“Your father and I have been married for forty-five years, Gabriel. I believe I can count on one hand the times that I couldn’t reach him, and didn’t know where he was.” Silence. “You know, honey. I can remember the quiet, contemplative little boy who’d sit for hours in his room, reading books or dissecting one thing or another with the biology set we gave you one Christmas. You and Raymond, remember? You two would have your heads together, studying the organs and trying to determine which ones were affected by the liquid you’d used to end the poor creature’s life.”
The memory of the experiments he and his best friend concocted brought a smile to Gabriel’s face. “Yes, and now Raymond is a force in his own right, as one of the leading researchers at Johns Hopkins.”
“When is the last time you visited with him?”
“It’s been too long,” Gabriel admitted. “Both of our schedules are always so busy and his wife just had another baby not long ago.”
“That makes four for them, correct?”
“Yes, fourth and final, according to Ray.”
“Little Gabe is such a delight, son. I’m sure he’d welcome a little brother or sister. It’s just that...”
“What, Mom?”
“Oh, honey, it’s really not my place to say. It’s just that . . . well, I just thought that . . . imagined your wife would be a different kind of woman, that’s all. Someone more like who you’ve been surrounded with your whole life, someone well educated, from a well-heeled family, perhaps someone in the medical field.”
“Honestly, Mom, so did I. But Gabe’s arrival changed all that.”
“Are you happy, son?”
“I love little Gabe. He’s one of the best things that’s happened in my life.”
Gabriel hadn’t answered his mother’s question, but long after they’d ended the call, he was still thinking about it, still trying to come to terms with what he knew to be the answer. Because the truth of the matter was that Gabriel wasn’t happy. Not at all.
21
That Cake, Cake, Cake!
“ You look happy, Ma. Is that me putting the smile on that pretty little face?” Clark ran a finger across Frieda’s upturned lips. She’d been at his house all afternoon. Now it was evening. They’d had sex, ate, had sex again, smoked a blunt, taken a shower where they enjoyed yet a third round, and now lazed on the new couch that Frieda had purchased, munching on chips and dip, and drinking shots of tequila.
“Quit it!” Frieda playfully slapped Clark’s finger away from her face. Truth was, she was happy, giddy even. Hadn’t felt this way in a long time, hadn’t felt like she was living in her own skin since becoming Mrs. Gabriel Livingston. She loved the lifestyle, but wanted to enjoy it on her own terms. Like this. Just kicking back and chilling. Not putting on airs or a phony “I’m interested” face, or trying to have a conversation with Gabriel’s snooty mother and uptight friends. She missed this life, where she didn’t have to be anybody but herself. “Dang, man. Why do you keep flipping through the channels? See what’s on TV One.” Frieda didn’t watch much TV these days, but she’d heard about a show called Unsung that was supposed to be very good.
“Who’s got the remote, woman? Me no let no woman control me a’tall. Not even the TV. I’m the man, right?”
“Whatever, nucka.”
Clark let out a confident chuckle. “I’m your man.” He continued to scroll the channels, settling closer to Frieda in the process.
“Wait! Who’s that?” They’d landed on the Food Network, where a handsome African-American man was smiling into the camera as he pulled barbecued meat out of a countertop smoker. The man, not the meat, is obviously what had gotten Frieda’s attention.
“Him? The brothah whose family owns that restaurant off Sepulveda?”
“What restaurant?”
Clark’s look was a question mark as he turned to Frieda. “You haven’t eaten at Taste of Soul, haven’t seen any of their commercials? Everybody’s talking about that place. The atmosphere is on point and the food is bangin’.” They both listened in silence for a moment. “As a matter of fact,” he continued, “his last name is Livingston too. Y’all might be related.”
“Hmph, I wouldn’t mind being that brother’s kissing cousin.”
“With your hot nana, you’d be more than that! But seriously though, you should find out whether y’all are related; might be able to get us some free barbecue.”
“Where are they from? Do you know?”
“No,” he said with a shrug, before changing the channel.
“I don’t think they’re related to Gabriel. All of his people have a lighter complexion, nothing like that Hershey bar I was looking at. Turn it back!”
“Watch yourself, girl.” He reached for her hand, placed it on his crotch. “You’ve got all of the chocolate you need right here.”
Frieda moved her hand and changed the subject. “Clark.”
“Hmm?”
“How mad at me would you be if I fired your mother?”
“What’s up with you and my moms?”
“She hasn’t asked you about us?”
“Yeah, but I said we were just friends.”
“Please, boy. Your mom isn’t stupid. I’ve caught her looking at me with this accusatory expression on her face. She knows there’s more going on here and she doesn’t like it. Worships the ground that Gabriel walks on too. It’s just a matter of time before that loyalty has her talking even more out of school than she already has. You know I’ve warned her about sharing my schedule and whereabouts and if it happens again, if she takes some of my personal business and shares it with my husband, her employment for me is going to have to be a wrap.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
Frieda shook her head. “I don’t know if that will be enough.”
“Mom is good at what she does, has excellent references, and never has problems finding work. As much as she needs that job, you won’t be able to bully her, Frieda. So don’t even try.”
