The Good Wife (29 page)

“He liked the A’s,” Chris said quietly.

She battled to breathe. “Loved them.”

Chris spotted the glove on the bed. “He played?”

She nodded. “A pitcher.”

Chris looked at her then, his blue gaze resting intently on her face. “You don’t have to do this.”

Lauren realized then she’d been holding her breath and she exhaled in a rush, dizzy and terrified, but also relieved. She hadn’t lost it yet. Hadn’t screamed or fainted or died. No. She was still here, standing calmly. “I don’t come to the house. Don’t open this door. Maybe I should, though. It makes it more . . . real.”

“He was real.”

“And then gone. That’s the part I can’t wrap my head around.”

“He liked Catfish Hunter,” Chris said, pointing to a poster at the wall.

Lauren smiled crookedly. “Blake’s favorite player.”

“Good man.” Chris craned his head from the doorway, trying to see everything.

“You can go in,” Lauren said. “It’s okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

She watched him enter and walk slowly around the perimeter, examining the sports memorabilia, both of professional teams and Blake’s own trophies and team photos. She saw him linger before a picture of Blake on the mound. It’d been taken by a professional photographer a year ago last April, two months before the accident, and had run in a
San Francisco Chronicle
article about the area’s most promising athletes.

It was a good shot of Blake, in full windup. But what she loved about the picture wasn’t the pose; it was his expression.

Focused. Fierce. Alive.

And just like that her heart seized, and she looked away, closing her eyes, holding back tears.

Remembering how she’d begged God to give him back. Remembering all the things she’d offered in exchange for one more chance to speak to him. One more chance to hold him. One more chance to tuck him in, tell him good night.

“I don’t think I could handle it,” Chris said bluntly, breaking the silence. “Not if it’d been my son.”

Lauren walked to the bed, touched the thick, quilted bedspread. “I don’t know that I
have
handled it. I’ve run away . . . ignored it . . . denied it . . .”

“You did what you had to do.”

“It about killed me. Worst, hardest thing I’ve ever done. And it’s not over yet.”

Chris’s mouth compressed. “It might not ever be over, darlin’.”

She nodded, agreeing with him. At least he didn’t sound as if he was condemning her. So many people wanted to rush grief. They wanted the uncomfortable part over. “I honestly didn’t think I’d survive the pain. But it’s been a year, and I’m still here.”

Her fingers brushed across the quilt again, feeling the stitches and seams.

Good night, buddy.

Good night, Mama.

Sleep good, baby boy.

You, too, Mama.

And then the kisses, and the thin arms wrapping around her neck, squeezing tight. He kissed her good night every night until he died. Not on the lips, of course. He stopped doing that in third grade, but on the cheek, or the top of her head once he was sixteen as he took off to join friends somewhere.

Be careful, Blake.

I’m always careful, Mom.

I mean it, Blake.

I know you do, Mom.

I couldn’t stand it if anything ever happened—

Easy, Drama Mom. Nothing’s going to happen . . .

“Lauren?”

Chris said her name gently, but she jumped even so, having forgotten he was there. She looked at him, eyes wide.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” he asked.

Lauren glanced around the room, tears filling her eyes at the thought of leaving, but there was no way she could stay. It was still too much. The room felt like Blake and made her want him, need him. She wiped her eyes. “No. Let’s go.”

They stepped out, and she turned off the light and headed to the front door, but then Lauren held up her hand, asked Chris to wait, and she ran back to Blake’s room and grabbed his leather glove from the pillow on his bed.

She returned to Chris, the glove pressed to her chest. “Maybe I’ll just take this. You don’t think he’d mind if I borrowed it, do you?”

Chris pulled her to him and held her close, the glove between them. He kissed her forehead, and then her cheek, and then the corner of her mouth, before finally kissing her sweetly, gently on the lips. “I don’t think he’d mind at all,” he whispered. “In fact, he’s probably very glad.”

