Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) (28 page)

“Look at that,” Mike said on the replay of a St. Louis player’s home run. “The pitcher missed his spot. See where the catcher wanted it?”

The picture changed to the back-slapping in the dugout. “Has he hit more homers than you, Dad?” Terrell asked.

“Only ’cause I broke my arm.”

Meg cocked an eyebrow. Seriously?

“You’ll catch him once you’re back—” Terrell broke off as Mike’s name sounded on the TV. “They’re talking about you!”

Mike held up a hand, and Terrell’s mouth fell open as they listened to the commentator.

“—despite being out for the past three weeks, Connor still has the most National League All-Star votes. So this year the two most popular players for the National League will be from the Central division.”

Mike was going to make the All-Star team? He couldn’t even play. Wasn’t everyone aware of that?

Terrell and Mike high-fived each other, and Terrell turned to her, a grin like Mike’s covering his face. “Daddy’s going to be an All-Star again, Mom. Isn’t that cool?”

“Yes. Cool.” Life kept rolling for him, didn’t it? She reached for her watered-down Coke and forced a sip past the lump in her throat. Oh, wonderful. Nice time to tear up. She grabbed napkins and trash from the table and stuffed them into delivery bags before bolting for the stairs.

Somehow she made it to Mike’s kitchen with her tears in check. Not bothering with the lights, she dumped the bags in his trash, tying a knot in the top of the full bag.

Now what? She would not return to the Mike Connorfest downstairs.

She wandered across the kitchen to the deck doors and stared at the black sky broken by lights from scattered homes. It was a stupid All-Star Game. Why on earth was she crying?

“Meg?”

She jumped at Mike’s voice behind her.

His hand settled on her shoulder, and she flinched again.

How did a man that big walk so quietly?

“Are you okay?” he asked in her ear.

“Yes. I’m fine.” She blinked, hoping her eyelashes had caught the tears.

“Sure, you are. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I said I’m fine,” she insisted as he turned her around.

He flashed her a gimme-a-break look.

“I suppose it’s not too early to congratulate you.”

“For?”

“Making the All-Star team.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

She turned back to the window, hoping her back would dismiss him.

“You know, Meg, we haven’t talked about last night.”

And he thought that was an accident?

“I thought you’d be happy for me. There are things you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, right?”

She shrugged, watching tiny headlights move along an invisible road.

“Are things that bad between us?” he joked.

She wiped her nose and looked higher in the window, surprised to see his reflection above hers. “What do you want from me, Mike?”

“What do I want?”

“Now that we’re both Christians.”

“Does that change things?”

Some people would think so.

He rubbed his chin. “Right now, I’d be happy with friendship.”

No, he wouldn’t. If she acted like a friend, he’d try to turn her into his girlfriend. And then… No, she wasn’t going to be his friend. Not now.

He stayed behind her awhile. Then his reflection disappeared as he left the room.

Meg rested her forehead against the glass.
Remember me, God?

What a life Mike led. He did what he liked, lived how he wanted, made the All-Star team without playing, then decided to try his hand at Christianity.

Doesn’t what he did to me matter?

“Meg.”

She whirled at Mike’s voice. “Will you stop that?”

He approached her again, mouth straight, pupils large in the darkness. “I want you to know that what happened last night was real. All the weight I’ve carried—it’s gone.”

She had no doubt.

“Even though you haven’t forgiven me, I know God has. I realize that doesn’t negate the way I’ve lived or the way I treated you, but for the first time in years, I feel clean.”

She remembered that feeling. How she wished she could feel it again.

He stood in front of her, studying her while toying with the edge of his cast. “I’d still like your forgiveness.”

“I know,” she whispered.

She stood still, and after several seconds, he left the room again.

This time she waited, making sure he didn’t return, before giving in to her tears.

Meg’s taillights faded into the darkness.

The euphoria Mike had felt for the past twenty-four hours had vanished as quickly as Meg’s smile. While Clark made it clear that turning to God wouldn’t create a perfect life, Mike never imagined Meg would be unhappy with his decision. Sure, one day was a little quick to expect a change in their relationship, but he’d hoped she’d at least stop turning brittle each time he looked at her.

