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 left 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.”
Gabriel looked from Cordella to the master suite window and back to the housekeeper. He then looked down to a wide-eyed Gabe, who was drinking in the conversation as intently as he had the lemonade. “I think I should head to the office,” he said with a smile, reaching for the towel nearby and wiping his forehead. “When the opportunity arises, please give me a call. And don’t worry about the missus, Cordella. It’s my money that pays your salary, not hers. Regarding your employment, I’ll have the final word.”
A little over an hour later, a shocked but not surprised Gabriel Livingston flipped through his electronic Rolodex. Upon finding the number he wanted, he tapped the screen. “Gregory,” he said, when the call was answered. “Gabriel Livingston.”
“Dr. Livingston! This is a pleasant surprise.”
“We’re long overdue for a round or two,” Gabriel said, referring to the golf games that he and fellow doctor Gregory Morgan often enjoyed. “But this is not a social call.”
“All right, then. What can I do for you?”
“You can give me your brother Troy’s phone number.”
“Sure thing. But if you don’t mind me asking, what on earth do you want with my crazy baby brother?”
“Information. And access to some of his connections through his security firm.”
“What do you need, Doc?”
Gabriel’s jaw hardened as he formed his answer. “A private investigator. ASAP.”