The Eleventh Commandment

by Lutishia Lovely

  “Hello.” Frieda turned down the sounds blasting from her speakers as she spoke.

  “Where are you?” Gabriel Livingston’s voice was just short of curt. “I’ve called you three times.”

  Just then Frieda remembered that her phone had vibrated earlier, when she’d been so focused on . . . well . . . various types of massages, and she’d forgotten to turn it back on. “I’ve been out running errands,” she said, the beginning of an attitude creeping into her voice. Having basically been on her own since she was fifteen years old, she wasn’t too used to having to report her whereabouts.

  “Cordella said you’ve been gone for hours.”

  That nosy nanny needs to mind her own business! Frieda made a mental note to speak to her at the next opportunity. Sistah-girl wouldn’t get fired as long as her tenderoni son was handling that pipe like he did, but his mama was definitely going to have to put her mouth on lock. “After my workout I went to get my weekly massage, then went shopping”—screwing but hey, they both have eight letters and start with an S—“so yeah, I guess I’ve been gone for a while.”

  “You can’t keep doing this, Frieda. Spending your afternoons gallivanting while Cordella watches our child. In the two years that she’s worked for us, I’m beginning to think Gabe considers the nanny his mom.”

  “Did you call to make me feel bad about taking care of myself?”

  Gabriel’s exasperated huff came through the phone. “I called to tell you about a dinner engagement tonight with a prominent couple from DC. An unexpected change of plans has them here for the evening, time enough to make an impression that will hopefully result in a large donation for the new oncology ward.” He told her the name of the restaurant. “Reservations are at eight.”

  “Looks like it’s a good thing I’m on my way to the spa,” Frieda purred. “So I can look good and help impress your guests.”

  By the time the call ended, Frieda knew that she’d flipped the frown that had undoubtedly marked Gabriel’s face when the call began. She turned up the music again as she thought about how opposite she was from Gabriel in so many ways, and how her vibrant personality was what had drawn him to her like a hummingbird to sugar water. He was often exasperated with her, but a witty quip, flirty phrase, or naughty innuendo could usually brighten his mood. He’s so easy to manipulate. And when it came to fathers, there were none better. That heart that Frieda liked to ignore constricted a bit. She really did love Gabriel. He’d do anything for her, and even more for his namesake, the namesake that every day was looking less and less like the good doctor and more and more like one of the men Frieda used to know.

  2

  The Ex Factor

  It was a picture-perfect evening in La Jolla, California, an upscale suburb of San Diego. Cy and Hope Taylor sat on their ocean-front patio, sipping wine and enjoying a sunset that was painted by God. The chilled wine they’d uncorked was a rare vintage that Cy had procured on a recent trip to Italy, vino that Hope had unashamedly poured into sensibly priced crystal wineglasses purchased at a discount chain. God had blessed her with the good life, a life beyond her wildest dreams. But she wasn’t bougie. A no-nonsense mother, matter-of-fact father, and an upbringing in a tight-knit Baptist church community in Tulsa, Oklahoma, had planted her designer-clad feet firmly on the ground. “Don’t get so high that you can’t see low,” her mother had told her on more than one occasion, like after church when mothers fawned over a song she’d sung or a dance she’d choreographed. Or when the teachers commented on the well-mannered pretty girl with big brown eyes, thick braids, and good grades, Pat would remind Hope that God had given her the ability to have those things, that they’d not been achieved simply through actions of her own. Even now, this down-to-earth mother was in La Jolla, passing down that same wisdom to Cy and Hope’s four-year-old twins, Camon and Acacia. Hope and Cy relished the quiet time, and each other.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve done this, huh?” Cy reached over and took his wife’s hand in his, held it up to kiss the back of it.

  “The world is so quiet when they are gone; I almost can’t remember what life was like without them. For years, I thought I’d never have children. I’m thankful for them every day.” She leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek, still reveling in his star good looks after six years of marriage. His tall stature, dark caramel skin, soft curly hair, and cocoa eyes framed by ridiculously long lashes never ceased to make her heart skip a beat and her panties grow wet. Cy Taylor had been one heck of a catch, another blessing that was above and beyond what she ever dared dream.

  Cy turned and took the chaste kiss Hope had intended to another level, brushing his lips across hers before running his tongue across the opening of her mouth, and when she complied, slipping it inside. The headiness of their love matched the potency of the wine and within seconds, the lovebirds were caught up in a dance they’d perfected over time: lips touching, tongues twirling, hearts beating as one. He looked up through desire-darkened eyes and gazed upon the woman he loved—her chocolate skin, big doe eyes, and thick lips parted with wanting.

  “Let’s go inside.” The insistency in Cy’s voice hinted of a desire to take her here, now, on the smooth slate stones of the patio.

  “Mama will be back with the kids anytime,” Hope replied. At Cy’s sigh, she smiled. Their lovemaking schedule was forever changed when the kids came, and getting it in where fitting it in had taken on a whole new meaning. “I know, me too,” she finished, with a final peck on his lips before sitting up, reaching for her wineglass, and taking a cooling swallow. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of all of that”—Hope gestured at his obvious erection—“later tonight.”

  “All right.” Cy stretched his long legs in front of him to offer a bit of relief to the long leg in the middle. “Best to change the subject then. Otherwise, Mom Pat will walk into a situation best not seen by mothers-in-law.”

  “Not to mention our children.”

  “Remember that time—”

  “The twins coming in the room . . .”

  “Standing at the end of the bed—”

  “Eyes wide, wondering . . .”

  “And then little Camon pipes up, ‘What y’all doin’?’ ”

  Cy was really laughing, doubling over in his seat. “I look down and all I see are two sets of eyes barely able to peer over the mattress.”

  “And my response to their question—‘We’re just playing.’ ”

  “Good thing I was riding it low and slow, instead of punching you like a time clock with your legs thrown over my shoulders.”

  “Not exactly our idea of a teachable moment, huh?”

  “No, baby. Not especially.” They were silent a moment, both reflecting on what had been one of the funniest incidents of their parenthood. “You know what, baby? I had no idea how much having children would change our household, or being a father would change my life.”

  Headlights coming up their quarter-mile-long drive signaled the end of the couple’s alone time and Pat’s return with the twins from their outing. As they left the patio, Hope looked at Cy, noting the look of contentment on his face. It mirrored her own. For years, more than a decade, she’d prayed (cried, begged, bargained) for a husband and children. It had been her singular goal for most of her adulthood. And here she was, living out the answer to that prayer. Thank you, God. Thank you for everything that I have, and all that I am. Thank you for my family, my parents, my friends. Bless those whose prayers you have yet to answer, Lord. Bless them with the desires of their heart, the same way you’ve done for me. Amen.

  On the other side of the country, in a beautifully restored brownstone in the Edgecombe area of Harlem, New York, another woman had just finished a prayer. She was still reeling from news received a month before, news that had caused her to take stock of her life. Highlight accomplishments, acknowledge regrets. The latter was why she’d just typed an e-mail to a man she’d not recently seen but had never forgotten, the first and only man she’d
ever truly loved. Reading the letter one more time, hoping that it contained the right mix of casualness and desire, her finger hovered uncertainly over the button before she finally pushed SEND.

  Okay, God. I’ve done what I can do. What happens at this point is up to You . . . and Cy Taylor.

  3

  Sistah-Girls, Sistah-Chats

  The 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.

  Baby, I hope your workout this morning is half as good as the one we gave each other last night. Have I told you lately that you’re amazing? Hope these meetings go quickly. I already miss you. Cy.

  “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 t
hree-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.

  4

  Sistah-Girls, Sistah-Chats, Part 2

  Hope 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?”