The Good Wife (26 page)

“Sometimes. But it also gives her a sense of purpose. Makes her feel useful. As if she is still taking care of him.”

Lauren hung up the phone and slid it slowly into her pocket. Eyes still stinging, she blinked, clearing her vision.

So that’s why Mom went.

Lauren swallowed hard. She finally got it.

* * *

S
arah wasn’t on vacation. She had a job to do, and that was to find her family a rental house for the next three to six months. Possibly longer if the A’s extended Boone’s contract.

So on Monday morning, she blew through Dev’s list of rentals in three hours and shot down his suggestion of a nice lunch at a popular spot in Walnut Creek. She wasn’t interested in chitchat today. She wanted to find the right house, sign the contract, get the utilities on if they weren’t, and then call the moving company and let them know where the truck could go on Wednesday.

“You’re all business, aren’t you?” Dev complained good-naturedly when they’d worked through lunch, and then only hit Starbucks so Sarah could use the restroom and grab an iced tea for the road.

Sarah looked at Devlyn; he’d been cute in high school, and he’d grown into a handsome man, but she wasn’t with him today because she craved his company. She was here, in his car, because she needed to get things done. “Work is work,” she said, “Play is play. And I don’t find looking at houses fun.”

“Maybe you just haven’t had the right realtor,” he teased.

“Perhaps. Because the right realtor would know that the only thing I want today is to find a house so that when my husband returns Thursday night, he’ll have a couch and TV in the family room, clothes in his closet, food in the kitchen, and a bed with sheets that he can sleep in.”

She found a house she thought would work, too. It was the last house Dev showed her, and she knew why he was saving it for last. It was actually perfect for them—big, private, in an outstanding neighborhood in Orinda, an affluent East Bay community—and it was ideal for Dev since he was the agent for the house, and the seller had told him to get it rented or sold within the month or he was giving the listing to someone else.

“Found a house,” Sarah blurted as soon as Boone called her that night.

“Yeah, I saw your text. Tell me about it.”

“It’s in Orinda. It’s big, plenty of space, an acre, with a workout room and a pool.”

“Your text said it was expensive.”

“But we’d get a great deal on it if we’d be willing to sign a six-month rental agreement.”

“I don’t know that I’ll still be with Oakland come September.”

“I thought about that. But it doesn’t mean we’d all have to move. We could stay in Orinda . . . enroll the kids in school there. It’s got a great school system. One of the best in the country.”

“Not private?”

“Wouldn’t need to go the private route here.”

“Tell me more about the house.”

“It’s been on the market for almost two years. Owners bought high and were willing to sell at a loss, but not in the millions. So, they’ve pulled it off the market, waiting for prices to come up a bit, and are now trying to rent it out.”

“And you like the house?”

“It’s . . . big. Mediterranean. But . . .”

“Yes?”

“It’s dated.”

“How dated?”

“Early 1990s. Faux walls everywhere. Sponge-painted halls, bathroom.”

“What colors?”

“Um, your favorites?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Peach, rose, and teal green.”

“Nice, Sarah.”

Sarah laughed so hard her eyes watered, tears running at the corners, and as she laughed, some of the terrible pressure in her chest eased. Things would be okay. They would. She just had to stay positive. Had to keep her focus. Family first. It’s what Mom always did and it worked. Just be like Mom and it’d be okay . . .

“I actually had to cover my mouth when I saw the master bathroom to keep from laughing out loud,” she said, wiping her eyes. “But it was so, so hideous. Emerald walls with burgundy trim.”

“Stop,” Boone protested, but he was laughing, too.

“Serious.”

“Can we paint it?”

“I don’t know. The seller thinks it’s pretty sweet.”

“I bet. And no one has convinced this brilliant individual that perhaps the color scheme is hurting his ability to sell?”

“The thing is, the house looks great from the street. It’s got the curb appeal. Big iron gates. Completely secure yard. And a gated pool.”

“Well, that’s good,” he said gruffly.

“There’s room for a dog—”

“No.”

“Maybe.”

“No.”

“The kids really want one.”

“In a rental house?”

