The Good Wife (34 page)

To feel safe
.
To feel secure. To know I’ll never be replaced.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying desperately to block out the voices in her head. “What sounds good to you?”

“You pick a position. You know I like it all.”

She was crying. She didn’t want him to know. “How about doggie style?” she suggested. That way he couldn’t see her face.

Twenty

T
he car, traveling. Fast. Bright lights, blindingly white, brakes scream. Headlights swing wildly, an arc of light. Metal grinds against metal. Smoke. Fire.

So much fire.

Help, help!

Help my baby. Save him. Save my son.

Jerking awake, Lauren sat up. Dark. Night. A dream.

She opened her mouth, gasping for air.

Just a dream, she repeated, even as Chris’s hand came to her back, rubbing it lightly. “You okay, babe?” he asked, his voice husky with sleep.

“Yes.”
No.

She drew the covers back, swung her legs out to sit on the edge.

It’d felt so so real. The blinding lights, the screeching brakes, the smoke. She’d even felt the flames, the heat of them. Blistering.

Lauren stood up, legs shaking.

She’d stayed at his condo again, seemed to be staying there more and more lately, and one entire wall of his bedroom was glass, massive plate-glass windows that overlooked San Francisco Bay. Chris never closed the curtains at night since he had the penthouse condo on the forty-fourth floor and tonight the moon shone, the white lights of buildings and boats glimmering white and yellow below it.

“Where are you going?” he asked, pushing up on his elbow to look at her, naked to his waist, muscles bunching, contracting across his back, his thick blond hair tumbling loose to his shoulders.

A warrior, her Chris. So different from her.

“Just to get a drink of water,” she said.

“Coming right back?”

“Yes.” She leaned over the bed, kissed his cheek. “Go back to sleep.”

He reached out to catch her hand, his fingers lacing with hers. “Were you having that bad dream again?”

“No. Just thirsty, baby. Go back to sleep.”

But in the modern, sophisticated kitchen of Chris’s condo, Lauren stared blindly out the window with its insane view of the Bay Bridge and the water and the city beyond, her heart still pounding, skin clammy and cold.

Ever since she’d visited Grandma’s house on Father’s Day, ever since she’d gone into Blake’s room, she’d been having the dreams again. Dreams of Blake crashing and dying. Dreams of him calling for her.

It was too much.

She shouldn’t have gone inside. Shouldn’t have opened the door to his room. It had opened up her memories, and the past, and the grief had sucked her right back in.

Lauren filled her glass with chilled water, drank it slowly, trying to slow her racing pulse.

She hated the dreams. They were never exactly the same. In some, the accident happened at night. In others, it was sunny, the sun shining, just like it had been the day David, Blake’s best friend, pulled a stupid teenage move, passing a slower car on the twisting country road, and discovered there was nowhere to go, killing three of the four kids in the car.

Stupid boys with their stupid teenage testosterone that made them feel immortal. But they weren’t immortal. They were just kids . . . kids who played baseball and air guitar and played Xbox half through the night. Boys proud of their straggly stubble and their deepening voices and the fact that they now towered over their mothers . . .

Boys. Love. Life. Love. Boys. Dying. Boys.

“I’ll make it through this, I will,” Lauren whispered, exhaling again, panting, letting the pain out. Just like when she was in labor and had to breathe through the pain. Breathe out. Blow it out. Don’t hold it in where it’ll burn like the fire that swept through the car, taking her boy.

Let it go, let it go, let it go
. She just had to keep working through the grief so one day she could remember the joy. Blake had been her joy. Blake wasn’t the consequence of sin, but a gift. Being his mom had been the ultimate privilege.

Remember that. Remember the good.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Chris padded into the kitchen in nothing but baggy gray sweatpants that were practically falling off his hip bones. She knew he’d only just pulled them on. He always slept naked.

Chris didn’t speak, but came to her, and wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head.

She slipped her arms around him and held tight. “You’re so warm,” she whispered.

“You did have one of those dreams,” he said, his voice deep and raspy and so unbearably sexy.

She nodded and shivered, still sad and chilled.

If only she could see Blake one more time.

Just one more time to tuck him in. Tell him she loved him.

That’s all she wanted. All she needed. Because this time she’d remember everything about him—his smell, his warmth, his skin.

