The Good Wife (20 page)

Cass’s lower lip quivered. Kit moved toward her and wrapped an arm around her, comforting her. “It’s okay,” she soothed. “Dad will calm him down. They’ll be back and everything will be okay.”

“I just don’t get it,” Gabi said.

“Uncle Tommy’s just having an off day,” Meg murmured, filling the silence.

“But why?” Gabi persisted.

“Because people sometimes do,” JJ said sharply, irritated, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his cords. “It happens, okay?”

Gabi made a face. Tessa sighed. Meg looked away from all of them, pale and hollow-eyed.

“I’m going to sit,” Brianna said, pulling out her chair.

Sarah wanted to sit as well but didn’t think she could stay put, not when Dad and Tommy were having it out in front of the house.

Hopefully they wouldn’t come to blows. They had before. More than once. Dad was a Leo and had his pride, and Tommy—a Taurus—didn’t get really angry often, but when he did, watch out.

“But is Uncle Tommy mad at Aunt Cass or at Aunt Kit?” Gabi continued, dragging her chair away from the table and sitting down, mulling over the interesting family dynamics. “Because I heard him yelling at both of them today.”

“Stop it, Gabi,” Tessa whispered, sitting down, too.

“I just want to know,” Gabi answered, chin propped in her hands. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Because you’re making Aunt Cass feel bad,” Tessa said tersely, giving Cass an apologetic glance.

“It’s okay,” Cass murmured, even as two big blotches stained her cheeks.

Gabi smiled victoriously. “See?”

JJ shook his head.

Tessa covered her face with her hands. “I want to go home.”

Sarah glanced at Meg, who was looking paler and more brittle by the moment. This was not the Mother’s Day any of them wanted. “Maybe you guys should go home,” she said. “Maybe it would be better. You could spend some time together as a family.”

Meg’s lips compressed. “Can’t do that to Dad.”

“Meg’s right,” Kit said. “He really wanted us all here today, to remember Mom.”

“But we’re not remembering Mom,” Brianna said flatly. “We’re just bickering nonstop—”

The front door swung open and everyone fell silent. Dad entered the house. Alone. He carefully shut the door behind him and headed to the dining room, where they were all waiting.

“Tommy’s gone on home,” Dad said gruffly.

No one spoke. Everyone felt awkward. Cass practically hung her head in shame.

“Grandpa, are you okay?” Tessa asked nervously as Dad sank into his chair at the foot of the table.

“Yes,” he answered, forearms resting on the table, his forehead deeply lined. “Why?”

“Because you look . . . sad,” Tessa said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Dad held his granddaughter’s gaze. “I miss your grandma,” he said bluntly. “And I feel like I’m letting her down. She wouldn’t tolerate this kind of nonsense. Not from any of you.”

Everyone looked in different directions, the sense of unease growing.

“Grandpa, no offense,” Gabi said, speaking up to break the weighty silence. “But everybody did fight around Grandma.”

“Gabriela!” Meg choked, mortified.

Gabi shrugged and reached for her water glass. “They did,” she insisted, her gaze sweeping around the table. “But Grandma just didn’t let it freak her out so much.”

For a moment Sarah wasn’t sure if her dad was going to laugh or cry, and then he held his arms out to Gabi. “Come here,” he said.

Without hesitating, Gabriela slipped from her chair and into his arms. Dad tucked her onto his lap, his chin just grazing the top of her head. “Spoken like a true Brennan.” He smiled ruefully at everyone else. “Well said.”

Gabi leaned in, gave him a big squeeze. “So that means we can have cake now, Grandpa?”

His smile turned wry. He had a sense of humor. Had to have one. He’d been raised in a big family, and he himself had raised a big family. “You ready for cake, Gabriela?”

“I am.”

He nodded and set Gabi down on her feet. “Me, too.”

It was almost as if everyone exhaled all at once. You could feel the tension leave the room. Smiling, Kit headed for the kitchen to get the coffee. Meg stood up to cut the cake. Cass handed Meg the cake plates. And Sarah’s phone buzzed with an incoming text.

She glanced down at the phone still clutched in her hands.

I’ve just accepted an offer from the A’s. Happy Mother’s Day, babe. We’re moving to the Bay Area.

“Oh my God,” Sarah whispered, reading the message a second time.

“What’s wrong?” Dad asked, instantly silencing the room.

“It’s Boone,” she said.

