Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) (9 page)

After all these years, could they get that back?

The silence would not answer.

Mike flipped the TV back on, surfing for something loud enough to overpower Meg’s grip on him.

For something—anything—that would make him happy again.

She could not be weak when Mike returned.

Would not be weak.

Across the room someone called Meg’s name, but the voice barely registered. She must not cave in to Mike like she had that first time he’d returned so many years ago. Of course then she’d wanted their marriage to work. But now—

“Meg. I’ve got it.”

The words broke through her thoughts, and she looked across her office to where Dana tapped a pencil against the computer screen. “Come see this. I’ve figured it out.”

Bless Dana. Meg pushed her chair away from her desk and crossed the room. Wasting precious work hours on Mike was the last thing she should be doing. She leaned over Dana’s shoulder. The layout for the Layton’s kitchen remodel filled the screen.

Dana tapped one side of the island in the center of the large room. “What if you put the stove in the island? Pot and pan storage would join it. Then this part of the wall”—her pencil moved across the screen—“could be converted to an entryway into the pantry from the kitchen.”

The finished product flashed in Meg’s mind. The pantry doors would be the same buttery cream as the upper cabinets with a bit of French blue glass set in the top of the doors. Yes, it was perfect. “I love it.”

Dana grinned at her. “I’ll take my own kitchen remodel whenever you’re ready.”

“Keep refining my designs, and you’ll get it.” Maybe it was time to schedule her in since May wasn’t looking too busy. “Take a look at their great room next, and I’ll pencil you into my calendar.”

Dana turned back to the computer. “I’m on it.”

If only she could hire a dozen Danas. She’d be the most sought-after designer in Chicagoland. She’d have more clients than—

Probably than she could handle. Meg dropped onto her chair and fingered her to-do list forty-some things long. Maybe it was good there was only one Dana.

Meg’s high school dreams of interior design had never included twelve-hour days or clients who fought every technique she’d studied. The decorating she’d done in Texas had been rejuvenating—a day spent with the girls picking paint chips and fabrics, visiting showrooms and furniture stores, interrupted by leisurely lunch and conversation.

In this real world, though, her job threatened every minute in her day. Too often Terrell spent his afternoons at Jill’s house and his evenings watching part of a Wind game while Meg crunched numbers beside him. Jill hadn’t been exaggerating about giving Terrell a few minutes a night. And that scenario was only becoming more common. More than once Terrell had spent the night at Jill’s when a project required her presence from early morning until late in the evening.

Mike would have a heyday with that.

Sadly the Mike who’d encouraged her dreams in high school hadn’t shown up for the marriage. He didn’t understand that she hated their conflicting schedules as much as he did or that once she had her degree, she could schedule clients around spring training in order to be with him. So he’d had to spend seven weeks in Arizona without her a couple times. It wouldn’t have been that way forever.

Meg shook old justifications away. She should not be thinking about him. She could not afford even a minute—

Against her will, memories of Mike’s first return, a night over six years old, filled her mind.

She could picture everything from that Thursday in mid-October. The sun had vanished, and a sliver of moon hung in the sky. Meg had returned from three days visiting her parents in Dixon and folded laundry in front of the television when the knock sounded.

Two months had passed since Mike had left. She’d spent her nights alone, watching him on TV, searching for any trace that his relationship with Brooke might be ending. She’d wanted to leave Texas forever, but her lawyer and parents convinced her to stay until things were settled. Perhaps Mike would have a change of heart, Mom had said.

Now, looking through her peephole, she found him standing on her doorstep, head down, shoulders drooping. Was he coming back? Was this whole nightmare about to end?

She held a hand against her stomach, somersaulting inside her, and ran the other through her hair before opening the door.

Mike lifted his head, his eyes flat and empty.

Meg reached for him anyway and pulled him inside.

In the living room, he looked around as if reacquainting himself with the house. When he saw the picture above the couch turned to the wall, his face crumpled. He dropped into a chair, one broad hand covering his eyes.

