The Good Wife (7 page)

“How’s it going this year? Your mom said you guys had your first game last week.”

“We’ve had three now, but I missed two yesterday ’cause of the funeral.”

“You had a doubleheader yesterday?”

“Yeah, but it’s okay. Coach knew I was going to miss, and I played Thursday in our opening game and got a home run and a double. Pretty sweet.” He grinned a lopsided grin. “Was strong defensively, too. I think all the training I did this winter helped. You know Uncle Boone set me up on a conditioning program. Had me doing weights and sprints and stuff. My legs are a lot stronger.”

“That’s great. I’ll tell Boone the exercises helped.”

“Yeah, do. And let him know I can’t wait until June when I can come out and see you guys and watch him play. He’s said I can go to the park with him while I’m there. He’ll take me to the locker room and onto the field, and introduce me to some of the scouts, too.”

“He said he’d invited you out. We’d love to have you.”

“I’m coming, for sure, this year. I’m already looking at flights, trying to find a cheap ticket.”

“We’ve got miles, JJ—”

“No, I’m using my own money. I’m saving up.” He fished out his phone, glanced at the time. “Hey, uh, Aunt Sarah, you mind if I run? Heather keeps texting me. She wants to know where I am. We’re supposed to be hanging out.”

“Go. Have fun.” Sarah kissed his forehead. He’d grown this year. He was as tall as her now, five ten, and still growing. “Just drive carefully.”

He flashed her another grin. “I always do,” he said, grabbing his coat, checking for his wallet, and then disappearing into the hall.

Back downstairs, Sarah found Meg in the kitchen, surrounded by kids. They were rolling out the dough in vigorous puffs and poufs of flour.

“You’ve got a lot of action in here,” Sarah said, approaching the big island to inspect the trays filling with bunnies and chicks and frolicking lambs, which were also, tragically, missing legs, due to the difficulty of peeling thin dough off the floured cutting board.

“It’s kind of a mess,” Meg admitted, wiping her chin, leaving a dusting of white behind. “But everyone’s having fun.”

“And that’s what’s important,” Sarah said firmly, filling the kettle for tea and then pulling out two mugs, one for her, one for Meg.

Once all four trays of cookies were in the oven, the kids settled in the family room to watch cartoons, and Meg wiped down the floured surfaces while Sarah washed up the beaters and mixing bowl. Neither of them talked while they worked, and Sarah was thinking it was a companionable silence, and was enjoying the peacefulness, until Meg joined her at the sink to rinse out her floury rag.

“Don’t say it,” Meg murmured, holding the cloth under the faucet.

Sarah glanced at Meg, who still had the swipe of flour on her chin and two bright spots of color high in her cheeks. “Say what?”

“Anything about anything.”

“Not planning on it.” Sarah struggled to understand what was happening. “Did I miss something?”

“No. You were there.”

Oh. Jack. Sarah sighed, suddenly very glad she was flying home to Tampa tomorrow. She needed to get home. Needed to get back to normal.

Meg wrung out the rinsed cloth, giving it an extra-firm twist before glancing at Sarah. “There’s nothing you want to say?”

“No.”

“This is my fault, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t say that, and I don’t think it either.”

“You don’t want to tell me ‘I told you so—’?”

“
No,
Meg. I don’t blame you, and what’s happening here is brutal, painful. I don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t do it. If Boone talked to me the way Jack talks to you, I’d kill him. I would—”

“You wouldn’t,” Meg interrupted flatly. “You’d hate prison. It wouldn’t be your thing at all.”

Sarah laughed, wiped her eyes. “You’re so deadpan.”

“What can I say? I’m just funny.”

Sarah snickered and then choked on a smothered laugh, and when Meg giggled, Sarah impulsively threw her arms around her big sister and hugged her tight.

Sarah had cried more this week than she’d cried in her entire life—no, not true. She’d cried for weeks when she first found out about Boone and that Atlanta woman. That had brought her to her knees—but suddenly she needed to laugh, and needed to make Meg laugh, and needed to bring love and hope back.

“You
are
funny,” she said. “And wonderful. And absolutely my favorite oldest sister in the world.”

Meg snorted. “And your only oldest sister.”

