The Good Wife (25 page)

“I will, but I’m not selfish. You can come say hello.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. “You’re shameless.”

“I know. And I enjoy every minute of it!”

Bette approached, and reaching past Lauren, she opened the display case to lift out a peach pie. “I wish I’d had an open table,” she groused. “It makes me sick that I had to give those men to Phyllis.”

“They’re customers, ladies, not treats,” Lauren said, amused despite herself.

“Well, I can’t help but think that hunky Chris Steir is treat-worthy,” Bette said, plating two generous slices of the pie. “I would snap him up and take him home with me. He’s delish . . .”

Lauren shook her head. “Bette, you’re old enough to be his mom.”

“Maybe even his grandma,” Bette agreed cheerfully, returning the pie to the display case. “But I don’t care. He brings out the cougar in me. Grrr.”

Choking back horrified laughter, Lauren gathered the cups of tea and carried them to her table, along with the promise to bring fresh coffee as soon as it was done brewing, and then, turning around, walked smack into Chris.

Lauren gulped as he reached out to steady her. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t know you’d turn that fast.”

Lauren glanced past Chris to Boone. He was observing her, curious. There was something intent, and watchful, in his eyes. It made her grow warm, too warm. It made her wonder if he might possibly be attracted to her.

It was a strange thought, a little heady as well as a little disturbing. Flustered, she looked at Chris. “Hi.”

“How are you?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah,” she exhaled, feeling breathless and out of sorts.

“I’m sorry,” he said, forehead creasing. “How can I help? Is there anything I can do?”

She mirrored his frown. “Excuse me?”

“Boone told me about ‘fine.’” Chris sounded concerned as well as apologetic. “Apparently, fine isn’t good. Fine is just . . . fine.”

Lauren’s gaze narrowed and she stared at him hard, annoyed, before she burst out laughing. “You are
so
ridiculous.”

He seemed pleased that he’d made her laugh. “How come we’re not in your section?”

“Because it’s full.”

“How come our waitress wouldn’t trade with you?”

“Because I didn’t ask her to.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want you.”

Chris crossed his massive arms over his chest, and his biceps flexed, muscles rippling. “Now I don’t believe that for one minute.”

With his feet planted, he looked enormous and powerful. Lauren wasn’t sure if she was impressed or intimidated. “Were you born this cocky?” she asked tartly.

“I’ve always had a lot of confidence.”

“Do you ever think it’s misplaced?”

His blue eyes heated, sparking. “Were you born this prickly?”

“I wouldn’t be prickly if you didn’t get personal.”

“It’s my fault.”

“Absolutely.”

He just grinned. “I’m not allowed to like you?”

“Nope.”

“Why not? You’re not married. Don’t have a boyfriend—” He held up a finger when she opened her mouth to protest. “And don’t try to pretend you do. Phyllis already told us you don’t.” He gave her a look. “So, why can’t I like you?”

Because he was too much. Too much size. Too much power. Too much personality. Too much energy.

People like him annihilated people like her. Not intentionally, perhaps, but ambition, need, desire, greed—who knew what it was—turned some folks into human bulldozers, leaving destruction in their wake.

She knew. John had been one.

The sound of shattering glass saved her from answering him. “I have to go,” she said, racing to the kitchen to discover that the window over the big stainless sink was broken, with shards of glass sparkling on the floor.

“What happened?” Lauren asked.

Bob went to the sink and carefully retrieved a wet baseball from a tub of sudsy water. “I was showing José my windup,” he said remorsefully. “The ball got away from me.”

Lauren shook her head in disbelief. What had happened here at Mama’s Café? Baseball fever had taken over. “You guys clean this up. Don’t get cut. I’ll call a glass company and get them out today.”

She headed back to the front and used one of the old phone books under the register to search for glass and window companies. She phoned two before she found one that could come out early afternoon to replace the window.

As she gave the address and cross street for the café to the glass company, Chris stepped outside to take a call, and she watched him talk on his phone, and as he talked, he paced a little, and she found herself studying his profile.

With his dark blond hair drawn back at his nape, you could see his features clearly. Straight nose, firm, full mouth, high cheekbones, wide brow. He was good-looking, possibly even better-looking than Boone, but he had a raw physicality to him that unsettled her.

But he wasn’t out of control. You could tell from the way he moved that he was supremely comfortable with his body, comfortable in his skin. It was obvious just looking at him that he was a professional athlete.

Maybe that’s what she didn’t like.

Maybe it was the fact that his muscles were so developed and that he exuded confidence, energy.

Sexual energy.

Which definitely wasn’t for her.

Boone left his table to come talk to her once she’d hung up the phone.

“Glass company on the way,” she said, smiling at him as she put away the phone book.

