Aftermath (33 page)

Camille stood in the aisle and watched as Gillian walked past her. She wanted to snatch the bitch, but instead she waited until Frankie walked behind her. “I need to talk to you,” she said. “It can't wait, and this is the last time I'm going to ask nicely. Let's go back to the house and have a discussion. Just me and you.”

Frankie stopped in his tracks and looked at Camille like she had lost her mind. “Right now?” He didn't even know why he was entertaining the thought.

Camille nodded. “Meet me at our house, Frankie.” Camille walked off and left him standing there with a confused expression on his face. He watched her leave, followed by Lily, Dominique, and Toya.

Celia stood at Frankie's side and touched him gently on the arm. “I need to serve you with these,” she said softly. Celia handed Frankie the divorce papers Camille had asked Teresa to draw up. She watched him look over the paperwork and then at her, perplexed. “Camille has been a good wife, Frankie,” Celia said honestly. “You know I love you. Doug loved you, too. And if he were here, he wouldn't like the way you've been handling this.” Celia noticed Frankie looking convicted. “You may say that it's none of my business.”

Frankie shook his head. “I respect you, Miss Celia,” he said.

“So, go and talk to Camille,” Celia urged. “I think you two have a lot to discuss.”

She walked off and didn't bother to speak to Gillian. Gillian pretended not to notice and looked on as Frankie read through the papers he'd just been given.

“What's that?” she asked.

He looked at her. “Camille filed for divorce,” he said.

Gillian beamed with joy. Finally, Camille was giving up. “That's a good thing, right?”

He nodded. “She wants me to come over to the house to talk to her about it.” His eyes scanned her face, saw the flash of hesitation. “I'm gonna go and put an end to everything. Finish it once and for all.”

Gillian didn't have time to protest before Mayra appeared at their side. “Frankie, we need to talk,” she said. Looking at her daughter, she forced a smile. “Gillian.”

Gillian smirked. It was clear that her mother was mad at her and she didn't care. “Mother.”

Mayra turned her attention back to Frankie. “When did my husband sign Conga over to you and when were you going to tell me?”

Frankie looked like this was the last thing he needed. “Mayra, let's talk about this some other time,” he said. “I have to go and take care of something.” He kissed Gillian good-bye and then turned to his mother. “Ma, Tremaine is gonna drive you and Gillian home, all right? I have to go and handle some business.”

Mary nodded and smiled weakly when Frankie kissed her on the cheek. As he left the courtroom, Mary, Gillian, and Mayra watched him leave, all three of them oblivious to Misa as she and her attorney slipped past them and out into the lobby.

Mayra looked at her daughter. “Why don't you call me after you drop off Frankie's mom?” she suggested. “Then you and I can grab some lunch. We have some things we need to talk about.”

Gillian didn't blink before answering, “No. I don't have time today. I'll call you.” She walked out ahead of the rest of them, leaving Mayra standing alone in the empty courtroom.

*   *   *

Camille watched from
the front window as Frankie's car pulled up in the driveway. She thought back on the countless times over the years when she had watched her husband arrive home this way; recalled the anticipation she felt whenever she knew he was about to grace their home with his presence. She laughed at herself now, realizing that she had lost herself in their marriage. She had become Mrs. Frankie Bingham and had lost Camille in the process.

She watched as her husband climbed out of his truck and up the stairs. She saw him do a double take when he saw the
FOR SALE
sign posted on the lawn. Finally, he let himself in with his key and stood in the foyer for several moments.

Frankie looked around. It felt strange stepping into his home. He hadn't been back here since the night his brother was killed. He remembered the way his knees had all but buckled as Sergeant Denton told him the bad news.

“Your wife … arrived home to find that your brother had been shot in the kitchen.”

He walked toward the kitchen now, entered it, and looked around. It had been cleaned up since the night of the murder, but it didn't matter. Frankie could still see the pool of blood in his mind, could still hear the crunch of broken glass from the beer bottle underneath his feet.