“See? Don’t you feel good about yourself now?”

Meg started to laugh and then the laughter turned to tears, and she was crying hard, sobbing against Sarah as if her heart would break.

Swallowing hard, Sarah rubbed her back, murmuring soothing things even as the whole week came flooding back. Mom dying. Mom gone. The nurse from hospice returning Mom’s pale pink bed jacket and the beautiful, soft knit blanket the color of Mom’s favorite roses that Aunt Linda had made for her at Christmas. Dad on one knee at the cemetery, his big shoulders shaking, and Ella scared that Grandpa was crying and pressing herself into Sarah’s legs while Brennan stood stoic at her side, a rare event for this usually hyperactive child.

But those intense, painful memories were balanced by the memory of Boone’s arms around her just before he left for the airport yesterday, and just sitting with Meg, talking in the empty movie theater, and then the kids at the park, playing, and the kids here in the kitchen, rolling out the dough and working in tandem, as if they were performing a delicate medical operation instead of making cookies. It was good, this life. Even at its messiest.

“It’s going to be okay,” Sarah said firmly, more briskly. “You’re amazing, and you have an amazing family.”

Meg suddenly looked up at Sarah, face wet, nose streaming, and made a yelping sound. “How embarrassing!” She stepped away, turned around, looking for a tissue. “I’m a disaster!”

“We all are. That’s just life.”

Meg grabbed a paper towel and blotted beneath her eyes. “So. Do I call Jack? Text him? What do I do?”

Sarah pictured the scene she’d witnessed an hour ago, remembered the slam of the door behind Jack, the way he’d walked out, seething. “Give him space.”

“I feel like I should apologize.”

“I’d wait. He needs to cool off, and you don’t need to chase after him. It’ll just make you appear clingy and weak.”

“So I wait.”

“Yes. Wait. Let him call you.”

* * *

W
hile the cookies cooled on top of the stove, Sarah slipped up to the guest room and phoned Boone, hoping he was still awake.

“Not asleep?” she asked when he answered the phone.

“Nope. Just in bed, watching the news. What are you doing?”

“About to help the kids frost cookies.”

“That sounds fun.”

“Yeah.”

“So it was a good day?”

“Pretty good. Overall.” If she didn’t think about Mom, or Meg and Jack, or the fact that Boone was about to start a new season of ball, which meant he’d be traveling a lot again, and in and out of hotels, with girls and groupies camping out in the lobby, hoping to snare a player for a quick lay. Or longer. “Jack and Meg are having some serious problems,” she said, not wanting to think about girls or groupies tonight, or giving her imagination any power. There was enough real drama happening as it was.

“Jack’s not happy,” Boone said.

“Did he say that to you?”

“Yeah.”

“He told me the same thing.” She drew a breath. “He bought a house in Virginia. JJ told me tonight. I guess it’s a new thing.”

“What does Meg say about it?”

“She hasn’t brought it up, and JJ implied that Meg hadn’t made a fuss because she’s afraid Jack will leave if she does.”

“That’s ridiculous. Jack’s not an ogre. He loves Meg, and the kids.”

“You should have heard the fight tonight. It was crazy. Jack lost it. Meg was crying, and the kids were all upset—”

“They heard?”

“They couldn’t help but hear. Jack and Meg were screaming at each other in the living room and on the stairs.”

“Were our kids there?”

“Yes.”

“You should have got them out of there.”

“I wanted to, but there was nowhere to go . . . and it all happened so fast. Jack wants a divorce—”

“He said he wants a divorce?”

“No. But he did say he wants out.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Not good.”

“I know.” They were both silent a moment and then Sarah sighed. “I can’t wait to see you, Boone. I miss you. And I hate this. It’s stressful and scary for the kids.”

“I hear that.”

“I wish we were flying home tonight.”

“You’ll be on the plane tomorrow. You’ll be back here, in your own beds tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow seems so far away.”

“It’s been a rough month, babe.”

“It has. But, Boone, everything’s easier when I’m with you.”

“I know it. And I miss you, too, hon. I’ll be very glad when you’re back home with me, where you belong.”

Four

L
auren was in bed, staring at the clock, watching the minutes tick by. 9:23. 9:28. 9:35. 9:36. 9:48. 10:00.