Lauren hugged Chris tighter, her body curving against his, her throat squeezing closed with unspeakable grief.

If God would give her one last chance to say good-bye, she’d never ask for anything again.

If God would—

“It will get easier,” Chris murmured, kissing the top of her head, then her temple, and down to her cheek.

She nodded against him, needing to believe him.

“Come on, darlin’,” he said gently. “Come with me. Let’s go back to bed.”

She let him lead her back to his giant bed with its stunning view, but once she was under the covers, Lauren couldn’t sleep, and she didn’t think Chris was sleeping either.

She knew he wasn’t sleeping when he began rubbing her back, making circles between her shoulder blades, and then higher over the little bones Blake had always called her chicken wings.

“I miss him,” she said, her voice so soft it was more like a hiccup of sound.

“Of course you do. “

“He was so good. He deserved better. More.”

“You were robbed,” Chris said. “Both of you.”

“You would have liked him,” she said thickly. “And he would have loved you.”

“I wish I could have met him.”

“Me, too.”

As he rubbed her back, her thoughts drifted, going to a distant place where she and Chris and Blake lived together, had a life together . . .

In her fantasy it all worked. It was good.

Lauren turned to face Chris, the moonlight illuminating his brow, the straight length of his nose, the firm line of his full lips. She leaned close, her finger feathering across his mouth. Beautiful mouth. Beautiful man. “I’m glad you’re part of my life. My life feels good with you in it.”

“I feel the same way.”

She grinned. She couldn’t help it. “I’m glad. I like this . . . us.”

“Me, too.” Chris slid an arm around her and pulled her against him. He kissed her, deeply, making her head spin. “Marry me, baby.”

Lauren jerked her head back. “What?”

“Marry me.”

Suddenly it was hard to breathe. “Seriously?”

“Yes. I’m proposing to you. But if you’d rather wait for me to get down on one knee—”

“No! Yes.”

“So what is it, darlin’? No or yes?”

Lauren knew her past but could see the future, the one she wanted, but she wasn’t sure about Chris. “Before I answer, I have to ask a question.” Her eyes met his, held. “Kids . . . do you want them?”

He was silent a long moment. “Do you? Would you ever have another child?”

“I want to know what you want.”

“And I want to know what you need,” he answered.

Her heart thumped uncomfortably. “It’s hard to imagine replacing Blake.”

“You won’t ever replace him. You can’t. He was your boy. And by all accounts, an amazing boy.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “He would have been an amazing man. Not like his dad, though. He had a big heart.” She struggled to smile through her tears. “A heart a lot like yours.”

Chris wiped beneath her eyes, catching the tears before they fell. “I don’t need kids, as much as I need you, with me.”

“I’m not ready for a baby now, but one day . . . one day . . . I could be.” She nodded. “I would be. I think—I know—one day I would be.”

“So . . . you and me? Together?”

She nodded again, smiling through her tears. “Yes.”

He rolled over, taking her with him, under him, his body above hers. He kissed her, then murmured against her lips, “Consider yourself engaged. We’ll go ring shopping on my next day off.”

Early the next morning Lauren baked her cakes and pies at Mama’s Café feeling delirious from shock and lack of sleep.

Had Chris really proposed? Had she really said yes? Everything was moving so fast and yet she wasn’t scared. She was excited. Blake’s accident had changed her life overnight. Why couldn’t she let her life be upended by joy? Life wasn’t just bad things. It was also miracles and possibility and hope . . .

Marriage meant home.

Marriage meant love.

Marriage meant she and Chris would become a family.

Her head was still spinning when Boone entered the café later that morning, taking one of the few empty spots at the counter.

She headed over with a menu, water, and coffee. “’Morning,” she said, grinning, feeling so full of brightness that she thought she’d burst. “Coffee?”

“Better not. Have already had too much.” He also refused the menu. “How about a large orange juice instead?”

He also gave her his order, pork chops and eggs with plenty of country-fried potatoes, and she turned the order in, humming to herself.

She and Chris had agreed they wouldn’t tell anyone until she had her ring. He also said this morning as she scooted from his bed that he wanted to speak with her father that evening, just to make sure he approved, which wasn’t a given seeing as Chris played for the A’s.

