The Good Wife (31 page)

“It’s sore, but whatever.” He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her up against him and kissed her, right in front of everyone. “So how are you, baby?”

“Good,” she whispered, heart thumping like mad.

“You are so damn beautiful.”

She blushed, grinned. “I should tell you to stop, but I like it.”

He laughed, hugged her to him. “You’re still coming to the game tonight, right? It’s the first game in our series against the Yankees.”

Lauren’s smile faded. “The Yankees?”

“Supposed to be a good series.”

She hesitated. “I’m not sure I can make the game. I’m short on waitstaff for closing. Can I meet you after?”

“Of course. No stress, darling.” He cupped her cheek, warming it. “But you’re still coming home with me tonight? You’re staying all night?”

Her face tingled, hot, and butterflies filled her middle, pushing the Yankees and John Meeks from her mind. “Yes.”

“Just making sure.” He kissed her again. “I’ve got to be at the park early for an interview, so I can’t stay. But I’ll see you tonight.”

Lauren saw stars as he pushed the door open and disappeared into the sunshine. Beautiful, sparkly stars everywhere.

She’d fallen, fallen hard, she thought. If this didn’t work out—

No, wouldn’t think that, not now, not today. She was happy. She liked being happy. Why be sad when she could feel good . . . and it’d been such a long time since she’d felt this good . . .

Lauren was still thinking about Chris and bussing the counter when Boone entered the café fifteen minutes later, jaw set, expression hard.

Lauren had never seen him so upset. “You okay?” she asked as he took a place at the counter.

He nodded once, expression still flinty.

She tipped her head, studying him. “Coffee?”

“Please. And your New York strip with three eggs scrambled.”

She placed his order and brought him water and coffee, then hesitated. “Feel like talking?”

“Only if you can explain women to me.”

She smiled. “Well, I am one.”

“Maybe I should have said ‘explain women and drama.’”

“Hmm . . . maybe I should steer clear of this after all.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed, sighing, running a hand through his hair. “This is just so hard. I love my wife. I do.”

Lauren didn’t doubt it for a moment. “Then whatever it is will get sorted out.”

“I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Why?”

“She can’t let the past go.”

Lauren grimaced. “Been there. Done that.”

“But it’s going to destroy us. It will. I can feel it already eating away at us . . . the doubts are poison . . . they are.”

That did not sound good. Lauren glanced out across her section and then toward the front, making sure everything was okay. No fire, no chaos, no fuming customers. “What’s happened?” she asked, dropping her voice.

He dropped his, too. “We’ve been together a long time, been through a lot. My career hasn’t been easy for her.”

“She doesn’t like baseball?”

Boone hesitated. “I’m on the road a lot, and she’s scared by the stories she hears . . . you know, about guys being dogs.”

“But you’re not one,” Lauren said firmly.

He gave his head a small shake. “I’ve made mistakes. But I learned from them.”

Lauren’s heart thumped uncomfortably. Was he saying he’d been unfaithful?

Boone looked up at her, eyes blazing. “I screwed up. I did. I admit I was wrong, and I promised her it wouldn’t happen again. And it hasn’t. But she doesn’t believe me.”

“It’s that trust thing,” she said softly.

“Yeah. I know.”

“That’s a hard one.”

His gaze was fixed to the counter, his expression somber. He nodded again.

Lauren saw Bette, gestured to her, and Bette nodded. She reached out and touched Boone’s forearm. “Don’t lose faith,” she said, getting back to work.

* * *

S
arah hadn’t gone through his e-mail, but yesterday after Boone left for the park, she went through his pockets, searching.

She dug deep into the jeans he’d worn yesterday, found a folded slip of paper in the front pocket. She unfolded the paper, heart skidding, then exhaled when she saw it was just a receipt for Mama’s Café in Alameda.

Sarah skimmed the receipt, yesterday’s. Steak and eggs, side of biscuits and sausage gravy, coffee. Nineteen dollars and change, plus tip, then unfolded the credit-card receipt attached. A fifteen-dollar tip. On a nineteen-dollar bill. Pretty generous. Must have been a pretty waitress.

She dug deeper into the other pockets. Nothing. Picked his wallet up off the dresser. Cautiously she opened his wallet, looked inside. Lots of receipts.

She opened them one by one. Mama’s Café. Mama’s Café. Mama’s Café.

Sarah sucked in an uneasy breath.

What was it with him and this Alameda restaurant?

She needed to know. Had to find out. What was the attraction? Or more importantly,
who
was the attraction?

* * *

L
auren made dinner for Chris in his condo’s kitchen. She enjoyed cooking in his kitchen. All the appliances were new, and the space was gorgeous and sleek, just the way the kitchen of a penthouse should be.

