Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) (21 page)

The truth was that something was deeply wrong—with him. He could trace every problem in his life back to his own hands. He swallowed. “I wish I could have the last ten years back.”

“You’d change something?”

“Try everything. The way I treated Meg—”

“What difference would that make?”

Mike blinked at him. How did Clark—had he said something to make Clark believe Meg was at fault? “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“About—” He held out his hand, but the action explained nothing. “About Meg. About us.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, but I do know that anytime we look to people for happiness, they fail us.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning what if you could redo the last ten years? What if you went back to that first day and did everything right? Would that have been enough?”

Ten years ago? Maybe. But what about the next year and the next? Meg had been slipping away. What if he’d been everything she’d wanted? Done everything she’d wanted? Would the outcome have changed?

He pictured himself telling Brooke no, imagined the rest of that year home with Meg, on the road alone, at home alone.

Flat out alone.

Something would still have been wrong.

“You’ve got a charmed life, Clark.”

“Charmed?”

Please. Couldn’t the guy see how good he had it? “Yes. Charmed.” He scowled at Clark. “I’m jealous, all right?”

“Of what?”

Of everything. A happy home and marriage, a baby boy—

“You want my house, my mortgage, my income? My wife’s kitchen with nineties wallpaper? Maybe the seven years of college bills we had? Or the years of infertility we struggled through? You want that?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

His lips tightened over the words. “You’re happy.”

“What would you do to be happy, Mike?”

Not again. “You’re big on the deep questions, aren’t you?”

“How do you think I found my happiness?”

Deflecting came too easily. “Don’t tell me you sell Amway.” He slapped the arm of his chair. “I
knew
it.”

“I’m not selling anything, Mike.”

Sure he was. Someone was always selling him something. “Go ahead. I don’t mind.”

Clark eyed him before settling back in his chair. “No, that’s all. Just don’t turn in easy answers to the hard questions.”

Mike waited for more.

There was none.

Instead, Clark tipped his face to the sunset and closed his eyes, hands over his stomach. A glimmer of a smile rested on his mouth. This pastor with the nineties kitchen, the dated home and tight budget—this pastor was happy.

Clark Ashburn had found something that multi-millionaire Mike Connor had yet to find.

Mike tilted his face upward and watched another airplane cross salmon-colored skies. Fine then. From now on, he wouldn’t blow off the deep questions.

Thursday morning Meg sat on the stairs in the foyer, her Bible open to Psalms.

Because Mike had called ten minutes ago. He was on his way with his parents.

O Lord my God, in You I have taken refuge; Save me from all those who pursue me, and deliver me, Or he will tear my soul like a lion, Dragging me away, while there is none to deliver.

Well. Hmm.

Davis and Patty might not tear her soul like a lion or drag her away, but their words probably wouldn’t be very pretty.

O Lord my God, if I have done this, If there is injustice in my hands—

The comfort vanished. She dropped her head onto her Bible, groaning. She didn’t deserve protection. There was injustice in her hands. She
was
guilty.

She’d kept Davis and Patty from their grandson.

She’d kept Mike from his child.

She’d lived life for herself.

The words she’d thrown at Mike before heading to Ben and Dana’s home had replayed steadily in her head. The familiarity of her challenge to their battles in Texas had shocked her and brought her face to face with herself.

And selfishness, for the first time, reflected clearly in her mirror. She’d tended her own desires, had made her own schedule, had not cared about the constant conflict with Mike’s job or his frustration with her all-consuming goals. When he’d asked her to slow down and make time for him, she’d told him no. He could wait until her class ended or the project was completed.

But there’d always been another project. Another class.

She’d even used him to fulfill her dreams. Meg groaned, burying her face in her hands. Yes, she’d loved him. Of course she had. But part of her decision to marry him was based on his signing bonus. He could afford her school bills while her parents could not. He could afford her decorating dreams—

Had she really gone into marriage with the sole purpose of taking?

Meg set her Bible aside and rubbed icy hands over her cheeks. How had she never seen this? For years she’d known—
known!—
that Mike had been the problem. He was the one who’d broken their vows.

Now it was hard to ignore that her selfish neglect might have driven him away.

Not that it excused what he’d done. She sniffed. Wiped her nose. No man could justify having an affair on his wife. Abandoning a wife like Mike had.

Still, she felt hollow inside. She wedged her trembling hands between her knees. Was this why God had allowed Mike to find her? So she would finally admit her sin?

Fine. She’d admit it. She’d sinned. Against God, against Mike—

She pictured him grilling ribs, tucking Terrell into bed, and sitting in her kitchen that horrible night, on guard. She closed her eyes, shoulders sagging, grief rising up—

No. Meg shook her head. Forcefully. No, she couldn’t allow his kindness to touch her emotions. And she could never tell him what she’d realized about her role in their marriage. Somehow Mike could still weave a magic that captivated her, and if she came to him, sorry about what she’d done…

She straightened her shoulders. Dried her eyes. She couldn’t let him get to her. She had to be strong. She had to be tough when Mike and his parents came. She’d show his parents that she and Mike had moved past their hurt and that they should too. She’d treat Mike like a family member, just not a husband. He’d be the man in her life without any attachments and requirements and commitments.

Picking up her Bible, she stood and forced a deep breath. She could do this. She could pretend that those long-ago feelings for Mike weren’t ever so slowly coming back to life.

Across the coffee table from Meg, Patty and Davis Connor laughed at Terrell’s story.

Meg sat on the opposite couch, jaw tight with a feigned smile. How much longer would they stay? They could take Terrell with them if they wanted to. Were they trying to make her uncomfortable?

