Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) (3 page)

After a minute, he gave up.

Meg had disappeared. Again.

His teammates walked by, and Mike followed them to the dugout. So much for his personal opening day. Meg was a mother—a mother of a little boy who wore a miniature of his own jersey.

How ironic that his ex-wife’s son had chosen him as his hero.

Somewhere in the seventh inning, between his second and third strikeout, Mike decided he would go see Meg right after the game.

The drive to her office took over an hour, thanks to rush-hour traffic. Mike exited the highway for her suburb where condominiums and townhouses gave way to large, older, single-family homes with tall, mature trees lining the road.

Evidently she worked from home.

He found her house and parked along the curb in front of her yard.

For several minutes, he didn’t move. He took in the large brick house, a two-story with five windows across the upper level and two on either side of the wooden door, its front step covered by a small overhang. A chimney extended from each end of the house, and a well-manicured lawn curved up from the street, the bushes that lined her yard flaunting spring colors.

A small weight lifted. At least she hadn’t been hurting. She must have met that dude right after their divorce, judging by the age of her son.

What was the kid’s name?

Her business card sat in his cup holder. Stifling a yawn, he picked it up and ran his fingers over the raised lettering.

Meghan Connor
.

Whoa—Connor? She still went by his name?

How had he missed that detail? And what did it mean? Was she dating that guy?

Then who was the boy’s dad?

Mike glanced at her house. Maybe he belonged to the man.

No, the kid had called her his mom.

Maybe his stepmom?

He tucked the card safely into the cup holder, remembering her panicked face when her eyes had met his. What had she thought about during the game? Did she wish they could try again? His years with Meg, despite their problems, had been the best of his life, and even though his career had soared after the divorce, he longed to go back to those happy days with her, back to that first year in the majors and even back to the minors.

He snorted at the thought. “I
am
tired.”

Silence answered him.

It had been two weeks since Sara had left. Two very silent, silent weeks. His parents had asked about her when he’d had lunch with them in Anaheim during last week’s season opening road trip, and he’d told them they’d broken up during spring training. That she’d been gone by the time he got back.

He hadn’t told his parents about Sara finding Meg, though. His marriage was still a touchy subject. After the divorce, a couple years had passed before he could look them in the eye without feeling like they were fuming.

No way was he resurrecting that whole issue.

Because Meg was probably with someone else. He was just here to… say hi. To make sure she was okay because she’d seemed upset, maybe, at the ballpark.

We shouldn’t have—we need to go.

What had she meant?

He looked back at her house. Lights shone on each floor. Someone was home, probably Meg if she worked here.

What about that man? What if he opened the door?

“I’m Mike Connor,” he practiced. “Meg’s first husband. And you are?”

The guy would punch him in the nose if Meg had told him anything.

So he’d punch him back.

He climbed out of his Range Rover, slammed the door, and started up the sidewalk. His heart beat faster, and he matched his stride to it until he reached her door.

What would she do when she saw him?

He pushed the doorbell and listened to its faint ring. Maybe he’d imagined she looked the same as he’d remembered. Maybe the sparkle in her green eyes had faded and she’d turned gray.

What did that matter? He needed to see her, if only to say he was sorry and ask for forgiveness. Then he could tell the guilt goodbye and move on with life, wherever that took him.

He lifted his hand to press the bell again, but the knob rattled. Mike squared his shoulders.

The door swung open.

Framed in the doorway Meg—his Meg—froze, her small smile slipping away. She wore jeans and a red sweater that gave color to her pale skin. Her long, wavy hair framed her face in dark gold layers, and her green eyes glazed as she stared at him.

Despite her less-than-welcoming expression, she looked better then he’d remembered.

He forced a smile, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Hi.”

Still she stared.

“May I come in?”

She blinked, did not move, did not speak.

Gently he nudged the door farther open.

She shifted out of its way.

He doubted she knew she’d moved, but he’d take it as a yes. He stepped into a foyer, warm light reflecting off dark wood floors and subtle yellow walls. A wide staircase stood on the left, and a doorway on the right led to a living room done in some soothing orange color.