“I know you weren’t raised with dogs, Boone, but I think it’d be good for Brennan. He’s . . . struggling . . . I think a dog could be really good for him.”

“We’ll see.”

She knew what that meant, and she let it go for now, but in her mind the topic wasn’t closed. Puppies were a lot of work, but they were also full of love. Unconditional love. Maybe a puppy was exactly what they needed.

“So, when do we move in?” Boone asked, changing the subject.

“Hoping to sign the contract and hand over a check tomorrow. Then it’s ours. Which is good, because the moving truck comes Wednesday.”

“Wish I could be there, babe.”

“I know, but Dad and Tommy, Cass and Kit”—she took a breath—“and Jude . . . they’ll all be here Wednesday night helping unpack. They’ve all agreed to return on Thursday, too, and finish helping me get the job done so things will be settled when you get home.”

“That’s cool.”

“I know. It’s the first time I’ve ever had the Brennan bunch to help me unpack. Pretty nice.”

“We’ll have to take them to dinner—”

“We are.”

He laughed. “And when is that?”

“Father’s Day. After the game.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“But they’re all coming to the game, Sunday, at the Coliseum.” She hesitated. “Can you get tickets for all of us? There will be a lot of us. Thirteen with the kids.”

“Not a problem. I’ll get everyone on the pass list. And it’ll be good to see them all. I look forward to having the family together.”

“I know. It’s just weird it’s not at a funeral.”

Boone laughed. “Miss you, babe.”

“Miss you, too, Boone.”

* * *

L
auren didn’t work Wednesday morning, having taken herself off the schedule until noon.

She still woke up early Wednesday though, driving to Napa as the sun rose, turning the landscape into silver and gold.

She reached the cemetery just as the groundskeeper unlocked the front gate.

Lauren left her car to enter the quiet cemetery.

She hadn’t told anyone she was coming to Napa today.

It was better not to tell anyone.

Better to do this her way.

Walking along the gravel path, Lauren could almost pretend she was in a park, with its manicured lawns and hedges and flowerbeds. But then she was moving between tombstones and headstones and the plastic flowers dotting different graves and it wasn’t a park anymore, but something terribly still and sad.

She stopped just before she reached Blake’s headstone, suddenly unable to take another step closer, not sure she could do this. Not sure . . .

And then she was sure.

Sure she needed him.

Sure she missed him.

A year. It’d been a year today since he’d died.

Crouching before his gray headstone, she put her hands flat on the cold granite, covering his name, warming the stone.

Mama’s here.

I came.

Miss you, baby. Miss you bad.

She leaned forward, kissed the stone. Kissed it again.

A year, baby. A lifetime since you left. Hope you’re okay. Hope you’re happy. Hope there’s no pain.

Blinking hard, she carefully traced each letter of his name.

JONATHAN BLAKE SUMMER.

I miss you. I miss you so much. You have no idea how much I miss you and your hugs and your stinky shoes and the way you left your clothes all over the place . . .

As she talked to him, Lauren traced his name again and again, as if she could somehow draw him into her, or pass her love through her fingertips and into the stone, reaching him somehow. Because love didn’t die. Love didn’t end. Love was there in the beginning, and love was there at death. Love was what tied them all together . . .

It wasn’t until Lauren was on the way home a half hour later that she realized she’d forgotten to take Blake flowers.

But maybe that was okay.

He didn’t need flowers. He had her heart.

* * *

A
t work on Saturday morning, Lauren wondered when Boone would return to the café. She hadn’t seen him in nine days and knew he’d been on the road for six games, but the Athletics were back now, had played at the Coliseum last night, with another game tonight, and Boone always stopped by the café on his way to the stadium.

The fact that neither Boone nor Chris came in yesterday generated conversation among the café kitchen and waitstaff, but now that it looked like neither would be in again today, Lauren couldn’t help but wonder if Boone had told Chris what she had said about him.

That he was too much. Over-the-top. That he didn’t have a subtle bone in him.

She cringed as she took orders and seated customers, adding names to the wait list. She shouldn’t have said what she said about Chris. It didn’t make her feel good remembering.