He glanced at the walls, which had been smeared with his brother's blood. It was gone now, but the hairs on the back of his neck still stood up. He looked over at the refrigerator, pictured his brother opening it, taking out a beer and then being gunned down right where he stood.

Camille came into the kitchen and saw her husband standing there frozen in the spot where Steven had been shot. She knew he was reliving that night, as she had done countless times over the past few months. Frankie turned and faced her and she stared back at him, unsure how else to greet him.

“Thanks for coming to meet me,” she said. “I won't keep you too long. I just want to go over some things real quick before the trial starts and everything gets crazier than it already is.”

Frankie nodded, but gawked at her in silence. She looked so beautiful standing there, her face and body showing signs of her pregnancy. Earlier in court, he hadn't noticed how full her face had gotten, how her skin glowed and her hair had grown since the last time they'd seen each other. Her belly was swollen with his child inside and it dawned on him fully in that moment.

He followed his wife as she led the way to the living room. They sat down and Camille couldn't help wondering when they'd last sat down in this room together. It had been months, she was certain, and she felt a wave of sadness wash over her as they began to discuss the situation at hand.

Frankie watched her lay out some paperwork on the table. He was relieved that Camille was seeking a divorce, but increasingly torn about the baby she was carrying. He had so many questions, so many things to talk to her about, but he didn't know where to begin. He was so glad that she wasn't crying this time. “What's up with the ‘For Sale' sign outside?” he asked.

Camille sat back and looked at him. “I had Toya list it since I can't live here anymore. Aside from everything that happened here, I can't afford this place by myself and I can't keep going hungry waiting for you to talk to me.”

Frankie stared at her. “How can she list the house for sale without my permission? I'm the owner.”

Camille nodded, stared back at him. “Yes, you are,” she said. “In fact, you own everything. Or at least your mother does,” she said sarcastically. “I thought you bought this house for me, Frankie. Remember that? I thought we were a team, that everything was ours, regardless of whose name it was in. But I guess you don't see it that way.” She shook her head. “You put all the businesses in Mary's name so that I couldn't lay claim to anything.”

Frankie didn't respond. It was clear that Camille and her attorney had done their homework.

“But what's yours is mine,” Camille said. “I'm your wife. And as your wife, I've been very loyal to you. I've been there through sickness and in health, for better or worse, for rich or for poor … kept your secrets.” She let the meaning sink in.

Frankie shifted a little in his seat.

Camille turned to a particular page in the stack of papers before her. She read aloud her requests—the proceeds from the sale of the house plus monthly spousal support of five thousand dollars and child support totaling ten thousand dollars a month.

“All I want is for you to give me my fair share. That way me and my child can go on living the life we've become accustomed to and you can run off with Gillian and live happily ever after.”

Frankie stared at his wife. Her demeanor was stoic. Gone was the frail and fragile Camille and in her place was a no-nonsense woman with an agenda.
“My child,”
she had said. Frankie didn't blame her. She had every reason to exclude him. She was nearly six months pregnant and he hadn't even talked to her about it.

“What happened to us, Frankie?” she asked, as if reading his mind. “How the hell did we get to this?”

Frankie met her gaze, saw the pain in her eyes. He tilted his head slightly and spoke sincerely to his wife for the first time in years.

“I should have left a long time ago,” he said. “I should have been man enough to tell you that I was getting bored, or that I don't want the same things you want. I really don't want kids, and there's a lot of reasons for that.” Frankie looked away, thoughts of those reasons never far from his mind these days. “And I don't want to be with somebody whose only hobby is
me
. Truth be told, I fell out of love with you a long time ago. I just didn't know how to leave you when you were so good to me.”

Camille sat back, shaken by the truth finally spilling forth from Frankie's lips.

“You're a good wife, a good woman, period. And you were by my side when nobody else was there. I appreciated that so much I let myself stay even when I wanted out.” He looked at her again glaringly. “I let your sister take advantage of your generosity—paying her rent, buying her a car, babysitting her son.”

