The Eleventh Commandment (3 page)

T
he next morning, Hope bounded out of bed at seven a.m., wanting to be ready when her personal trainer, Yvette, arrived. The popular LA trainer, who came at a hefty one-fifty an hour, had proved herself well worth the payment; Hope was smaller than she'd been before getting pregnant, actually in the best shape of her life. Yvette combined several popular training modules—Pilates, aerobics, Zumba—along with her own brand of stretch and cardio. She achieved in forty minutes the same results that usually required sixty to ninety minutes of working out. The routine was grueling, fast paced, relentless, and aside from time spent with her husband and/or children, the absolute best time of Hope's day. She donned workout gear and then walked over to the other side of the second floor to check on the twins. Satisfied that they slept soundly, she walked downstairs and into the kitchen for a bottle of water, smiling as she spotted a note on the fridge.

“I miss you too, baby,” Hope murmured, as she ran her hand over the note. It was a habit they'd started in the early days of their marriage, leaving each other notes in various parts of the house, but most often on the kitchen fridge. Even with the popularity of texting, e-mails, and the old school phone call, there was nothing quite like seeing pen having been put to paper, hearts hastily drawn, or an “I love you” scrawled in Cy's bold handwriting.
Bold. Strong.Yes, that's my baby.
She remembered how well he'd sexed her last night and then again this morning before leaving on his New York business trip. During the downturn in the nation's economy and the subsequent falling real estate prices, Cy had greatly expanded his company's portfolio, picking up several prime pieces of land and property from the eastern seaboard all the way down to the Florida Keys. He and one of his newest business partners, Jack Kirtz, had also secured property outside the United States, including ocean-front property in South Africa on which they'd built a sanctuary for children orphaned as a result of war and disease. The simple yet sturdy housing complex was comprised of one-thousand units and included a school, gym, playground, general store, and medical facility. It was one of Cy's proudest achievements and since she and Jack's wife had been a part of the planning process, it was Hope's pride and joy as well.

“Perfect timing!” Hope opened the side door that led directly to the area of the mansion that housed the gym, game room, laundry room, and maid's quarters.

“The traffic cooperated this morning,” Yvette replied. “A good thing since your neighbor hates it when I'm late.” The ladies continued chatting as they walked the short distance to the gym, and Yvette replaced sandals with athletic shoes. “I still don't get why you and Millicent don't work out together.”

“It's a long story,” Hope replied, placing her water on a nearby bench before stretching her hands high above her head. “Besides, I like our one-on-one routine.”

“That's just it. The routines I've designed for both of you are very similar; it would be less work for me and more fun for you. I'd even give you a discount. So what's the story?” Yvette asked when Hope continued stretching in silence.

“You don't want to know and probably wouldn't believe it if I told you. Millicent and I have known each other for a long time and while we've learned to coexist quite nicely, we'll never be BFFs, okay?”

“Okay.” Yvette knew when she was coming close to a line she dared not cross. She walked over and placed her iPod on the dock. Soon, Adam Levine and Maroon 5 were talking about moving like Jagger. “Let's get to work.”

An hour later Hope had finished her workout, showered, helped the housekeeper and part-time nanny dress the kids, and had made sure they were settled in for their Spanish lesson followed by lunch and their daily “wear them out so they'll take a nap” romp in a nearby park. Ironically enough, her housekeeper Rosie was a member of Open Arms, the church pastored by Cy's business partner, Jack. Jack was also her former nemesis Millicent's husband, and she had been the one who, after Hope had mentioned her desire to have someone help her with her growing and increasingly rambunctious children, suggested Rosie as a perfect fit for the job. She'd been right. The forty-five-year-old mother of four grown children had melded into the Taylor household right away and quickly become invaluable to Hope's running of it. In addition to housekeeping and babysitting, she taught the children her native language. These days in California, and increasingly in other parts of the country as well, knowing Spanish was not an option, but a necessity.

Hope was in the kitchen and had just downed a bagel with her daily superfood smoothie when her cell phone rang. “Hey, cuz! How's the doctor's wife?”

“Bored as hell,” Frieda grumbled. “Gabriel has me at this vanilla-ass breakfast with some snooty-ass women flaunting their husbands' millions. I had to come out for some air before my face fell into the eggs Benedict.”