“Bette told us what happened,” Boone said.

“Bob has one impressive windup.”

Boone smiled. “You don’t seem angry.”

“How can I be? Bob has baseball fever. You guys have infected us by coming in to breakfast.”

Boone’s smile slowly faded. “So, are you going to go out with him?”

“No.” Lauren sighed. “What is this? Third grade?”

“I just think you’re a sweetheart. You need a nice guy—”

“Sorry. Wasn’t raised that way. My dad insisted my sister and I be self-reliant.”

“Okay, your dad is right, so let me rephrase that. You deserve a nice guy. Somebody who will be good to you . . . and will spoil you. Surely, that’s not a bad thing?”

No, it wasn’t a bad thing. All women wanted to be loved and cherished.

She looked past Boone to Chris, who was still on the phone outside. Her chest grew tight. She reached into her apron and felt for her notepad and pen. “I think Chris is funny. He makes me laugh. But—and please don’t take this the wrong way—he’s not my type. He’s . . . just too . . . everything.”

“What does that mean?”

Her shoulders twisted. “He’s over-the-top. Doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body.”

“Chris is funny, but he’s not a clown. And he’s no meathead either. Steir is one of the smartest guys I’ve ever met.”

Lauren rolled her eyes.

“In the off-season he goes to school,” Boone added.

“Trying to get his GED?”

He laughed. “Chris is in the middle of getting a graduate degree in mechanical engineering at UC Berkeley.”

She was surprised. She glanced back to Chris, who’d ended the call and was now pocketing his phone. “Is he not doing well professionally?”

“Chris is one of the best outfielders in the American League. But he’s also a thinker. He’s one of those guys who needs to use his brain.”

Sixteen

T
hey’d done it. Made it. Sarah had arrived in California with the kids, flying in late Friday night. Her dad had picked them up at the San Francisco airport and they were staying with him this week while Boone was gone.

Brianna was still at the house with Dad, but she’d gotten a job volunteering with a women’s shelter and was working all day Saturday, and Dad was playing golf, so Sarah took the kids to the California Academy of Science located in Golden Gate Park.

The building wasn’t far from where she’d grown up, and she’d loved the natural history museum and aquarium as a kid, but it was even better now. The park also had a children’s playground, also recently renovated, and the stunning 1912 carousel shimmered with fresh paint and color.

But by midafternoon the famous San Francisco summer fog began to roll in, in wisps at first then thickening and cloaking the park’s signature eucalyptus trees. Temperatures dropped rapidly, and it wasn’t long before Ella and Brennan, Florida kids, had had enough of the slides and swings and begged to return to Grandpa’s.

Back at the house, both kids wanted hot baths before watching a movie. With them in their pajamas, Sarah let them settle down to watch the movie so she could make dinner for everyone, having pulled a package of pork chops out of the freezer that morning.

Dad entered the kitchen via the laundry room, which connected to the narrow one-car garage, the Edwardian-era structure better suited to a horse and buggy than the modern-day SUV. He removed his cleats by the door and then padded into the kitchen in his socks.

“Something smells good,” he said, sniffing appreciatively, passing the stove to get a look at the browning pork chops. “Making your mom’s pork-chop casserole?”

“I am,” Sarah answered. She was just about finished peeling the potatoes she would then slice and place in the dish. “Hey, can we open that bottle of wine in the fridge? I wanted a glass but wasn’t sure if you were saving it for something.”

“I bought it for you,” Dad said, retrieving the Chardonnay and then searching one of the drawers for the bottle opener. “But don’t drink it all tonight. It’s not good for you.”

Sarah stopped peeling to look at him. “I don’t drink that much, Dad.”

“I just care about you.” He peeled the foil off the bottle and then eased the cork out. “You’re important to me.”

She stifled her irritation and rinsed off her final potato. “I appreciate that. But I’m careful. I have to be. I’m pretty much a single parent these days.”

“Where is Boone playing tonight? Arizona?”

She nodded. “He called while we were at the museum, but I couldn’t get good reception, and then when I called him back a half hour later, he was already at the park. I always forget that Arizona is a different time zone than California.”

Late that evening, after the kids were in bed and Sarah still hadn’t heard from Boone, she called him. It was almost eleven her time, which meant it was midnight his, and the game had been over for hours.

Trying to be playful, she asked him if he was out having fun with his girlfriends.

Boone hesitated a moment too long. “Yeah,” he answered curtly. “Yeah, I am.”

Sarah swallowed, realizing belatedly it wasn’t the right thing to say to him. He wasn’t amused. “I was just kidding,” she murmured.

“No, you weren’t,” he answered. Boone didn’t get angry often, but when he did, it wasn’t nice. He was angry now.

