The Eleventh Commandment

by Lutishia Lovely

  “After walking for a while we ended up at her place.”

  “How convenient,” Hope said, before she could stop herself.

  “Yes, it was,” Cy agreed. “But probably not for the reasons you’re thinking. She lives in a brownstone that has been fully restored, near an area that has the same type of acclaimed history as where I’m buying property. Ironically, I’d just met with Joseph the day before, and she knew who I was talking about and pointed out some of the areas he helped redevelop.”

  “That’s the guy who got you interested in Harlem properties, right?”

  Cy nodded. “Joseph Holland. He began dealing with Harlem real estate back in the eighties, even wrote a book about it, which Trisha has read. It’s called From Harlem with Love. Anyway, when I learned where she lived and she offered a tour, I was definitely interested in seeing her space.”

  “Oh, so going to her house was your idea.”

  “She asked if I wanted to see the restoration. I said yes and we went there.”

  Hope turned to face her husband fully. She was out of patience and had to cut to the proverbial chase. “Cy, with what you’ve just told me, I still don’t understand why you’re in this dark mood.”

  Cy looked at Hope and then away. “It’s because of what happened afterward, what Trisha told me once we got to her house.”

  Hope’s heart began an erratic beat. Scenarios of what Trisha told him popped around her head like ping-pong balls. Help her undress? Let them make love? Divorce me and the kids and move to New York? And then an even crazier thought, taken straight out of a chapter of Vivian Montgomery’s life: Does he have a child who’s like around . . . fifteen years old? “Well, what is it?” Hope hadn’t meant to jump off the chair, get in his face and speak through gritted teeth. No, she’d meant to be cool, calm, and collected, to quietly ask what his first love had requested as if she were asking him to pass the butter. But nooooo. She’d had to “go Frieda” and lose her cool. Which is why she was standing over a still-seated Cy with her hands on her hips. “So what was it, Cy? Did Trisha ask you to sleep with her, to have a little nookie for old time’s sake?” The look in Cy’s eyes should have cooled her ire, but it only fueled it. “Just say it, Cy! What did she ask you or tell you, that has you and me tripping right now?”

  Cy looked Hope directly in the eye. “She told me she’s dying, Hope. And that one of her last wishes is for us to spend some time together. For old time’s sake.”

  25

  The Trisha Temptation

  For a moment Hope didn’t move, barely breathed. When her brain started working again she walked over to the wingback and sat down. “She’s dying?” Cy nodded. “And wants to spend some time with you?” Another nod. Hope leaned back in the seat, anger turning to calm incredulity by the second. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Baby,” Cy replied, cutting his eyes in her direction, “I wouldn’t kid about a thing like this.”

  “A woman you used to date whom you haven’t seen in decades contacts you out of the blue, tells you she’s dying, and you believe her?”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe her?”

  “You’re much too intelligent to be gullible, babe. And pardon my suspicious nature, but this sounds highly suspect. Wait.” Hope leaned forward, narrowed eyes looking off into the distance. “Did she ask you for money?”

  “Stop it, Hope.” Cy’s voice was forceful, his body tense with the delivery. “Trisha isn’t that kind of woman. She wouldn’t lie about something like this. Besides, as soon as I saw her I felt something wasn’t right.”

  Hope sat back.

  Cy tried to relax.

  “How so?” Hope twisted the linen napkin she’d placed on the tray, trying to wring some of her anger out along the way.

  “She was thinner, and her normally glowing skin had lost some of its glow. But her eyes were bright, her smile was genuine, and like I said, our conversation at the restaurant was like old times. So I dismissed those earlier feelings. Until she told me about her illness. Then everything I’d initially felt made sense.”

  Silence filled the room as both Hope and Cy nestled into their own thoughts. “So how’s this supposed to look?” Hope finally asked, her voice soft and searching. “Her spending time with a man who’s married with children?”