He thought over last night’s conversation in Clark’s office. Clark had explained the commitment he was making, that he was giving control of his life and decisions and actions to God and that trying to take control back would result in hurt and increased trouble.

He’d had enough hurt and trouble.

God, if I’m going to do this right, you’ll have to show me what to do about Meg.
He wandered to the mailbox at the end of the drive.
Help me do it your way, whatever that is.

Pulling a stack of envelopes from his mailbox, he tried to push away the depression that settled around him. He had so much to learn—what if he didn’t figure it all out?

He shut the mailbox with his elbow and started back to the house. The mail was mostly junk—credit card applications, sales flyers, refinancing offers. He tapped their sides against his chest, forming a semi-orderly stack.

A large, square envelope stuck out.

A third letter.

Mike clenched his jaw. What would it be this time?

He jogged for the front door and, once inside, slammed and locked it before tossing the rest of the mail onto the console table. He tore open the envelope, his breath coming fast as he pulled out the folded paper.

It was a printout of the forty-man roster from the team’s website. His gaze raced down the page until he found his name listed with the outfielders. A yellow highlighter lit his name, birthday, height, weight, and the symbol that showed he was on the disabled list.

But this time there was more. Beneath the highlighted line someone had printed, “Let’s hope it isn’t permanent.”

Was that a joke? A threat? Anger flamed inside him. He couldn’t take a chance. Whether the sender was Reynolds or some other pathetic joker, the letters concerned the police now.

Heat built through the week, the high nineties and thick air leaving Meg sweating on the short walk between her house and mailbox. Every road promised a pond farther ahead, and as her central air ran, the reminder of the bill to come motivated her to work into the evenings.

Man, did she miss Dana. But at least she was safe and, from the sound of her texts, doing better.

While Meg worked, she kept the Wind’s Tuesday and Wednesday home games on TV. Both days Mike called, ostensibly to talk to Terrell, but he tried to keep her on the phone too. She fought off a growing desire to tell him how sorry she was for the way she’d been acting, and each time that she successfully passed the phone to Terrell, the growing emptiness of her victory made her stomach ache.

How long could she hold this grudge? More importantly, how long would she have to for Mike to suffer enough?

And when he had, then what?

On Thursday, July Fourth, Mike took Terrell for the day, since the Wind were in Baltimore for a long weekend series. Meg slaved over details for the Ashburns’ remodel. Tomorrow she and Jill were shopping for the final details for the room. Meg couldn’t wait. The day would be a throwback to that wonderful decorating time in Texas.

Clark, always ready to try a new grilling recipe, invited her and Terrell for dinner on the Fourth, as had become tradition. The change this year would be Mike’s presence.

Meg kept that in mind as she worked to the last possible minute. When she stepped outside, the smell of grilled meat wafted to her. Laughter—Terrell’s, Mike’s, and Clark’s—called to her.

She slipped through the gap in the bushes, ready to fake enthusiasm. She greeted Jill and Clark, gave Terrell a hug, and tried her hardest to return Mike’s smile. But the feeling of isolation grew, and her loneliness continued throughout dinner. Twice Mike tried to catch her eye, but each time she looked away, cutting Terrell’s food or starting a conversation with Jill.

Misery swallowed her.

After the kitchen and deck were cleaned, Meg stood on the Ashburns’ front steps and scanned the neighborhood. Like a handful of neighbors, Mike and Clark spread blankets across the front yard, preparing to watch the fireworks shot off at the nearby racetrack.

Meg seated herself on a cotton blanket farthest from Mike.

He sent her a smile as he spoke to Clark. “I can’t remember the last time I watched fireworks from somewhere besides a stadium.”

Memories of those rocket-lit nights returned, memories of Mike’s arms around her as the sky lit up. She could hear his laughter in her ear, feel his breath stir her hair. She could feel their fingers link together and his lips on hers. The memory morphed into the kiss at her back door, and her skin warmed as she remembered how she’d kissed him back.