“It's probably a very nice breakfast.” Even as Hope said this, she could barely keep from laughing. Her ride-or-die former hood rat cousin wasn't much for high-class hobnobbing.

“Please,” Frieda responded, proving Hope's point. “There's enough silicone and bleach in this room to open up a business on the black market. Wish I'd known what kind of paper would be in here. I could have had one of my former neighbors jack this joint and walk away with diamonds worth at least five mil!”

“Frieda, you don't mean that.”

“Hell, if I hadn't stopped carrying my piece like you told me, I could have robbed these bitches myself!”

“Ha!” Hope knew her cousin was playing, mostly.

“The best part of the whole morning was the mimosas. I know my man Dom when I taste him.”

Hope could hear that Frieda had brought “her man” out with her and was now taking a healthy gulp. “We're not drinking and driving are we?”

“We're not. I am. But don't worry. I'm not driving far. Heading back to the house as soon as this is over so I can get my groo—Never mind.”

“Since when have you been coy about lovemaking? You'se married now,” Hope continued in her best Shug Avery voice. “Sex is allowed.”

“What are you doing?”

Hope didn't miss that Frieda was changing the subject, a red flag since it was one of her cousin's favorites. “Wait. Why do I feel there is something you're not telling me?”

“Nothing, girl.”

“Frieda . . .” She heard her cousin taking another drink.

“Aw, hell. I might as well tell you since I might need you to cover for me one of these days.” A pause and then, “I've got a new boo.”

“What?”

“A tenderoni, girl, with a big, thick, black dick that he knows how to use!”

“Frieda!” Hope jumped off the bar chair where she'd been lounging. “Tell me you're not serious.”

“As serious as a blod clot on its way to the brain.”

“Frieda, Gabriel is a good guy, a wonderful man. He's the man supporting your lavish lifestyle, the father of your child!”

“Maybe .. .”

“Whoa!” Hope's voice went from a low G to a high C in no time flat. “Okay, I know you're joking but, girl, that's not funny.... You are joking, right?” Before Frieda answered, Hope's phone beeped, indicating an incoming call. “Don't hang up,” she warned Frieda before switching over. “Hello?”

“Hey, girl.”

“Stacy!” Hope was glad to hear her bestie's voice. “Hold on a minute—Frieda's on the other line talking crazy. Let me do a three-way.”

“Okay.”

Hope clicked back to the other call. “Frieda, you there? It's Stacy. I'm going to click her into the mix. Frieda? Cuz, you there?”

Cuz wasn't there. Cuz had dropped two bombs and then left the building.

H
ope clicked back over to Stacy. “She hung up.”

“Oh, dang. I was looking forward to talking to her. You know it's been way too long since the three of us have gotten together.”

It was true. Six years ago, when they all lived in Los Angeles, Frieda Moore-Livingston, Hope (Jones) Taylor, and Stacy Gray-Johnson were as thick as thieves and as close as triplets, chatting by phone almost every day and getting together at least once if not several times a month. Stacy had been busy chasing her baby daddy and dreaming of living life with this R & B star. Frieda had been footloose and fancy-free with no desire to have husband or baby, and Hope had wanted the latter so badly that she'd nearly lost her mind. Actually, some (specifically her neighbor, Millicent, her husband, Cy, her mother, Pat, and her therapist) would argue that she had lost it for a moment. Thankfully, therapy, prayer, and the twins had calmed her down and brought her mind back from crazy to normal. A true testament to the fact that life happened while people were busy making plans.

“So what is she tripping about today?” Stacy was all too familiar with Frieda's wild antics.

“You don't even want to know,” Hope said, repeating what she'd earlier told her PT when it came to her history with Millicent Kirtz. “I think she was joking anyway.”
At least I hope to God that Frieda wasn't being serious about having an affair. And Gabriel Jr. being someone else's baby.
The three women shared everything, but if and when Stacy heard this madness, it would be from Frieda and not her. “So what's going on in Phoenix, besides the heat?”

“You said that right; not even July yet and today we're already at a hundred-five degrees. It's ridiculous. Makes me think about moving back to Cali.”

Hope's ears perked up. She'd love nothing better than to have her best friend move back to LA, or even San Diego, which would be better still. “You guys thinking of moving?”

“I don't know what we're going to do. Tony is still pretty upset at being cut, doesn't want to face the fact that his days in the NFL may be over. That's one reason why I'm calling you. We'll be in LA at the end of next month.”