  Cy sighed heavily while shaking his head. “I don’t know, babe.”

  “What did you tell her?” Hope couldn’t help that her voice rose an octave. Considering the conversation she was having, it was the best she could do.

  “I was so taken aback by her news that at first I couldn’t say anything.” Cy quieted, laying his head back against the chair and staring at the ceiling. “I told her how sorry I was to hear about her condition, but being married, didn’t know how I could comply with her request. She said she understood, and apologized for even asking. I feel so bad, Hope. The Trisha I remembered was vibrant, full of life and plans and positive expectations. It’s just not fair that her life is getting cut short!” Cy stood abruptly and began pacing. He stopped in front of Hope’s chair, his look one of quiet desperation. “I don’t want her to die, baby.”

  Hope stared into her husband’s eyes, saw his pain . . . and something else. “Are you still in love with her?” On one hand, she appreciated that her husband felt their relationship deep enough to want to confide these feelings in her, as uncomfortable as they were. On the other hand, however, a sistah needed to know.

  “You’re the only person I’m in love with,” he said after a pause, turning away from her to stare out the window. “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still feel love for her. We were practically inseparable throughout college. I think there’s always something special about that first love.” Turning to look at her, he leaned against the wall. “Don’t you?”

  Hope thought about Shawn Edmunds, the handsome musician she’d met at a church function, who’d swept her off her feet, into his bed, and away from her virginity faster than she could say hallelujah. “Mine was different,” she answered, a bit surprised that this was the first time she and Cy were discussing this particular topic. Then again, after meeting and falling in love with the man in front of her, she’d not given her past a second thought. “We only dated for six months. My feelings for him were obviously nowhere near the ones you’re feeling.”

  “Hope, I love you. There’s no other woman for me. But can you understand how it feels to know that the first woman you ever loved is dying without doing many of the things that she wanted to do?”

  “What is she sick with?”

  “Some form of cancer. That’s the other problem. The doctors say it is some rare strain with which they’re not familiar. I feel so helpless. And ready to do whatever I can to make her life a little better.”

  “Including some one-on-one time?” Seeing the weary look in his eyes, she reached for his hand, took it, and walked them toward the bed. “It’s okay, baby. It must be a lot to deal with and I thank you for trusting me enough to share your real feelings.”

  “Thank you, baby.”

  They went to bed, made slow soul-wrenching love, and then settled spoon style into each other’s arms. He’d been attentive and thorough as always, but as she drifted off to sleep Hope just couldn’t shake the feeling that there had been three people in the bed.

  At breakfast the next morning, Hope and Cy were joined by the twins. Not the norm since many mornings Cy was up and out before they were ready to meet the world. Their presence had kept the mood lighthearted, and kept both Cy’s and Hope’s thoughts off what they’d discussed last night. But after kissing Cy good-bye and spending a few hours with the twins before they settled into their routine with Rosie, Hope was consumed by what she’d begun calling in her mind the Trisha Temptation. She definitely needed to talk to someone about it . . . but who? Or maybe a better question was, who all? Vivian Montgomery was the first person who popped into her head. The first lady of Kingdom Citizens Christian Center had heard just about everything, was a gr
eat listener, and a nonjudger. She was also the first person Hope had reached out to when this whole situation had begun.

  She walked into the great room and saw the cordless phone that sat on the granite bar separating the space. She picked it up and began to dial. Halfway through the numbers, however, she ended the call. She’d talk to Vivian for sure, but right now she felt she needed another point of view. Stacy? No, it sounds like she has enough on her plate right now. Hope knew there was no need to talk to her cousin. Frieda had been very clear about her position on reconnecting with exes. Don’t do it. Which was mostly Hope’s position too, but seeing what a strain this was on Cy, she was really trying to be understanding. Hope started as the phone rang in her hand. Looking at the ID she smiled. Thank you, Jesus. Of course! She quickly pushed the talk button. “Hey, Mama. You’re just the person I need to talk to.”

