The Good Wife (12 page)

Lauren had been warned not to hold the baby. She’d been warned that it would make the good-bye so much harder. But once she heard her baby’s cry, there was no way she could let him go.

She was his mom.

He was her sun and moon.

The Meekses were furious. The baby had to go. The baby was supposed to go. Lauren had promised.

Mr. Meeks threatened legal action.

Her dad threatened to do serious damage to Mr. Meeks’s face.

Mr. Meeks stormed out, and Lauren never heard from any of the Meekses again. John included.

By the time she returned to school in the fall, John was already off playing football for some college in the Midwest.

And even though he was gone, Lauren knew that one day she would hear from him, because how could he not care about his son?

* * *

F
our thirty the next morning Lauren was in her car, heading for downtown Napa. It was dark, still pitch-black, and she was thankful she’d grown up on the ranch’s winding country roads as there were no streetlights here, just sharp curves and deep valleys, and her car’s headlights only illuminated so far.

She reached downtown before it was even five and parked on South Main Street, deserted at this early hour. Leaving her car, she cut down Third Street to the riverfront and walked along the river, under the streetlights, listening to her footsteps and the gurgle and rush of water.

She could do this, she told herself. She could handle this. Just go to the restaurant. Unlock the door.
You’ll be fine.

So she turned around, retracing her steps, hands thrust deep into her coat pockets, head down, putting one foot in front of the other, before taking a shortcut down Main Street and over another block.

Crossing the quiet street, Lauren glanced up at the dark building. It was a handsome brick corner building, a former bank, three stories high, with big windows on two sides and lots of trim. While she admired the building’s aesthetics, she’d never been comfortable here, in this new space.

It was too much square footage, and the elegant ceilings Lisa adored were too high and impersonal in Lauren’s eyes.

They were here, in this new spot, because of Matthieu.

He’d been the one to insist they needed the change. And while Lauren knew they were outgrowing her grandmother’s Victorian, she wasn’t ready to relocate. The timing was all wrong, for one thing. Blake was a junior in high school. He was studying hard for his SATs. It was also baseball season and he had games almost every night of the week.

But Matthieu owned the bank building, and he’d poured over a million dollars into renovations, and he was anxious to fill the space. He offered to ready the ground floor, covering the costs of adding a kitchen and making the other necessary changes if Lauren and Lisa would handle the lease.

Lauren said no.

Lisa said yes.

The sisters were at odds for weeks, barely speaking at one point, which didn’t help in running the restaurant or their catering business. Lauren didn’t want to be financially stretched, not when Blake would be going away to college soon. But Matthieu had insisted the move would be profitable, with better parking, signage, and increased foot traffic.

Blake, who absolutely adored his Aunt Lisa, had sided with her and Matthieu, and Lauren, cornered and outnumbered, caved in.

So Lisa and Matthieu went to work, teaming with a local architect to remodel the ground floor, dividing the old bank lobby into sections, added partitions, creating hallways, bathrooms, and storage closets. One fifth of the sunlit bank lobby became an old-world bakery with a huge mahogany glass display case for all the cakes and pastries and sweets, another chunk became a modern, efficient kitchen, and the rest was turned into a sophisticated café with dozens of round marble-topped tables, black-lacquered chairs, big mirrors in thick gilded frames, and a long gleaming white marble counter paired with tall, red leather stools.

It was beautiful. Stunning.

Très chic.

The new, improved Summer Bakery & Café was written up everywhere, and the reviews were brilliant. Matthieu and Lisa did tons of interviews, too, and the publicity ensured there was immediate traffic. From the first day they opened their new glossy door, business boomed.

Matthieu had been right about their location. Parking was plentiful and foot traffic excellent. The compliments poured in from both old customers and new. The comments on Yelp and TripAdvisor were glowing. The café was delightful. Excellent food, impeccable service, and a comfortable but stylish interior.

Matthieu and Lisa were delirious with happiness. Lauren less so, but even she saw that this new location was a positive, that people enjoyed all the light and the location close to the new riverfront development.

Lauren had been here, that morning last June, the morning everything changed.

