The Eleventh Commandment (13 page)

H
ope looked up from the book she was reading and cocked her head toward the front of the house.
Is that Cy?
Their bedroom was at the back of the house but because of how they had the security system programmed, sounds in one room could be heard in another. Even without the system, she was almost sure Cy was home. She could feel him. A good thing to, since all day she'd had the rare experience of not being able to reach him. Usually if he couldn't talk on the phone he'd send her a text. Aside from when he was out of the country, they'd talked almost every day since they'd met. Hope hadn't even realized how much of a comfort this was until she'd kept getting his voice mail. Breathing a sigh of relief, she bookmarked her spot in the latest Zuri Day release, eased up from the chair in the sitting area of their master suite, and walked toward the front of the house.

After she'd navigated a flight of stairs, walked down the hall, through the great room and combined kitchen/dining area, she was greeted by a sight for sore eyes. “Hey, baby.” She opened her arms. Cy walked into her embrace. She rubbed her hands across his back and shoulders as he buried his head in the crook of her neck. They stayed that way for a moment, and then a moment longer. Hope tried to pull back, but when she did, Cy intensified his hold on her. And then she felt it. The wetness. Slight yet quite perceptible... A tear, she assumed, that hit her shoulder and rolled down her arm. It was no secret that they hated being away from each other, but tears? This was something new.

Placing her hands on Cy's broad shoulders, Hope forced a bit of distance between them so that she could look in his eyes. “What is it, baby?”

Cy avoided her eyes as he responded, wrapping his arms around her once again and holding her close. “It's good to see you, baby,” he replied, his voice raspy with emotion. “I love you so much.”

Okay. Something was definitely wrong. Cy went out of town often; last year he'd spent almost a month in South Africa, and even then their reunion hadn't elicited this type of emotion. Hope wrapped her arms around her husband's neck and asked again, “What's wrong?”

Cy held her close for another moment before breaking the embrace and turning toward the stairs. “It's a long story, baby. I'll tell you everything. But first I want to kiss my babies and take a shower. After that, I'll feel more like myself again, and will be ready to talk about New York.”

While Cy went to kiss the kids and then take a shower, Hope fixed chamomile tea and once done placed two mugs on a tray along with a couple of spinach popovers. As she entered the room, Cy was coming out of the dressing area, a pair of white linen shorts riding low on his hips.

“I thought you might be hungry,” she said, placing the tray on the table in the sitting area.

“Don't really have an appetite, but tea will be nice.” Cy joined Hope, sitting in the wingback opposite her. He reached for the tea, took a slow, thoughtful sip, and then another.

Hope nibbled on a popover, trying to be patient and wait for whatever heavy story Cy had to tell her. She instinctively knew it had something to do with his meeting with Trisha. Nothing to do with business would make him act this way. And then out of the blue came a thought that took her breath away, and almost caused her to choke on the bite she'd just taken.

She thought back to her initial conversation with Vivian about Trisha, and remembered the first lady's words.
Cy is a stand-up man, and I think that you can trust him. This Trisha woman? I'm not so sure.
On the heels of that thought came Frieda's voice ringing in her ears.
Are you crazy? What in the hell does she want?
That's exactly what Hope wanted to know. The only thing that kept her from blurting out the question that Frieda had asked was the restraint suggested by her first lady. That and the memory of the La Jolla Tea Party, when after misinterpreting a series of e-mails between Cy and Millicent, Hope had driven down to the hotel mentioned in the e-mail, finagled her way into the private room where Cy was meeting Millicent's husband, accused him of cheating and within seconds became the poster child for the definition of the word “assume.” Hope placed the remainder of the appetizer on the plate and looked at her husband, noting the tightness of his expression. “Cy, just tell me what happened.”

“We met for lunch,” Cy finally began, wiping strong fingers over tired eyes. “It was like the years fell away when I saw her. Aside from being a bit thinner than in college, she was the same old Trisha.”

“How did that make you feel?” Hope prayed that her voice sounded casual.

“Good,” Cy instantly replied. “It's like no time had passed. Even though we hadn't seen each other in forever, it didn't take long for the camaraderie we shared to return. We talked about old times and old friends.” Cy looked at Hope and then looked away.

“And then what?”

“And then she asked me to do her a favor.”

“Okay.” Hope willed herself to remain calm, to feel empathy and compassion for a man in pain. It was a Herculean task. When Cy remained quiet, she took a deep breath and then prompted, “What did she ask you?” all the while not sure that she wanted to know.

“She asked if I wanted to walk a bit, for her to show me the neighborhood. I told you that she lives in Harlem, right?”

“You said New York; I don't remember hearing Harlem specifically.”

“Perhaps I didn't know that then. During lunch I'd told her about my plans to buy property in Harlem. That's when she told me that she'd lived there for ten years and that because of her love for its history, knew quite a bit about the various neighborhoods, businesses, stuff that research can't tell you.”

So what about a tour of Harlem would put you in this horrible mood?
Hope dug her fingernails into her palms, determined to wait for Cy to share whatever he wanted in his own time. Even if it killed her, which—with the rate of how long it was taking him to get to the point—it likely could.