“Really? Why?”

“He's hoping to do a walk-on at the Sea Lions' training camp.”

“That's great, Stacy! Cy loves sports; his company has a suite at all of the major venues. Tony playing in that beautiful new stadium might even make me come out and watch a game!”

“I know, right? So far I've gotten along with the wives well enough, but it would be hella fun to hang out with you and Frieda, especially if the Sea Lions follow everyone's prediction and make it to the Super Bowl. Tony even joked about Darius singing the “Star-Spangled Banner,” if LA ended up in the top two spots.”

“Can you believe it, Stacy? How much all of our lives have changed, and how blessed we are? There was a time when I couldn't have imagined you and your son's father being able to hold a civil conversation, let alone becoming friends.”

“Tell me about it. Not to mention that I'm also friends with his
husband
. He's even teaching me how to cook, passing down his Aunt Gladean's guarded recipes.”

“Gurlll . . . how is Bo?”

Bo Jenkins was the legal partner (translated, husband) of America's R & B darling and Stacy's ex, Darius Crenshaw. “As crazy as always. Running behind Darius and swatting away fans, groupies, and wannabe lovers the way that a cow's tail swats away flies.”

“You've got to give it to them. They've been together what, six, seven years now?”

“Together for eight, married for four,” Stacy corrected. “Longer than some heterosexual marriages last.”

“Shoot, I might need to hang out with Bo myself, ask him what his secret is to their long-wedded bliss.”

“Why? Is the bliss starting to wear off at your house?”

“Not hardly, darling. Cy and I are happier than ever; I fall more and more in love with him every day.”

 

In the perfectly appointed premiere Central-Park-view suite of New York's Mandarin Oriental, Cy sat at a small table, next to floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of the Manhattan skyline, whose bright lights had just begun to twinkle against dusk's tranquil blue sky. It was a stunning sight, but even as Cy gazed upon it, he didn't really take it in. No, his mind was filled with a variety of thoughts and emotions, all dredged up because of the e-mail that he'd just read. Standing, he walked over to the counter and placed the iPad on it. After pouring himself a glass of cabernet, he read the note again:

To say that Cy was surprised would be an understatement. He was floored. For years, he'd thought about Tricky, had looked for her and inquired of her whereabouts. Her sorors had been tight lipped, understandably so considering what had happened to break them up: the one and only time in their relationship that he'd been unfaithful. At that time, Cy had been sure that Trisha Underwood would become his wife and the mother of his children. They'd spoken of spending a lifetime together, had shared dreams and goals, met each other's families, and before that crazy night when a woman who'd long envied Trisha's seemingly effortlessly successful life duped Cy into her bed, he'd been very close to buying a ring. He'd hated that other woman for a long time, had temporarily entertained the idea of swift retribution. But at the end of the day, no one had put a gun to his head to make him have sex; he'd been over twenty-one and in full charge of his faculties. He'd pulled out all of the stops to win Trisha back, mounted a campaign that would have rivaled President Obama's in its tenacity. But Trisha had grown up in a household where infidelity was tolerated and had sworn to never become that woman. At least where Cy was concerned, she'd kept that promise.

Cy took his glass of wine and walked over to the oversized windows. He placed a palm against the glass and took in the high-rises across the way and the antlike people scurrying on the streets more than fifty floors below. Sipping, he pondered this unexpected event that had unfolded at the end of a long yet productive day, a day full of meetings where he'd not checked his e-mails until moments before. Included among the business associates, club memberships, professional organizations, real estate info, and spam mail was a correspondence that caught him totally off guard. Trisha Underwood.
Her maiden name.
Cy wondered whether she was one of those independent women who refused to take on her husband's name. Remembering how feisty and headstrong she'd been in their college days, Cy had no problem believing this was true. He also thought of the possibility that she'd divorced and reclaimed her maiden name or, although highly unlikely, that she'd never married. Remembering their lovemaking, and what a sexual creature his first true love had been, Cy found this last possibility improbable.
Cyclone, her pet name for me. What's that about?
Cy read the ending more than once. And why refer to herself as the name he used to often call her in the throes of lovemaking? What had happened to make her seek him out after all these years? And then there was the most important question of all. What if after talking she wanted to meet? Would he? Should he?

As Cy walked back over to the counter and picked up his iPad to type a reply, he already knew the answer.