Lauren had laughed and kissed Chris good-bye. She’d driven to work, still laughing, and then the laughter gave way to a picture of her in a wedding dress, walking down the aisle to Chris.

She’d been a mother but never a wife.

She’d been a parent but never a bride.

She was going to get married.

Unable to stop smiling, Lauren carried a plate of three piping-hot beignets to Boone at the counter. “Here,” she said. “Not as good as Café du Monde, but made with love. Thought you needed a little bit of New Orleans this morning.”

Boone smiled reluctantly before taking a bite of one, his fingers now coated with fine powdered sugar. “Good,” he said, wiping his mouth off. “You know, my mom would take me to Café du Monde for beignets on special occasions. If it was my birthday, I’d get to skip school for beignets and café au lait. We did it every year and then I hit puberty and hated the whole date-with-your-mom, found it embarrassing.”

“So she stopped taking you?”

“No, she dragged me anyway.”

Lauren laughed. “Your mom sounds wonderful.”

“She’s a character all right. It was fine to miss school for beignets, but not for baseball games.” He shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately, and how I don’t see much of her or my dad. If I’m not careful, they’ll both be gone before I know it.”

“Time passes quickly.”

“Too quickly,” he agreed. “When you’re younger you’re desperate to get away from your folks and have your own life, and then one day you wake up and realize they’re old and will soon be gone. Not fair.”

Lauren leaned across the counter to brush the dusting of sugar from his cheek. “Did Chris ever tell you . . . I had a son?”

Boone’s gaze lifted, met hers. “No.”

She nodded, hand resting on the counter, just in case she needed support. “He died last June. He was seventeen.” She struggled to find the words. “He played baseball. He loved baseball. He was good, too. He had a future—” She counted to ten, then pressed on. “I don’t say that boastfully, or lightly. Blake was good. But I never enjoyed watching him play. I was so angry at baseball.”

“You’ve said you didn’t like ball.”

“Or baseball players.” She struggled to smile. “It’s because of his dad. I finally told Chris about him. Not sure why I’ve kept it a secret. Not sure why I felt so ashamed. But I did.

“I was a single mom,” Lauren added. “With tremendous family support. But John—Blake’s dad—was never in the picture. He wanted nothing to do with me, at least not after conception. I even signed this document stating I would never identify John as the father or come to him for child support.” Her smile wasn’t quite steady. “And I didn’t.”

“I don’t think that’s legal, and I can’t imagine it’d stand up in court today.”

“It doesn’t matter, though. It’s too late. Blake’s gone.” She took a quick breath. “It used to make me so angry that John wouldn’t acknowledge Blake, but now I realize it was John who lost out. John had no idea what an incredible son we had.”

“It was his loss.” Boone reached for her hand, took it, gave it a squeeze. “Absolutely.”

“Excuse me,” a low breathless voice interrupted. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’d like a word with my husband.”

Lauren jerked her head up. She blinked, recognizing Sarah Walker, Meg’s sister. Boone’s wife.

Boone released her hand. “Sarah,” he said, swiveling in his counter seat. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d join you,” Sarah said brightly, chin lifting, lips pinched but still trembling. “But it seems you already have company.”

Sarah glanced past Boone, leveled her gaze on Lauren, who stood behind the counter. “Not that it matters to you,” she said quietly, fiercely, “but he’s married. And the father of two.”

Sarah looked back at Boone, pale, so pale. “I hate you,” she whispered, teeth now chattering. “I hate you, and I’m done with you. Done. Got it? We’re over. Through.”

She turned and walked out, the heels of her tall sandals clicking against the floor.

Boone shot Lauren an apologetic, and rather desperate, look before chasing after Sarah, grabbing his wife’s arm at the corner so she couldn’t dash across the street.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded, spinning her to face him.

“You tell me, Boone!”

“I was having breakfast, Sarah, like I do every morning.”

“And now I know what the charm of Mama’s Café is. It’s not the food. It’s that hot little mama in there—”

“Stop it.”

“How long have you been fucking her?”

“You’re out of your mind, Sarah. That’s Lauren. Lauren Summer. She’s a friend of your sister Meg’s.”

“Sure she is.”

“You met her, Sarah. She was catering Jack’s funeral. Lauren said you two talked while she was bartending, and you discovered you were both the same age.”