They ate on his couch watching the eleven o’clock news and highlights from tonight’s game, which the A’s had won.

“You have tomorrow off,” Chris said, using the remote to turn the TV off. “Come to the game tomorrow night.”

Lauren stacked their plates. “I’m not a big Yankees fan,” she said hoarsely.

Chris took the plates from her and put them down on the coffee table. “I think you want to tell me something, but you don’t know how.”

She shot him a swift look, then glanced away. Did he know? If so, that meant someone in her family had told him. She couldn’t imagine her dad saying anything, which meant it was either Mom or Lisa.

Chris pushed a long tendril of hair back behind her ear. “Just say it. I think you’ll feel better when you do.”

“Are we talking about the same thing?”

His gaze met hers and held. “Are we?”

She swallowed hard. “Blake’s father?”

“Then we are.”

“Who told you?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “Your sister made a comment once that Blake was truly talented . . . as good, if not better, than his father. But she gave me no name.”

“So how did you figure it out?”

“She said he still played ball. You went to Napa High. I did a quick Google search and had my answer pretty easily.”

“Do you know John?”

Chris hesitated. “We’re not friendly, or friends.”

“You don’t like him?”

“Not a fan, no.”

“Because . . . ?”

“He’s a dick. And now that I know he fathered Blake but walked away from you . . . I’d like nothing more than to take him out.”

She leaned close, kissed his lips. “Thank you.”

Chris drew her onto his lap and kissed her back. It was a long, warm kiss but at some point he broke off long enough to ask, “So should I break Meeks’s pitching arm or a leg?”

Lauren smiled against his mouth. “Neither. But I appreciate the offer.”

Nineteen

L
auren finally attended the third game of the Yankees series Saturday night and was thrilled she decided to go as Chris homered and the fans went wild.

Goose bumps covered her arms as the stadium cheered Chris around the bases. Reaching home plate, he’d looked up into the stands for her and found her there in the section reserved for family and she’d blown him a kiss.

It had been a magical moment and now they were heading to dinner. Chris had made reservations for after the game at his favorite restaurant, Flora, which was in the historic Oakland Floral Depot, a city landmark with its lavish silver, gold, and blue tiled art deco design.

Lauren had been to Flora before with Chris, and they’d sat at the bar having cocktails and small bites, but tonight Chris wanted real food. He was hungry, and happy, and over steaks he predicted that they’d win tomorrow, too, sweeping the Yankees.

She sipped her wine, smiling at his confidence. She liked it. She wanted the Yankees swept, too, because tomorrow night John Meeks was pitching, but she wouldn’t be at the game. She didn’t want to see John on the mound. Didn’t want to have anything to do with him.

But she wouldn’t think about John tonight. Didn’t want to think about him ever.

“You played well,” she said to Chris, putting her hand on his forearm and giving it a slight squeeze. “Three for four. Pretty sweet.”

He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed the backs of her fingers. “I liked having you there, watching me. I like it when you’re near me.”

“Does your family ever come to games?”

“Until a couple of years ago they attended a lot of games, but now that my dad has some heart stuff going on, they mostly see me when I’m in Arizona, playing the Diamondbacks.”

“Is your dad going to be all right?”

“His cardiologist is recommending a pacemaker, but Dad doesn’t want it, which really stresses my mom out.”

“I can imagine.”

“He’s a tough guy. Your dad reminds me of him.”

She tried to picture his parents. She wondered who he took after, his mother or his father. “You get your height from your dad?”

Chris nodded. “Yeah. He’s big. Bigger than me.”

Her eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“Dad played football for almost thirteen years in the NFL.”

“So sports are in your blood.”

Chris didn’t answer, his attention on something happening across the restaurant.

Lauren leaned toward Chris to see what he was looking at.

It took her a moment and then she saw.

John Meeks was here, along with several of his Yankees teammates.

Oh my God. Here. The same restaurant.

She hadn’t seen him arrive. But then, when she was with Chris, she never noticed anyone else.

But now that she knew John was here, she felt sick.

To think she’d waited years, hoping he’d return for them . . .hoping he’d claim them, love them, provide for them.

What a fool she’d been.

Such a waste of time.

“Do you want to go?” Chris asked, his voice deep, pitched low.

She glanced at him. His mouth was set, his jaw hard. Chris wasn’t happy.

“Don’t let him ruin your dinner,” she said softly, not wanting to let John spoil one more moment of her life.

“I’m done. You’re the one still eating.”

Her plate was still full. She’d taken her time tonight, eating and talking and savoring the meal. Savoring Chris’s company. But the mood had changed.

