, and his shoulders weren't overly broad, but his muscles were defined and his chest was ripped.

“What?” Darius asked, having caught Bo eyeing him when he glanced in a mirror.

“Nothing.”

Darius's smile was lazy and genuine. “That didn't look like a ‘nothing' look. That looked like an ‘I want some' kind of message.”

“I guess I am turned on a little bit,” Bo admitted, as Darius joined him in the bed. He showed Darius the magazine's centerfold.

“Kelvin Petersen? Please. You've never liked athletes.” Darius took the magazine out of Bo's hands and viewed the photo of the pro basketball player who was also his former pastor's son. On more than one occasion he'd been at Derrick Montgomery's home when Kelvin was present. “Besides”—Darius tapped the page—“this caramel cutie beside him seems to have him on lock.”

The two men looked at the picture of the woman who'd claimed the pro baller's heart. Princess Brook was the daughter of Derrick's best friend, King Brook, and a star in her own right. Darius turned the page and they looked at the other pictures that accompanied the article about the reality show called
KP and His Princess,
which now also featured their twin boy and girl. He remembered weekends he'd spent in a Kansas City suburb, playing at Mount Zion Progressive Baptist, her father's church. “Have you ever watched their reality show?”

“No,” Bo said, turning the lamp off from his side of the bed. “I've got my own reality situation happening right here.”

Darius turned out his light. They both settled beneath the covers and for a while, the only sound heard was their individual breathing.

Finally, Darius broke the silence. “I'm tired, Bo.”

Bo turned toward his lover. “I know.”

“I haven't taken a vacation in what . . . three, four years?”

“Something like that; since DJ was a baby.”

“Remember those days?” Darius said, the smile evident in his voice despite the darkness. “When DJ was in diapers and our days were consumed with just navigating parenthood.”

“He's grown so fast.” Bo reached out for Darius's hand and squeezed it.

“Sometimes I miss those days, when our schedule wasn't so hectic and he could spend more time in our lives. That's my heart right there.”

Bo cuddled next to Darius. “Have you ever thought about having another baby?” He felt Darius stiffen beside him, felt him relax just as quickly.

“Not really. But now that you mention it, having a daughter might be nice.”

The conversation drifted after that, to Darius's schedule for the rest of the month, which included traveling to several promo appearances in the south and southeast. They didn't make love, but rather cuddled and simply enjoyed each other's company. But as Bo drifted to sleep he once again thought about his situation, and Stacy's, and decided to try and come up with a plan that just might work for both of them.