The Good Wife (14 page)

“You’ll be back.”

“That’s right.”

“Because if you don’t come back, I’m not sure I want to continue Summer Bakery and Café without you.” Lisa held Lauren’s gaze. “It’s not as much fun without you.”

Lauren felt a sharp twinge of guilt. Lisa wasn’t just her sister, she once had been her best friend, but since Blake’s accident, Lauren had virtually shut her out. “I miss working with you, too,” she said softly. “I miss not seeing you every day. It’s weird not seeing you. And now I’ve missed nearly all of your pregnancy.”

“Better to miss the pregnancy than miss the baby’s birth.” Lisa smiled uncertainly. “You
are
coming home for the birth? She should be here in the next month.”

Lauren nodded. Lisa had been her birthing partner when she had Blake. “Absolutely.”

“And you’ll be the godmother?”

Lauren struggled to hang on to her smile. “Of course.”

“I know this isn’t easy, but it’ll be good for us. Good for the family. New life . . . new hopes and dreams.”

Lauren kept smiling, aware that Lisa had no idea how much her words hurt. New life . . . new hopes and dreams . . . as if Blake could be replaced that easily. And of course that wasn’t what Lisa meant, but it was how it felt.

“I’ll need your help and advice,” Lisa continued. “You were such a great mom. You’ll be able to tell me what I’m doing wrong—” She swallowed nervously. “I’m saying all the wrong things, aren’t I?”

“Yes.” But Lauren softened the words by leaning forward and hugging her sister. “But it’s okay. I don’t know what the right words are anymore. I’m just glad your little one is almost here. I can’t wait to meet her.”

Lisa held Lauren tightly. “You mean that?”

“I do. You’re going to be a wonderful mom—” Lauren broke off, sniffed the air. “Something’s burning. Smell that?”

“The tartlets!” Lisa screeched, racing for the oven.

* * *

S
arah spent a half hour hanging out with her dad and his brothers in the living room before going upstairs to check on Ella.

She found her in Tessa’s bedroom, in front of Tessa’s old dollhouse, which was actually a miniature of Monticello, made by Jack for his daughter’s eighth birthday. Tessa was sitting on the floor next to Ella, pointing out all the dollhouse’s architectural details.

“This is basically Roman neoclassical architecture,” Sarah heard Tessa explain to Ella. “This is called a portico, and this is a dome. It’s made out of glass, just like the real Monticello. See?” Tessa lightly tapped the delicate dome of her dollhouse and then gestured to the ceilings. “See how the ceilings are different heights? Jefferson’s real house was like that, too. And look at these little rooms. These are the privies. That’s what they called the bathrooms in those days. Although Dad said Thomas Jefferson called his bathrooms air-closets and they all had skylights. Pretty smart, huh?”

Sarah quietly stepped out of the bedroom and was heading back down the hall for the stairs when she passed JJ’s room and caught a whiff of something that stopped her short. She sniffed again. Marijuana.

Boone didn’t smoke it, and Sarah didn’t anymore, but she had in college. Lots of kids had smoked it in Capitola, too. But marijuana, here, in Meg’s house? Not good,

If Meg caught JJ smoking in his room, she’d have a fit.

Sarah put her ear to the door, heard music. He must be in there. She knocked lightly, once. He didn’t answer.

Uncertain as to what she should do, she opened his bedroom door a crack and peeked in.

The sunlit room revealed skin. Naked teenage skin. And lots of it.

Boy and girl parts, too.

Arms, legs, butts, breasts.

Arms, legs, butts, and breasts moving, rocking, groping,
groaning.

Christ!

Sarah closed the door quickly, quietly, praying that they hadn’t heard her. Or seen her.

But maybe she should have made a noise. Maybe she should make them stop.

Sarah was massively conflicted. Meg would freak if she thought JJ was having sex, in her house, during Jack’s funeral reception.

But . . .

It was also JJ’s dad’s funeral reception, and apparently this was how he felt comforted.

But Sarah wished she hadn’t seen it. JJ naked, orgasmic, his room reeking of weed . . .

If Meg discovered them . . .

No, Sarah wouldn’t go there, and she most definitely wasn’t going to get in the middle of this one.

She was halfway down the stairs when she spotted Kit at the foot, arms crossed over her chest, expression worried.

“Everything okay?” Sarah asked, aware that things with Kit were still on the tense side, and still not totally sure how to fix them.

“Yes.”

But Kit looked stressed and it troubled Sarah. “Are you sure?”

