The Eleventh Commandment (16 page)

F
rieda was hoping someone would help her all right. That's why she'd gotten up bright and early, gathered what she needed for this appointment, and been out of the house before eight a.m. Now here she sat, about a half block from her destination, a nondescript brick building just off Wilshire Boulevard in West Los Angeles. She pulled her Lexus SUV into the CVS parking lot and after quickly donning a shoulder-length wig, head scarf, and oversized shades, clicked the lock, looked around, and hurried toward OGT, the Office for Genetic Testing. One thing she appreciated about this particular setup was that the DNA tests could be performed in complete confidentiality and anonymity. She'd provide the samples; they'd tell her if they were a match. Twenty-four hours. That's how long she had to wait to decide her next course of action regarding Gabriel, Clark, and that nosy-ass Cordella. One day and she'd know what she needed to do, and where she needed to go.

Frieda entered the office and punched the buzzer, as she'd been instructed during her inquiry calls.

“Hello!” said a cheery voice through the intercom. “Is this Mrs. Maguire?”

“Uh, yes.” Had the situation not been so serious, Frieda would have laughed. Not only did she feel like a bad imitation of Jackie O, but when they'd requested her name for the appointment, she'd said the first thing that came into her head. The name came to mind because at that very moment Tom Cruise had been talking to Cuba Gooding Jr. on her television screen, professing his love for black people and yelling about dollar bills.

“Come right in, Mrs. Maguire.”

Frieda heard the door to the inner office click, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

Fifteen minutes later she was back in her car: scarf gone, wig off, oversized shades replaced with more sensible D & Gs. The small plastic bag containing Gabriel's hair had been left at the center. “Damn, I'm glad that's over,” she said aloud, starting her car and blasting Rihanna as she prepared to head east on Wilshire Boulevard on her way to La Brea Avenue. She was rocking out with her girl, ready to smoke a blunt and then have Clark help relieve her tension. Her hands-free beeped. She looked at the caller ID: Gabriel. No way was she answering that call. She knew what it was about. The inner-city assistance planning luncheon happening today. The one his mother had invited her to. The one she'd miss because she needed some charity herself—about nine thick inches worth, to be exact. Thinking about what awaited her in the hood, Frieda eased out of the parking lot and hit speed dial. She'd talked to Clark last night and told him she'd call when she was on her way. She wanted to make sure he was at his cousin's house. As amped up as she was feeling, she wouldn't mind if the cousin was there too. She'd always wanted to get her freak on where three wasn't a crowd. Maybe today would be that day. Her, Clark, and that fine-ass Spencer. The thought turned her on so much that she punched the gas and ran her car through the yellow light.

While Frieda was dreaming of a ménage à trois, private investigator Wagner was taking notes . . . and pictures. Sure that her car was well down the street, he got out of his black Honda, walked the short distance to the tan brick building, and went inside.

 

A plume of smoke rose above Clark's head as he blew out a hit of marijuana or, as he called it, the mighty gunja. He wasn't a Rasta, but like many of his peers he smoked these “special cigarettes” every single day. Following the “puff, puff, pass” rule, he took another long drag and passed the blunt over to his cousin. “Here, Spence,” he managed to utter, while holding the smoke in his chest.

Spencer took the joint, his head bobbing to the latest Ziggy Marley release. He took a hit off the blunt, closed his eyes as he released the smoke, and then took another hit. “Can't believe your girl,” he eked out, passing the cigarette back to Clark.

“I knew that bitch was a freak.” Clark frowned, even as his manhood twitched at the recent memory of him and Frieda engaging in wild, loud sex, made all the more titillating by the fact that his cousin had been within earshot. “You can't trust a woman like that. She acted like she was joking, but if I'd allowed it she would have done us both.”

“Wow.” Spencer shook his head. “I didn't know that you were feeling her like this, man, all possessive like she's your woman and shit.”

Clark's eyes slid in Spencer's direction. “Well, she is. I've got that woman doing whatever I tell her. She'll even leave her husband if I want her too.”

“Word?”

“Yeah,” Clark said, though he honestly didn't believe it. Frieda was married to the doctor's dollar bills and truth be told, Clark's lifestyle had also improved courtesy of Mr. M.D. “She'll do anything for me.”

“What about Auntie Cordella? I thought she was riding you about hanging out with her employer.”

Clark shook his head. “Moms is trippin' for real. I just hope she doesn't do something stupid and mess up this mad game I've got going here. She got fired from her last job for doing the same bullshit she's threatening to do now.”

“She's planning to tell on you and your girl?”

“Man, I don't know what she's going to do. I told her to chill on that fixation, that me and Frieda together was all in her head. But Frieda said she's still acting funny and now ... so is her husband.”

“Dang, Frieda is gangsta; she don't like people in her business. Auntie Cordella probably acting all judgmental too? I know homegirl is probably not too happy about that.”

