The Eleventh Commandment (19 page)

S
tacy wasn't the only one looking for peace. So was Frieda Livingston.

“It's not his baby.” She was talking to Hope, had finally gotten up the nerve to call her after wrestling with the truth solo for over a week.

“Oh my God, Frieda,” Hope said, balancing a load of laundry with the phone cocked under her ear. “Hold on.” This kind of news could not be dealt with while multitasking. She placed the load in the washer and walked from the laundry room to the combination library/theater room where she shut the door before resuming the convo. “Okay, sorry about that. I'm back. Now... are you sure?”

“Don't ask dumb-ass questions,” Frieda barked. “Bitch, do you think I would have called you if I wasn't sure of this shit?”

Hope forced herself not to respond to her cousin's outburst. She knew it wasn't personal. She also knew she wasn't going to be too many more bitches, no matter how upset her cousin was. She sat down in one of the custom-made recliners and began fiddling with the controls built into the chair's arm. “Did you just find out?”

“No, I got the results about a week ago.”

“And you're just now calling me? Why have you been trying to handle this by yourself?”

“I think I was in shock the first two, three days. Then a couple days ago, I made a list of all the dudes I was messing with around the time that Gabe was conceived. And before you can ask me, it's none of your damn business how long that list is.”

Both women laughed.

“Then I called Gorgio; told him he might be a baby daddy.”

“How did that go over?”

“Old Gorgio boy surprised me. Considering that he's now engaged to Blondie, he took it rather calmly. I told him that I needed a DNA sample and he overnighted me some of his hair.”

“Looking at Gabe, do you think Gorgio's the father?”

“I'm hoping he's the father. At first I wanted it to be Shabach's baby—”

“Shabach?! Please . . .”

“Yeah, I know. He's a ho and an asshole, but one with paper. If Gabriel divorced me and he's the father, I can sue him for child support and keep it movin'. But more than anything, me and Gee are friends, so if he's my son's father and I can keep this secret, at least I'll know that he won't trip on letting Gabriel continue to raise him as his son.”

“Whoa, back up. You're not planning to tell Gabriel?”

“Girl, that ocean air has you losing your mind. Why in the hell would I tell my husband that the child he adores isn't his blood? He's Gabe's father in every sense of the word and I have absolutely no intention of rocking that boat. Not at all.”

Even though she didn't get a good feeling about this revelation, Hope held her peace. Perhaps Frieda was right, and not saying anything to Gabriel was for the best. Their marriage was already shaky. Little Gabe was the one thing that they had in common. In Hope's mind, that little boy was the tiny thread that was keeping that family together. “What if Shabach is Gabe's father. How do you think he'll react?”

She heard Frieda sigh. Her short stint with Darius's former nemesis and America's gospel hip-hop darling had ended as fast and furiously as it had begun. “I know how; tracked down his number and called him last night. He tried to get all indignant, saying there was no way that he could be the father. I told him that as many times as me and him rolled raw, he was as good a candidate as anybody.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He finally agreed to send me some hair. Knowing his ass, though, that sample might end up coming from anybody's comb. That man is making millions and still acting cheap. But I don't have time to worry about him. I have a couple more guys that I want to talk to before I go back to the lab. And then there's the matter of seducing Gabriel as much as possible.”

“Oh,” Hope teased. “Do I hear a little more love for the doctor seeping into your voice?”

“More like you hear Mami securing her future. Gabriel's mother has never liked me. And with what happened a few months back, if she gets wind of my marital problems, she may get ideas.” Frieda shared with Hope about Alice noticing the birthmark. “If she finds out that Gabe isn't her natural grandson, she'd be the first one trying to push my ass out the door. I need to get pregnant with an insurance marker—the sooner, the better.”

“Frieda . . . Never mind.” Hope knew that trying to talk her crazy cousin out of this madness would simply be wasted breath. “Let me know if you need me to drive up there for emotional support. I might not always agree with you, cousin, but you know I've got your back.”

“Yeah, I know,” Frieda said, her voice devoid of its usual sarcasm. “I appreciate it. I know I come off as all hard and whatnot, but I don't want to go through this shit by myself—for real.”

 

Across town, another conversation was about to take place.

“Dr. Livingston.”

“Hello, Dr. Livingston. This is Amy calling from the Office for Genetic Testing. You wanted me to call you as soon as we received the results of the DNA you sent us.”