Kit hesitated. “Yes.” She forced a smile and tucked a dark red tendril behind her ear. “Thanks.”

“Kit,” Brianna said, walking through the front door, her black dress swimming on her small frame, “your man’s outside, on the phone. He wanted me to tell you he’ll be in soon. Or as soon as he can. Something like that.”

“Oh.” Kit looked somewhat relieved. “Okay.”

“Speaking of men . . .” Brianna’s voice trailed off. “Do either of you know who the guy is outside, talking to Meg?”

“Where?” Sarah asked.

“There,” Brianna answered, drawing Sarah toward the open front door.

Kit followed and glanced toward the far end of the porch, where Meg stood talking to a tall, good-looking man in black trousers and a white dress shirt.

“Who
is
that?” Brianna demanded.

“Chad,” Kit said.

Brianna’s eyes widened. “
The
Chad?”

“Yep.” A smile hovered at Kit’s lips. “Cute, huh?”

Way more than cute, Sarah thought, jostling for a better position in the doorway, wanting a closer look. So this was the infamous Chad Hallahan. Dark blond, thick wavy hair, light eyes, a deep tan. Muscles, too.

Kind of like a baseball player.

Hot.

“Gorgeous,” Bree said, whistling appreciatively. “He’s definitely got the whole Robert Redford thing going, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t see it,” Sarah said.

“Young Redford, from the sixties and seventies.”

“I wasn’t born until the late seventies,” Sarah reminded her.

“I know, but you’ve seen his films.
The Sting, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
,
All the President’s Men . . .
” Brianna paused to take a breath.

“The Great Gatsby,”
Kit added.

“The Natural!”
Sarah put in.

Kit smiled. “You would know the baseball one.”

“I think I’ve seen every baseball movie ever made,” Sarah admitted.

Kit nodded in Meg and Chad’s direction. “So what do you think he’s saying to her?”

“He’s probably telling her how sorry he is,” Bree said. “That he’s here for her, that he’s always been here for her, and if she should need anything, all she just has to do is call.” Her lips twitched. “You know, boring stuff like that.”

Kit folded her arms across her chest. “But she’s not going to call him. It’s over.”

Brianna looked disappointed. “You really think so?”

Sarah nodded. “Meg told me just last week it’d been a big mistake, that he wasn’t the right one for her.”

“She said the same thing to me,” Kit added.

Brianna’s eyebrows rose. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

Sarah tuned Brianna out, focusing instead on Meg and Chad, because it was impossible not to.

Just as it was impossible to ignore Chad’s body language.

He stood close to Meg, very close, clearly concerned about her.

Suddenly Meg’s shoulders shook and her head bowed. Chad started to reach for her, but then drew back and buried his hands in his pockets, his expression tortured.

He still cared for Meg, Sarah thought.

He might even still love her.

She turned away. “I need a drink.”

* * *

S
arah made her way to the far end of the dining room where a small bar had been set up. The young male bartender she had seen earlier was gone, replaced by a pretty woman with long brown hair who was opening a bottle of red wine.

Sarah leaned on the counter. She recognized the label. Dark Horse Winery. Glancing at the row of bottles, she saw they all had the Dark Horse label.

“Are you only serving Dark Horse wine?” she asked, watching as the bartender uncorked a Shiraz.

“Yes. The Hallahans donated the wine.” The bartender wiped down the open bottle.

“Do you know the Hallahan brothers?” Sarah asked, intrigued.

The woman nodded. “I grew up in Napa. We all went to the same high school. Craig was a couple of years older than me, and Chad was a year behind.”

“What year did you graduate?”

“’Ninety-five.”

Sarah was surprised. The woman looked young . . . at least, younger than her. “So did I.”

“Where are you from?”

“San Francisco.”

“A city girl.”

“I am.” Sarah smiled. “By the way, I’m Sarah, Meg’s youngest sister.”

The bartender looked intrigued and extended her hand. “I’m Lauren Summer. I’ve worked with Meg for years. She’s always used us to cater her events.” Lauren gestured to the open bottles. “Can I pour you something? Red, white, beer?”

“I’d love a glass of white. Whatever you have that’s cold.”

“It’s all cold, and while the Chardonnay is Dark Horse’s big seller, I’m partial to their new Sauvignon Blanc.”

“I’ll try the Sauvignon Blanc, then.”

“If you don’t like it, I can pour you something else.”

“It could be battery acid right now, and I’d probably drink it.”

Lauren grinned, and a dimple flashed in her cheek. “You’re different from Meg.”

