“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.”
Please . . . Frieda all but slithered over to the man she’d had wrapped around her finger from the time she’d cursed him out. Soon as I wrap my mouth around his mediocre manhood, it will be all over. “Are you sure?” she cooed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “I’m still a little hungry, and you’re what I want to taste.” Not only had Frieda missed her two-to-three times a week Clark sexing, but she’d calculated that there was a ve
ry good chance that she was ovulating right now. She had every intention of getting Gabriel’s seed inside her. Tonight.
Gabriel had other plans, as evidenced by his next words and actions. “Good night, Frieda,” he said with a chaste kiss on the tip of her nose. “I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep. Alone. I have a meeting first thing in the morning, so I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Frieda was more than surprised . . . she was pissed! After slamming the master suite door and calling Gabriel everything but a child of God, she climbed into their king-sized bed, wondering what the hell had happened. Whatever it was, she had no intention of being ignored. She called Clark, and less than thirty minutes after playing the devoted wife, was on her way to the jungle, and some serious dickage.
And Gabriel? He heard her leave, swallowed pride and pain, and called the private investigator. “You know where she’s headed,” he said with a sigh. And then, to his utter amazement, he slept until morning and Cordella’s arrival. It wouldn’t be easy, he decided, but the past twenty-four hours had showed him that if he could survive a night without her, then he could survive a life without her. The quicker he dissolved this sham of a marriage, the quicker he could put this pain behind him.
38
Choices
She said she wasn’t going to do it, had sworn the last time was the last time. Yet not long after the promise to herself and the romantic dinner with Gabriel, Frieda found herself pulling up to Clark’s apartment—about an hour after Cordella had arrived to take care of Gabe and thirty minutes after Gabriel had left the house.
Clark opened the door before she could knock, with a smug smile on his face. “Thought you weren’t going to come back here,” he fairly sang in his lyrical Jamaican.
“I thought I wasn’t either,” Frieda said. “You know you’ve got me hooked on that good dick.”
Clark nodded solemnly. “I know.” He reached for Frieda’s hand and led them to the sofa. “Whatchu’ know good?”
“Nothing that we can’t talk about later,” Frieda said, reaching for Clark’s belt buckle.
“Whatchu looking for down dere?” Clark embellished his accent, knowing how doing so turned Frieda on.
“You know what.”
“Then come on here, girl,” Clark replied as he pulled Frieda’s top over her head. “Let Papi give you what you came for.”
Two hours later, Frieda walked out of Clark’s apartment and headed to her car. Two men approached her as she neared it. One was tall and blond; the other short, with salt-and-pepper hair and a paunch.
“Mrs. Livingston,” Blondie addressed her, coming across the street.
Frieda’s heart sped up when she heard her name. Who are these muthafuckas and how do they know who I am? She ignored them, popping the lock with her remote and opening the door.
“Mrs. Livingston,” he said again, placing his hand on the open door in a way that suggested he had no intention of letting her close it.
“Look, muthafucka, I don’t know you. And you definitely don’t know me. So if you don’t want me calling the police I suggest you take your hand off my door and go on about your business.”
Paunch sidled up next to Blondie. “You are our business, Mrs. Livingston,” he said. “This”—he nodded toward Blondie—“is Detective Wagner. He’s been following you for several weeks, at your husband’s request. My name is Jerry Baumeister, your husband’s attorney. Now, what he’s asked us to do is a bit unorthodox, but he felt it would be the easiest way to handle this . . . unfortunate situation.”
Frieda’s mind raced, their words ping-ponging inside her head. She’d be the first one to tell you that she wasn’t the brightest bulb in the stadium, but the fact that these men had shown up at her lover’s place, at her husband’s request, was most definitely not a good look. This is why he’s acted so strangely lately. He knows about Clark! She tried to remain calm, keep her wits about her. I can handle Gabriel. I just need to lose Tom and Jerry. “Look, I don’t know what you think you’ve discovered, but I’ve just left my cousin’s house and am on my way to a lunch date with my husband.” She tried to close the door, but Blondie’s hold was a no-can-do. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Jerry pulled a manila envelope from behind his back. “We know about your cousin, Mrs. Livingston, otherwise known as your lover, Clark Pratt. We have irrefutable proof that you two have been intimate.”
“Proof? Please, catching me on this block doesn’t prove nothing. And Clark would never cooperate with you bitches. Your tactics don’t scare me.”
“Clark doesn’t know about the evidence we’ve collected. But your husband has more than been made aware. We’re not here to argue. We’re here to fulfill Dr. Livingston’s wishes. Inside the folder, you’ll find copies of everything we’ve collected . . . along with the address and a key to your new residence.”
“My what!” Her mind said stay calm, but her hands said open the damn envelope. Hands won. She fairly snatched it out of Jerry’s hand.
“You’ll also find the documents dissolving your marriage, citing adultery and irreconcilable differences. Lastly, you’ll find the papers of the doctor’s intention to gain full custody of Gabriel Jr., contesting that your reckless behavior makes you an unfit mother.”