Gabriel leaned back in his chair, not as weary from the three-hour surgery he'd just performed as he was from expending the energy that trying to save his marriage had required. When it came to Frieda, he felt he'd done everything possible to bring them closer together, to try and make this sham of a marriage into a real one. His parents had been married almost half a century. There were very few people in his circle who'd gotten divorced. If not for his son, their unity may not have been as much of an issue. But he'd grown up in a two-parent family, in a household filled with love and laughter. He wanted that for Gabe. A stable, loving family was the very least of what his son deserved.

“Dr. Livingston?”

“Uh, yes, Amy, I'm here. What are the results?”

“Well, they're conclusive. And they show that within a one-hundred-million to one probability . . . the two strands of DNA presented are not a match.”

Gabriel's eyes flew open. No matter how much his intuition (and his mother) had suggested otherwise, Gabriel had clung to the belief that Gabriel, Jr. was his biological son. “I'm sorry. What did you say?”

A slight hesitation and then Amy responded. “Between the two samples that were tested, there is zero possibility of a biological match.”

Gabriel didn't remember ending the call. Later, he wouldn't be able to recount the moments, or hours, after receiving the information that the boy he raised, the one he loved and adored, was not his biological child. The next moment he remembered, with absolute clarity, was the one when he picked up the phone and made a pivotal call—one that began the process of the dissolution of his marriage.

I
t was seven p.m. and Frieda was excited and a bit apprehensive at the same time. She couldn't remember when she'd last spent almost a whole day alone with her son, not only playing and spending time with him, but cooking his meals and then doing the cleanup. But after the conversation with Hope about the DNA results, she'd determined that there was no time to lose when it came to putting her plan into action. First she'd called Gabriel's office and found out his schedule for the day so she'd know what time to expect him home. Then she gave the chef, housemaid, and Cordella the day off, with pay (after Cordella had bathed and dressed Gabe and the housemaid had finished the morning dishes and the laundry). Once they were gone, she piled Gabe into the car and headed for the upscale grocery not far from their home. Though it had been a couple years since she'd done so, Frieda used to get around a kitchen without a map and in those early days before they married, had fixed Gabriel a dinner or two. She remembered how much he seemed to enjoy her effort, how he'd praised how good the food tasted. But following their nuptials and upon return from their honeymoon, one of the first things she'd done was to hire Tito, a chef with more than ten years' experience in private homes. Gabriel had questioned her about it, but didn't complain about the extra expense. Come to think of it, short of his desire for them to spend more time together and do more things as a family, he didn't complain about much at all.
Hope is right. I'm married to a good man yet still out chasing dick. I need to do more than get pregnant; I need to try and be a good wife ... for a change.
Frieda felt that the fact that she hadn't seen Clark in two days was proof that the change had already begun.

After leaving the grocer with four perfectly thick pork cutlets, mixed vegetables, and wild rice, she'd driven to Le Pain Quotidien for a loaf of their one-of-a-kind five-grain bread, to Marie Callender's on Wilshire Boulevard for Gabriel's favorite double-cream blueberry pie, and then on to BevMo's for two bottles of Moët & Chandon. By the time she returned home, Gabe had thankfully fallen asleep, so she took that time to shower, taking extra pains with her douche and rubbing a specially designed honey-milk mixture into skin already made soft by regular mud baths and skin peels. Afterward, she'd massaged patchouli-scented shea butter into her skin before donning a robe and heading to the kitchen.

Once there she'd made quick work of reproducing the pecan-crusted pork cutlet recipe that she'd found online. She'd chopped the vegetables and after placing them in an acid-bath to prevent discoloration had gone to a now-awakened Gabe and washed him up before dressing him in a navy-colored short set, complete with mini gold chain and black Ralph Lauren sandals. At six-fifteen she'd put on the rice and then gone to change into a sheer bra and thong set from Victoria's Secret and a simple, royal-blue silk mini-dress from the same store. She'd gone back into the kitchen, placed the vegetables into the steamer, and quickly set the table. Just before seven, she'd searched the home iPod for Gabriel's files and soon the sounds of Dexter Gordon's tenor sax poured into the candlelit atmosphere. She slipped into a pair of blue satin Sergio Rossi sandals adorned with Swarovski crystals. She dabbed on perfume recently purchased from Nordstrom and, after throwing back two shots of Don Julio to calm her nerves, sat playing with Gabe—something that she surprisingly enjoyed—and waited for her man.