“After walking for a while we ended up at her place.”

“How convenient,” Hope said, before she could stop herself.

“Yes, it was,” Cy agreed. “But probably not for the reasons you're thinking. She lives in a brownstone that has been fully restored, near an area that has the same type of acclaimed history as where I'm buying property. Ironically, I'd just met with Joseph the day before, and she knew who I was talking about and pointed out some of the areas he helped redevelop.”

“That's the guy who got you interested in Harlem properties, right?”

Cy nodded. “Joseph Holland. He began dealing with Harlem real estate back in the eighties, even wrote a book about it, which Trisha has read. It's called
From Harlem with Love
. Anyway, when I learned where she lived and she offered a tour, I was definitely interested in seeing her space.”

“Oh, so going to her house was your idea.”

“She asked if I wanted to see the restoration. I said yes and we went there.”

Hope turned to face her husband fully. She was out of patience and had to cut to the proverbial chase. “Cy, with what you've just told me, I still don't understand why you're in this dark mood.”

Cy looked at Hope and then away. “It's because of what happened afterward, what Trisha told me once we got to her house.”

Hope's heart began an erratic beat. Scenarios of what Trisha told him popped around her head like ping-pong balls.
Help her undress? Let them make love? Divorce me and the kids and move to New York?
And then an even crazier thought, taken straight out of a chapter of Vivian Montgomery's life:
Does he have a child who's like around . . . fifteen years old?
“Well, what is it?” Hope hadn't meant to jump off the chair, get in his face and speak through gritted teeth. No, she'd meant to be cool, calm, and collected, to quietly ask what his first love had requested as if she were asking him to pass the butter. But nooooo. She'd had to “go Frieda” and lose her cool. Which is why she was standing over a still-seated Cy with her hands on her hips. “So what was it, Cy? Did Trisha ask you to sleep with her, to have a little nookie for old time's sake?” The look in Cy's eyes should have cooled her ire, but it only fueled it. “Just say it, Cy! What did she ask you or tell you, that has you and me tripping right now?”

Cy looked Hope directly in the eye. “She told me she's dying, Hope. And that one of her last wishes is for us to spend some time together. For old time's sake.”

F
or a moment Hope didn't move, barely breathed. When her brain started working again she walked over to the wingback and sat down. “She's dying?” Cy nodded. “And wants to spend some time with you?” Another nod. Hope leaned back in the seat, anger turning to calm incredulity by the second. “You're kidding, right?”

“Baby,” Cy replied, cutting his eyes in her direction, “I wouldn't kid about a thing like this.”

“A woman you used to date whom you haven't seen in decades contacts you out of the blue, tells you she's dying, and you believe her?”

“Why wouldn't I believe her?”

“You're much too intelligent to be gullible, babe. And pardon my suspicious nature, but this sounds highly suspect. Wait.” Hope leaned forward, narrowed eyes looking off into the distance. “Did she ask you for money?”

“Stop it, Hope.” Cy's voice was forceful, his body tense with the delivery. “Trisha isn't that kind of woman. She wouldn't lie about something like this. Besides, as soon as I saw her I felt something wasn't right.”

Hope sat back.

Cy tried to relax.

“How so?” Hope twisted the linen napkin she'd placed on the tray, trying to wring some of her anger out along the way.

“She was thinner, and her normally glowing skin had lost some of its glow. But her eyes were bright, her smile was genuine, and like I said, our conversation at the restaurant was like old times. So I dismissed those earlier feelings. Until she told me about her illness. Then everything I'd initially felt made sense.”

Silence filled the room as both Hope and Cy nestled into their own thoughts. “So how's this supposed to look?” Hope finally asked, her voice soft and searching. “Her spending time with a man who's married with children?”

Cy sighed heavily while shaking his head. “I don't know, babe.”

“What did you tell her?” Hope couldn't help that her voice rose an octave. Considering the conversation she was having, it was the best she could do.

“I was so taken aback by her news that at first I couldn't say anything.” Cy quieted, laying his head back against the chair and staring at the ceiling. “I told her how sorry I was to hear about her condition, but being married, didn't know how I could comply with her request. She said she understood, and apologized for even asking. I feel so bad, Hope. The Trisha I remembered was vibrant, full of life and plans and positive expectations. It's just not fair that her life is getting cut short!” Cy stood abruptly and began pacing. He stopped in front of Hope's chair, his look one of quiet desperation. “I don't want her to die, baby.”

Hope stared into her husband's eyes, saw his pain . . . and something else. “Are you still in love with her?” On one hand, she appreciated that her husband felt their relationship deep enough to want to confide these feelings in her, as uncomfortable as they were. On the other hand, however, a sistah needed to know.

“You're the only person I'm in love with,” he said after a pause, turning away from her to stare out the window. “But I'd be lying if I said I didn't still feel love for her. We were practically inseparable throughout college. I think there's always something special about that first love.” Turning to look at her, he leaned against the wall. “Don't you?”

