The Good Wife (21 page)

“He
is
a handsome one,” Bette agreed. “And he seems familiar. I keep thinking he’s a professional athlete. Quarterback or wide receiver.”

Phyllis thought it over. “Now that you mention it, he does look familiar, but he’s not with the 49ers. I know my Niners.”

“Could be baseball,” Bette said. “He’s got those nice legs.”

“A great butt.”

Lauren groaned. “Enough!”

“Don’t act like you didn’t notice.” Phyllis wagged her finger at her. “We all saw you yesterday, staring.”

“I wasn’t staring!” Lauren protested.

Phyllis and Bette exchanged glances.

“You were, too,” Bette said, slipping her tip money into her pocket. “And it’s perfectly okay, because he’s a fine-looking man and you’re a pretty woman—”

“I’m not interested in dating a customer,” Lauren interrupted, perfectly aware that Phyllis and Bette might be flirtatious, but at sixty-two and fifty-seven respectively, they were experienced, mature, hardworking waitresses who talked a good game but never took it too far. “So if you two want to fight over him—even though you, Phyllis, are married, and you, Bette, have a boyfriend—be my guest.”

* * *

H
e did come back for a third morning in a row, but he seated himself at the counter instead of waiting for a booth.

The counter was Lauren’s, and she could have sworn by his expression that he knew it.

“Coffee?” she asked, greeting him and sliding the menu toward him.

“Juice,” he said, and didn’t bother with the menu, pushing it back. “What’s your special today?”

Her hands went to her hips. “You didn’t like the waffles yesterday.”

“I did.”

“No, you told Bette to tell me they were fine.” Her eyes held his, her expression reproving. “And we already established that fine is not fine, and then you added that the waffles could be improved if we toasted the pecans more.”

He smiled. “Just a smidge more.”

She considered him a long moment. “You were right.” Lauren reached for his menu, tapped it on the counter. “I tried the pecans. They definitely needed to be toasted more.”

“Just a smidge.” The edges of his lips curved up again. He wasn’t a kid. He was a man, had to be mid to late thirties, and when he smiled, creases formed at his eyes and mouth, making him even more beautiful.

Amazing how just that tiny smile could make her pulse quicken. And Lauren considered herself impervious to men, which made this one man doubly dangerous. “You know your food,” she said.

“I know Southern food,” he corrected.

“You’re from Louisiana?”

“New Orleans.”

She noticed he said it more like “Naw’lens
.
” “Our special is eggs Sardou.”

“Can I get it with a side of grits?”

Something in her shifted yet again, and she felt a sharp dart of pain in her chest, near her heart. “Absolutely.”

* * *

I
t was on the fourth morning that Lauren found out who he was. It was early still, not even six
A.M.
, but Phyllis had the sports section from the
Oakland Tribune,
and she put it on the counter and spread it open.

“I was right,” she said, pointing to an article. “He is a baseball player. He’s new with the A’s.”

“What’s his name?” Bob, the cook, called, from the kitchen.

“Boone Walker,” Phyllis answered. “He’s a DH. Designated hitter—”

“I know what a DH is,” Bob retorted loudly.

Phyllis ignored him, tapping the black-and-white photo and caption. “Only been with the team a week and he’s already making the headlines.”

Lauren glanced over Phyllis’s shoulder to read the headline:
VETERAN BOONE WALKER’S BAT MAKES BIG IMPRESSION.
“Nice,” she said.

“I told you,” Bette said, moving in closer to get a better look. “I knew he was a professional athlete.”

“You said football. I said baseball.” Phyllis nodded for emphasis. “I knew it from those legs.”

“But neither of you knows anything about him,” Bob said. “I do. I’ve got some of his cards. He used to be with Houston. Before that, he spent four years with the Reds and a year in Seattle.”

“That’s a lot of moves,” Lauren said.

“That’s because teams were fighting over him,” Bob added, looking under the warmer. “He used to really hit the ball—”

“Sounds like he can still really hit the ball,” Phyllis interjected.

Bob didn’t like being interrupted and glared at Phyllis. “But he’s old now. Not making what he used to, and Walker was one of those guys who, back in the early nineties, was earning four or five million a year. That’s good money.”