Here,
she silently repeated, fishing her keys out of her purse to let herself in. She held her breath as she unlocked the front door, the air still bottled in her lungs as she locked it behind her. Little spots danced before her eyes as she switched on the overhead light.

Come on, now,
she told herself,
breathe
.

She did. Exhaled, inhaled, and repeated.

You can do this,
she told herself.
You can. Just walk, one foot in front of the other. Through the dining room, to the kitchen.

And that’s what she did, walking through the hall into the restaurant, switching on lights as she went past the hostess stand, winding through marble-topped tables on her way back to the kitchen.

Everything looked good. Surfaces sparkled.

Her gaze swept the interior, over the pale marble tabletops and counter, the creamy-white stone flecked with gold and shots of gray and black. The dark, polished wood gleamed. Inhaling, she smelled citrus and thyme in the air, and then turning the corner, heading for the kitchen, she spotted a potted lemon tree by the window, the dark green leaves dotted with milky-white blossoms.

Ridiculously emotional, Lauren stopped and gently touched one of the white citrus blossoms, then bent to sniff the scent. Sweet, so very sweet.

Eyes stinging, she peeled off her coat and hung it up on a hook in the massive broom closet before turning around to face the giant kitchen.

She was in here that morning, working, when she got the first call. June 13.

Heart twisting, pulse racing, Lauren reached out, put a hand on the counter, needing something solid next to her, feeling the past rise up, huge, so huge, so horrible.

But she hadn’t even known that first call was bad, hadn’t known it was the start of the end.

It seemed so innocuous. Napa High’s attendance office phoning to let her know that Blake had been marked absent that morning.

The second call came not even two minutes later, buzzing in as Lauren was trying to reach Blake on his cell phone. It was the mom of one of the girls in Blake’s car pool. Paige had just been marked absent. Was Paige maybe doing something with Blake? Mrs. Garrett knew they were just a few days away from summer, a few days from the kids becoming seniors . . . had they planned something today? Were they playing truant to go to the beach or lake?

I don’t know,
Lauren had answered, trying to stay calm.
I’ll let you know as soon as I talk to Blake.

But hanging up, she tried Blake again. He didn’t pick up.

She shot him a text next.
Where r u?

And then another, still trying not to panic.
What’s going on?

Lauren pulled the miniature banana cakes from the oven, set them aside to cool, and then tried phoning Blake again, this time leaving him a message.
Blake, call me. This isn’t funny. I’m getting worried.

He didn’t call.

She didn’t know what to do. Blake, a serious student and a competitive athlete, didn’t ditch. He cared about his grades. He rarely partied. He had big plans for his future. But finals were over. His big paper was done, turned in last night before midnight at turnitin.com.

She mixed up the icing, her thoughts racing as the beaters whipped the powdered sugar into the softened cream cheese.

Maybe the kids were off to Santa Cruz for the day. Blake’s friends surfed and they’d been teaching Blake last summer.

They could be in an area without good cell reception.

It was going to be fine. Blake was a good kid. Responsible. He’d call as soon as he saw her messages.

And then her phone rang. It was Dad. He’d heard there had been a bad accident on Highway 112, a 1987 Camaro, which they both knew was Daniel Avery’s car, and Dad called, wondering if Daniel had maybe picked up Blake for school that morning . . .

Lauren’s legs buckled. She didn’t remember fainting. Didn’t remember waking up on the floor with Lisa and the kitchen staff around her, didn’t remember Matthieu in the hall on the phone himself, trying to get the facts after hearing on the news that there had been a horrific accident on Highway 112 involving four teenagers. The car had caught fire, and early reports had it that only one teenager had been airlifted to the hospital. The other three died at the scene.

It would be another hour before Lauren learned that Blake was one of the three who died at the scene.

It would be days before she believed it.

Months before she accepted it.

And now it was almost a year . . . almost a year since her boy had been taken, and Lauren hated this restaurant that wasn’t her restaurant but Lisa and Matthieu’s . . .

