Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) (25 page)

The Bible told him
how
to love his wife? Strike two then. Mike glanced at Meg, who stared unseeing at her handout. She must be thinking how horribly he’d failed. Everything here made him look completely flawed.

Clark asked the class to turn to another verse, but Mike didn’t bother. He flipped through the surrounding pages. If the Bible could point out where he’d blown it, maybe it could show him how to fix it.

It was a thought.

The last week of June felt like Chicago’s dog-days of summer had arrived early. High heat and humidity left Mike’s injured arm damp and aromatic. The old pain was gone, but the new pain of fatigued muscles replaced it as each day he worked out with Carter, one of the team’s strength and conditioning coaches.

The work gave him time to think, and recent threatening letters filled his mind. After the first one, a photocopied article about his separated shoulder four years ago, he’d assumed some joker thought reminding him of his past injuries was funny.

But that type of mail usually came with a moronic message from someone who didn’t know which end of the bat to hold. The more he thought about it, the more the absence of an in-your-face message made him uneasy. And when the second envelope arrived with a blown-up copy of the photo showing him writhing on the ground seconds after the injury had happened, his unease increased.

Was Ben sending these? A week ago, a police detective had called about a binder they’d found in Ben’s house, a binder containing an alphabetized list of former ballplayers, managers, coaches, and himself. His name was crossed off—as were a few others whose lives had recently gone through upheaval, some even death. Should he feel relieved that he lived? Or worried that Ben might not be done with him?

The timing of the letters could be a coincidence.

Either way, it would not ruin his day. Other things demanded his thoughts.

Like Meg.

Nothing had changed in the week since she’d visited his house. Like the thunderstorm building in the west, there had to be some storm brewing in her. Meg couldn’t go on like this. Something would give.

Another scenario he shouldn’t think about unless it happened.

On Thursday morning, his long cast was removed and replaced with a short one. Most of his forearm was still encased, but with his elbow exposed, he could begin rehabbing that joint, regaining strength and movement there before the rest of the cast came off in three weeks. Carter wasted no time working the elbow muscles, and before Mike left for Meg’s house, he downed a few Advil, praying it’d take the edge off.

Rehab stunk.

The medicine had yet to help by the time he pulled into Meg’s drive. He walked to her back door, studying the distant western sky where gray clouds massed. The predicted storm was on its way.

Through her screen door, he could see Meg seated at the kitchen table, papers spread around her, head bent low and her hair about to drag a magazine clipping to the floor.

At his knock, she jumped, the clipping beginning its lazy freefall.

She sighed when she saw him. “I thought you weren’t coming till later.”

Oh no, the pleasure was all his. He swallowed his irritation while she let him in. “The weather’s so nice I thought we should enjoy it.” He forced a smile. “How about a couple of hours at the lake?”

“Lake Michigan?” She looked at him as if he was crazy. “It’s supposed to storm.”

“Yeah, but for now it’s nice, and I want a break.”

She picked up the clipping. “Fine. But you’ve got to keep Terrell busy tonight. I have to finish this layout.”

“Is that for the Ashburns?”

“No. You’ll keep him busy?”

He gritted his teeth at her brusqueness. “Whatever you want, Meg.”

She took his sarcasm at face value and disappeared into the foyer. She called up the stairs and moments later returned with Terrell tripping on her heels.

“Hi, Dad,” Terrell called, flinging himself against Mike’s legs.

Mike wrapped his good arm around Terrell’s chest and tipped him up over his shoulder.

Terrell squealed and pounded his back.

Now here was a welcome.

“Where’s your sling?” Terrell asked once his feet were back on the floor. “And your cast. Did you get a new one?”

“Yep. Got it this morning.” Mike squatted so Terrell could reach it easily. “I’ll keep getting a new one every few days until I’m better.”

“How come?”

“Because I’m working out a lot, and all that sweat stays in the cast since I can’t clean my arm. Gets kinda raunchy.”

Terrell’s jaw dropped. “You don’t have to take a bath?”

“Terrell, I shower a few times a day.”

“Oh.” His face fell. “That’s a bummer, huh?”

