The Good Wife (23 page)

God, he had a body. And a killer smile. And he was nice, so nice . . . and she was pathetic, so pathetic.

Pathetic,
she repeated, following Karen up to their seats. Everything about her crush was juvenile and pathetic, but she couldn’t help liking him. Couldn’t help liking everything about him—his build, his face, his age, his maturity, his swing, his love for his wife.

He was an incredibly beautiful man, she thought, reaching her and Karen’s row and stepping over feet as they headed for the seats, yet his love for his wife was probably the thing she found most appealing about him.

Which was also the thing that made him so completely off-limits.

But God knew, Lauren silently added, sitting down, she had to have a thing for unrequited love. First, John in high school, then Damien, her former neighbor and a best friend, and now Boone. Boone Walker.

Opening her program, she leafed through the pages until she came to his bio, reading it once, and then a second time, and then putting it away, feeling rather sick inside.

He’s not free. He won’t ever be free.
Which meant she couldn’t do this, couldn’t fixate on him, couldn’t allow herself to become any more attached. The last thing she needed was to have her heart broken again.

* * *

I
t was a full moon, and the weather perfect for a game. Lauren had to put on her coat by the third inning, but she was never cold. How could she be cold jumping up and down, cheering with the other twenty thousand fans? And she was jumping up and down a lot as the A’s crushed the Rangers, 12–1, the A’s big bats swinging.

Boone literally knocked the ball out of the park, and Lauren high-fived with Karen and others who felt like friends by the end of the night from cheering and high-fiving so much.

It was a truly fun night, and Lauren surprised herself by enjoying everything about the game at the Coliseum. She loved the outrageously expensive hot dogs and popcorn, and the even more expensive beer. She bought a souvenir pennant and a hideous green-and-gold pen. And while it did take forever to get out of the park, she was really glad she’d agreed to come.

It’d been a long time since she did something fun.

Too long.

And yet it was also strange that on her first night out she would go to a baseball game. Because just like Boone, this was what John did every night, except John was a pitcher, one of the Yankees’ finest.

In bed, Lauren stared at the wall, the full moon bathing her room in bright white light, and for the first time in a long time she was able to visualize John.

She could see him in his Yankees uniform, sitting with the other players in the dugout. She could see him running onto the field to take the mound. Could see him wind up and throw the ball. And he’d be beautiful, too. And the girls would all love him. The fans would love him. Because John Meeks was a star.

* * *

D
id you have fun last night?” Boone asked, taking his favorite seat at the counter.

“I did,” Lauren said, bringing him his coffee. “You put on quite a show, with that second home run in the ninth. Had the fans going crazy.”

“I got the right pitch at the right time.”

Bette walked past, tapped the chair next to Boone with a menu. “You like playing the hero card, don’t you?”

“Now, I don’t know about that,” he answered, but he was smiling. He was enjoying himself, enjoying the attention. “Everybody was hitting last night.”

“That may be so,” Phyllis said, jumping in on the conversation. “But your two home runs put a lot of those runs on the board.”

Boone shook his head. “I just did what I’m paid to do. Hit the ball.”

“And how you hit it. Clear out of the park.” Bette sighed, dreamy, reliving the moment. “Now, that’s baseball.”

Boone grinned. “Good thing I didn’t strike out in the ninth last night, would hate to think what my reception would have been like this morning.”

Phyllis waved her hand at him. “Aw, sugar, don’t you fret, you would have been fine. Some of us don’t care if you play baseball. We just like looking at you ’cause you’re handsome.” She gave him a naughty smile and a come-hither glance before sashaying away.

“Everyone loves you,” Lauren said, struggling not to giggle. “Young ones . . . old ones . . . but something tells me the old ones are the worst.”

“The old ones certainly aren’t shy about their feelings,” he agreed. “But they’re often pretty dang funny, and usually very sweet. It’s the young ones you have to worry about. They throw themselves at you, and they don’t want chitchat or an autograph. They’re pretty hard-core.”

After last night’s game, Lauren could see what he meant, and she thought of Boone’s wife, at home with the kids.