  Stuck in 91 freeway traffic on his way to Los Angeles, Cy was also in search of an objective listening ear. He’d called Derrick and been told by his assistant that the pastor was in a meeting. Immediately, another name came to mind. He clicked the button on his steering wheel and activated the speakerphone.

  “Call Simeon.” While waiting for the call to connect, Cy thought about his younger, gregarious, womanizing cousin. The one he loved to death. Growing up they’d been extremely close, and for the most part had maintained the bond through adulthood. But for the past three years, Simeon Taylor had lived in Alaska, working long hours and making big bucks. They hadn’t talked as often as Cy would have liked.

  “Cousin! What’s up, man?!” Simeon’s smile almost shone through the car speakers so prevalent was it in his voice.

  “You, I see. Wasn’t sure I’d catch you. You’re becoming as hard to reach as a logger!”

  “If you ever see me in a plaid flannel shirt you have permission to hit me with a hard uppercut followed by a jab.”

  “Man, forget some well-placed boxing moves. I’m going to beat you like I did when we were kids, until you go off crying to your mama . . . or mine.”

  “Whoa! Sounds like you’ve got a case of selective memory, cousin. But I guess that’s what happens when one gets old.”

  “Oh, I see where this is going. When are you coming to the lower forty-eight, so that we can do our talking on the basketball court?”

  “Mid-October, if everything stays on schedule. In fact, I was going to call you later. I might need your help to secure a property in New York.”

  “New York?”

  “Yes. I’m thinking that will be a good place to land after being here for three years. The pace, women, food . . . I’ll need all of that and plenty of it upon my reentry into society.” A pause and then, “Cuz, you still there?”

  “Yes.” Cy was still there, but his good mood had left him.

  “Why do you sound troubled all of a sudden? What’s wrong with New York?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with the city, Sim. But after a recent visit there my life is crazy.”

  “What happened?”

  A brief pause and then, “I saw Trisha.”

  Simeon didn’t try and check his surprise. “Trisha Underwood?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Wow. It’s been years since I heard you mention that name. It took you forever to get over that fine sistah breaking your heart.”

  “Yes, well, it turns out that it took her a while to get over things too.”

  “She didn’t try and get back with you, did she? I mean, with all of your former mutual friends, she’s got to know you’re married.”

  “She knows. But she still wants to spend time with me and, because of a very unfortunate situation, I want to spend time with her as well.”

  “Okay, Cy. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

  Cy did, the whole story, from the first e-mail to the last goodbye and all the talks with Hope.

  “You’re right. This situation is very unfortunate.” Both were silent before Simeon continued. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Cy acknowledged. “But if Trisha died without me doing everything in my power to make her last days better . . . I don’t know how I could live with myself.”

  26

  Game. Set. Match?

  Gabriel walked out of his dressing room dressed in white: polo shirt, cargo shorts, crew socks, and tennis shoes. Sporting contacts instead of the glasses he preferred gave him a younger look, even as the spray of freckles across his nose was more visible. He crossed over to the bed and looked down upon a still-sleeping Frieda. What is going on with you, huh, Frieda? What is going on with us?

  He sat on the bed and lightly touched her shoulder. “Frieda.” She shook off his hand and burrowed further into the covers. “Frieda,” he said a bit more loudly, removing the covers as well.

  Frieda’s face was in a scowl as she turned over, her sleep-filled eyes squinting against the room’s bright light. “What is it, Gabriel?” she asked testily, glancing at the clock. “Why are you waking me up?”

  Gabriel bit back a retort, choosing instead to stay focused on his mission. “I thought we might get in a tennis lesson, and play a game or two. It’s not often that I have free time and I don’t have to be at work for another three hours.”