The door opened and customers walked in, effectively curtailing the conversation. But four hours later, when Boone Walker entered the café, the staff all paused, looked at him, aware now of just who he was.

“Morning,” Boone said, taking a seat at the counter.

“Morning,” Lauren answered, hating that she suddenly felt nervous. It shouldn’t matter that he was with the A’s and a baseball player.

But it did. She didn’t like baseball, didn’t like the players, didn’t like anything to do with the sport.

Blake had played baseball, but it hadn’t been by her choice. She’d never suggested it to him; in fact, she’d done everything in her power to keep him away from the game, signing him up for soccer and swimming, but when he’d heard that friends in his preschool class were playing T-ball, he’d insisted he play, too.

Blake was a natural, too. There wasn’t a sport he couldn’t play, and by the time he reached high school, he was getting some serious looks from scouts.

Those who were in the know said Blake had a chance to make it in professional baseball.

Those who were in the know said he had God-given talent.

He did. But he’d also inherited some of that talent from his dad, the Yankees’ ace pitcher, John Meeks.

“Coffee?” she asked, holding up a fresh pot.

“Please.” He watched her fill a mug. “You serve good coffee here. I like that it’s nice and strong.”

“That’s how coffee is supposed to be,” she answered, setting the cup down in front of him and then handing him a menu. “Have a couple of specials today.
Pain perdu,
and then one of my personal favorites, breakfast pork chops and eggs. The pork chops aren’t fancy, but they’ve got great flavor, and we don’t overcook them.”

“Sold.”

“Hash browns or country-fried?”

“Country-fried. And a little crispy, if you can—”

“That was a great game last night, Mr. Walker,” Phyllis said, leaning across the counter to get his attention.

Boone looked surprised. “Thank you.”

“How are you enjoying playing for the A’s?” she added.

“It’s good. Things are going well.”

“You’re still new here, I know, but if there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”

Bette pressed in close to Phyllis and beamed at Boone. “Welcome to Oakland.”

A bit bemused, Boone glanced from Phyllis to Bette and then to Lauren. “Thank you.”

“How are you settling in?” Bette asked.

“Good. Still new here, but it’s going well.”

“I’d say, if last night’s game is anything to go by.” Bette beamed. “Quite the hitter, aren’t you?”

“I try,” Boone answered.

“And you just keep trying,” Bette said firmly, before Phyllis tugged her away.

Boone looked at Lauren. She smiled faintly, shrugged. “You were written up in the morning’s paper.”

“I was?”

“We’ve got the article here somewhere. Want to see it?”

He shook his head. “That’s all right.”

“It was a nice write-up,” she said.

“All right, if you can find it easily, but otherwise don’t bother. It’s not a big deal.”

A little later, as she served him his breakfast, Lauren slid the folded-up sports section next to his plate and left him to his meal. Checking on him, she found him engrossed in the paper and his meal, and she couldn’t help smiling. With his head bent and his fork hovering midair, he looked so focused and earnest. The all-American boy reading the sports pages.

Still smiling, she moved on, aware that she might have developed a small, teeny tiny crush on handsome Boone Walker.

She knew when he was done and ready for the bill. Lauren placed the paper facedown in front of him. “Have a good day,” she said.

“How can I not?” he answered. “It’s beautiful out.”

“It is,” she agreed, glancing out the big plate-glass window at the bright, clear sky. “Feels like summer.”

“I like that your summers here don’t have all the humidity we get in the South.”

“The Bay Area is pretty nice, climate-wise.”

“I know. My wife’s lucky. She was raised here.”

His wife. He had a wife.

Lauren felt a strange pang of emotion—part disappointment, part regret. It was stupid, though, to feel anything. She didn’t know him. He was just a customer. Had only been in a handful of times.

“She must be happy being back here, then,” she said, struggling to find something to say.

“She will be. She’s not here yet. Still with the kids in Tampa for another week or two.”

“You have kids?”

“Two. Boy and girl. Eight and five.”

She heard the pride in his voice and her heart contracted again. “It’ll be nice when you’re all together again,” she said, adjusting the pots of jam and jelly. She’d begun making them on the weekends. Since she didn’t seem to have anything else to do with her free time. Her own fault, but still. “Must be hard living apart.”