He smiled. Only Meg could make orange soothing.

Behind him the door clicked shut, and he turned to find her watching him, her face unreadable.

“Sorry to drop in,” he said, “but I had to come by.”

She said nothing, the silence blaring.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I saw you.” He tried to joke. “You made me play awful.”

“Oh.” She looked sideways at the stairs and then at his feet.

He’d have to save the humor for later. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. If your husband or boyfriend is here and you want me to leave, I’ll go.”

She looked up. “My husband?”

“You’re not married?” Mike cleared his throat, fought to control his sudden smile. “I saw you with someone, and I assumed—” He rubbed the back of his neck. Why had he said that?

“Why are you here, Mike?”

This wasn’t what he’d expected. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, doing fine.” He glanced around the foyer again, noting the side tables, mirrors, and odds and ends that gave the room an expensive, designer look. “Your place is great.”

“Thank you. I did it myself—my own design business.”

He opened his mouth to congratulate her, but she cut him off. “If you’ve soothed your conscience making sure I’m fine after all these years—”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Mike looked up as Meg’s little boy appeared.

The blond kid halted when their eyes met. “Wow! Mr. Connor!” He raced down the rest of the stairs.

Mike braced for the kid to fling himself at him.

Instead, the boy skidded to a stop and lifted his hand for a handshake. “Nice to see you again.”

The manners just kept coming with this kid, didn’t they? Mike raised his eyebrows at Meg as he shook her son’s hand.

She didn’t seem amused. “Terrell—”

“Mr. Connor, do you think we could play baseball sometime?”

Mike couldn’t help his laugh. What would this kid think if he knew his history with his mother? “That’s up to your mom. If she says it’s fine, we’ll do it. How’s that?”

Terrell nodded. “Can we, Mommy?”

Her smile was grim. “We’ll see. Right now you need to go to Jill’s.”

Terrell’s lower lip protruded, but the sideways glance he sent Mike said he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of his baseball hero. “Can’t I stay?”

“No, Terrell. You need to go. Now.”

“But I want to tell him something.”

She relented, as Mike knew she would. “Quickly, Terrell.”

Terrell beamed at him, a grimace-like grin splitting his face. “We have the same name.”

Mike looked at Meg. “Same name?”

Meg’s face blanched, and the panic he’d seen at the stadium flashed in her eyes. “Terrell! Go. Now!”

Terrell ignored her, smiling around Meg’s frantic push deeper into the house. “Connor. Me and you. See you later, Mr. Connor.” He managed a wave before Meg forced him out the back of the foyer with her.

Mike’s breath left him.
Same name. Connor.
He sagged against the wall. She hadn’t. She had
not
—

The truth rushed in.

Mike swore and pushed off from the wall. The foyer was empty. Where was she?

Fury propelled him after the way they’d gone and into Meg’s kitchen, his angry breath coming faster. Meg was shutting her back door and leaned against it as he entered. “Why does he have my name, Meg? What are you pulling?”

“Me? You’re the one who shows up unannounced.” She shouldered past him.

Mike stormed after her to the living room.

She sank onto a couch and buried her face in her hands.

He squeezed the back of a chair, but his anger boiled. “Terrell is mine?”

Her hands formed fists over her eyes.

He had no time for sympathy. “Answer me!”

A moan escaped her. She nodded her head once.

“You’ve kept me from my own son?” His throat felt as if it might explode. “You signed divorce papers saying you weren’t pregnant. How dare you lie about
that
!”

“And how dare you run out on your wife! Don’t condemn me for what I did.”

Her words stung, but he narrowed his eyes and glared at her. He could cut deep too. “You didn’t look pregnant.”

“Nice, Mike.”

“What am I supposed to think?”

“Obviously your mind thinks the worst.” She leaned back on the couch, arms crossed. “I was a month along.”

“Then you should have told me!”

“Why? So you could take him too?”

“It wasn’t that way.”

“Yes, it was,” she snapped.

No, it wasn’t.

Well…

Okay, but he didn’t want to face what he’d been. Why, now that he had something to be truly angry at Meg for, did the memory of all he’d done sting so much? What mattered was her horrible deception.