“Is he okay? Has there been an accident?”

Kit immediately appeared in the doorway. Everyone else stopped, focused on Sarah.

Sarah shook her head. “No. He’s . . . he’s fine.” She looked down the table at her father. “He . . . uh . . . was released by Tampa Bay.”

“Oh, Sarah, no!” Cass exclaimed.

“That’s terrible,” JJ exclaimed.

“No, no, it’s okay.” Sarah mustered a smile. “He just texted me to say that he’s signed with the Oakland A’s.” She kept smiling to hide her shock and apprehension. “I’m moving home.”

Twelve

S
arah flew back to Tampa late Sunday night, unable to process the fact that she was returning to put her and Boone’s house on the market.

She was returning to move.

Crazy. Crazy how fast things changed.

She’d been married to a professional baseball player for a long time. She knew trades happened. Knew players got cut from the team and injured. Change was part of the business as teams worked hard to stay competitive, but Tampa had become her home. She’d been happy there. The kids had friends.
She
had friends.

And now it was time to pack up and leave.

Arriving back home, Sarah struggled to wrap her head around the news. She walked around the house, taking in the high ceilings and big heavy beams, the beautiful tiled floor, the stucco walls. It was a Spanish-inspired house, on a cul-de-sac of similar homes, but they were all spacious and luxurious with big yards and large, colorful play structures for kids in the back.

Strange to think that Boone would never return here. He’d never sleep in this house again, or eat dinner at the table, or bump up against her in the kitchen, his lips on her nape, his hand against her breast. And just knowing that Boone was done, gone, changed the place for her.

Although she arrived home late, Sarah was up early to get the kids off to school. She made her coffee extra strong and broke the news that they were moving as she drove the kids to school.

Ella cried.

Brennan appeared indifferent. “That’s fine,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t have many friends here anyway.”

“What about the Neeleys?” Sarah asked, referring to Alyssa and Jeff’s boys. “I thought you were friends with them?”

“That’s different,” he answered. “I do like them.”

Back home, Sarah put in a call to the realtor who had sold them the house four years before. He promised to get the house in the system by the end of the day.

“Are you ready to start showing?” the realtor asked.

“We will be.”

They discussed the price, the market, and Sarah and Boone’s expectations. Sarah didn’t need to talk to Boone. She was accustomed to handling real estate decisions and managing their moves. “Price aggressively,” she said. “School is over just three weeks from now, and once the kids are out, I’ll want to get us out of here to join Boone on the West Coast.”

* * *

S
arah texted Boone after hanging up with the agent.
House will be in the system by closing today. Open house scheduled for Saturday and Sunday. How are things going for you?

He didn’t answer. She kept checking her phone, trying not to be frustrated. Here she was, trying to handle stuff here. The least he could do was check in.

Then she looked up the A’s schedule, saw that Oakland was down in Southern California to play the Angels, and drew a deep breath, understanding.

It was only seven thirty there. Boone was still in bed, sleeping.

Sarah studied the schedule, becoming familiar with it. Boone was in California today and tomorrow, then had two games in Texas, before returning to Oakland late Thursday night for the weekend’s Bay Bridge series against the Giants, so called because the two baseball teams traveled across the Oakland Bay Bridge to play each other. And while the series was competitive, drew big crowds, and got lots of media attention, it was a friendly rivalry, unlike the Yankees and Red Sox, which tended to be more intense and sometimes downright hostile.

Sarah had grown up attending the Bay Bridge series with her dad and brother. She’d played sports her entire life, loved watching sports, had dated athletes in high school, but she hadn’t ever imagined marrying one.

Hadn’t wanted to marry one.

And then along came Boone and nothing had ever been the same.

* * *

S
arah was deep in the middle of cleaning and decluttering the kids’ rooms when Alyssa came over.

“They’ve just put a For Sale sign up outside your house,” Alyssa said, stepping around the cardboard boxes Sarah had dragged from the garage. “It’s true, then? You’re leaving.”

“The Rays let Boone go.”

“I’m shocked. And sad.”

“It’s caught me off guard,” Sarah admitted, crouching next to a box to tape the top closed. “I had no idea it would come to this.”

Alyssa watched her start filling another box. “Jeff said Boone wanted out.”

Sarah dropped the armful of stuffed animals into the box and glanced up at Alyssa, wondering what else she might have heard from Jeff. “Boone wasn’t happy.”