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t respond, and she could feel his anger on the line, and his anger, coupled with the silence, made her feel sick. And disgusted.

Why had she made a joke like that? Feeble, so feeble . . .

“I took the kids to Golden Gate Park today,” she said, trying to smooth things over. “We visited the natural science museum and aquarium and then the children’s park. It was fun.”

“Sounds fun.”

“That’s where we were when you called. Earlier.”

He said nothing. Sarah struggled to keep the conversation moving. “The kids froze when the fog moved in. And I forgot we might need sweatshirts. We ran to the car, teeth chattering.”

“You won’t forget next time.”

“No. But it won’t be like this in the East Bay. Summer is summer there. It’s just here in the city that it gets so foggy and cold this time of year—”

“Listen,” he interrupted. “Next time you call, don’t call just to give me shit, okay?”

“I was trying to be funny.”

“It’s not funny.”

Sarah was now on the defensive. “Got it, babe. No need to be so rough.”

“I’m rough because I’m tired. I’m rough because I don’t talk to you often, but when I do, it’s never good. You’re never happy. You’re never glad to hear my voice—”

“Yes, I am!”

“You don’t sound happy, though. You sound angry. Mistrustful. As if I am hooking up with chicks right and left—which I’m not. I won’t. I told you that.”

Sarah glanced over her shoulder into the family room, where her dad was watching TV. Brennan was on the couch, on his stomach, fast asleep. Ella was already upstairs in the bed, sleeping. “I’m sorry if that’s how I make you feel.”

“It is,” he said curtly.

She bit her lip, chastised. “I’m sorry, and I probably shouldn’t have called so late,” she added awkwardly, just wanting to end the call now, before it got any worse. “Call me in the morning if you have time before tomorrow’s game.”

“I had a terrible game tonight,” he said abruptly. “Went oh-for-three.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I played almost as bad last night. I’m just not . . . happy . . . with how I’m playing. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m not running around, chasing skirt. I’m in the hotel, eating in front of the TV and trying to figure out how to play better tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Does that make you feel better?”

Sarah swallowed hard. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like hearing you didn’t do well in a game.”

“It is what it is,” he said impatiently. “And I didn’t call you because I didn’t want to bring you down. This is my job. But you’re my wife, my family. The career will end. But you, babe, I keep forever.”

* * *

S
arah slept fitfully that night. She didn’t like conflict or tension with Boone, especially when he was on the road and she couldn’t be sure things were completely smoothed over.

In the morning she headed downstairs after checking to see that both the kids were still asleep. Dad was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading the paper. He’d been up for hours. Brianna was still in bed, though, and Sarah poured herself a cup of coffee before borrowing a section of the paper from her dad.

“The sportswriters are all over the A’s today,” her dad said, turning pages in the sports section. “Fair-weather fans,” he added.

“Boone said it was a lousy game,” Sarah said, taking a seat at the table.

He closed the sports section and pushed it toward her. “I better go. Don’t like being late.”

He’d dressed nice this morning. “Off to Mass, Dad?”

“Would you like to come?”

“No. I better stay with the kids.”

“They could come, too.”

“They’re still sleeping.”

“I should have woken you all up, then.”

She saw his smile. He was teasing her, fully cognizant that her family didn’t attend church. Not like Meg and the kids. Not like Kit. Or Tommy and Cass. “Thank you for thinking of us, but we’re all right.” She stood up and kissed his cheek. “Do you want breakfast when you come home? I can make something if you’d like.”

“Nah. I’m heading to the stadium for a one o’clock Giants game. Uncle Pat got tickets, so we’re doing that. What are you guys doing today?”

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t know. Kick around, relax. Tomorrow I’m heading out to look at rental houses with my friend Dev from high school. Do you remember him? Dev Phinney? He’s now a big real estate agent in the East Bay and he’s got a bunch of listings to show me.”

“You’re not buying, are you?”

“No. Just renting. I don’t expect we’ll still be here come spring, but you never know.”

“So why is Dev taking you around? I wouldn’t think he’d normally handle rental properties.”

“He doesn’t.” Sarah smiled. “I think he’s just hoping we’ll remember he helped us out should we ever want to buy.”

Her dad didn’t smile back. His expression was stern. “Just make sure he doesn’t get any other ideas. You might feel like a single mom with Boone on the road, but you’re not.”

“Dad
.
”

“I’m just saying.”

“And I’m just saying ‘relax.’”

“It happens, Sarah.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’d never cheat on Boone. I wouldn’t. If I weren’t happy, I’d tell him. I’d leave first. Trust me on that.”

* * *

I
t was two thirty on a Sunday afternoon and Mama’s Café was empty save for one woman at a corner booth drinking coffee and eating a slice of cake while working on her computer.