“Cool. I’ll just put old girl into my yesterday. If that happens, we’re still good?”
Clark ran a hand through Frieda’s short, weave-free cut. “Yeah, Mami. We’re good.”
Frieda was ecstatic. So a couple minutes later, when two of Clark’s friends joined them, she ordered up a few pizzas and sent one of them out for bottles of Dom Pérignon. Her husband would be at the hospital all night, so after calling Cordella and telling her that she was spending the night with a cousin, she settled in for an evening of fun with the boys. She’d worried about firing Cordella and keeping Clark, but now it looked like she would be able to have her cake and eat it too. Only later would she have to wonder whether that particular piece of chocolate was worth it.
22
Friends and Favors
Cy stepped out into the brilliant July sunshine and walked the short distance from the newly restored brownstone he’d just purchased to the restaurant where he’d meet Trisha. He’d dressed casually—jeans, sneakers, button-down black shirt, and no jewelry—but wealth still oozed from his pores. Because of the design of Southern California in general and his neighborhood in particular, people rarely walked to where they wanted to go. In DC, however, while attending school at Howard, he’d been a pro at walking and catching public transportation, interacting with the masses even if by no more than sharing a seat on the train. Taking in the activity around him on his way to the restaurant, including the street vendors selling artwork, jewelry, books, and more, he realized how far he’d gone from this lifestyle . . . and how much he missed it.
During a conversation with Hope, he’d decided on a lunch rather than a dinner meeting. It was one o’clock in the afternoon and the restaurant was bustling. To eat at the Red Rooster had been Trisha’s suggestion, and Cy decided he liked it at once. It was open and airy with large picture windows at the front of the room. As his eyes adjusted from the bright sunshine to the room’s interior he looked around, stopping as he noted a table where a woman sat alone. Her
head was down, face intent as she either texted or typed on her phone. It had been fifteen years, and she looked smaller than he remembered, but there was no doubting that it was Trisha Underwood, the woman who at one time had been the love of his life and the one he thought would occupy the title of wife. He observed her a second or so more, his heart clenching at something indefinable . . . something different about her that he couldn’t quite name. Stop tripping, brothah. Nobody looks the same as they did in college.
“Hey, Tricky.”
Trisha’s head came up slowly as she heard this pet name, a smile spreading across her face in the same fashion. “Hey, Cyclone.”
She pushed back her chair and stood to give Cy a hug. They embraced and Cy forgot all about the church hug that he was supposed to deliver. Now he knew for sure: she was thinner than when he’d known her, less voluptuous, less cushion as he squeezed her, and it seemed a lanky frame had replaced the curves that used to drive him wild. No matter. This was his little Tricky, the one who’d given him a run for his money when all the other girls were giving him open access. She’d taken the C out of his cocky and matched his attitude stroke for stroke. They’d dated three years, and he’d been crazy about her. And here she was again, in his arms. They stood back to look into each other’s eyes, examine each other’s faces, and then hugged again.
Finally Cy broke the hug and stepped around to get Trisha’s chair. “It’s good to see you, Tricky. It’s been way too long.” He took his seat.
“I know, and I need to apologize about that, about never returning your calls and shutting down completely after ... what happened.”
“Ah, Trisha, I understand why you did that. I hurt you.”
“Perhaps, but we’d loved too long and shared too much for me to not have given you the benefit of the doubt or, at the very least, a chance to share your side of the story.” Her voice lowered as she continued. “It’s one of my biggest regrets.”
An awkward silence ensued, into which walked the waiter with their water and menus. Neither of them knew it about the other, but they were both glad for the reprieve, the temporary diversion to focus on food instead of their complicated past and surprising yet interesting present—the fact that they were here, together, all these years later after that first shared kiss.
Cy browsed the menu. “So you say this place comes highly recommended?”
“I highly recommend it. Been coming here since it opened a few years ago. The owner is a famous chef, Marcus Samuelsson, who regularly appears on the Food Network. He also served as guest chef for Obama’s first state dinner.”
“Wow, impressive. Can’t wait to try his food.”
“He’s cooked here occasionally, but the executive chef is Michael Barrett. According to the Web site, where I read all of this information, they’ve worked together for years. The food is really good.”
“What do you recommend?”
“I’ve never had anything here that I didn’t like, but my personal favorites are the fried chicken Caesar, the shrimp and dirty rice, and the gravlax.”
“Grav who?”
Trisha chuckled. “It’s a Scandinavian dish made with cured salmon. Delish.”
“Hmm, I’ve never heard of it, so I think I’ll try that.”
They continued discussing the menu until Trisha made her selection and the waiter returned to take their order. Once he’d gone the silence returned, a silence filled with the presence of a much-needed conversation that had never taken place.
Cy leaned back in his chair. “How do you like living in Harlem?”
“I love it. Been living here for the past ten years. It’s gone through many changes and is really getting a makeover these days. Brownstone prices have skyrocketed. I’m thankful that I bought when I did.”
“So you own a brownstone?”
Trisha nodded. “I renovated it so that I live in the top two floors and rent out the bottom.”
“That’s smart.”
“It works for me.” Trisha eyed Cy as she took a drink of water. “You haven’t changed, Cy.”