Clark rose from the couch, stretched his six-foot-plus frame and walked toward the window. “If Ma ever decides to act on her suspicions, I have a feeling that my girl Frieda is getting ready to be unhappy about a lot of things.”

“H
ope, focus! Concentrate on your abs!” Yvette clapped her hands for emphasis, letting her uninvolved client know that she meant business. They'd been in the workout room at Hope's home for thirty minutes. Yvette felt that only half that time had truly been productive.

“Maybe I should end this for today,” Hope said, reaching for her water and uncapping the bottle. “My mind is just not here.”

Yvette's face showed concerned. “This isn't like you, Hope. You're one of the most positive, always upbeat people I know. What's the matter? Are you feeling all right?”

“Physically, I'm fine.” Without warning, she felt her eyes moisten and quickly batted away the threat of tears. Ever since a woman named Trisha Underwood had gotten all up in her marital business, she'd been moody and on edge. It hadn't helped that Cy was out of town more these days, seriously interrupting her flow of love.
It's a good thing my baby is coming home tonight.
“But I've got a lot on my mind.” She took off her weight bands, a signal that their session was over. “Sorry to waste your time, girl. Give Millicent my extra minutes.”

“Your neighbor won't be using extra minutes any time soon.”

The tone in Yvette's voice immediately got Hope's attention. “What's going on with Millicent?”

“Hmm . . . Maybe she should be the one to tell you.”

“Don't tell me she and Jack are divorcing.”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Is it Sarah? Thomas? Or Jackson?”

“No, their children are fine.” Yvette took the towel from around her neck and placed it in the duffel bag along with the weights. “Don't tell her I told you and act surprised at the news.” A pause and then, “They're having another baby.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Yvette said with a nod, smiling at the incredulity in Hope's voice. “Sarah, Thomas, and Jackson are getting ready to have a little brother or sister.”

“Oh.” It was the last type of news Hope expected and she didn't know why hearing it made her feel bad. “That's . . . interesting.”

Little did she know, but “interesting” had just begun.

 

Cy eased into the backseat of the town car, aching with weariness and more than a little ready to see his wife and kids. The trip to South Africa had been a challenge from start to finish: from losing the contractors his company thought they'd secured for the village rebuilding project to his flight home being canceled just moments before they were scheduled to board. He was tired, hungry, and horny . . . and not necessarily in that order. After a brief chat with the driver, he raised the partition and pulled out his phone. His first thoughts were of Hope, wanting to call her and to hear her voice. But his wife hadn't been too talkative these days; an outward manifestation of the inner turmoil his seeing Trisha had obviously caused. He knew she tried to be understanding but every now and then her frustration would bubble to the surface.
Can you blame her?
No, Cy could not. He had to admit that given the circumstances, Hope had been more than patient.
How would you feel if the tables were turned?
He'd asked himself the question a thousand times and still didn't have the answer. After a series of talks with her mother, Pat, Hope had come to Cy determined to trust him and see what was happening from his point of view. Their lives had returned to a slightly different yet peaceful kind of normal, and he'd tried to be as sensitive as possible, not emphasizing his dealings with Trisha, but not wanting to hide them either. And then there was the other conversation, the one where Hope had all but accused him of—Cy looked out the window, observing without really seeing the passing scenery as he remembered.

 

Cy walked into the kitchen to find Hope juicing vegetables for what she called his morning health drink. “I talked to Trisha today.”

“What else is new?” Hope mumbled as carrots churned in the juicer chute.

“What did you say, baby?”

“I said . . . what'd she say to you?” She placed another carrot into the chute.

Cy moved closer so that he could be heard over the noise. “This is a good week—no nausea, better energy. She almost sounded like her old self.”

“How nice.”

Which caused Cy to look at her—really look at his wife. He placed a hand on hers, preventing her from stuffing another noise-inducing vegetable into the chute. “What's the matter, Hope?”

“What's the matter, Hope?” she mimicked, as if channeling her four year-old child. Turning around, she leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. “Oh, I don't know, Cy. Maybe it's just a little much for a wife to have her husband come bouncing into the room all chipper because his ‘first love' ”—she said with air quotes—“is sounding more like her old self. Maybe she's wanting you to visit her in New York, so you can help her feel even more like her old self!”

What the hell?
Cy did a quick calculation before he spoke.
When was your last period?
Cy spoke in a deceptively calm manner. Where was Hope's compassion, her concern for a human being? “Would you prefer that I not say anything, that I not discuss with my wife how I'm feeling about someone I used to care about?” No answer. “I'm telling you, Hope, because I thought you'd rejoice in the fact that someone who's dying is having a good day for a change. Referring to Trisha's old self is remembering someone who was healthy, vibrant—okay, maybe I shouldn't have said that—someone who wasn't wondering whether the next breath she took would be her last.”