“I’m the baby of the family, youngest of five,” Sarah answered drily. “I think my parents were worn out by the time I came along. Meg claims I got away with murder.”

“Did you?” Lauren asked, handing her a goblet.

“Not murder, but I did get a car at sixteen,” Sarah said, lifting the glass to her mouth, hiding her smile. “And no one else did.”

Lauren laughed. “I bet your brothers and sisters had something to say about that.”

“Oh, plenty, but Mom said they could all come home from college or whatever and drive me around to all my activities and games because she couldn’t. She was working.”

“Your mom worked?”

Sarah nodded. “She was a nurse, but then went back to school after I was born. Got her master’s in hospital administration.”

“Impressive lady.”

“She was.” Sarah’s smile faded as she pictured her mom. Her chest squeezed, heart aching. “She just died. Cancer. Passed away just last week.”

“Last week?”

“We thought she was in remission.”

“I’m so sorry. And two funerals in a week?”

Sarah nodded. “Mom’s, we expected. But Jack’s . . . that was a total shock.”

Lauren made a rough, inarticulate sound. “Car accidents usually are.”

Nine

S
arah returned to Tampa on Saturday night and attended the last game against the Yankees at Tropicana Field Sunday with Ella and Brennan, sitting with Alyssa and her kids in the section reserved for wives and girlfriends.

“Seems like you were gone forever,” Alyssa said as they settled into their seats for the game.

Sarah nodded, shifting Ella into a more comfortable position on her lap. “Was forever. Twenty days. So glad to be home. But good heavens, the laundry! Boone must have used every single towel in the house.”

Alyssa laughed. “That’s because men only use them once, and then they leave them on the floor.”

“If they did the laundry they’d maybe hang a towel up.”

“Or not. I think Jeff would just go out and buy more.”

“Men!”

“And to think I’m raising four boys,” Alyssa said, leaning forward to do a quick inventory, making sure all four of them were still sitting, each wearing a Tampa Bay shirt of some sort, with Brennan in his jersey and hat, sandwiched between them.

“I love my boy,” Sarah answered, noting that Brennan was jabbing his friends with his elbow and hot dog, but the Neeley boys were used to it. Thank God they didn’t seem to mind. “But I’m really glad for my girl,” she added, kissing the top of Ella’s head. “She adds some sugar to all the spice.”

* * *

T
ampa Bay ended the series with a win, sweeping the Yankees at home. Boone had a home run in the bottom of the eighth that helped the team win Sunday’s game, and Sarah was so happy to be there in person, to see him round the bases and then step on home plate. It was just like her early days with Boone, back when it had just been the two of them, dating, and then married and newlyweds.

Sarah hummed as she drove the kids home after the game, feeling better than she had in a long time. This was what she needed. Time with her kids, time with Boone, just being a family. She wouldn’t think about his leaving Tuesday morning either, for a ten-day road trip, the first of the season. It was only Sunday night. She still had all of tomorrow.

At home, while Brennan and Ella ate their dinner—grilled chicken, broccoli, and fresh fruit cups—Sarah took the marinating steaks from the refrigerator and turned the broiler on. She’d prepared the twice-baked potatoes before she left for the park, and they were ready to be warmed. Boone loved a big steak after a game, and tonight had been a great game, a big game, especially as contract discussions would begin in another month or so. Everyone had thought he’d be finished with ball by now, but if he continued to hit the way he did today, he could easily play another year. Maybe longer.

He definitely made good money playing ball, and it was still exciting to see him at bat. Boone was gorgeous naked, but there was something undeniably thrilling about him in his team uniform. The shape of his quads, his little butt, the bulge of biceps beneath his jersey. He was tall, big, muscular, and he had a huge swing. When he connected with the ball tonight in the eighth inning, he cracked it. You knew just by the sound of it that it’d be a huge hit, and as the fans surged to their feet, Sarah jumped up, too, holding her breath as her eyes became glued to the ball, watching it sail high, out toward center field, and then over the fence.

Gone.

The fans erupted into wild cheering and Sarah applauded with them, feeling like that young bride who’d never missed a game, either at home or away, and who, when Boone traveled, watched every game on TV, or when that wasn’t possible, listened on the radio. Boone always called her after each game, too, and back then, they’d talk for hours at night, he in his hotel room, ordering burgers or steaks from room service, and she curled up somewhere comfortable, eager to hear every detail.

She knew all the dirt on the players, too, from who was hitting well to who was hooking up with groupies. Amused by her questions and endless curiosity, Boone told her virtually everything, which turned out to be too much.