Eighteen

S
arah glanced at the calendar as she paid her bills online. Hard to believe they’d been in the East Bay a month now.

June had come and gone. As had the Fourth of July. Boone had been home for the Fourth, with a game at the Coliseum, and then there had been a break for the All-Star Game, which had been held this year at Kauffman Stadium in Kansas City.

Boone hadn’t played in an All-Star Game for four years, but Sarah was glad to have him home for those days, and discovering that the house in Capitola was free, they headed as a family to the beach for three nights.

It felt like a real vacation. And they felt like a real family. A normal family. During the day they soaked up the sun, and then at night, sunburned and exhausted from all the playing, everyone slept well.

Sarah had loved watching Boone with the kids on the beach, building sand castles with Ella and jumping waves with Brennan. Sarah lounged on her towel, working on her tan, a wine cooler in the plastic cup beside her.

Boone had teased her about drinking early, but then reaped the benefits when they had torrid sex in the master bedroom while the kids ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and colored at the dining room table.

But then, the entire trip to Capitola was filled with quickies and make-out sessions. On Wednesday they had sex so many times that Sarah stopped counting her orgasms after five, aware that she was just being greedy.

But God, it’d felt good to be with him, and love him, and hug him, and play with him. Boone was her best friend and this little break had been exactly what she needed . . . a chance to relax, escape the stress of moving and adjusting to a new city and new team.

Boone had enjoyed the trip to Capitola, too.

“That was fun,” he’d said as they drove home Thursday afternoon, holding her hand as he steered with his left, comfortable with the tight curves on Highway 17 in his big black SUV. He didn’t drive the mountain pass often but he was a good driver, and he loved this car. Loved his big cars . . .

And just like that, Sarah found herself thinking of that woman he’d hooked up with. He’d had a big SUV then, too. And they’d done it in the car . . .

Sarah had pulled her hand free from Boone’s and put it to her mouth, suddenly sick.

Why had she thought of that? She hated remembering! Stupid brain. Stupid thought process. If only she could just take a pill and forget . . . forget all the bad stuff . . .

“Carsick?” Boone had asked, slowing down and moving to the right lane. Ever since they’d had Brennan, Sarah had been motion sensitive. “I can pull over.”

“I’m all right,” she’d answered, taking a quick breath and sitting taller as the tall evergreens whizzed past them on the side of the road.

“Don’t look around. Stare straight ahead,” he’d said, shooting her another concerned glance. “We’ll be out of this soon.”

“It’s all right, babe.” She’d swallowed, trying to push away the bad memories and reclaim the good. She pictured the beach house and the buttermilk pancakes she’d made that morning. Pictured them eating pizza on the beach last night. Pictured all four of them yesterday working so hard to decorate Ella’s sand castle with broken shells, sea glass, and pebbles. She tried to feel the bright, hot sun and smell the tang of salt and hear the cry of seagulls over the crashing waves . . .

It’s what Mom had always done. Remember the positives, focus on the positives, and almost always, the positives outweighed the bad.

And in Sarah’s case, it was true. She loved her family and she wasn’t going to let something that had happened three years ago destroy their happiness now

Sarah tore open an envelope from the electric company, glanced at the bill, pleased to see it was less than what they’d spent in Florida with all their air-conditioning. They used air conditioners here, but not as much, and that might be the only good thing about their rental house.

It was just so ugly on the inside.

She’d known the décor was tired when she’d previewed it, but now, living in it, she found it hard to like it. Virtually every room needed a makeover.

The owners were still hoping the Walkers would buy the place.

Not a chance.

* * *

S
unday morning, Lauren’s alarm went off at four. She opened her eyes with difficulty, not wanting to wake up so early anymore. Not wanting to work her weird hours.

It’d be nice to have a normal job . . . eight to five, or something like that. It’d be nice to be free every evening and hang out with Chris . . .

Not that Chris was free every evening.

Not that Chris was ever free evenings.