It couldn’t be easy being married to a professional athlete. You’d have to be strong, and confident about your marriage. Good thing Boone was a devoted husband.

Later, when Boone reached for his wallet, Lauren refused. “Today’s on me,” she said. “My treat for taking care of us last night.”

“Want to go again tonight?” he asked, sliding from his seat and rising. “It’s going to be another beautiful night and another good game. I can put you girls on the list again.”

“Karen has to work, and I’ve got to place orders and do payroll.”

“You can come late. I’ll make sure they put you in the family section. The wives and girlfriends are all really nice—”

“I appreciate that, but let’s leave that section to the wives and girlfriends. They might tolerate outsiders, but I’m sure they don’t really want strange women there.”

He slid a folded ten-dollar bill beneath the edge of his plate. “Chris wants you there, though.”

“Who?”

“Chris Steir.” He saw her blank look. “Bats right before me. Center field. Number seven. Girls think he’s pretty good-looking.”

Lauren wrinkled her nose. “Yuck. No thank you.”

Boone’s deep laugh rumbled in his chest. “What do you mean, yuck? No thank you?”

“I’m not into that scene. It’s not for me.”

“What scene?”

“Baseball groupie . . . being one of those girls who chases players.” She saw his expression and hurriedly added, “You’re a friend, and I like you, but I’m sorry. I couldn’t ever date a baseball player.”

“Why don’t you like baseball players?”

“I think they’re arrogant and spoiled and self-centered—”

“How do you really feel, Lauren?”

She laughed and blushed. “You did ask.”

“I did, and yes, there are players who can be total dicks, but there are nice men in this world, and nice baseball players.”

“Perhaps.”

“So . . . you might come tonight?”

“No.”

“Chris is going to be crushed.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“He wants to meet you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure he does.”

“I’m serious.” Boone reached into his pocket and fished out a folded piece of paper. “He wanted me to give this to you.”

Lauren took the slip of paper and opened it.
Call me,
it said. And underneath the scrawl was a phone number and the name Chris.

Lauren looked up at Boone, eyebrows arching higher, incredulous. “This is a joke.”

“No.”

“He wants
me
to call
him
?”

“He likes you.”

“He doesn’t even
know
me.” She wrinkled her nose. “And where’s my name, hmm?” She waved the slip of paper. “This could be for anyone. He could have a hundred of these all photocopied and ready to go. One for you, little lady, and one for you!”

Boone laughed. “Chris isn’t like that.”

“How do you know? You’ve only been with the team what . . . two weeks? Three?”

“Three.”

“Well, I’ve never met him, but I can tell you, he’s not for me.” Lauren crumpled the paper and dropped it in Boone’s water glass.

Boone grinned. “Should I let him know that you weren’t impressed?”

“Tell him—politely—no thank you.”

“He really is a good guy—”

“No. Not even remotely interested. But I do hope you’ll have a great game.”

* * *

S
arah woke up to the sound of rain. She’d gone to bed to the same sound. It’d been raining off and on for three days now, but when it rained, it really came down, a hard, warm downpour that heralded the start of the hurricane season.

She put on a robe over her pajama shorts and tank top and headed downstairs to make coffee.

She’d gone to bed blue and woke up frustrated. Still no word from Boone.

What was he doing in California? Why did she hear from him so infrequently these days? It seemed like the only time he had time to talk was when he was on the road, which didn’t make sense. He should have just as much time in Oakland.

Last night he’d had an amazing game, too. She knew because every one of her Bay Area friends from high school had texted her.

He’s amazing!

What a game.

You must be so proud of Boone!!!

Sarah had to get on ESPN.com to see what all the fuss was about. And her friends had been right. Boone had been a rock star the night before, belting out two big home runs in the game at the Coliseum, putting five runs on the board, helping crush the Rangers.

This morning they were still talking about him on
SportsCenter
. Sarah listened as she made breakfast for the kids.

If he keeps this up, he could easily play another couple of years.