“I know. And the coaches are wrong. They should have been playing him more. He’s having a great year.”

Sarah smiled gratefully. That was a nice thing to say, but then, Alyssa had always been really loyal. “I’m going to miss you.”

“When do you leave?”

“Not for a couple of weeks. Going to wait until school’s out.”

“What about Boone? Will he stay with your family, or . . . ?”

“The A’s have booked him a suite at one of those corporate hotels that have kitchens and living rooms. He’ll be there until we arrive and I can get us a rental house someplace.”

“Not going to buy?”

“No. I doubt we’ll be in Oakland long. We’ll probably finish the season there and then . . . who knows? It’s anybody’s guess.” Sarah attempted to tear off a strip of tape but dropped the roll and it wobbled over to Alyssa. “I’m kind of hoping he’s going to retire, but it’ll be a huge adjustment for him. He’s always played ball. He’s always had the game to focus on.”

Alyssa picked up the tape and handed it back. “I hate the off-season for that reason. Jeff’s a bear when he’s not playing. Grouchy, grumpy, and lazy. I like him playing ball. Gets him out of the house. Keeps him busy.”

“There is that.” Sarah stacked the second box on top of the first. She brushed off her hands, glanced into Ella’s closet, which was now nearly empty. “Wow. Can’t believe this is happening. I had no idea when I headed to San Francisco a few days ago that we’d soon be moving there.”

“You have to be happy that you’re moving home.”

“I think so.” Sarah caught sight of Alyssa’s puzzled expression. “Things are kind of crazy there right now. Lots of drama.”

“Everybody’s still grieving. They will for a while.”

“I know. And I am looking forward to seeing more of my dad. It’ll be good for my kids, too. They love their grandpa.”

Alyssa’s eyes watered. “I’m happy for you, but sad for me. I’m really going to miss you.”

“No! Don’t!” Sarah’s eyes suddenly burned, too, and she moved forward to give Alyssa a huge hug. “Don’t be sad, not yet. I’m not going anywhere for a while. I’ll be here at least three more weeks—”

“Three weeks! That’s nothing.”

“We will just have to make a plan to get you, and the kids, out to see us in California soon.”

* * *

T
he morning rush at Mama’s Café was over and the lunch crowd hadn’t yet begun to trickle in. Lauren took advantage of the quiet moment to talk to the cook about the lunch specials and how things should be prepared, as well as the presentation. She hadn’t been happy at all with the way breakfast had gone. Even if they were slammed, they couldn’t do sloppy, and never ugly. Food had to look good and taste good, as first impressions mattered.

Emerging from the kitchen, she glanced at the glass cabinet displaying the day’s homemade desserts. They had five pies and three cakes. She’d made every one this morning, and even though it wasn’t even noon yet, the cherry pie was already half gone, the lemon meringue was short two slices, and the entire hummingbird cake had disappeared. Lauren suspected it’d been bought earlier, but she hadn’t seen it go and she approached Phyllis, one of the waitresses who opened the café with her every morning, who was at the cash register.

“Where did the hummingbird cake go?” Lauren asked as Phyllis bent over her notepad, totaling a bill.

“Sold it,” Phyllis said, glancing up at her before looking down again, double-checking her math. “Someone came in and bought it for her bridge party.”

“How much did you charge?”

“Thirty dollars.”

“She didn’t balk?”

“Nope.” Phyllis tucked the notepad back into her apron. “And that’s still less than what we’d make if we sold it by the slice.”

“The cakes are doing well,” Lauren said as the café door opened. A young couple entered, hand in hand. They were long-haired, scruffy, but happy-looking. Bette appeared, two menus in hand, and seated them.

“Very well,” Phyllis agreed. “Yesterday a lady came in, right after we opened, and bought the candy bar cake for her husband’s birthday. She said she came early to be sure she got the cake but thought maybe we should consider doing special-order cakes.”

“I don’t know how Mimi would feel about it.”

Phyllis gave her a pointed look. “I think we both know that Mimi doesn’t care what you do as long as she keeps making money.”

“True.”

“The bakery items do really well. Have you seen the pies? Some of them are already half gone.”

“I saw.”

“We’re developing a reputation.”

Lauren grimaced. “As long as it’s a good one.”

“Of course it’s a good one! Why would you say that?”

Lauren brushed her hand across the counter, seeing a sheen on it, and made sure it wasn’t sticky. It wasn’t. “Normally I only hear the bad stuff.”