“It’s real rough.”

Terrell ran his hand up and down the blue cast. “Why is this cast smaller?”

“So I can exercise my elbow. They took an X-ray of my arm and saw that I’d healed enough for me to start moving my arm.”

“When do you start rehab?” Meg asked.

He looked up, allowing himself to find concern on her face. “Already did. Carter said we were starting light, but he lied.”

“Are you all right? Terrell, stop that.” She flicked Terrell’s hand from Mike’s upper arm, where his fingers rubbed Mike’s skin.

“That’s fine. My arms look different, don’t they?”

“This one’s thinner.”

“That’s because it’s been lazy. Now I have to make it work so my arms match and I don’t look like a freak.”

Terrell laughed. “You’re a freak.”

Mike grinned. “No. You’re a freak.”

“No, you are.” Terrell poked his chest. “You’re the freak.”

“Hey, dude. You’re the freak.”

Terrell’s laugh drowned out Meg’s groan.

Within minutes, they were in the Range Rover. Mike backed out of Meg’s drive and started east. Dark clouds built in his rearview mirror, and through his open window Mike felt the breeze increase. They’d be lucky to have an hour at the lake, but he’d take it.

He wove around light traffic on the highway and through the forest of downtown skyscrapers until they opened up to Grant Park. He turned south on Lake Shore Drive and drove toward one of the quieter beaches, praying it would be even emptier with the coming storm.

It was.

As they stepped from the Range Rover, the wind whipped Meg’s hair. She pulled a ponytail holder from her wrist and secured her hair in a casual knot. A handful of shorter strands escaped, flinging themselves toward her emotionless face.

What on earth was the woman thinking?

Terrell raced across the beach, a purple Frisbee in one hand.

Mike put on dark sunglasses and an old John Deere hat that Meg’s father had given him years ago as a joke. Between the hat and the sunglasses, no one should give him a second look.

“Dad! Catch!”

Terrell launched the Frisbee toward Mike, but the wind caught it and pulled it toward the water. Mike sprinted after it. Between Terrell’s skill level and the wind, he’d get another workout.

Mike picked up the Frisbee and flipped it at Terrell before glancing up the beach.

Meg sat on a beige blanket, arms wrapped around her legs. She stared straight ahead.

Mike followed her gaze. Nothing but water.

“Dad!” Terrell hollered.

Mike looked back to find the Frisbee magically on course. It caught an updraft, and he leaped and nabbed it with his fingertips, pulling it in to his palm.

Terrell whooped and applauded.

Meg woke from her trance to glance their way.

This time he purposely tossed the Frisbee beyond Terrell, and while Terrell chased it down, Mike watched her. He couldn’t leave her sitting alone, not when her depression was partly his fault. He had to fix it. “What do I say?” he asked, then frowned when he realized whom he’d turned to.

Why not? None of his own ideas worked.

What do I do, God?

Last Sunday he’d discovered the concordance in the back of his Bible and searched it for verses dealing with husbands and wives. A handful pointed out what he should have done the first time around. One verse even said a man was to love his wife as Christ loved the church, which had been to the point of dying for it. Having to die for Meg was unlikely. But loving her selflessly, serving and protecting her—he was willing to try.

The Frisbee crashed yards to his left. Mike jogged to it and dusted it off. “God, I’m sorry.”

The simple words weren’t enough. Was God even listening?

I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know how much I would hurt Meg and Terrell and myself. Help me.

Please.

By the time Terrell tired of the Frisbee, dark clouds hovered behind the downtown skyline. Terrell decided to build a sand fort, and Mike walked to Meg, the sand dry between his toes. She didn’t move, and with sunglasses covering her eyes, he couldn’t tell where she was looking or what mood she was in.

Although he could probably guess.

He sank down beside her and tossed his hat and sunglasses at his feet. “How are you?”

“Fine.” She nodded at the hat. “That’s not—”

“The hat from your dad. Comes in handy. People here don’t pay attention to anyone wearing John Deere hats.”

She nudged it with her flip-flop. “Looks like you’ve used it a lot.”