He shrugged. “Don’t like it, but we’ve been doing it so long, almost don’t know any other way.”

“Your wife doesn’t mind being apart?”

“Oh no, she hates it, but it’s part of the game. Fortunately, she’ll be here in a couple of weeks. Once my kids are out of school. Bad thing is, she arrives just as we leave, but on the plus side, we’ll be together for Father’s Day. Haven’t been with them for Father’s Day in years.”

Thirteen

I
t’d been two weeks since Sarah had seen Boone and she was beginning to go a little crazy.

They were talking on the phone a couple of times every day and Skyping once a day, but trying to keep the house clean and ready to show at a moment’s notice wasn’t fun. It didn’t help that Brennan had been getting in trouble at school. Sarah was just grateful that the term was almost over.

Last night had been what turned out to be Brennan’s team’s final Little League game of the season. The team had hoped to make the playoffs, but they’d lost. Some of the kids—and one of the moms—blamed Brennan for the loss, saying that he had distracted the team with all his acting up.

Sarah knew that her son
had
been rowdy. He’d found it hard to sit still in the dugout, and he deserved to be benched for a while. But not for the entire game.

She had been upset, sitting in the stands with the parents, watching Brennan, isolated from his team at the far end in the dugout. He’d sulked at one point, and then gotten angry, kicking his foot against the chain-link fence. At first the coaches had ignored him, but eventually one walked over, told him to knock it off and be quiet.

Brennan complied.

But he also put his head down and cried.

It hurt to watch. Sarah understood some of his feelings. She’d been an active little girl and needed exercise. Her parents had put her in sports when she was four just to help channel some of her endless energy. She’d been a natural athlete—coordinated and competitive—but she’d also been disciplined. That’s where Brennan struggled.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t have a good heart.

Unfortunately, no one else seemed to know that.

Last night she didn’t have a chance to talk to Boone about their son’s final game, as Boone was in Minneapolis, playing in the second game of a three-day series against the Twins. He was already at the park by the time Brennan’s game was over, and then Sarah, worn out from the long, emotional day, was asleep when Boone’s game had ended.

But when he called that morning from his hotel room, she couldn’t contain her frustration. “I understand benching him for an inning, but for most of the game, when they’re trying to make the playoffs? It crushed him.” She drew a deep breath, still feeling bruised from the night before. “And then when he cried, people made fun of him—”

“He shouldn’t cry. He’s too big for that now,” Boone said.

“He’s just eight.”

“Almost nine, and he’s got to learn. Self-control is really important, especially if he wants to continue playing sports.”

“I don’t know if he does. Last night when we got home, he said he was done.”

“He’s just upset right now. He’ll calm down, forget this.”

Sarah hesitated, trying to find the right words to keep Boone from getting defensive. “I think we have a problem. I think Brennan might have a problem. He really does struggle with control—”

“Kids do.”

“—but none of the kids on the team seem to struggle as much as our son.” She waited to see if Boone would say anything, and when he didn’t, she continued. “I’ve been watching him at practices this week, watching him on the playground at school when I’m there for yard duty, and he’s beginning to have a hard time fitting in. I don’t know if kids . . . like him . . . as much as they used to.”

“He has lots of friends.”

“I—don’t think he really does. I think his friends are starting to find him annoying. What I see is them yelling at Brennan or telling him to knock it off.”

Boone remained silent.

Sarah chewed nervously on her lip. “You know the school has suggested that Brennan might be ADHD—”

“He’s not hyperactive. I’m not putting him on Ritalin.”

“There are different medicines. It’s not always Ritalin.”

“I’m not going to medicate my kid. He’s a boy—”

“Who can’t sit still, follow directions, control his impulses, or make friends!” she burst out before biting down, tears not far off. She hated parenting with Boone long distance, hated that he was gone so much that he didn’t see what she saw. “I’m not a fan of medication either, but as his mom, as his mom who loves him, I’m telling you I’m concerned. I’m genuinely concerned we’re not doing enough for him.”

“I’m not going to put him on medication. I grew up with kids on Ritalin and it turned them into zombies. Won’t do that to Brennan. He’s a bright, active boy—a healthy, normal boy—and schools need to figure out how to teach normal, healthy boys instead of punishing them for not being girls.”