She needed to sleep. Her alarm went off early every morning. She wasn’t good on her feet all day without rest but tonight, the moment she tried to relax, her past returned, haunting her.

Torturing her.

This is why she’d moved. This is why she’d left Napa in the first place. She’d needed the change of scenery. Needed new activities and routines to give herself something else to think about . . . something else to do.

But at night she struggled. At night she had only time on her hands and it was too easy to lie awake in the dark, replaying that last morning with Blake over and over in her head . . . wondering if she could have done something to prevent the accident from happening . . . wishing she’d known it was her last morning with him. . . .

Unable to go there tonight, she grabbed her phone and texted her sister Lisa to see if she was still awake.

Lisa, a night owl, phoned immediately. “I was just thinking about you,” Lisa said. “Mom told me you bailed on meeting them at the cemetery.”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“What point did you turn around?”

Lauren swung her legs out of bed to sit on the edge. “When I couldn’t get out of the car at the cemetery.”

“So you made it all the way there.”

“And then I didn’t want to be there. Didn’t want to put flowers on his grave. I don’t want to see his grave. He was seventeen. He shouldn’t be in the ground.”

Lisa didn’t speak for a long minute. “No,” she said heavily, breaking the silence. “He shouldn’t be. And I don’t blame you for not wanting to go. I’ve gone with Mom once, and I cried myself sick. I don’t know how they do it. But it’s important to them.”

“I’m glad they go. Makes me feel better knowing that someone is keeping an eye on things there, but I can’t see the stone. Can’t see his name and his birthdate—” Lauren bit hard into her lip, holding in the grief.

“So what did you do when you got back to Alameda?”

“Made cakes.” Lauren laughed and wiped beneath her eyes. “Three of them.”

“What kinds?”

“Chocolate. Grandma’s old-fashioned chocolate cake recipe. Made the same cake over and over trying to perfect it.”

“I thought it was already pretty good.”

“It is good. I just think it can be better.”

“So you’ve got the perfect recipe now?”

“Not yet. But I haven’t given up.” Lauren left her bed, paced the room, ending up at the window overlooking the street. The street lamps shone yellow through the leafy trees. Cars lined both sides of the street. “So how are you? How are you feeling?”

“I’m good. Ready to have this baby. I’m sick of being pregnant.”

“Just another six weeks.”

“Which seems like forever when you’re getting up half a dozen times a night to pee.”

“And then soon you won’t be sleeping because you’ll be nursing every couple of hours.”

“Which freaks me out since you know I need my sleep.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Will I, really?”

Lauren thought about it. “No,” she said, smothering a laugh. “You won’t. It’ll suck. You’ll survive.”

“Wonderful,” Lisa retorted dryly. “And just so you know, you’re not the only one baking. I’ve had such crazy cravings lately that when I can’t sleep, I head to the kitchen and throw together something sweet. I’ve been on a cinnamon and sugar kick this last week . . . cinnamon rolls, coffee cake. Last night it was miniature donuts.” Lisa made a rough, mocking sound deep in her throat. “Which I then ate, all
eighteen
by myself, at three in the morning.”

“Lisa!”

“I know . . . I’m horrified. But I can’t sleep and then for some reason, I start thinking about food. . . .”

“But donuts? You hate donuts.”

“Not when I roll them in a cinnamon-sugar coating. Then they’re delish.”

“Lisa, you have to stop. That’s not good for you.”

“But it gives me something to think about, besides giving birth. Because I have to tell you, I’m beginning to panic about how the baby gets out. I’m not sure I want it coming from
there
.”

“It’s supposed to come from
there
.”

“Can’t they just take it from my stomach?”

“You’re not getting an elective C-section.”

“No, I’m not. It just seems really painful.”

“Eating donuts and cinnamon rolls in the middle the night won’t make birth any easier. And you’ll just hate yourself if you put on a lot of weight now.”

“Too late for that,” Lisa muttered. “I’m huge. Can’t even fit in my extra-large maternity jeans anymore.”

“I’m sure being on bed rest for so much of your pregnancy didn’t help.”