Chris’s mood had changed.

So had hers.

She didn’t want to be here now. Didn’t want to be anywhere near John. “Maybe we should go,” she agreed, as the waitress cleared their plates. “It’s late.”

Chris handed the waitress his credit card. While they waited for the waitress to return, Lauren tried to make small talk, feeling a need to fill the silence, distract Chris as he seethed now with tension, aggression.

Not good.

She just prayed they could leave without John seeing them. Not that he’d recognize her. He hadn’t seen her in over eighteen years, not since they’d found out she was pregnant.

As Chris added the tip and signed the receipt, Lauren grappled with anger and pain.

“You okay?” Chris asked, setting the pen down and looking at her.

She opened her mouth, but there were no words. The rage went too deep. She nodded and managed a small, tight smile, shielding Chris from her chaotic emotions.

Chris didn’t need to be drawn into this. It was her battle. Her problem. Not his.

He rose and extended his hand to her. As they moved through the tables to the entrance, he drew her closer to his side, his arm now circling her waist, resting on her hip.

They were almost through the crowded floor and several tables from John when he stood.

“Lauren?” he said in disbelief.

She turned and looked at him. Her heart thumped so hard she thought it would break free from her chest.

She didn’t realize she’d moved, but suddenly she was there, standing in front of him and his table. “John.”

John seemed nonplussed. He glanced past her to Chris. His brow creased. “You’re . . . with Steir?”

“Yes,” she answered, after a half beat of silence.

“Wow. Well.” John obviously didn’t know what to say.

Lauren had no desire to hear more. “Good night,” she said coolly.

She was walking away when John spoke. “I’m sorry about the kid,” he said.

Lauren froze. She blinked. Staggered.

The kid
.

The kid
, he’d called Blake.

Jesus.

She swayed. Chris’s hand went to her elbow. He was standing close behind her, so close she could feel his warmth and the light pressure of his fingers at her elbow, reassuring her.

But she didn’t want reassurance. And she didn’t want to be calmed. Slowly she turned and stepped past Chris to retrace her steps. “So you knew?” she demanded, her voice barely above a whisper.

John had sat back down and he looked up at her, surprised. “Yes.”

“You
knew
he’d died?” she repeated, her voice rising. She didn’t care who heard her. She didn’t care about the three teammates at his table. She didn’t care about anything but the truth.

“My parents told me.”

The ice inside her turned to fire. Heat raced through her. Her jaw worked, her eyes burned, it hurt to breathe. “And you did nothing? No call, no card, no flowers . . . no nothing?”

“I was on the road.”

“I see.” She was shaking, but she held her ground and stared hard into his eyes, eyes so much like Blake’s eyes, the same shape, the same color it was unnerving.

“But I was sorry to hear about the kid’s passing,” he added.

Lauren saw red. “What did you say?”

John frowned, puzzled. “I said I was sorry about—”

“
Blake
,” she said, interrupting him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “His name was Blake, and he wasn’t
the kid
, you fucker. He was your son!”

John rose. “Hey, now wait—”

“Your son,” she said again, jabbing his chest harder. “And he was amazing.”

She stepped away. John rolled his eyes at one of the guys at his table. She saw but before she could react, Chris threw a punch, connecting with John’s jaw, sending the Yankees pitcher to the floor, taking his chair with him.

John shoved the chair away and staggered to his feet.

“That was for Blake,” Chris said quietly, gesturing to John’s teammates to stay put, even as he nodded at John, inviting him to come back for more. “This next one’s for Lauren.”

John hesitated, uncertain.

But Chris wasn’t. He threw another punch.

Lauren walked out. Chris followed.

They were silent in the car. Chris drove and Lauren stared blindly out the window, her insides churning, her dinner threatening to come up any minute.

It wasn’t until they were nearing Chris’s condo that he spoke. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, but I’m not sorry I did it.”

Lauren looked at him, chest tight. Is that what he’d been thinking this whole time? That she was upset with him?

“I’m not sorry you hit him,” she said quietly, fiercely. “I’m glad. I just wish I’d punched him myself.”

* * *

T
uesday morning, Sarah sat on the foot of their bed and held her breath, her heart racing as she watched Boone pack for a six-day road trip.

He’d be back late on July 29, and then Tampa Bay arrived in town.

Yay, Tampa Bay.

Screw you, Jeff Neeley.

But she said none of this as she watched Boone prepare to go, already so nervous about him leaving that she felt sick—physically ill—as the panic and anxiety bubbled.

She didn’t want the craziness, though. Didn’t want the fear. It was too much, and it was getting too big.