A tire skidded on the sidewalk. Three elementary boys on bikes stared at Mike. “Are you Mike Connor?” one asked.

Meg glanced Mike’s way. Through the fading light, she caught the irritation that flickered across his face, irritation only she recognized, before he smiled and nodded.

The boys knelt around him while he signed one’s Nikes and another’s Sox shirt. Amazingly, the third pulled from his pocket a Mike Connor rookie card. Mike signed it with a flourish. The boys asked him about his injury, and he answered their questions with a smile, but once he’d finished, he told them to enjoy the fireworks.

The boys took his hint and left.

“Think those shoes will be worth something?” Mike joked when they were out of earshot.

“Only if they get the stink out of them first,” Clark said.

Before long, word spread that Mike Connor, baseball superstar, sat on the Ashburns’ front lawn. A small crowd converged.

Mike balanced scraps of paper, baseball cards, and other objects on his knees as he scrawled his signature. Several sat next to him while Clark took pictures with their phones, Terrell grinning at Mike’s shoulder.

From across the lawn, Meg watched him give up an evening of anonymity for strangers. In the dusk with his dark head bent while he autographed, the useless John Deere hat turned backwards on his head, he looked as young as the last time they’d loved each other.

She caught her breath as the memories swarmed her again, and by the time the first fireworks exploded across the sky, she imagined Mike’s arms wrapped around her middle, her head nestled beneath his chin.

The lawn at last empty of strangers, Mike and Clark sat on either side of Terrell, who lay on his back and wondered what fireworks would look like upside down.

“Terrell, look.” Mike oohed dramatically at a pink-and-green explosion before wiggling his eyebrows at Samuel, whose eyes were round. “Can you say ‘aaaahhhh?’” he asked, then ahed with Clark at four big booms. Grinning, he glanced across the lawn to her.

Meg couldn’t look away.

Mike held her gaze for several seconds, his grin fading.

Why couldn’t she forget him? Why didn’t the pull of him go away?

He pushed himself to his feet and darted around the back of the blankets. Her heart raced as he sat behind her and pulled her back to his chest.

“Mike, don’t,” she said loud enough for him to hear over the pop of fireworks.

“For old times’ sake,” he whispered in her hair.

His good arm, snug around her, told her he wasn’t letting go. She allowed herself to relax, feeling his chin on top of her head, his fingers weaving with hers, his Adam’s apple bobbing. She felt his contented sigh and released one of her own.

What could it hurt, this re-enactment of all they’d once shared?

For the rest of the night, she let her weight rest against him and relived, again, how wonderful it had all once been.

Friday Meg woke feeling more rested than she had in weeks. When she looked in the mirror, she found a smile on her face and blamed it on the day’s plans—shopping with Jill.

Mike had agreed to pick up Terrell for the day. Meg poured herself a cup of coffee and seated herself at the table.

Over his bowl of granola, Terrell grinned at her. “I have a secret,” he sang.

“Really?” She couldn’t keep back the playfulness. “What is it?”

With a shake of his head, he dug his spoon into the bowl and slurped milk and cereal. “I can’t tell.”

“You can tell your mom.”

“Nope. Can’t tell anyone.”

For once, he managed to keep his secret, even through her light questioning. Meg sent him upstairs to brush his teeth while she rinsed his dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher.

Mike knocked at her back door before she finished.

She caught herself waving to him and dried her hands before hurrying around the peninsula to open the door.

He stepped inside, his scent and smile warming her. “You look nice,” he said.

She glanced down at her beige shorts, lime green tank top, and white shirt opened over it. “Thanks. And thanks for taking Terrell today.”

Mike pressed his lips together, looking past her. “Where is Terrell?”

“Upstairs, getting rid of his morning breath.”

His footsteps sounded above them.

Mike leaned on the peninsula. “About that day with Jill—plans have changed.”

Her shoulders slumped at his words. “You can’t watch Terrell?”

“No, but Jill can.”

Should she tell him he wasn’t making sense? His mouth curved into a grin, and Meg crossed her arms. Something was up. “What’s going on, Mike?”

“Nothing. Your day with Jill is really a day with me.”