She hated it because it wasn’t Grandma’s Victorian house. She hated it because it didn’t have old wooden tables covered in white linen clothes embroidered with cheerful red thread. She hated that the little glass vases of miniature roses and daisies had given way to chic, potted citrus trees.

Their old café had been cheerful and comfortable, inviting one to relax over a cup of coffee and a generous slice of coffee cake.

They didn’t even serve coffee cake at this new location.

No, this new location was all about new. New look, new menus, inventive new foods—with a French twist.

And Lauren understood, she did.

Lisa had fallen in love with a Frenchman and had embraced his culture. There was nothing wrong with being chic . . . or having an elegant café. It just wasn’t Lauren.

She was a country girl, fond of flea markets, thrift stores, vintage anything, and shabby chic.

Once upon a time Lisa had been the same. But that was back before she fell in love with a Frenchman from Bordeaux who happened to have grown up in a five-hundred-year-old château. (Although, apparently, growing up in a château wasn’t such a big deal in France, as Bordeaux was full of them.)

And honestly, it didn’t matter if Lisa loved the glamorous background or not. Because she could have fallen in love with him for his charming French accent.

Or possibly his style. He had his own unique style, and he wore his dark brown hair long, as if he were an international soccer star.

And he had brown eyes—warm, smiling eyes—and a masculine chin beneath a strong, Gallic nose.

So no, Lisa hadn’t fallen in love with Matthieu Roussel for his money. But good God, it helped.

“Lisa said you’d be here.” Matthieu’s deep voice suddenly sounded in the shadowy hall, startling Lauren.

She jumped, turned, slamming her elbow on the counter. “When did you arrive?” she demanded, rubbing her elbow and glaring at him as he emerged from the dark hall into the kitchen.

“Just now.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I will bang on the door with a hammer next time,” he answered, his brown eyes warm, smiling at her.

Lauren refused to be charmed in any size, shape, or form by Lisa’s attractive and charming husband. “That would be nice. What brings you here so early?”

“I’ve been sent here on a mission.” He extended a hand, a big stainless-steel thermos in his hand. “Your sister said you’d be here and that you’d need coffee.
Vite
.”

He’d come bearing gifts. Coffee, specifically. Okay, maybe Lauren would allow herself to be just a little bit charmed. “Thank you.”

He smiled benevolently. “Or should I say
‘schnell’
? Since I believe you studied German in school.”

She wasn’t going to laugh. She hadn’t had coffee and she was in this kitchen she detested. “Or you could just say ‘fast,’ Matthieu, since we are in America and I speak English.”

“I didn’t think of that.”

She rolled her eyes at him, and yet it was all an act. It was impossible to dislike Matthieu.

Gratefully, she unscrewed the top of the thermos and watched the steam escape from it. Lauren inhaled deeply, greedily, letting the aroma fill her nose. She took a cautious sip. The coffee was hot and strong and perfect. “Really good.”

“Not too strong?”

“No. It’s heaven.” She took another sip, grateful for small blessings. “Tell Lisa she hasn’t lost her touch.”

He leaned against the counter. “I made it.”

“
You
did?”

“Ever since Lisa became pregnant, she can’t stomach the smell of coffee.”

“So she didn’t wake up and make me coffee?”

“No. She woke me up and told me to make you coffee.”

Lauren laughed and shook her head.

Matthieu might be a gorgeous, wealthy Frenchman born in a five-hundred-year-old château, but she couldn’t hold that against him forever. Not when he was truly nice. And so devoted to his wife.

“So what do we do first?” Matthieu asked her, going to the sink to wash his hands.

Lauren swallowed her coffee and looked at him vigorously soaping up his hands as if he was about to perform surgery or deliver a baby. “You’re . . . helping . . . me?”

“Oui.”
He flashed her a smile. “I am here to assist you.”

“So you can cook now?”

“Not cook. But I can chop and mix and stir and watch things in the oven to make sure they don’t burn.”

“Since when?”

“Since you were gone.” He saw her baffled look and added with an apologetic shrug, “Lisa was lonely when you left.”

Lisa was lonely. Lonely. Good God, Lauren had never really thought about that, had she?