Sarah rubbed the tight muscles at her neck. “Is that what I should tell the school the next time they call?”

“Brennan will be starting a new school in the fall—”

“And you don’t think this problem will follow him?”

“No. He’s going to have a fresh start, and I’ll be there to make sure he settles down and pays attention.”

She wanted to say that Boone had been there last fall, and the year before. She wanted to say that having Boone there, or not there, didn’t change a thing. Brennan had a problem, but if Boone refused to see it, there wasn’t much she could do at this point.

“It’s going to be okay,” Boone said.

Sarah sighed inwardly, wishing she could believe him.

“He’s a boy,” Boone added. “I know what I’m taking about.”

“Okay,” she said, grudgingly conceding, but not convinced.

Boone knew it, too. “One day soon I won’t be playing ball, and I will be there every day, helping with practices, helping coach his team. And when I’m his coach, I’ll know how to talk to him, keep him focused and motivated.”

“That’ll be good,” she said. “Good for all of us.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, but it was a halfhearted answer on his part and Sarah knew why.

Boone didn’t want his career to come to an end. She understood that. He’d miss baseball. But they—his family—needed more of him. They needed more of him as a father, a husband, as an active, responsible, engaged adult.

“So have you had breakfast?” Sarah asked, changing the subject. “When do you head to the ballpark?”

“Still have a couple of hours before we have to be at the park, so I’ll maybe go check out the restaurant downstairs. There’s also a coffee shop across the street.”

“Where did you eat last night?”

“In the restaurant downstairs, but it was a zoo. I guess lots of fans know the A’s always stay here. Girls everywhere.”

Sarah swallowed hard. If Boone was telling her it was a zoo, with girls everywhere, then it must have been pretty crazy, as he had learned to keep the worst of it from her, knowing she worried, knowing she tended to get insecure.

She hated feeling insecure, though. Hated worrying about him, hated wondering, if he didn’t call promptly every morning, if he was sleeping alone or with someone else.

The problem with insecurity is that once the first doubts crept in, they multiplied quickly.

Better not to let him know she was worried. Better to remain confident. Confidence was sexy. Confidence was appealing.

Insecure and clingy was not.

“You played well last night, though?” she asked, determined to keep the conversation moving forward.

“Went one for three. Shoulder’s a little sore. Might try to get it iced before the game.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“How are the kids?”

“Good. We’re all good. Well, except for Brennan, who is still upset about last night’s game.”

“Want me talk to him?”

“Sure. That’d be good. Maybe you could call him when he’s home from school.”

“I’ll probably be at the park by then. I will try to call tonight. If the game doesn’t go too late.”

“Sounds good.”

“Sarah?”

“Yes?”

“You sound sad, babe.”

And just like that, her eyes burned and her throat felt raw, her chest aching with emotion. She was sad. And overwhelmed. As well as lonely, stressed, scared, nervous, angry, exhausted. “I miss you,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“And I’m going to miss Tampa when we move.”

“I thought you hated living in Florida.”

“I don’t hate Florida. I just hated being so far away from everyone.”

“And now you’re going to be moving home.”

“Oakland isn’t home—”

“You know what I mean. We’ll be close, and we don’t have to live on the East Bay. We can check out San Francisco. Find something in that neighborhood you like so much . . . what’s it called? St. Francis Woods?”

“That’d be too far from the Coliseum. You don’t want to do that much driving.”

“It’s what? Fifteen minutes across the bridge, no traffic? Thirty with?”

“Can be an hour.”

“So? What else do I have to do?”

She smiled wistfully. “Be with me.”

“And I will be. Soon. It’s just another week or so.”

“But then you’ll be going on the road.”

“Sarah.”

She closed her eyes, hearing the weary note in his voice. He was starting to get exasperated. She didn’t want to annoy him, not now, not with so much distance between them.

Scrambling to think of something positive to share, Sarah seized on a new subject. “We might have an interested buyer. Someone came back today for the second time. Apparently he wants to bring his wife to the house this weekend.”

“That’s great.”

“I think so.” She forced a smile into her voice. “Before you know it, the kids and I will be in California, and everything will be fine.”

“That’s right.”