Walker certainly is hitting the ball well right now. I think going to Oakland was exactly what he needed.

Sarah woke the kids up and fed them, keeping an eye on the storm outside. The wind was shredding the palm trees in the yard. She was glad this was the last week of school, glad they were flying out Friday afternoon, but seriously irritated with the storm for killing all the momentum on selling the house. No one wanted to look at houses when they had to wade through rivers of water to reach them.

A half hour later, after dropping the kids off at school and watching as they sloshed across soggy grass for the building, Sarah headed home to clean on the off chance someone would call and want to come by today. Windexing done, vacuuming done, dusting done, she stared across the gigantic living room with the high ceiling and big dark beams. A beautiful Spanish/Tuscan–inspired house.
So come on buyers, buy.

But standing there in her big, lovely house—a house Boone paid for, just as Boone paid for everything else—Sarah felt empty.

She had everything she ever wanted and it meant nothing. Because she didn’t have Boone. Not with her.

And she wanted a husband who would be with her. Sleeping with her. Eating with her. Going on walks and to the store and to a movie and whatever else they wanted to do.

Her phone finally rang.
Boone. Thank God.

“Morning, hon,” he said, his voice scratchy with sleep.

“Just waking up?” she asked, dropping onto the couch and curling her legs under her.

“Yeah. Still in bed.” He yawned. “How is it there? What are you doing?”

“Raining like crazy. Super stormy weather. And I’m just cleaning house. Again.”

He said nothing, and that made something inside her twist, churn. “I hate selling houses,” she said, anger rushing through her. “But I do it every time we move, ’cause that’s my job.”

“You do it well. We’ve never lost money on a house, thanks to you.”

She should own the compliment, she should, but she couldn’t, not when the anger was bubbling and festering inside of her. She needed to get it out. Needed to feel calm again. Good again. “You have no idea what it’s like, cleaning and cleaning, hoping someone will come by. And then when you get an appointment, you clean even more and leave everything just so—pillows plump, candles lit, fresh flowers on the counter. You want it to look like a dream house, a model house, and so you throw the kids in the car and do one more quick Windex on the windows and doors . . . and you drive around and around, hoping for good news, hoping they’ll love it, and then you find out the buyers were only there a few minutes. They walked in, walked out, really had no interest in seeing the house but were there, just killing time—” Sarah broke off, a lump filling her throat from spilling all her bitterness.

She sounded like a bitch.

That was probably because she felt like one, too.

“You’ll be here end of the week,” Boone said quietly, no emotion in his voice. “Even if the house doesn’t sell—”

“But I want it to sell. I haven’t spent weeks cleaning and showing the house not to have it sell. I don’t do anything anymore but keep the house pristine.”

“A couple of months from now this will be just a memory. Try not to let it stress you out so much.”

Sarah closed her eyes, pressed a hand to her forehead. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

But he didn’t sound as if he missed her. He sounded frustrated and irritated that he was even having to listen to her. “I’m sorry I’m upset,” she whispered, pressing two fingers against her temple, feeling dangerously close to crying. God, she was a mess. An absolute wreck.

“It’s fine.”

“At least we’ll see you soon. Just three days now.”

Boone hesitated. “Not three days, babe.”

“Yes. We fly out Friday—”

“Sarah, we’re not home Friday. The team’s on the road.”

“What?”

“We talked about this. Remember?”

“No, we didn’t. We never talked about this. I would know if we did—”

“Babe, I told you. I said I felt terrible that we were going to be leaving the day you guys fly in.”

“No, Boone. No. You never mentioned it. Not once—”

“I’m sorry, then. But I figured you had to know. You have the schedule. I’m sure you knew—”

“I didn’t.”

“—we will have just left that morning for Phoenix.”

Sarah didn’t speak for the longest time, tears clouding her vision, a lump clogging her throat. “How long are you going to be gone?”

“We’ll be back late on the fourteenth.”

Sarah closed her eyes, pressed her forehead to her bent knee. Ten more days. Ten more days before she’d see her guy.

“The kids miss you,” she said.

“And I miss my family.”