Meg waited a minute, then handed him a box of Kleenex, amazed that she had no tears.

“Thanks,” he croaked.

Thanks.
It was the first word he’d spoken to her in a month.

He rested his head against the chair back and stared at the ceiling.

Meg returned to her laundry, her insides queasy, and waited for him to speak first.

“You’re quiet,” he said at last.

She stared at the towel she’d finished folding. “What do you want me to say?”

“I thought you’d ask why I’m here.”

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready.” She pulled another towel out of the basket and smoothed it over the couch cushions.

“I can’t. I don’t know why I’m here.”

Meg looked up.

He stared at the television, his chin cupped in his palm. “I got in the car and drove, and here I am.”

So nothing was over. Yet. She ran her hand over the towel, swallowing. “Why did you get in your car?”

He didn’t answer, wouldn’t look her in the eye. Instead he slid to the edge of his chair and reached for her hand. “Where’s your ring?”

Was he joking? “Where’s yours?”

He stood abruptly, as if she’d yelled at him, and crossed the room to the kitchen table. His shoulders shook once as he leaned over it.

Why all the tears? Did he finally realize what he’d done to them?

Before she knew it, she was behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist, her cheek pressed to his back.

Mike turned and pulled her to him. Her tears joined his, and Meg closed her eyes in a vain attempt to hold them back.

“Can I stay?” he whispered above her. “For tonight?”

How could she say no? If he stayed one night, maybe he’d stay for another, and before long those empty drawers would be full again.

But in the morning, Mike left.

He had no reason to. Texas had already lost their playoff series, and she knew he would spend the next few weeks relaxing before preparing for the next season. Still, he hurried down the stairs, refusing her offer of breakfast, refusing to look her in the eye.

Had he gone back to Brooke?

Would he return?

Her hope faded as November arrived, and Mike’s callused ways reappeared. Meg visited her lawyer a week before Thanksgiving. “I want to take my half and end this,” she told him.

He looked at her in surprise. “Meg, that’s ridiculous. We’re making our case. Be patient, and you’ll get everything you want.”

Not everything. “Some things are worth more than money.”

“Like what?”

She swallowed and lifted her chin. “Like moving on.”

“Meg—”

“I want to be home for Christmas.”

“You’re not thinking straight. Take a few days—”

“A few days? I’ve had months! Call his lawyer.”

He studied her before speaking. “You’re that sure?”

“I can’t drag this on anymore.” Her hand covered her stomach. “I want to go home.”

“All right.” He motioned for her to sit.

The truth was all over Mike’s hardened face. He was never coming back. Despite their history and years of friendship, their marriage was over and Mike wanted to take every crumb he could, just to rub it in her face.

Well, she’d one-up him.

This child, hers and Mike’s, was worth more than their money and cars and furnishings. Because that was how Mike would view their baby.

When he’d been called up to the majors, he’d asked her to get rid of the birth control.

But they were only twenty-one.

Mike reasoned that by the time the baby was born, they’d be twenty-two. If it took awhile, maybe twenty-three or -four. That wasn’t so young, was it?

Meg had won the battle, but there’d been others, a few times each year. Mike would mention having kids, and the argument began all over again.

“Why do we have to have kids now?” she’d ask in frustration.

He’d answered, but she hadn’t listened. Mike was better than the average player. What if he played ball well into his thirties? He could. He probably
would.
Then they’d have kids about to drive, and she’d be the only one home with them from February to October.

A few more years
, she’d told him.
Maybe when we’re close to thirty.

He’d thrown up his hands and walked away.

Just as he walked away now.

Funny, wasn’t it, that his walking away had resulted in this pregnancy. She’d stopped using birth control a month after he’d left, and look what had come of it.

Mike would be a dad. She would be a mom.

They just wouldn’t be those things together.

And Mike couldn’t know. At first she’d thought she could use the baby to bring him back. But he’d want proof she was pregnant. He’d accuse her of being unfaithful.