Lauren wandered aimlessly around the restaurant, unusually agitated. It was slow. She was tired. And she was bored.

Why was she working every day?

And why, when she worked, was she putting in these excruciatingly long days? If she owned the café and was making a bigger percentage of the profit, great, but right now she was doing all this work on a salary, with just tiny bonuses every week for good revenue return.

It was time that either Mimi agreed to sell or Lauren scaled back her hours, her commitment, and her personal investment in the place.

It’d been a fantastic challenge when she started in September, taking over running a floundering café that had charm and potential but not much else.

Now the café was doing a steady business, and the mornings and early afternoons were both really strong. Dinners were still unpredictable and the late afternoon tended to be dead slow, but that wouldn’t be such a bad thing if Lauren had someone else to babysit the café.

She had no one to blame but herself. She was the one who’d drawn up the schedule. She was the one who’d wanted all the hours, but enough. She’d had enough. It was time to take a break. Time to mix things up. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to start living a little . . . movies, shopping, lunches with friends.

Not that she had friends here. But she did in Napa. She had Lisa. She missed Lisa, too. Missed working with her, shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, talking and laughing as they made bread, or cakes, or whatever else they were baking.

Was she ready to return to Napa? To Summer Bakery & Café? A wave of nostalgia hit her, nostalgia for the way it’d once been.

The memory of working in Grandma’s big kitchen with Lisa teasing her, and she could smell the raw yeast of rising bread and the warm cinnamon wafting from the oven, and for a moment she thought it was time to go back, time—

But if she returned, it wasn’t going to be to Grandma’s kitchen. She’d return for that big, shiny marble restaurant downtown, the one with walls with nine-foot-tall windows and twenty-foot plaster ceilings . . . all beautiful, but not her.

And Grandma’s house wasn’t Lisa anymore. No, both sisters had moved on, moved elsewhere.

Lauren’s chest felt tight and tender as she checked on her customer with the coffee and computer. The customer put her hand over her cup, not wanting another refill, so Lauren removed the dessert plate, left the bill, and, after dispensing with the dirty dishes, glanced at her phone, knowing she needed to get back to her parents about Wednesday.

They wanted her to come home since it was the one-year anniversary of Blake’s death, but she was dreading it.

Her parents wanted to go to the cemetery. Place flowers on Blake’s grave. Share memories while they all stood there together. But cemeteries weren’t for her, and there were a hundred ways Lauren would rather remember her son than by laying flowers next to a gravestone.

The cake and coffee customer paid and left, and with the café empty, Lauren seized the moment to call home. Her dad was in front of the TV watching the San Francisco Giants game. “Is this a bad time?” she asked, hearing the TV noise in the background.

“The Giants are losing,” he said gruffly.

Her dad was a true San Francisco sports teams’ fan, which meant he actively disliked the Oakland Athletics and despised the Raiders and wouldn’t tolerate any disrespect to his teams, in his house. So no one had ever shown any. But then one day, many years ago, toddler Blake, just three, announced to his grandfather that he didn’t like San Francisco. No, he liked Oakland Athletics, and
loved
the Raiders.

Everyone had spluttered with muffled laughter.

Dad got red in the face.

Everyone was sure that in a few weeks Blake would forget all about his favorite teams. But he didn’t. He fully embraced all the Oakland teams in preschool and never turned his back on them, collecting all sports memorabilia he could for the A’s, the Raiders, and the Golden State Warriors.

And while Dad, who’d been the one to introduce Blake to sports, would huff and puff about disrespectful kids whenever Blake flaunted his black-and-white football jersey, or his favorite green-and-yellow baseball jersey, their sports rivalry and banter actually bonded them. Sports bonded them. And if Blake were alive today, he’d probably be sitting with his grandfather right now, watching the game and making fun of Dad’s beloved Giants.

“Want me to call back later?” she asked.

“No. It’s fine. I could use the distraction,” he said, muting the TV.

Lauren smiled, feeling his pain. “So, Dad, I’ve got to be honest. I can’t come home Wednesday. I can’t come home for that kind of an anniversary and do the whole cemetery thing, with flowers and all of it. It doesn’t feel right to me. I don’t want to remember Blake that way. Maybe one day I can go there, visit, but it’s not that time yet.”

He heard her out, letting her get all the words spoken before agreeing with her. “I get it. I do. Part of me feels that way, too, but your mom wants to go. She needs to go. Likes to go. And she does, you know, every couple of weeks.”

“What does she do there?”

“Prays. Talks to him. Makes sure the gravestone is clean.”

Lauren’s eyes suddenly felt gritty. “Doesn’t it make her . . . sad?”