“That, and it’s how many years old?”

He left silence for her to fill, but she kept her face on Terrell and the water.

“Meg.” He leaned back on his elbow, waiting until she turned her head. “How long has it been since your parents—since the accident?”

“Four years in November.”

“How often do you visit the farm?”

“Never. I sold it.”

She’d sold it? She loved that farm. In Texas, she’d talked about it so much that he’d used it as one of his excuses when he left her—he wanted someone who appreciated civilization, not the smell of manure or a stroll through cornfields. “Who bought it?”

“I don’t remember. I had a lawyer out there deal with it.”

“You didn’t go yourself?”

She pulled in a deep breath. “I didn’t want someone we both knew to see me.”

Her words punched him. She’d been alone for six years because of him. She’d sold her childhood home because of him. What else had she endured? Because of him?

He didn’t want to think about the damage his actions had caused her, but now he couldn’t stop. What he’d thought would be an innocent flirtation had destroyed her marriage, kept her from her family, forced her to carry the weight of single parenthood, and left her leery of him and men in general. Guilt stacked on top of guilt, and the weight seemed as real as the weights he’d used that morning.

He had to
do
something.

He sat up. “Meg, I’m sorry about last week.”

A long chunk of hair fell from the top of her head and flapped in the wind.

“I assumed you knew I’d dated other women—”

Her head whipped in his direction. “You want to talk about it? Didn’t you say a few weeks ago that you wanted to tell me everything?” She held out her palm. “Spill away. I’m ready.”

No, she wasn’t. She’d never be ready.

“Go ahead. Tell me what life’s been like. Tell me how much fun it was.”

“It wasn’t.” His voice was hoarse, and though he cleared his throat, nothing changed. He rested his arms and forehead on his knees. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t care, Mike. You owe me the truth.”

She’d hate the truth.

“I want to know if you ever remarried.”

That wasn’t a question he’d expected. “No.”

“Did you come close?”

She was digging deep. Resignation settled over him. “Yes.”

A wind gust swept the beach.

Mike closed his eyes too late.

“What happened?”

He blinked repeatedly, his eyes watering at the grains of sand lodged there. He’d willingly rub handfuls of the stuff in his eyes if she’d stop asking questions. “She broke it off.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I don’t care what you want!” She faced him again. “You never told me why you left, and I want to know. I’ve lived all these years thinking I was a failure somehow. I don’t care how much I’ll be hurt. I want the truth.”

She was right. He couldn’t leave her guessing. “Fine.” His agreement lodged in his throat. “Ask your questions.”

“Where did you meet Brooke?”

He covered his head with his hands and spoke to his knees. “At a bar during spring training. You were back in Texas.”

She seemed to ignore his last sentence. “Why her?”

“You want the truth, Meg? No matter what?”

“Yes.”

“I was lonely. She paid attention.”

He waited for a reaction—anger that he’d blame her or denial that she’d neglected him—but none came.

Only the wind reacted, a gust whipping his shirt against his back.

“When did it end?”

“March, I think.”

“Why?”

“Because she found someone else. From what I’ve heard, she’s made a living off dating professional athletes. I was the first.”

“What about the one you almost married?”

He gritted his teeth, hating the direction of her questions. “What about her?”

“How did you meet her?”

“During my last rehab.”

She turned her head to him, but Mike could see nothing behind the glasses. He resisted the urge to pull them off.

“Are you sorry you’re not with her?” she asked.

“No.”

She kept her face to his, obviously waiting for more, but he kept silent. She was asking the questions. He wouldn’t volunteer anything.

“Why not?”

“Why not what?”

Her mouth tightened. “Why don’t you regret that breakup?”

“Because we weren’t right for each other.”

She looked back at the lake. Swallowed once, twice. When she looked down at her legs and rubbed her hands on her shorts, it signaled some disastrous question was coming. He licked his lips, blurting whatever came to mind. “Do you know I can still picture the first time I saw you?”

She pulled the elastic from her hair and busied herself finger-combing her hair.

“I saw you the second you walked into biology class. You walked across the room and up the aisle and sat right in front of me.”