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 crying 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.”