“We're not here to talk about her,” Camille reminded him, aware that whenever Misa crept into his mind, Frankie shut Camille out.

“How can we not talk about her?” he asked, his handsome face appearing pained.

“Tell me why you stopped loving me.”

He felt the familiar tug of guilt then, but pressed past it. He was eager to come clean. He sat back and crossed his leg across his lap. “You changed,” he said truthfully. “You used to be fun and sexy. You had a goal to become the next top model.” He smiled at the memory of her posing at her photo shoots. “You were focused. Then we got married and you wanted the picture-perfect family and I never promised you that. You wanted a baby and it seemed like sometimes that was all you talked about. I got tired of that. And then you started gaining weight, you stopped doing anything but putting on a show for your friends.”

“To me, it wasn't a show. I thought we had the real thing,” she said.

“We did,” he answered, nodding. “At one time we did.”

“But you let Gillian come between that,” Camille said. “You let her break us up.”

He shook his head. “She's not the reason I was unhappy.”

“Oh no?” Camille asked rhetorically. “All those late-night phone calls, all those trips, the dinners, the parties. I should have been smart enough to see it for myself, but I didn't. I trusted you, Frankie. When you told me that she was just your friend, I believed you. And look where we are now.” Camille stared at him, such a beautiful man who had been so ugly toward her. “You treated me like shit in front of her, more than once. You were supposed to be my husband.” Her face furrowed in disbelief. She still couldn't believe the way things had changed. “Frankie, I can admit that I wasn't perfect. Maybe I didn't fix myself up like I could have. I stopped working out and started drinking and eating all the time. But I did everything I could to keep you happy. I never disrespected you. In fact, I disrespected myself before I ever dreamed of doing it to you.” She laughed at herself, sadly. “You owed me more than this.”

“You were smothering me and I was fucked up. Nobles was dead—”

“I understand that, Frankie.”

“Do you understand, Camille?” Frankie's voice rose.

“Absolutely. He was like a father to you, so instead of letting me help you mourn his loss, you ran to Gillian and fucked her for comfort.”

Frankie shook his head. Camille didn't understand that his connection to Gillian was more than sexual. She was, to him, everything Camille had ceased to be.

He looked at his wife and noticed again how pregnant she was. She looked so angelic sitting there, and so hurt. Frankie knew she was crushed by his decision to leave her. But too much had happened between them to reconsider. One look around reminded him of the fate his brother had suffered here at the hands of her sister, and he cringed.

“I don't expect you to believe me,” he said. “But, Gillian really was just my friend until the night her father died.” Frankie looked sincerely into Camille's eyes.

“Gillian has never been
just
your friend,” Camille scoffed. “I can see that now. You might not have slept with her until after you walked out on me, but you were cheating on me with her for years. Whispers, private jokes, late-night phone calls, all of that was part of it. So don't give me that.”

Camille felt her baby move within her womb and instinctively stroked her belly. Frankie noticed, watching her closely. He was still in disbelief that he would soon be a father.

“Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?” he asked, curious. Camille shook her head no. He wished she would elaborate, but she didn't volunteer any more information. He had been wondering about this child—what it would look like, if she would be better off aborting it. He hadn't spoken about it to anyone, but it had certainly been on his mind. Seeing his pregnant wife now made him anxious to find out more. “I don't even know when you're gonna have it.”

“Well, whose fault is that?” Camille snapped. She caught herself and steadied the tone of her voice. The last thing she wanted was for Frankie to see how deeply this was hurting her. “July. The baby is due in July.”

“July what?”

“Fourteenth.”

He thought about that and smiled slightly. “That's your birthday,” he said.

“How nice of you to remember,” she said sarcastically.

Frankie stared at her, tried to get excited about the thought of being a father, but he couldn't. All he felt was anxiety at the idea of it. He felt as if everything was being forced on him. The baby, the terms of the divorce, even the death of his brother. Everything was happening around him and he was powerless to stop any of it.