“That’s what Mom said . . . before she found out about my cinnamon and sugar fetish.” Lisa snapped her fingers. “Speaking of Mom, she and Dad were here last week. I made them my blueberry pie for dessert. My best pie yet. Same crust—love that crust—but I tweaked the filling, doubling the amount of cinnamon and added an extra squeeze of lemon juice and it was perfect.”

“Okay. Now you’re making
me
hungry.”

“Wish you were here. We could go bake something right now.”

Lauren felt a pang. “What would we make if I were there?”

Lisa sighed. “Something easy, because I’m tired.” Then she giggled. “And something yummy that we could eat warm, because I don’t have the patience to wait for anything to cool anymore.”

“One of your cobblers or crisps. Maybe your apple crisp.”

“Or maybe my new favorite crisp. Peach-mango.”

“Peach-mango?”

“I made it earlier in the week. It was supposed to be a peach cobbler, but the peaches hadn’t ripened enough, and I had mangos from the farmers’ market and they were ripe, so I threw them together and it worked out perfectly.”

“And let me guess . . . you put cinnamon in that one, too?”

“Of course.”

Lauren laughed. “Well, if it’s as good as you say, it might be another good one for our cookbook.”

Lisa was silent a moment, before asking carefully. “Do you still want to do the cookbook?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“We’ve done nothing on it in years.”

“Not years. A year maybe. And that’s only because we’ve had other things come up. The move to the new location, and then Blake—” Lauren broke off, and clamped her jaw tight, holding her breath, and the bruising emotions in. She loved her sister so much, but Lisa didn’t understand how hard it was for Lauren to negotiate the past and the present, the dreams they’d had, the plans they’d made. A year ago Lauren felt like she had everything. Then it was gone. And gone was a scary, dark place. Lauren drew a quick breath. “I’m sorry to make everything about Blake. I know it’s not fair to you—”

“No. No,” Lisa interrupted hurriedly. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. Obviously, the timing isn’t good for me, either, not with the baby, and everything I have going on.”

Lauren battled the lump in her throat. “We’ll still make it happen. We’ll just wait until the time is right for both of us.”

Hanging up, she hastily wiped her lashes before the tears could fall. There would be a right time someday. There would. She didn’t know it, or see it, or feel it. But she had to believe it. Faith was all she had left.

* * *

S
arah needed to turn off her Facebook app on her iPhone and sleep. It was late, nearly midnight, after a very intense day. It felt good to be on Facebook, reading all of her friends’ updates. Made her feel almost normal again. As if life would one day be normal again.

She switched off her phone, put it on the bedside table, and slid down beneath the covers. She wasn’t sleepy. How could she sleep?

Meg’s life sucked. Jack was, as JJ so eloquently put it, a dick. And Boone’s birthday was coming up on the twelfth, which was just eleven days away, and she hadn’t bought him anything yet, or planned anything, either, because he’d be gone on his birthday, in Detroit on a ten-day road trip.

Ten days.

She wasn’t ready for him to be gone, nor was she looking forward to being left alone with the kids again. Ella was easy—clingy but easy—while Brennan was always a little bit out of control. Sarah suspected that her son might have ADHD, but every time she brought up her concerns to Boone, he shut her down, saying that Brennan was just a boy, and boys were active.

How about hyperactive?

Sarah flopped over onto her stomach, looked down on Brennan where he slept at the side of the bed. He’d started out at the foot but had wriggled closer to her side before finally passing out, exhausted.

She smiled down at him. He was so sweet when asleep. Almost angelic.

Gently, she reached down and pushed his mop of dirty-blond hair back from his forehead. Such a handsome boy. And sometimes a really good boy. And sometimes not good at all, but she knew he didn’t mean to get into trouble all the time. It just seemed as if sometimes he couldn’t stop himself. That’s the part that worried her most.

With a last tender pat on his head, Sarah settled back in bed, plumping the pillow behind her head, hoping that one day Brennan would be like his cousin JJ. JJ was a really good kid. A sweetheart. She loved him, and Tessa. Gabi, too, but Gabi was a handful. Kind of like Brianna.

And Brennan.

Oh God. Maybe it was genetic, and maybe Brennan’s wild side came from her family.