And what about custody? No matter how unexpected this baby was, she couldn’t let a groupie raise her child. Not two days a week. Not one day a week.

Not at all.

The decision came easily. She’d take the ultimate revenge. Even if Mike never found out, she would always know that, in the end, he’d been the true loser.

Dana’s faint voice called again.

Sometimes she couldn’t live with what she’d done, even though God had forgiven her. She hadn’t known him then, she reminded herself. She hadn’t known that revenge only poisoned herself. She hadn’t known there was any other way to live.

But she did now.

And she’d still refused to tell Mike.

“Well, he and Terrell are together,” she whispered into her hands. “Just please—please don’t let me hurt so much.”

“Meg?” Dana repeated.

“Just a minute.” She lifted a finger and pretended to take notes while she gathered control.

And then the truth hit her. Mike was not the only loser. Terrell had lost. So had she.

And maybe they were all still losing.

When would it end?

He’d found Margo.

Ben sat frozen before his computer, the pictures and phrases burning into his brain.

Five days had passed since he’d watched himself fail on TV, five days filled with memories of what should have been. Over and over he’d debated calling home. Two years had passed since he’d been home, since he’d had to run. Two years—surely contacting Margo would be safe.

Today he’d given in when a client cancelled an afternoon showing. He dashed home and called the number from memory, trying to slow his breathing as the phone rang. Would his dad recognize his voice?

The phone was picked up mid-ring. “Hello,” an old man snapped, voice gravelly and cantankerous.

Ben frowned as the voice registered. Uncle Pete, Dad’s brother.

“I said hello,” Pete growled in his ear. “If you’re calling about the house for rent, speak up.”

What house was he renting? Ben lowered his voice, counting on his uncle’s poor hearing. “I’m trying to find the people who used to live here.”

“Why?”

“I’m a friend of Margo’s.”

“Really? Who is this?” Pete snapped.

“I told you—a friend of Margo’s.”

“Not much of a friend if you’re looking for her here.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Don’t you read the papers?”

“I’m not from the area.”

“Where then?”

The man could still irritate the daylights out of him. “Pete, I’m trying to get in touch with Margo—”

Too late he realized his slip.

“Who is this?”

Ben dropped his forehead into his hand. Pete wouldn’t turn him in, not unless he’d changed in two years. All the Raines men were alike.

Himself, included.

“Pete, it’s
me
.”

In the background, the doorbell Ben had grown up with rang. Pete lowered his voice to a whisper. “You coming back?”

“No. Where’s Margo?”

Faint voices, a woman’s and a man’s, neared his uncle. “Pete?” he prodded.

“Check the paper, two years ago. You know the date.”

The paper?

He pulled up the
Baltimore Sun’s
archives, wondering what might have happened after his own troubles started.

His search took three minutes. The headlines of the article almost two years old told the story. “Local Woman Dead; Husband Accused of Murder.”

Ben read the article again, numbed by the smiling photo of Margo beside his father’s mug shot, both beneath the horrible headline.

Margo was dead.

Dad had killed her.

Articles covering the trial spread across the next year and a half, detailing the lives of a woman who’d lived thirty years with abuse, a son who’d become a fugitive, and a father who’d refused to take the blame, coming home drunk one night and beating her, resulting in her death.

Ben closed his eyes, the awfulness washing over him in an icy rush. Margo was dead, killed by his own father, who lived in prison and would for the rest of his sorry life.

His stomach heaved, and Ben lunged for the trash can just in time.

When the cramps ended, he wiped his mouth and returned to his desk chair, guilt descending with its mind-numbing cold.

“Ben?”

He jolted at Dana’s distant voice. The door to his office was closed, and he kept still, praying she wouldn’t search the house for him.

“Ben, could you give me a hand with these groceries?”

He closed his eyes. Those who’d gotten in the way of his career were just as culpable for Margo’s death as his dad was. They were murderers, every one of them.

They’d pay for her death.

Something thudded in the kitchen. “Ben, I know you’re here. Your car’s blocking the garage.”