  Frieda eyed her husband, noted his freshly shaven face and hooded eyes. Sometimes she really wished she had more feelings for the man. He was . . . as society labeled them . . . a good guy: great provider, father, and doctor. If she let him, he’d probably be a good husband too. Problem was . . . she liked bad boys. “I told you. I don’t like doing stuff I’m not good at.”

  “You’re only not good at it because you don’t practice. You have natural athletic ability, hon. But more than learning the game, I’d just really like to spend some time with you. We don’t do much together anymore, Frieda. We’re living more like roommates and less like husband and wife.”

  “That’s because you work all the time!” Frieda exclaimed, immediately taking the offensive.

  “You’re right,” Gabriel readily agreed, not taking the bait. “And I’m going to do something about that.”

  You are? Aw, hell. Please don’t cut into my time with Clark. “What are you going to do?”

  “In the fall, we have another doctor and a couple interns coming on board. I’m going to request a reduction in my hours so that I can spend more time with my wife and son.” He reached out and rubbed Frieda’s exposed arm. “Would you like that?”

  “As long as my bank account stays the same.”

  “Is that what’s most important to you? The lifestyle that my hard work affords?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “How did you mean it?”

  “Look,” Frieda said, flopping onto her stomach and closing her eyes. “I can’t argue without eight hours of sleep. Please turn out the light and close the door on your way out.”

  For a long moment, Gabriel continued sitting on the bed, gazing at his wife, who he was sure feigned sleep. Snippets of their past four years together wafted across his mind’s eye: Disneyland with Gabe; vacations to Hawaii, Fiji, and a Caribbean cruise; strained dinners with his mother; a lone encounter with Frieda’s mom. Undoubtedly the best times were those where their son was the center of attention. The vacations were mostly spent apart. Frieda didn’t like golf, reading, or water sports such as snorkeling or skiing, and Gabriel didn’t like excessive drinking or clubs. Times spent together when at home were even harder to recall. They didn’t like the same TV shows or movies, so companionable viewing was a no go. More often than not when they were both home, Gabriel would either be reading in his study, watching TV, or playing online chess (another passion for which Frieda held no interest). Frieda, on the other hand, would usually hole up in the master suite talking on the phone, taking long bubble baths in their soaking tub, or sleeping. It was not the type of marriage he’d envisioned, nor the type he wanted.

  After retrieving his racket, work scrubs, duffel, and other items for when he le
ft for the office, Gabriel quietly closed the door and sought out the sunshine of his life, Gabriel Jr.

  “Good morning, Daddy!” Gabe immediately ran for his father’s knees as Gabriel rounded the corner.

  Gabriel scooped him up. “Good morning, son.”

  “You playing tennis?” Gabe reached for the racket.

  “Yes. Would you like to join me?”

  “Yes!”

  “Okay, buddy. Let’s go.”

  Father and son enjoyed a half hour filled with Gabe hitting balls and Gabriel chasing them down. It wasn’t the workout he’d envisioned, but the doctor worked up a slight sweat and more than that, enjoyed some quality time with his son. As Gabriel chased his son around the tennis court, Cordella walked to the edge of it bearing a tray of ice cold lemonade. Gabe switched courses and made a beeline for the refreshing-looking brew.

  “How’d you know I was thirsty, Cordella?” Gabriel gave the small, plastic cup to Gabe before reaching for the tall glass and taking a long swallow. “This is perfect, absolutely delicious.”

  “You’re welcome, Doctor.”

  “You take good care of me, Cordella, and excellent care of my son. I appreciate you.”

  “You are a good man, Doctor. You deserve—” Cordella stopped, turned her spouting mouth into a fine, hard line.

  Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something you’d like to share with me, Cordella?”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Cordella truthfully answered. “But it is not my place.”

  “Why don’t you let me determine where your place is.”

  “Not only that, Doctor,” Cordella continued, with furtive glances toward the side patio and up to the master suite window that faced the backyard. “But the missus has warned me to mind my own business and not speak to you regarding her . . . activities. I could be fired for speaking out of turn.”