Maybe bigger than her.

All the thoughts about what if . . . and who . . . and where . . .

“Be good,” she said, putting a hand to her thigh, trying to look relaxed.

Boone didn’t answer, intent on tucking clean boxers, briefs, and T-shirts into his suitcase.

“Behave,” she added.

He walked to the closet, pulled out a couple of shirts still wrapped in the plastic from the dry cleaners, and hung them in his open garment bag, leaving them in plastic and on hangers.

“And tell the bad girls to stay away,” Sarah added, folding her knees against her chest, feeling childish. Childish and afraid. He was the one who had to draw the line in the sand. Keep the groupies and girls away. At the very least at arm’s length. Because the girls and groupies didn’t care that he was married. They just wanted a sexy man, didn’t matter that he had a wife and kids at home.

“I do,” he said, looking up from the garment bag.

“I hope so.”

“Nothing is going to happen.”

“I love you, Boone.”

“And I love you, Sarah.”

She nodded, even as a lump filled her throat, making it hard to breathe.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t what it was like, always being left. He didn’t know what it was like sitting home, waiting. Waiting for him to text. Waiting for him to call. Waiting for him to return, only to start waiting for the next road trip.

The time apart was getting harder, not easier.

If only he’d retire.

If only he’d get a normal job.

If only he’d be like other men, with nine-to-five jobs . . .

But come on, even a nine-to-five job didn’t mean he wouldn’t travel. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t flirt. And it didn’t mean he couldn’t cheat. It just meant he wouldn’t be a professional athlete anymore. His mystique would be gone—that of being the big baseball player—but he’d still be six three. He’d still be handsome. And he’d still enter a room as if he owned it.

The fact was, women would always love him.

The fact was, women would always come on to him.

The fact was, Boone was the only one who could protect their marriage.

And those were all things Sarah couldn’t control.

* * *

T
hree days down, and three to go before Boone returned. Sarah couldn’t help counting the days as she laced up her running shoes. She wanted him home. Felt far more secure with him home. And yet, when he was home, it felt like he was always trying to escape.

Was he?

Did he feel trapped here with her? Did he wish he was with someone else? He said he loved her, but maybe he said it only to keep her calm . . . so she didn’t freak out . . .

But no. He wasn’t with her because he
had
to be with her. Boone loved her. He did. He loved the kids and his family . . .

But men could separate family love from sexual love. He could love Sarah as his wife and yet want another woman because she was more sexually desirable . . .

More free, more fun, more of an escape.

Sarah knew she wasn’t much fun. Not anymore. Not when she was borderline crazy.

Stop this.

Sarah stood and pressed her hands to her eyes, trying to silence the noise and chattering in her head. She couldn’t let these thoughts happen. Couldn’t let her mind race, her thoughts wild and scattered and pulling her in every direction.

Just go for your run,
she told herself. Run and burn off some of this nervous energy and then get your hair done and everything will be fine.

Sarah strapped her music to her arm, hung the earbuds around her neck, and headed out, into the upstairs hall, which had been sponge-painted in the early nineties the strangest peach color she’d ever seen. It was such a fleshy shade. Just walking down the hall to the stairs made her think of Hannibal Lecter in
Silence of the Lambs.

The house was quiet downstairs and the lights off. Dad and Brianna had arrived earlier and whisked Ella and Brennan out for the day. Sarah didn’t know their plans but had overheard Brianna talking with Ella about the Oakland Zoo. Sarah was so grateful her dad and sister had come to give her a break.

She needed one. She also needed to get some things done for herself, including a color touch-up and a leg and bikini-line wax. Maintenance was a bitch, but essential. Which was why she was going for a run now before her hair appointment.

The run wasn’t just for her body. Today she was running to burn off some of her endless, nervous energy. Boone had recently made a comment about her being a little too wound up, and he was right. She was tense. She felt as if she could go off any minute. And that wasn’t her. She’d always been ambitious and focused, but she’d never been angry or prone to outbursts. Yet lately she felt like a walking powder keg.

She’d use exercise to help her deal with her anxiety. Exercise was better than pills and wine. Exercise was natural.

So while she was running, every time a disturbing thought popped into her mind, she ran faster, pushing herself harder. She ended up running five miles before she returned home, and entering the house, she kicked off her shoes, tired but calm.

As she showered, her thoughts were less frantic, and as she dressed for her hair appointment, she told herself Boone loved her and the kids. He wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the happiness of his family. He wouldn’t.

But an hour later, as the color sat in her hair and she faced herself in the salon mirror, a little voice whispered that maybe Boone might not think that an affair would cost him his marriage.