Not that Chris was even home. In fact, he’d been gone all weekend, in Minneapolis for a series against the Twins. And before that, he’d been in Kansas City for the All-Star Game. He’d played well, too, and he’d texted her after the game saying that next year he was bringing her with him.

Next year.

She hadn’t known what to think when she read the message, but later, after the shock wore off, she liked it. Liked it a lot.

Liked him a lot. And he was good about texting and calling and he’d made her install Skype on her phone, but she hadn’t installed it right, so he promised to look at it when he returned.

Then he sent her flowers, masses of red roses, to the café, with a card saying he didn’t want her to think he’d forgotten her.

She’d laughed and tucked the card into her apron and had later scolded him for the extravagance, but secretly, she loved the flowers.

She’d never received flowers before . . . at least, not like this. Lush, romantic, long-stemmed roses. Dozens of them. It was a statement, Bette had said.

Lauren didn’t think she cared about roses or statements, but they mattered. Because he was making her feel as if she mattered. And it was doing something to her heart, making it skip . . . making it smile . . .

She’d forgotten hearts could smile.

Lauren stepped into the shower, turned the water on cold to stop thinking about Chris. They’d had dates, lots of them, and she’d stayed at his place, and they’d made out, a lot, but hadn’t gone all the way. Come close a couple of times. And she’d come many times. But then, how could she not when Chris knew just what to do with his hands and tongue?

She was ready to do more.

Ready to make love.

And that’s why they’d waited. Chris didn’t want to have sex with her. He wanted it to be more than intercourse, wanted to be sure it felt right, not just in her body but in her heart and head.

She’d teased him for being old-fashioned. But truly, she was grateful. He was right, too. She needed the time to get to know him . . . her . . . them.

Out of the shower, Lauren blotted her hair and began blow-drying it. She was still drying it when a text came in on her phone.

Hey baby, hope you’ll have a good day. Xoxox

Lauren smiled.
You too,
she answered.

He texted right back.
That was really romantic, darlin’. Thank you.

She grinned, typed,
What should I have said, Steir?

She had to wait a moment for his answer.
I want you and miss you. I am crazy about you. You are the hottest, sexiest man on earth and I can’t wait for you to return and make sweet love to me.

Lauren laughed, texted back.
But that would not be true.

Which part?
he asked.

The hottest, sexiest man on earth part. It should have read the hottest, sexiest man in the universe.

Damn girl, I’m rock hard right now.

Stier, not romantic.

It’s better if I’m soft?

Lauren spluttered, texted
No!
before putting down her phone. She dried her hair for another minute or two, smiling into the mirror, and caught her reflection.

Her lips were curved, her eyes crinkled, her entire face glowing. She looked happy.

She looked . . . she looked as if she was in love.

Because she was.

Lauren put down the blow-dryer. Sent one more text.
Thank you for making me laugh again.

His reply was immediate.
It’s just going to keep getting better.

I think I like you a lot, Steir.

I think I like you more.

You don’t know.

I know what I know.

She paused, chewed on her lip, before texting
What do you know?

That we’re good together. You & me. It works.

And that, she thought, holding the phone in her hands, was the best text of all.

* * *

B
oone was home from the three-day road trip, having arrived late the night before. Sarah woke up with his hands sliding slowly up her abdomen to cup her breasts, and she reached for him. They made love at two in the morning, and there was no urgency, no sound, just warmth, desire, love, skin.

When she fell back asleep, she was tucked into his arms, against his chest, and her last thought before sliding back to sleep was that she couldn’t love anyone more than she loved him.

It was late morning now, and Boone was downstairs in the family room, sprawled on the big leather sofa with Ella leaning against him in a pink princess costume, watching one of her Disney princess movies. So sweet, Sarah thought, carrying freshly laundered, folded towels back up the stairs to each of the bathrooms.

She set three in the kids’ bathroom and carried four to the master bath, shuddering as she exited from her “emerald” bathroom to her rose bedroom. Just a rental, she reminded herself, adjusting the duvet on the bed and then the pillows at the head.