She exhaled slowly, telling herself to keep it together, remembering that once upon a time she’d been a fierce competitor, and tough. She’d poured herself into her sports, balancing athletics and academics, along with all the community service her private high school demanded. And while she’d dated in high school, and had attended every dance, she’d never wanted to have a serious boyfriend. She’d been too independent then, too focused on her goals. There was a reason she’d been offered full-ride scholarships to four different Division I schools, before she had chosen to go to UCLA and play volleyball for the school. She was smart. She was gifted. And she worked hard. “You love me?” she murmured.

“Honey, you know I do. With all my heart.”

* * *

I
t was the Saturday of the Memorial Day weekend, and once the morning rush at the café ended, Lauren hopped into her car to head up to Napa for the night.

It’d been a relatively quiet few days at the café. The A’s were on the road, and she wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but she was lonely. She was missing Boone.

She wasn’t ready to miss him. She barely knew him. But she definitely felt butterflies when he was around.

To take her mind off him, she decided to go see her new niece. She couldn’t wait to hold the baby again, and it’d be good to hang out with Lisa and catch up. It’d been a long time since they just talked.

Lisa had said she could make a light lunch, but Lauren had told her she’d already made something at the café and was bringing the chicken, beet, and citrus salad with her.

They ate lunch outside on the stone terrace flanking the family room with the view of the adjacent vineyard; Audrey, in her pink fleecy onesie, was sleeping in a bassinette next to the wrought-iron table.

Now and then Lisa would put a hand into the bassinette and lightly touch the baby, checking on her.

Lauren smiled as she watched her sister with her daughter. Lisa was really enjoying being a mother. She and Matthieu had tried for years to get pregnant before turning to fertility specialists. Her doctor prescribed a medicine to help stimulate egg production and recommended that Lisa take up yoga, meditation, and add twice-weekly acupuncture to her schedule. She did all of the above and had been thrilled to finally be pregnant.

Lauren looked away from her sister and the baby to the view of the hills and grapes. Matthieu seemed to be getting a lot more serious about his wine now. He’d said it would just be a hobby when he’d bought the neighbor’s property and taken over their small vineyard, but apparently he was eyeing another property to the east, claiming it’d be a good investment.

“Matthieu likes to acquire things,” Lauren said now, thinking of the 1899 bank he owned in downtown Napa that housed their restaurant and the old newspaper building he was currently renovating.

Lisa shrugged. “If he has the money, why can’t he?”

True, Lauren thought, silenced.

And maybe Mom was right. Maybe she was a little bit jealous of Lisa and Matthieu. Maybe she was just a little bit jealous that Lisa had so much and she herself had so little . . .

But it was a horrible thing to think, and selfish. Lisa deserved every happiness. Lisa wasn’t just her big sister, she was also her best friend. Growing up, they’d been inseparable, and then as twentysomethings, they lived together in Grandma’s house, worked together at their bakery café, and stayed up late talking after work was done and Blake was in bed.

Lauren had never needed many friends. She had her parents. She had her sister. She had her son.

Then Lisa met Matthieu, and before Lauren knew it was even serious, he proposed. He and Lisa went house hunting. Got married. Traded up their house for a slightly bigger one in a much better neighborhood. They traded up one more time a few years back, landing them here, which gave them the space to remodel the existing house into a seven-thousand-square-foot mansion with copper turrets just like a real French château.

It was hard keeping up with the Roussels.

Audrey woke up and made a little bleating sound. Quickly, the bleating became a hard cry.

Lisa picked the baby up, inspected her unhappy face. “Hungry, aren’t you, sweetheart? You slept a long, long time,” she crooned, lifting a lapel on her blouse so Audrey could nurse.

Audrey had no problem latching up and soon settled down. Lisa patted the baby’s back, content to just sit on the terrace and soak up the dappled sunlight. “It’s so nice to have you here,” she said, smiling across the table at Lauren. “I was so glad to hear you were coming up to see us. I really have missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” And Lauren had. She was only now beginning to understand how alone and lonely she’d been this past year. But moving to Alameda had been a good decision. The change of scenery, the work, the long hours . . . it’d kept her busy and had forced her to function, even as she struggled to come to terms with what had happened.