As it was Saturday, the morning rush lingered until early afternoon with customers continuing to line up for the café’s special weekend brunch menu. Lauren was doing double duty today, working her own section as well as helping Crystal, the new waitress, cover hers, since Crystal was overwhelmed.

Crystal had been hired on Thursday to replace Karen, because Karen had started to come in late almost daily, and Lauren wouldn’t tolerate tardiness on a regular basis. If you were scheduled to work at seven, that meant you were waiting tables at seven, it didn’t mean you were walking in the door at seven, or five after seven, or twenty after seven, or twenty-seven after seven. Lauren had talked with Karen about it several times, too, and Karen always apologized and had an excuse. But excuses only went so far, and Lauren was finally forced to let her go. Lauren was sorry, too. She’d enjoyed Karen and found the younger girl quirky and fun, but Lauren took her job seriously. She expected her staff to do the same.

Now Lauren bussed one of Crystal’s tables, a popular booth in the corner, before carrying the big gray tub to a cluster of tables where a party of eight had been sitting. Quickly, she cleared the first of the two tables, and then the second, and then dragging the second table away, created space between the tables again. She was just about to lift the heavy, dirty-dish bin when Chris suddenly materialized and picked it up for her.

“Where does this go?” he asked, his dark blond hair loose over his shoulders; his T-shirt was impossibly tight, revealing more muscle than was decent, and the old, soft, faded denim jeans he was wearing hugged his quads and ass.

“Show-off,” she muttered.

“What was that?” he drawled, eyebrow quirking, lips curving.

Lauren was pretty damn sure he’d heard what she said, so she smiled sweetly. “I said I’ve got that.”

He laughed, and a dimple flashed in his cheek.

Her pulse jumped and her insides did a weird flip, and her hands suddenly felt damp. She wiped them on the back of her skirt.

She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but she was glad to see him. It’d been boring without him and Boone. She missed the superheroes. They certainly livened up the place.

“I’m not going to let my girl carry this. Show me where to put it. The kitchen?”

“Not your girl,” she corrected, before gesturing for him to follow, ignoring the gawking looks from some of the other customers. Customers who clearly knew who hulking Chris Steir was.

“Not yet maybe,” he replied, trailing after her into the kitchen, where he greeted Bob and José, who were at the big stove, cooking up eggs and pancakes and keeping a close eye on sizzling bacon and sausage.

“Never,” she muttered as Bette passed and made moon eyes at Chris.

Chris laughed softly and stuck close to Lauren on their way back out.

“You need a busboy,” he said, stopping in front of the dessert display case, allowing the heavy kitchen door to swing shut behind them. “You’re too busy not to have one.”

She blew a strand of hair from her eyes. “We weren’t always this busy.”

“But you are now.”

They were, too, Lauren thought, glancing around the café, her gaze moving from the full tables to the crowd by the front door, and another large cluster of people outside, all waiting to get in. “Not sure why,” she said.

“The word’s out that you serve great food.”

“The word’s out, huh?” she asked, looking at him, trying to hide her smile. He was cute. Too cute for his own good.

“Yep.”

He sounded so sure of himself. “Just where is the word out?”

“Well, on the A’s team blog, and some of our Twitter feeds.”

“Whose Twitter?”

“Mine.” He saw her incredulous expression and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to look humble. “I have quite a big following.”

“I bet you do,” she said, struggling to hold back laughter.

“I do.”

“I know. I’m agreeing with you.”

“You’re not.” His lips pursed. He shook his head. But his eyes were smiling down at her. “You’re making fun of me for being on Twitter.”

“I just don’t know anything about it.”

“You should be on it. You could do a tweet each day about your special, or something happening. People would love it. People would love you.”

“Uh-huh.” She smiled, trying to be kind even though he had no idea what he was talking about. People wouldn’t want to hear about the café, or their specials, and they certainly wouldn’t want to hear from her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

“No.” Her lips twitched. “Not really.”

“Why not? Everyone else listens.”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either. But it’s something we need to sort out. Have dinner with me tonight so we can discuss it.”