Hope thought about Shawn Edmunds, the handsome musician she'd met at a church function, who'd swept her off her feet, into his bed, and away from her virginity faster than she could say hallelujah. “Mine was different,” she answered, a bit surprised that this was the first time she and Cy were discussing this particular topic. Then again, after meeting and falling in love with the man in front of her, she'd not given her past a second thought. “We only dated for six months. My feelings for him were obviously nowhere near the ones you're feeling.”

“Hope, I love you. There's no other woman for me. But can you understand how it feels to know that the first woman you ever loved is dying without doing many of the things that she wanted to do?”

“What is she sick with?”

“Some form of cancer. That's the other problem. The doctors say it is some rare strain with which they're not familiar. I feel so helpless. And ready to do whatever I can to make her life a little better.”

“Including some one-on-one time?” Seeing the weary look in his eyes, she reached for his hand, took it, and walked them toward the bed. “It's okay, baby. It must be a lot to deal with and I thank you for trusting me enough to share your real feelings.”

“Thank you, baby.”

They went to bed, made slow soul-wrenching love, and then settled spoon style into each other's arms. He'd been attentive and thorough as always, but as she drifted off to sleep Hope just couldn't shake the feeling that there had been three people in the bed.

 

At breakfast the next morning, Hope and Cy were joined by the twins. Not the norm since many mornings Cy was up and out before they were ready to meet the world. Their presence had kept the mood lighthearted, and kept both Cy's and Hope's thoughts off what they'd discussed last night. But after kissing Cy good-bye and spending a few hours with the twins before they settled into their routine with Rosie, Hope was consumed by what she'd begun calling in her mind the Trisha Temptation. She definitely needed to talk to someone about it . . . but who? Or maybe a better question was, who all? Vivian Montgomery was the first person who popped into her head. The first lady of Kingdom Citizens Christian Center had heard just about everything, was a great listener, and a nonjudger. She was also the first person Hope had reached out to when this whole situation had begun.

She walked into the great room and saw the cordless phone that sat on the granite bar separating the space. She picked it up and began to dial. Halfway through the numbers, however, she ended the call. She'd talk to Vivian for sure, but right now she felt she needed another point of view.
Stacy? No, it sounds like she has enough on her plate right now.
Hope knew there was no need to talk to her cousin. Frieda had been very clear about her position on reconnecting with exes. Don't do it. Which was mostly Hope's position too, but seeing what a strain this was on Cy, she was really trying to be understanding. Hope started as the phone rang in her hand. Looking at the ID she smiled.
Thank you, Jesus. Of course!
She quickly pushed the talk button. “Hey, Mama. You're just the person I need to talk to.”

 

Stuck in 91 freeway traffic on his way to Los Angeles, Cy was also in search of an objective listening ear. He'd called Derrick and been told by his assistant that the pastor was in a meeting. Immediately, another name came to mind. He clicked the button on his steering wheel and activated the speakerphone.

“Call Simeon.” While waiting for the call to connect, Cy thought about his younger, gregarious, womanizing cousin. The one he loved to death. Growing up they'd been extremely close, and for the most part had maintained the bond through adulthood. But for the past three years, Simeon Taylor had lived in Alaska, working long hours and making big bucks. They hadn't talked as often as Cy would have liked.

“Cousin! What's up, man?!” Simeon's smile almost shone through the car speakers so prevalent was it in his voice.

“You, I see. Wasn't sure I'd catch you. You're becoming as hard to reach as a logger!”

“If you ever see me in a plaid flannel shirt you have permission to hit me with a hard uppercut followed by a jab.”

“Man, forget some well-placed boxing moves. I'm going to beat you like I did when we were kids, until you go off crying to your mama . . . or mine.”

“Whoa! Sounds like you've got a case of selective memory, cousin. But I guess that's what happens when one gets old.”

“Oh, I see where this is going. When are you coming to the lower forty-eight, so that we can do our talking on the basketball court?”

“Mid-October, if everything stays on schedule. In fact, I was going to call you later. I might need your help to secure a property in New York.”

“New York?”

“Yes. I'm thinking that will be a good place to land after being here for three years. The pace, women, food . . . I'll need all of that and plenty of it upon my reentry into society.” A pause and then, “Cuz, you still there?”

“Yes.” Cy was still there, but his good mood had left him.

“Why do you sound troubled all of a sudden? What's wrong with New York?”

“Nothing's wrong with the city, Sim. But after a recent visit there my life is crazy.”

“What happened?”

A brief pause and then, “I saw Trisha.”

Simeon didn't try and check his surprise. “Trisha Underwood?”

“The one and only.”

“Wow. It's been years since I heard you mention that name. It took you forever to get over that fine sistah breaking your heart.”

“Yes, well, it turns out that it took her a while to get over things too.”

“She didn't try and get back with you, did she? I mean, with all of your former mutual friends, she's got to know you're married.”

“She knows. But she still wants to spend time with me and, because of a very unfortunate situation, I want to spend time with her as well.”

“Okay, Cy. You need to tell me what's going on.”

Cy did, the whole story, from the first e-mail to the last goodbye and all the talks with Hope.

“You're right. This situation is very unfortunate.” Both were silent before Simeon continued. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know,” Cy acknowledged. “But if Trisha died without me doing everything in my power to make her last days better . . . I don't know how I could live with myself.”