At seven minutes past seven, Frieda pushed the button that opened the garage door. “Come on, Gabe. Let's go greet Daddy. When you see him, run up and give him a hug, okay?”

Gabe jumped down from the couch and clapped his hands together. “Okay!” he said eagerly, already rushing toward the side door that led to the garage.

“Okay, chick,” Frieda said, wishing she'd drank a third shot to calm the roiling nerves in her stomach. “Time to go and be the perfect wifey.”

 

Almost before he entered the house, he felt a different atmosphere.
What is it?
Gabriel's brows furrowed as he tried to place his finger on what seemed different when he pulled up the drive. Then it hit him. No extra cars in the driveway. On a normal day there'd be at least three: Tito's, Cordella's, and the newest housemaid's, who'd just been hired two months ago. Gabriel's scowl deepened.
What has Frieda gone and done this time?
After pulling into the garage he sat in the car, motionless, trying to rein in the barrage of emotions that had gripped him almost to the point of paralysis since hearing the news.

He placed his head in his hands, the headache that he'd eased with a prescription-strength aspirin threatening to return full force.
There is zero possibility of a biological match.
Gabriel gripped the wheel, worked to control his escalating temper by taking deep breaths. He'd never been a violent man, rarely been angry to the point of raised voice. But a part of him wanted to strangle Frieda, quiet every sarcastic comment or well-planned lie that could come out of the mouth that knew how to please him below the belt. The other part of him was hurt, wondering whom he'd married and how he'd gotten to this place. From the time he'd bumped into her at the Beverly Mall, literally knocking her down, to when she'd invited him to buy her a drink, to when he'd found himself walking her down the aisle with a barely showing baby bump, his normally placid, predictable world had been turned upside down. He couldn't recall the exact moment he fell in love with Frieda Moore. But it was earlier today, at 4:45 p.m. to be exact, when he fell out. If not for the admonishments of his attorney to conceal that he knew the truth until they were ready to take action, he'd go straight into the house and throw Frieda out on her lying, cheating rump!

After preparing himself for the inevitable, he exited the car and stepped inside the hallway that passed the laundry room on the way to the kitchen. As soon as he turned the corner, he saw his son.

“Daddy!”

No matter his state of mind or how tired he was, Gabe could always brighten his mood. Even now, given what he knew, his eyes lit up at the sight of his son running toward him with arms spread wide. Gabriel knelt down and scooped the child up in his arms. “Hello, son. How's my boy today?”

“I had fun with Mommy, Daddy. We went riding, and got your pie, and then we played games. She said I was real good and I beat her, Daddy. I beat her!”

“You are good, Gabe. How many times have I told you that?”

Gabe laughed. “A lot!”

They continued down the corridor, with Gabe wrapped in his father's arms as Gabriel thought,
Cordella must be sick.

They rounded the corner. Gabriel stopped short, the smile on his face doing a slow fade. How many times had he imagined what now stood before him: his sexy wife standing there with a smile, waiting to greet him after a hard day's work. For more than three years to be exact. And how many times had it happened? This was the first.

“Hey, baby.” Frieda's normally confidently sarcastic voice was soft, tentative. “It took you a while to get out of the car.”

“Long day,” Gabriel replied, kissing his son on the temple before setting him down. He noticed the pots on the stove. “Where's Tito?”

“I gave the help the day off.”

Gabriel's eyes narrowed. “You cooked?”

Frieda's laugh was a bit too loud to be natural. “I deserved that one, baby.” She took a seductive step toward him and when he didn't back up or show any other sign of distaste, she took another. “I've been slipping on my wifely duties and I plan to change that . . . starting today.”

Gabriel worked hard to keep a casual veneer in place. “What brought this on?”
Besides a DNA test showing that I'm not Gabe's biological father, something you might already know.

“I talked to Hope,” Frieda answered truthfully. “You know that girl is the modern-day Suzy Homemaker. She told me about the dinner she was preparing for Cy. I tried to remember the last time I'd made dinner for you, and felt guilty. So . . . I decided to let the help have the day off, took Gabe shopping with me for some of your favorite things, and then I came home and made dinner. Which is ready, by the way.” She took a final step, placing her pert nipples against his chest. She reached down and blatantly grabbed his sex. She began to massage his flaccid member. “I hope you're hungry.”

Gabriel batted her hand away. “Did you forget our son is in the room?”

“Did you forget how we got that son?”