“Maybe not that you can see, but I’ve put on a pound or two. Not as fast or as fluid as I used to be. But I work out regularly, try and stay in shape. What about you, Tricky? You’re smaller than I remember. Have you been doing Pilates? Or yoga? I know that those types of exercises can burn off all the fat.”
A wistful look tinged with sadness darted across Trisha’s face before she quickly replaced it with a smile. “No, I can’t say that I exercise much these days. I’ve, uh, had some health issues and have lost weight as a result.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Have you taken care of it? Are you better now?”
“I’m okay. So you’re here buying up half of Harlem?”
Cy grinned. “Not quite. A partner and I are acquiring several of the commercial locations and a block of brownstones. Hope and I plan to renovate one for our family so that we can have a place on the East Coast. The rest will be renovated and then sold at a profit.”
“Hope—that’s your wife’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Cy, she’s a very lucky girl.”
“I’m the blessed one, Trisha. Hope is a beautiful woman, inside and out, and a wonderful mother to our children.”
“How many children do you have?”
“A set of twins, Camon and Acacia. They’re four years old.”
“One big happy family.”
Cy looked intently at Trisha, tried without success to gauge her feelings as he spoke about his family. “We’re very happy,” he said at last. “I was taken aback that you’d remained single all these years.”
“Like I told you . . . could never find a man to take your place.”
“You can’t possibly mean that.”
“Trust me, I tried. Dated several men, even lived with one for some years. But I could never give him what he deserved—my whole heart, my total commitment. He kept proposing and I kept putting it off. Finally he got fed up and moved on. And rightfully so. He got married within a year of our breakup. But we remained friends. I’m cordial with his wife as well. They have two children and one grandchild.”
“Trisha, I don’t know what to say.”
Trisha shrugged. “There’s nothing for you to say, really. I’m the one with so much to share with you, so much that I’ve wanted to say and never said.”
“What we shared was over a long time ago. Your contacting me lets me know that I’ve been forgiven. For me, that’s enough.”
“Yes, I’ve forgiven you, Cy. But that’s not enough.” Trisha’s voice was firm, her expression intense. “I don’t have—There are some things I’ve wanted, no, needed to say to you for a long time and . . . well . . . I didn’t want another year to pass without trying to find you, without letting you know what’s in my heart.”
The waiter brought out their appetizers. Neither Cy nor Trisha picked up their fork.
“When I was growing up,” Trisha began as soon as the waiter had left the table, “I watched my father hurt my mother by having affairs. He was and still is a great father and I adore him. But I also made a promise to myself that I would never put up with what my mother did. I had a zero tolerance for infidelity. One time and the man was history. That was my vow to myself since I was sixteen.
“Cy, I’ve never been so happy as when you and I were together, and for the first and only time in my life I envisioned a happy ever after. I had a confidence, a smugness even, that I’d found what my mom had not—a man who would be faithful, a man who wouldn’t mess around on his wife. For three years, you were that man.”
“Trisha, I—”
“Shh, I know. But let me finish. I’ve waited so long.” Trisha picked up her fork and nodded to Cy. “Please.” He picked up his fork and took a bite of salad that he couldn’t even taste. His appetite had lessened as he became emotionally filled with the impact of Trisha’s words. “When Jeannetta told me she’d slept with you, she was beaming. She relished providing me with ev
ery sordid detail of what had happened, took great pleasure in describing your room—and your anatomy—so that there would be no mistaking that what she said was true. I was hurt, and angry, and very, very proud. So against everything I felt in my heart, I cut you out of my life. The emptiness that ensued as a result was excruciating, almost unbearable at times. But I kept reminding myself of a sixteen-year-old’s promise to herself. Zero tolerance. First time and I was out the door. If I knew then what I know now, I’d have understood that sometimes a good man deserves not only a second chance, but a third, fourth, fifth one, that what you have is much more valuable than what you’d lose, and that someone’s temporary dalliance can’t match a lifetime based on a soul connection. I would have learned that every man shouldn’t be sent packing, that some are worth holding on to . . . no matter what. That’s what my mother understood, and that’s why this year she and my father will be celebrating fifty years together. She knew, and tried to tell me, that that which didn’t kill a relationship made it stronger.” Trisha’s eyes shone with unshed tears as she looked at Cy. “I wish I would have listened.” Again, she picked up her fork, but instead of eating, just moved the greens around.
“For months I beat myself up for what I did to you. It was my fault that our relationship ended. Yes, someone coerced me into doing what I did, but I was a grown man and she wasn’t holding a gun to my head. It was an unfortunate decision that changed the course of both our lives. I know it’s been a long time in coming but . . . I’m sorry for what I did to you, Tricky. So very sorry for the hurt I caused, and how that choice affected your life.
“Like I said when we talked by phone, I often thought about you over the years. Every time I did though, I imagined you married to some über-conscious, world-changing dude, yours a strong presence beside him as you conquered the world, possibly with a baby tied to your back. I always knew you were going places, were going to do great things with your life.” They were silent a moment. “So you decided against a family. What about your career?”
The Eleventh Commandment Page 11