She didn’t actually want to know that so many players were players. She didn’t want to hear her husband excuse the cheaters and liars’ behavior, saying it was hard to judge them when they were living in hotel rooms for six months of every year. “How can you defend men who’d knowingly, willingly, hurt their women?”

“You’re getting yourself all riled up,” he’d say, drawing her onto his lap and kissing her. “I shouldn’t have told you anything.”

No, he shouldn’t have. Because it just made it all that much worse when she found out he was one of them.

“What’s wrong, babe?” Boone asked now, entering the kitchen and dropping a kiss on her head, dressed once again in the jeans and T-shirt he’d worn to the park earlier that afternoon.

She flashed him a smile as she gave the sautéing mushrooms a stir, hiding her conflicted feelings. Talking about the affair never helped. Boone would just get quiet, and then she’d shut down, and then the tension would be back as well as the isolation. And she didn’t want that tonight, didn’t want to feel distant or lonely, not when she loved him so much.

Boone came up behind her, standing close, settling his hands on her hips. He peeked over her shoulder into the small saucepan, sniffing the butter, wine, and garlic. “Smells amazing. I’m starving.”

She could feel him, and he was hard. “We’ll eat in fifteen minutes or so,” she said, sucking in a breath as he rocked against her, making her aware that he wanted her.

“Where are the kids?” he asked, dropping his head to kiss the side of her neck.

Her legs went weak and she caught the edge of the stove for support. “In bed, but hoping to see you.” She sounded breathless, and he knew it.

He ran his hand along the outside of her hip, and then over to her belly, his palm flat against her tummy, even as he pressed from behind. “It’s good to have you home,” he said, moving her long hair away so his lips could travel down her nape, sending shivers of pleasure through her.

“I’m going to burn dinner,” she whispered, her mouth drying as he slid his hand up her torso to cup her breast, her nipple tightening, body aching.

“If the kids were asleep I’d take you right here,” he said, his teeth scraping her skin, fingers kneading her breast, working her nipple so that she felt maddeningly aroused.

He knew exactly what he was doing, she thought, head spinning, stars dancing before her eyes. He knew exactly how to turn her on, make her wet, make her come. “I can’t concentrate when you’re doing that, and these are nice steaks, and they’re already under the broiler.”

“I’ll go see the kids, tuck them in,” he said, stepping back and giving her butt a last rub. “But later you’re all mine. And I’m going to take my time.”

They ate a half hour later in the dining room by candlelight. The kids were asleep, and Sarah had dimmed the chandelier after lighting the candles, letting the two tapers’ flickering light fill the room.

“Delicious,” Boone said, wiping his mouth on his napkin before reaching for his wineglass. “Really good, hon.”

Sarah leaned back in her chair, sipped her wine, relaxed, happy, or as happy as she could be knowing he was leaving the day after tomorrow for ten days and that she’d had only a day and a half with him the past twenty. “Thank you, babe.”

He sighed, stretched. “I love that you cook. Lots of the younger guys say their wives don’t make dinner, or won’t, so even when they’re home, they order out every night.”

Having grown up in New Orleans’s Garden District, Boone liked atmosphere, and fine dining, and that included china and crystal and candles even at home for dinner. “It’s not necessarily their fault,” she said. “Girls now spend more time playing soccer than helping Mom in the kitchen.”

“But women need to know how to cook.”

“And so do men.”

“I just hope it’s not a lost art.”

“Just like all the men now who can’t change a tire?”

“Most guys can change a tire.”

“Okay. How many can change the oil in their car?”

“I can.”

“I know. But you’re the exception.”

He grinned. “You’re feisty tonight.”

“I just don’t think women should be expected to know how to cook when they marry. Most girls today grow up spending more time on the soccer field than helping their mothers in the kitchen”—she held up a hand—“and I’m glad. And before you say I’m wrong, think about it. Do you want Ella to grow up more concerned about how to take care of a man or confident that she can take care of herself?”

“Are they mutually exclusive?”

“No. But a girl of twenty or twenty-four doesn’t have to know how to cook. She needs to know how to make a living, support herself, and possibly her family one day.” Sarah felt some of her fire die. Because if something happened to Boone, she couldn’t support her family the way Meg could support hers. Meg had an impressive résumé and years of experience as a successful publicist. Sarah just had a college degree. Yes, she’d planned to go to law school, but she hadn’t gone. And now she was thirty-five.