Turning to leave, she spotted Boone’s iPad on the nightstand, open. She moved to close the cover, saw his e-mail program was open. He never left it open.

It was through reading his e-mail that she’d discovered he was cheating.

Sarah reached for the iPad, scanning his in-box, and then realized what she was doing.

She stopped. Looked up. Away.

Did she really want to do this?

Know this?

Did she want to open herself to whatever it’d be . . . good or bad?

Because what she discovered wouldn’t satisfy her. It wouldn’t be enough. It was never enough. She knew. She’d been here, in this position, before.

She used to patrol his e-mail, patrol his life.

It made her sick. Made her hate him.

She didn’t want to hate him.

And yet . . . it’d be nice to know there was nothing to worry about. Reassuring to know there was no one but her.

And yet . . . it wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple. If she didn’t find something in his in-box, she’d go to his sent box. And if she couldn’t find anything there, she’d check trash. She’d check drafts. She’d check downloads for photos. She’d check—snoop, dig—until she found something, anything, and then she’d be right back in hell again.

She knew, because this is what she did. It’s how she’d dealt with his affair. Spying. Monitoring. Policing.

But it never helped. It never resulted in anything good. She’d always find something, even if Boone hadn’t initiated contact. Girls would send photos of themselves. Fan mail. Sexy fan mail. And there was so much of it.

No, she didn’t need to climb back on the roller coaster. Didn’t want to doubt him. Hate him. Hate herself.

And his affair did make her hate herself because she loved him, needed him, more than she loved herself.

More than she loved her self-respect.

More than she loved her sanity.

Sarah swiftly set the iPad down and walked away.

But as she went downstairs, the tight panicky feeling had settled into her chest and the rest of her had gone cold.

Fear. Anxiety. Dread.

She stopped in the hall and looked at him on the couch, Ella nestled against his chest, her arm wrapped confidently around his neck.

How lucky she was . . .

Sarah felt a wave of envy. She’d give anything to be Ella. She’d give anything to feel that safe and secure with Boone.

She moved on, back to the laundry room, and tears filled her eyes as she started a new load of wash.

I want to feel safe like that.

I want to feel loved like that.

I want—

“Hon?” It was Boone, in the doorway, Ella in his arms.

She straightened, knocking away tears. “Yes?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Got something in my eye. Lint or dust. It’s fine.” She forced a smile. “Are you hungry? Can I make you something before you go to the park?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll grab something on the way.” He moved toward her, putting Ella into her arms, freeing himself.

Sarah didn’t like it. Didn’t like that he was leaving already, didn’t like that he would go out and eat rather than stay and eat with her. “I bought groceries yesterday. Have food—”

“I’ve got my routine.” He grimaced. “It’s working.”

“I would love to make you a meal. Makes me feel good to take care of you.”

“Babe, it’s not personal, but I’m in a groove, and right now, since I’m hitting well, I’d just as soon not do anything that would jinx it.”

“I’ve never known you to be that superstitious.”

“Not going to take any risks,” he said, closing the distance, kissing her. “But thank you. I appreciate it.” And then he was gone, jogging upstairs to retrieve his bag and head out.

* * *

D
on’t be paranoid,
Sarah told herself, after Boone left.

Don’t be paranoid,
she silently repeated, making it her mantra as she sat outside by the pool with Kit. Kit looked good, too, Sarah thought. She was playing on the steps with Ella while Sarah swam in the deep end with Brennan.

Brennan was a good swimmer. He’d learned to swim young, and he really liked the water. Sarah wondered if he’d enjoy being on a swim team. He couldn’t do the butterfly yet, and his breaststroke was rough, but he could learn. Sarah made a mental note to look into it.

“How are things with Jude?” she asked, swimming back to the steps to avoid being splashed by Brennan, who was now doing cannonballs off the diving board.