It took a Herculean effort, but Gabriel let that loaded question pass right on by. He took time to collect himself by walking over to the stove and lifting up the pot. “Smells good,” he said, after sniffing the spicy rice. “What meat did you cook?”

“If you'll wash up for dinner and take your place at the table, I'll show you.” She tilted her head and kissed him on the lips. “And later,” she whispered, “there's something else that I want to eat.”

Gabriel turned and left the room without responding. Any other time, he would have been hot and further hardened by Frieda's antics. She'd always been able to turn him on. But tonight, every verbal flirt made him nauseous, every batted eyelash made his fists clench. Still, he kept his focus, went upstairs and changed his clothes and within ten minutes was back downstairs sitting at the table and playing with the welcomed diversion otherwise known as his son. By the time he'd arrived, she'd set their plates on the table, having chopped up Gabe's meat and vegetables into small, bite-sized pieces and adding a sweet and sour sauce to his meat and rice.

Gabriel looked at the perfectly done chop and vibrant vegetables and for a split second, wondered if they might be poisoned. But after watching his son take a few bites, and unobtrusively examining his meal for any suspicious-looking ingredient, and almost laughing out loud at his own paranoia, he took a healthy bite. “This is good, Mrs. Livingston. I can't remember the last time this happened—dinner at the table with the three of us.”

“It's a shame, isn't it? I guess before it just seemed more convenient for Gabe that he eat with Cordella and give us some quality time to spend alone.” Gabriel gave her a patient look. “That is, on those days when I was home for dinner.” She placed down her fork. “Look, Gabriel, I've messed up. All right? I've acted like a spoiled bitch, and I'm sorry. But I'm going to do better, baby, starting today.” She reached out and placed her hand over his. “Okay?”

Gabriel moved his hand, looked at Gabe, the only reason that his smile was genuine. “Do you like the food that Mommy fixed?”

Gabe enthusiastically nodded his head, picking up the meat with his fingers and popping it in his mouth like nuggets. “Uh-huh.”

“What was that?” Gabriel asked.

“I mean yes,” Gabe corrected, before being mostly successful at getting the rice and vegetables on his spoon and into his mouth.

They shared small talk with Gabe for a moment before Frieda turned her attention to Gabriel. “So how was your day, Gabriel?”

“Interesting.”

“Really? How so?”

Gabriel bit down on his tongue so hard he almost drew blood. He'd never been good at lying, had never perfected the poker face. But his attorney was right. If he tipped his hand tonight, told her what he knew, and that he planned to divorce her, she could make his life a living hell. No, he'd bide his time so that by the time he delivered his legal jab, she'd have no choice but to behave. He took a couple more bites, shrugging as he chewed before answering her question. “A couple surgeries that yielded surprises once we cut the patients open. But they were both successful.”

“Is Amber still chasing you?”

“You're still concerned about her?”

“Naw, but I know how bit—” Gabriel cut Frieda a hard look. He'd chided her many times about cursing in front of their son. “Uh, women can be when it comes to successful men like you. She never liked me, always had her nose in the air when I visited you at the hospital.” Frieda took a bite of the pork cutlet, silently congratulating herself on a job well done. “The feeling is mutual.”

“You don't have to worry about Amber. She'd never sleep with a married man.”
Which is more than I can say about what you would do as a married woman.

“I talked to Alice today and told her I'd host the next committee luncheon.”

“First this homemade dinner and now cozying up to my mom? All this after a conversation with Hope?”

“Guess she finally got through to me. So when your mother called, I volunteered our house.”

At the thought of the conversation he'd eventually have to have with his mother, Gabriel's heart clenched. Yet Frieda's statement was enough to steer their discussion toward calmer waters, punctuated by Gabe's errant and funny comments. Dinner ended, and Frieda suggested that they put Gabe to bed and then have dessert in the master suite. Gabriel countered that he'd like to eat his pie with his son. Frieda acquiesced, and after they'd finished and tucked Gabe into bed, she reached for Gabriel's hand as they walked to the bedroom. “This was nice,” she whispered.

“Yes, it was.” He walked into the master suite's dressing room and, after gathering clothes from it and toiletries from the bathroom, started for the door.

“Gabriel,” Frieda said as she watched him get ready to walk out of the love lair she'd created, “where are you going?”

“It's been a long day, Frieda. I appreciate the family time but want to enjoy an uninterrupted night's sleep.”