“That’s because you always want to be told about the bad stuff.” Phyllis gestured to Bette that she saw the young couple Bette had seated in Phyllis’s section. “Which reminds me, someone sent back the grillades and grits earlier.”

Lauren frowned. That wasn’t good. The grillades and grits were new items on the menu, and hadn’t been ordered very many times yet. “Was there something wrong with it?”

Phyllis shrugged. “He didn’t say anything bad about it, just took a bite and then didn’t want it anymore.”

“Did you offer something else?”

“I did, but he said he was fine with the biscuits.”

That really wasn’t good. Lauren’s frown deepened. “You refunded him the grillades?”

“He told me not to. But he’s still here. Should I?”

“Where is he?”

Phyllis pointed to a table by the window. “That’s him. Spartacus. Over there.”

“Spartacus?” Lauren repeated, amused.

Phyllis’s gray head bobbed, her brown eyes dancing. “That’s what Bette called him. He’s the big guy in the booth in the back. The one who looks like a superhero.”

Lauren hadn’t seen him, at least not until now. And now that she’d seen him, she couldn’t believe she’d missed him.

He was big—at least six three—and built. Broad shoulders, thick biceps, wide rib cage. Nice face, too, not that she was looking. Lauren hadn’t dated since before Blake died. Didn’t think she ever would again.

“I was just about to give him his bill,” Phyllis added. “Do you want me to take off the grillades and grits?”

“They’re fourteen dollars, aren’t they?”

Phyllis nodded.

Lauren sighed and held her hand out for the bill. “Let me go talk about it to him. Find out what was wrong.”

Sighing inwardly, she headed for the corner booth where the customer was sitting.

He looked up at her as she approached. His gaze met hers, held.

Lauren blinked, taken aback, suddenly understanding why Bette had nicknamed him Spartacus.

He was intense.

And intensely good-looking.

“Hi, I’m Lauren Summer. I’m the manager,” she said crisply, annoyed that she suddenly felt self-conscious and warm. “I understand you weren’t happy with the grillades?”

“It was fine,” he drawled, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet, his soft knit shirt growing tighter, hugging the thick plane of his chest. “And the biscuits were great.”

He was solid. Built. Lauren hated that she noticed. “What was wrong with the grillades?”

“They were fine. It’s not a big deal—”

“Fine isn’t good,” Lauren interrupted as he opened his wallet and drew out two twenties. “Fine is just fine. Fine means possibly passable. Which isn’t good enough for me. I want our food to be excellent.”

He looked up, smiled, creases fanning from his eyes. “The biscuits were.”

“Biscuits are easy,” she retorted impatiently.

“Actually, they’re not as easy as people think.” He dropped the twenties on the table, and slid out, and stood, towering over her. “And your biscuits were
really
good. Next time I’ll just have biscuits and gravy and I’ll be a happy man.”

She didn’t know why her heart did a funny double beat. He had an accent, not French like Matthieu’s but Southern, and it made an impression. Flustered, she glanced down at his bill, deciphered Phyllis’s scrawl. “You didn’t try our gravy. So you might not like it either.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Then I guess I’ll find out next time, won’t I?” He slipped his wallet back into his pocket before walking out, leaving Lauren standing there, staring, jaw open.

He came in again the next day, at approximately the same time. This time Bette seated him in her section, wanting to wait on Spartacus herself.

Lauren stayed in her section, successfully avoiding him, but she did make note of what he ordered—sweet-potato pecan waffles, scrambled eggs, spicy sausage, grits—and if he ate it.

He did. All of it.

After he paid his bill, Bette headed straight for Lauren. “He told me to tell you that it was fine,” she said.

Lauren wasn’t sure if she should be amused or insulted. “Fine?” she repeated.

Bette nodded. “But he did say if you’re wanting to improve, the waffles would be a smidge better if you toasted the pecans a little more.”

“He said that?”

Bette waved a twenty under Lauren’s nose and grinned. “Yes, and he left me this for a tip.”

“Well, I guess you can retire now,” Lauren said, remembering that he’d dropped the two twenties yesterday before she’d even given him the bill, even as she replayed his comments over in her head.

Everything was fine . . .

But if you’re wanting to improve . . .

Was he serious or teasing?

“If he comes back, I’m waiting on him tomorrow,” Phyllis said, joining them. “Not because I want the tip, but because he’s just easy on the eyes.”