Good thing Boone loved her family. Like Jack, he’d been raised in a small family, but unlike Jack, Boone had taken to the boisterous Brennans right away. He liked her family so much, it was Boone who suggested they name their son Brennan, in honor of them.

Just thinking about Boone made Sarah restless. She missed him, was still crazy about him. Boone was hot. The hottest man she’d ever met, with a gorgeous face and an amazing body, and he continued to rock her world, even after twelve years together. At six four, Boone was all muscle, all man, and hung well . . . like a man. A big man.

She smiled in the dark, thinking about that body, and how he used it, and how it felt to be with him. Her skin loved his skin. Her body loved his body. It was more than the size of his dick, or the way he made love, it was something else . . . something deeper, less tangible.

His smell. His taste. The rightness of it all.

Pheromones. Hormones. Soul mate.

Sarah reached under the covers, touched herself, trying to see if she could possibly arouse herself. Wasn’t working. It was just her hand and her parts. Even waxed and trimmed, it was all rather boring. She didn’t need an O. She needed Boone. And there was no way she could come if her children were around her. Sarah left the bed, headed to the bathroom to find something that might help her sleep.

As she filled a glass with water, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

For thirty-five, she was still remarkably pretty. But it wasn’t a bragging kind of thing. Sarah wasn’t vain and saw no point in cultivating excessive ego since she’d done nothing to earn the bone structure that had made her a UCLA calendar girl. It was all genetics. She’d been born with good skin, great cheekbones, long arms and legs, a slim torso, great hair. They were gifts given to her as a baby and the only thing she did to maintain her looks was exercise and a decent moisturizer. Doing more would have felt wrong. And she didn’t want to tempt fate.

Rifling through her travel bag, Sarah dug out the bottle of Tylenol PM and popped one, needing to sleep. She returned to bed, hoping the sleeping aid would knock her out. It did.

She was sleeping deeply when the repeated ring of a bell woke her. Opening her eyes, she listened. The house was quiet. Perhaps it was just a dream, she thought. She was closing her eyes when she heard footsteps in the hall and then down the stairs.

Not a dream.

Someone was at the front door.

Groggy, Sarah pushed back the covers and crept into the hall. The lights were on downstairs, the chandelier in the entry hall glowing yellow. Meg was unlocking the front door, drawing the dead bolt and removing the chain.

Sarah leaned over the balcony railing. “Who’s at the door?” she whispered to Meg, not wanting to wake the kids.

“I think it’s the sheriff,” Meg answered.

Sarah’s head cleared.
“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hang on. I’m coming down,” Sarah answered, returning to her room and stepping over Brennan to grab her robe, catching sight of her bedside clock: 3:05. Quickly, quietly, she closed the bedroom door behind her.

She was halfway down the stairs when she heard Meg’s voice.

“No!”
Meg cried.

The hair rose on Sarah’s nape and she took the stairs two at a time. “What’s happening?” she demanded breathlessly, her sweeping gaze taking in Meg and the two uniformed officers on the front porch.

But all three were quiet, with Meg staring at the officers in their brown-and-khaki uniforms, her eyes wide, her mouth slack.

Sarah’s heart skipped. “What’s happened?” she repeated, this time directing her question to the officers.

“There’s been an accident,” one of them said, his voice quiet, respectful.

Meg made a low, gurgling sound and Sarah knew then that something terrible had happened. “Jack?” she whispered, reaching out to touch Meg.

Meg drew away. Her lips trembled.
“No.”

“I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Roberts,” the officer added carefully. “I realize it’s a shock—”

“It’s not him,” Meg interrupted, teeth chattering. “There’s a mistake.”

“We don’t believe so,” the second officer spoke. “The Saab is registered to Jack Roberts, and we were able to recover the wallet, with his driver’s license. That’s how we were able to find you.”

“He can’t be dead,” Meg said, straightening. “He’s on a plane now. To Arlington. Call United. They’ll tell you. It’s the eleven fifteen flight to Reagan National Airport.”

“Ma’am, he didn’t make it to the airport. He crashed less than two miles from here.”

Impossible,
Sarah thought.

Meg shook her head. “It can’t be. He left here hours ago. And Jack is a good driver. A great driver. He’s never even had an accident.”