“Oh, please.” Hope turned back around and added cabbage and celery to the juicer before throwing over her shoulder, “You're being a bit dramatic, don't you think?”

“And you're being a bit selfish, don't
you
think?” He began walking out of the kitchen.

“Wait, Cy, your drink.”

He stopped abruptly and turned around. “You drink it. So
you
can stay healthy.”

The two didn't talk that day, a rarity as their lives were generally peppered with frequent, quick phone calls, often just to ask a question or to let one know that the other was thinking about them. By the time Cy returned home they had both cooled off. Cy had also talked to his cousin who told Cy to look at the situation from Hope's point of view. Which led to the question he'd been asking himself since: how would he handle it if it were her first love wanting her near? It also led to a second question.
Is this right, what I'm doing?
And a third. And fourth.
How can I leave Trisha at what may be the end of her life? How can I just turn away?
He'd entered the house not knowing what kind of reception he'd get. Hope had met him with open arms. They'd apologized to each other and sealed their “I'm sorry” with a night of making love. The next day they'd had a heart-to-heart about it. He'd agreed to only discuss Trisha on a need-to-know basis, and Hope had agreed to trust Cy's faithfulness. For a while, the Taylor household had returned to a kind of normal. But even with her name rarely spoken, the situation with Trisha was often still the elephant in the room.

Cy's phone vibrated. He didn't recognize the number, but the 212 area code told him it was New York. Immediately, he thought of Trisha and hoped it wasn't some hospital calling with bad news. “Hello?”

“Hey, man. What's poppin'?”

“Sim?”

“Ha! Thought that number would throw you off. I bought a new cell phone and thought I'd get a new number to help me acclimate to my new zip code.”

“So you bought the brownstone?”

“No, I decided on the loft in Tribeca.”

“Good choice, but I'm a bit surprised.”

“I know, all of the renovations. But the contractor you recommended has assured me that he can have the work done in six weeks.”

“That sounds reasonable. So what are you doing there now?”

“I'm—Oh, wait a minute, Cy. This is my new business partner calling. I'll call you back.”

Cy reached La Jolla, tipped the driver, and was soon walking through his front door to a lovely sight. “Hope!”

Hope, who'd been sitting in the living room surfing the net, was in his arms in an instant. “I missed you,” she said, after a prolonged kiss that said the same thing. She stepped back. “You look exhausted, baby. I can see dark circles under your eyes.”

“This trip was a bitch, babe,” he said, taking her hand as he walked toward the stairs and their master suite. “Delays in construction, material delivery and—Never mind. I'd rather not even talk about that right now. The twins asleep?”

“Yes, thankfully. Acacia caught a cold and now that she's getting better I think Camon has it. They both kept me up almost all of last night.”

“So I guess I won't wake them up for a little fun time with father.”

“Not unless you want to make their mother very unhappy.”

They reached the bedroom. He turned to her and once again, pulled her into his arms. “I definitely don't want to do that,” he cooed, his voice low and dripping with desire. “Because as soon as I shower off the tiredness from this trip, I'm going to show you just what I've been thinking about while I've been gone.” He started a slow grind against her, letting his arms fall until her booty was perfectly cupped in his hands. He squeezed one set of cheeks while kissing the other. Feeling himself begin to harden, he broke their embrace and began undressing. He set his cell phone, keys, and items from his pants pocket on the nightstand and then added his slacks to the shirt draped across the bed. “I got a call from Simeon,” he said from the en suite bath as he finished undressing.

“Oh, yeah?” Hope had already showered and after taking Cy's clothes to the hamper in their dressing room, climbed into the center of their custom-made bed. “What did he want?”

“He's moving to New York.”

“Really, when?”

“When the renovation on his loft is finished. In fact, he's there now.”

“Has he found a job there?”

“I don't know. He got a call in the middle of our conversation. He's supposed to call me back.” Hope heard Cy turn on the shower. She reached for a catalog, idly browsing the selection of underwear and lingerie. Seeing a set that she thought sexy and knew Cy would love, she eased off the bed to retrieve her iPad and place the order. While across the room, Cy's phone rang. At first she didn't give it a second thought, but then remembering what he'd said about Simeon calling, she hurried over to catch the call. It stopped ringing in her hand.

Darn it.
Hope hit the screen and saw the missed call.
212.
Hope hit redial, excited to talk to her cousin-in-law. Even though they hadn't socialized often during her and Cy's six years of marriage, she absolutely adored Simeon. He was smart and gorgeous and kept her laughing. At one time she'd thought about him for her cousin, Frieda. Too bad that didn't work out. Simeon was one of the good ones.

The voice answering on the other end abruptly brought her out of her reverie. “Well, if it isn't my handsome cyclone! Are you back in the states?”

“This isn't your
handsome cyclone,
” Hope said, with the type of calm that's found in the eye of the storm. “It's his wife, Hope.” Silence. “You must be Trisha.”