If so, they were doing a fabulous job of it.

Just out of arm’s reach, Mike smiled her way, his look one of conspiratorial companionship. As if she should be enjoying Terrell’s time with his grandparents as much as Mike did.

Nope. Not with the coldness they’d shown her when she’d opened her door, their greeting icier than her sidewalk in February.

Of course once Terrell entered the room, they’d became all smiles—the real ones for him, the fake ones for her.

Mike was his usual self, as if he didn’t notice the tension. His only unusual action was the brief, one-armed hug he’d given her when he’d entered the foyer.

She’d tried to keep from melting into him.

Especially with his parents watching.

Across the room Davis laughed the hearty laugh Meg had once enjoyed and started on another knock-knock joke that would be new to Terrell only. Mike’s parents had aged, moving from their mid-sixties into their early seventies. Davis’s hair was a thick white, his fingers gnarled with arthritis Meg didn’t remember him having, and Patty, who used to dye her steel-gray hair, had given up coloring it.

Meg peeked at Mike. How would he look with time? She could imagine lines worn into his face, his dark hair changing to salt-and-pepper. He’d be one of those men who still drew attention as he aged, perhaps even more so, with his grin and athletic build, his laughter and friendliness. She imagined his brown eyes turning to hers. How would he look at her twenty years from now? Or forty years, when they were his parents’ age?

Or, with Terrell all grown up, would they even know each other?

Meg looked back at Terrell and his grandparents.

Patty watched her.

Meg swallowed. How long had she been looking at Mike?

Patty looked pointedly at Mike and then back.

Too long, evidently.

Heat flashed across Meg’s cheeks. “Would anyone like a refill?”

Patty looked at Davis, who was still caught up in telling a joke.

Meg picked up Mike’s glass from the coffee table. “More Coke?”

“Yes, thank you.” He flashed her a smile, the kind he’d sent her in high school when they approached each other in the hall, the kind that filled his eyes with a glimmer he’d sent no one but her.

Meg’s breath caught. Did Mike know what he was doing to her?

In the kitchen, she placed his glass on the peninsula, opened the refrigerator, and pulled the two-liter from the door. She set it on the counter.

Muted voices floated to her.

How much longer could she last? She grabbed the edge of the counter with both hands and closed her eyes. She’d give in to tears if it didn’t mean her nose would turn red and expose her.

Another glass clacked on the counter.

Meg jumped. Looked up.

Patty stood beside her, her hands on the base of an empty glass. “Davis would like some coffee,” she said, “if you have it.”

She should have remembered how much coffee he drank. “Of course.” She moved to an upper cabinet, grateful for a reason to keep her back to Patty. Her fingers fumbled through her selection of K-Cups. “I’ll bring it when it’s ready.”

“Thank you.”

The click of Patty’s heeled shoes approached.

Meg pressed her lips together. How had she missed the woman’s entrance?

She forced herself through the motions of making coffee, waiting for harsh words.

Not until the coffee began to drip did Patty speak. “I’d like to know your feelings for my son.”

The brown liquid splashed into the mug, not moving fast enough to end this painful conversation. What was she supposed to say? That she was still angry at Mike for what he’d done? That sometimes she imagined them together? That she was falling for his charm all over again?

“I don’t know,” she finally whispered and knew it was the truth.

Patty stepped beside her. Those dark eyes, so like Mike’s, studied her. “Mike says you’ve done a good job with Terrell.”

“Thank you.”

Patty shrugged. “They’re his words, not mine.”

Her manicured nails tapped the countertop.

Did Patty enjoy drawing this out? Why didn’t she speak her mind so the rest of their visit could go on without pretense?

“Mike says you go to church a lot.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Meg looked up.

Patty stared through the window at the backyard. She tucked a shiny strand of hair behind her ear, running her fingers down its length. “I’d like you to talk with Mike.”

“About…”

“About what happened.”

Oh no. Meg shook her head, backing away a step. “I can’t.”

“I would hope you’d try—for Terrell, at least.” Patty’s gaze was direct, her expression hard. “You were always good for Mike.” She tucked more hair behind her ear before turning on her heel. “I’ll take a cup too.”

Meg leaned against the counter as her former mother-in-law left. What Patty asked her to do terrified her.

Except… Didn’t she want to know what had happened to make him leave her the way he had? Didn’t she want to know what had changed Mike during those lonely years apart?

Didn’t she long to prove to herself that she really wasn’t at fault for their divorce? That she hadn’t driven Mike away after all?

Meg set the full mug aside and reached for another one. Maybe Patty was right. Maybe talking would heal.

Thursday afternoon Ben called Ronnie DaVannon from outside a Buffalo Grove Pizza Hut.

He and DaVannon went way back to when Ben was a can’t-miss prospect and DaVannon was just figuring out what everyone else knew—that he’d never make it to the majors. DaVannon had leeched onto Ben, the one everyone predicted to be filthy rich in ten years, and Ben allowed it after DaVannon bailed him out of trouble one summer night, his connections invaluable. Even when baseball turned on Ben, he’d kept the guy close, knowing someday he’d need his friend’s less-than-savory connections.

Those contacts had been coming in handy.

DaVannon answered on the fifth ring, music blaring in the background. Ben forced friendliness into his voice. “What’s up, Big D?”

The music quieted. “You calling on a safe phone?”

“A new cell. Don’t worry.” Ben glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot.

A handful of cars filled the parking spaces.

He turned his back to the street. “Find anything?”

“Maybe. Same first name or just initials?”

He hated to change his name again, but what choice did he have? And going by another Ben alias might be too obvious. “Initials.”