“Baby, what’s going on?” Boone asked, leaving his chair and coming to tug her to her feet. He pulled her into his arms, held her. “You’re so wound up about everything.”

She relaxed against him, feeling the exhaustion hit. “I think I’m just tired.”

“Not surprised. You’ve had it rough these past few weeks.”

“Don’t want to do that again, anytime soon.”

He rubbed her back. “Let’s go to bed.”

“The dishes.”

“They’re just dishes. They can wait. Everything can wait. Need some time with you before I fly out.”

That’s right. He was leaving Tuesday morning. She swallowed her disappointment. “Let’s go to bed.” She drew back, looked up into his face. “But no molesting me. I need sleep.”

He lifted a long, silky strand of hair from her face, his thumb sweeping over her cheekbone. “But, darlin’, you like it when I molest you.” His eyes glinted with humor and something else. “Especially when I do it with my tongue.”

“Boone,”
she choked, pushing against his chest, laughing, blushing.

“You do.”

She broke free, and, shaking her head, she blew out the candles then switched off the dining room lights. “All I know is that I’m tired.”

“I know how to change your mind.”

She headed for the stairs of their Mediterranean-style house. “Go for it, bud.”

He swatted her butt as he followed her up the terra-cotta tile stairs. “Challenge accepted.”

Later, nestling into his arms after some seriously satisfying lovemaking, Sarah closed her eyes. His big chest was damp against her back, but it felt good. He felt good. “Well done, Mr. Walker.”

He settled her more comfortably against him. “My pleasure, Mrs. Walker.”

She lightly raked his forearm with her nails. “Great game today.”

“It was a fun one.”

“You looked good.”

“I felt good.”

“Nothing hurts?”

“No. I feel healthy, strong.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

* * *

S
arah counted the days until Boone’s return. Every day they tried to Skype each other, or do FaceTime, so the kids could talk to their dad. But the trip wasn’t going well. The team had been on the road eight days and they’d won only two games. Boone wasn’t hitting well, but then, none of the players were. Over the weekend, the Red Sox had beaten them up pretty bad, a 12–2 loss on Friday, and a 13–5 loss on Saturday. Sunday had been another loss, too, and now Boone was about to head to the park for the fourth and final game against Boston, and he was short on the phone.

“Need this win,” he said curtly. “Can’t be swept in a four-game series.”

“You won’t be.”

“Can’t believe they outscored us thirty-one–eleven. We were just bleeding out there.”

She hesitated. “After tonight’s game, you fly out?”

“Yeah. Toronto.”

“Three games there, and then you come home?”

“But we have to get through tonight. Want that win tonight.”

“Who is on the mound?”

“Shields.”

“You guys have confidence in him?”

“Yeah.”

“So hit. Back him up.”

“Gonna try.”

But Boone didn’t get a hit that night, and it became a game of two pitchers dueling, with the Rays’ James Shields the winning pitcher, shutting out Boston, 1–0.

Having salvaged their self-respect, the Rays headed to Toronto, but lost their first game there, and Boone had some words with the batting coach and got benched for the next two games against the Blue Jays, games the Rays won by a huge margin.

It was almost three in the morning when he arrived home Thursday night, following the final game in Toronto.

Sarah woke up to the sound of him opening their bedroom door and then closing it behind him. He undressed in the dark next to the bed, letting his clothes fall to the ground, and he left them there and drew back the covers on his side of the bed.

As Boone pulled back the covers, Sarah felt a lick of cool air on her spine where her nightgown dipped low on her back, and then the mattress dipped beneath Boone’s weight as he settled behind her, lying flat on his back.

“Welcome home,” she whispered.

“Terrible trip,” he said, reaching out to catch her hair and giving it a tug, indicating he wanted her closer.

She moved into his arms, resting her cheek on his chest. “You’re back, though. You’ll start hitting again.”

“I’m still benched for tomorrow’s game.”

“Why?”

“Gordon didn’t like that I questioned his instruction. But I don’t think he’s giving the right kind of advice.”

Sarah was silent, mulling this over. “Benching your DH for three games does seem a little excessive.”

“It is. It’s personal.”

“Because you and he used to play together?”

“Yeah, and I’m still playing, and he’s now bouncing around as a batting coach. But he wasn’t a great player, and he’s not a great instructor, and I’m not going to hit the way he tells me. I’m going to hit the way I know how to hit. That’s what’s kept me in the game this long.”

“What did he want you to do?”

“Bunt.” Boone exhaled hard. “But there was no way we could advance a runner, and it was a complete waste of an at-bat.”