Frieda entered her car and sat stunned, methodically turning the pages in front of her. “There is no way that I’ll not go to that house and get my child.”
“If you cooperate the doctor is prepared to give you a generous alimony payment, one that quite frankly we don’t think you deserve.”
Frieda’s head jerked up. “Who gives a damn what you think I deserve? Who in the hell do y’all think you are?”
“He’s the attorney who’s trying to right a grave injustice,” Detective Wagner replied. “I’m the detective who’s been following you for over a month and recording every sordid detail.”
At the same time Frieda’s marriage was unraveling, Hope was trying to find a way to keep hers together. It had been five days since Cy left for New York, and in that time she’d experienced every emotion under the sun. One minute she was wishing Trisha would simply disappear and the next she was asking forgiveness for her lack of compassion. She didn’t wish the woman dead, at least, but that had less to do with Christian charity and more to do with the words of her mother, Pat. “You’d better let that man do what he can,” she’d warned, when Hope had been toying with the idea of giving Cy an ultimatum. “If she dies, you want him to be at peace, child. You can’t compete with a ghost.” These words were what had Hope up and on the computer first thing, as she’d been for the past four days, finding out more about adenocarcinoma—the latest diagnosis—than she ever thought she’d know. She was stumbling through words she didn’t recognize and jargon she didn’t understand when she had an “aha” moment. Gabriel! Of course. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before,” she said, while reaching for the phone. Frieda’s husband was one of the top oncologists in the country. He might even be able to help Trisha. Almost as soon as she thought that, she thought about Trisha moving to California, almost in their backyard, and considered not making the call. You can’t compete with a ghost, child. She dialed her cousin.
“You are not going to believe this shit!”
Hope looked at the phone to make sure she’d dialed the right number. It sounded like whoever answered was crying, and this was something that street-strong Frieda Livingston did not do. “Frieda?”
“I have really fucked up this time, cuz. I’ve messed up everything!”
Okay, Frieda was definitely crying. Hope could only form one thought. Who died?
“Frieda, take a breath and tell me what happened.” More crying. “Frieda, you’re scaring me. Is Gabe okay? Is it your husband? Was there an accident? Frieda, calm down and talk to me, please.”
“He knows everything, Hope. About Clark, and the fact that Gabe isn’t his. He’s filing for divorce. He’s going to try and take my son. He kicked me out.” Frieda began cr
ying again.
Oh. My. God. Hope said a quick prayer, even as she stood and began pacing the room. The reason why she’d called Frieda had been totally forgotten. “Okay, start at the beginning, Frieda, and tell me everything.”
Between sniffles and generous sips of Moscato, Frieda did just that. “I swore I wasn’t going to go over there again,” she finished. “That I was going to leave Clark alone. Maybe if I had, Gabriel wouldn’t have done this. He probably said, ‘If she goes over there one more time . . .’ and I did!”
For a moment, Hope was at a loss for words. “Don’t cry,” wasn’t practical, and “It will be all right,” sounded like a straight-out lie. “I’m sorry,” she finally said sincerely, wishing she were there to hug her cousin. She could really use one right now. “Where are you staying?” Frieda told her. “Give me a few minutes. I’m going to call Rosie and see if she can come over early, even spend the night if necessary.”
“Why? My fucked-up situation is not your problem.”
“Don’t talk crazy. We’re family. You need me and best believe I’m going to be there for you. Just as soon as I can get her over here, I’m on my way.”
39
The Bigger They Are
Everything about the new home of the Los Angeles Sea Lions was impressive: the size, the octagonal shape, the sleek, colorful seating, state-of-the-art sound system, strategically placed food courts boasting everything from popcorn to sushi and lobster to Kobe beef, and the suites that companies and a few rich patrons purchased for well into the six figures. Inside one of these luxuriously appointed rooms was where thirty or so people mixed and mingled, some inside the room, watching the first minutes of the first quarter of the preseason game from the television screens, and others outside in their private block of seats. Hope encouraged Cy to join his associates outside while she tried yet again to reach Frieda. “I knew we should have gone by there and picked her up,” she mumbled, after getting voice mail yet again. But knowing how important this game was to Tony and by extension, Stacy, Hope had been certain that Frieda would be there. Although, truthfully, she understood why her cousin was a no-show. The past week had been horrible, and that was putting it mildly. The Frieda that Hope had encountered when she arrived in LA was not a woman she’d recognized. Her cousin had been distraught, inconsolable, and had broken down and cried in Hope’s arms. “I’ve ruined the best thing that happened to me,” Frieda had wailed. “He won’t even take my calls.” Hope had spent the night and then demanded Frieda come stay in La Jolla for a couple days. After long talks on the patio followed by long walks on the beach, Hope had felt Frieda rational enough to not do something crazy and hadn’t protested when Frieda hired a car to go home. And now I’m getting voice mail. Hope’s worry returned. She sent Frieda a text, looking up just as Stacy entered the room.
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