He clenched his teeth and forced himself to sit on the opposite couch. Bitter, condemning words pushed for release. He squeezed his fingers into fists until the veins in his wrists felt they might pop.

Meg had lied. Worse, she’d stolen what she knew he’d find most valuable.

She glared at an invisible spot on the coffee table. He glared at it as well, as if the table were at fault. He blew out a deep breath and then another before dragging his eyes to her face.

Her mouth stretched in a tight line, and she looked ready to attack as soon as he spoke.

Well, let her.

But his angry words refused to come. Their past and his wrongs stretched before him. Suddenly drained, Mike gripped his head with both hands. His child, the child she hadn’t yet wanted, was alive. He had to respect that. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “He looks like my dad as a kid.”

Meg said nothing.

“What’s his birthday?”

“He’ll be six July twenty-fourth.”

“And his name?”

“His name?”

“His full name?”

“Terrell Jason Connor.”

Mike repeated the name. “Why Terrell?”

She studied her hands. “I liked it.”

Her body language said otherwise. “What’s it mean, Meg?”

“Jason means healer.”

Was that supposed to hurt? He scowled at her. “And Terrell?”

Meg glared again. “Look it up.”

So she was playing games. Fine.

He leaned back on the couch, eyes closed. How could this have happened? Shouldn’t he have known, somehow, that he had a child? Shouldn’t there have been a feeling or suspicion that some incredible part of his life was missing?

But there’d been nothing.
Nothing
! He’d missed his son’s first six years—because of Meg. It was her fault. She’d kept him from naming his son. He would never have chosen Terrell.

“Do you realize the only things I know about my kid are his name and his birthday?”

“And I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“You don’t see what you’ve done wrong?”

She laughed incredulously at him. “Me?”

He stood, relishing the way he towered over her. “I should sue you for everything you’re worth.”

“Got to take it all, don’t you?”

They weren’t rehashing that. He waved her words away. “Where’s Terrell?”

“What?”

“I want my son. Where is he?”

“You’re not taking him. He doesn’t know you’re his dad.”

Mike snorted. “That was obvious, wasn’t it?” He stormed to her front door and jerked it open, pained as he remembered his little boy calling him Mr. Connor. “You can’t keep Terrell from me, Meg. You’ll hear from my lawyer.”

Where is Margo?

In the kitchen, Ben stared at his open soda can. Not again. He should be allowed a few months reprieve. Wasn’t that the pattern?

Is Margo okay?

If Dana hadn’t been sitting at the dining room table perusing design books, Ben would have answered out loud, just to chase the thought away. Instead, he swigged his Pepsi, answering silently while he swallowed. He wished he knew where Margo was. How she was. How life had gone for her these last two years.

The question was not unusual. For two years it had popped up at the strangest times, like two months ago when he’d shown a client the playhouse in a backyard and last night when he’d caught a rerun of Cal Ripken tying Lou Gehrig’s consecutive game streak.

Ben walked past Dana to the recliner in front of the TV showing the White Sox and Royals game. Baseball had once distracted him from everything wrong with his life. Maybe it could again.

He stretched out in the chair. Ah, the White Sox had broken up the shutout. He wasn’t a fan of either team, but he refused to watch that other team in town.

What about Margo?

He pulled a green plastic binder from beneath a stack of comps and arranged it on his lap so Dana couldn’t see it. After Mom left, Ben had endured three years with his silent, morose father. Then Margo swept Dad off his feet. Ben drained his Pepsi at the thought of her. Tall, blonde, beautiful. She’d made Dad happy again, and as a result, she’d made Ben happy too.

And nothing against Mom, but Margo was way more of a mother than Mom had ever been. Margo had tucked him into bed at night, played catch in the backyard, washed and folded his clothes, thrown birthday parties, and planned vacations. Not that they ever went. In high school, she cooked sausage and scrambled eggs and pancakes with fresh fruit and milk and orange juice and sometimes even real hash browns—all at five-thirty in the morning so he’d have stamina for 6:30 AM baseball practice plus a whole morning of school, and she
never
laughed at his dream like Dad did.