Mend (Waters Book 2)

by Kivrin Wilson

  That doesn't mean some gratitude wouldn't be appreciated, though.

  “Abi’s got another rash on her arm,” I tell him as I pluck Freya’s backpack off the floor, the only bag he didn't grab already, and we start down the stairs. “The cream is in her bag. Make sure she’s not scratching it.”

  “Okay,” he says without looking at me.

  It takes a second of racking my brain for what else he needs to know, and we reach the ground floor before I remember. “Freya’s been watching Inside Out again. Over and over. I thought about banning the iPad from the trip, but that might be pushing her too far right now.”

  Logan throws me a squinting glance. “Why’s that a problem?”

  He tucks a duffel bag under his arm to free up his hand so he can open the front door, but I beat him to it, reaching past to twist the handle.

  “I’m worried about her,” I explain. “Maybe it’s just because she’s not little anymore, but I feel like her behavior lately…” I stop on the threshold as I search for the words to end that sentence. “It’s not her.”

  The man who is still technically my husband pauses as he steps off the welcome mat, glancing back at me. “She probably just likes it.”

  He starts walking down the cobblestone steps toward the driveway. On the front lawn, my father-in-law has unleashed Baldwin and he and the kids are throwing a tennis ball for the dog to fetch.

  Pressing my lips together, I stomp after Logan. “It’s a movie about a girl who’s having a hard time adjusting to change.”

  “So you think she’s…what?” he says as we approach his dad’s SUV. “Obsessing about it because she’s unhappy and can relate?” As I catch up to him, he slants a look at me. “That’s your guilt talking, Paige.”

  “Excuse me?” I come to a dead halt on the bottom step, my legs refusing to move another inch. “My what?”

  Without answering or even acknowledging that I said anything, he pops the trunk on the big vehicle and starts stuffing bags inside.

  While I'm still frozen to the spot. My guilt?

  Is he fucking kidding me?

  Leaving the trunk open, he turns and calls across the lawn, “All right, everyone go to the bathroom!”

  “I already did!” Abi yells back, whining.

  “Go again!” he replies, striding across the grass to take a squirming Elliott out of his dad’s arms, and then Logan and all three kids head back toward the house.

  I’m still stunned, my heart pounding and pressure mounting inside my head as they shuffle in through the open half of the stained-glass double doors.

  He thinks I should feel guilty? Me? For what, exactly? Am I the one who brought ugliness and distrust into our marriage? Was it me who took the selfish route, putting my needs and wants above my family’s?

  No. That was him. And yeah, he apologized, and I tried to move past it, but some broken things can’t be mended.

  Apparently that’s on me. It’s my fault my kids now only see their dad every other weekend.

  To hell with him.

  “How are you, Paige?”

  A jolt goes through me as my father-in-law’s voice shakes me out of my fuming reverie. While I blink at him, he takes the last two bags from me and takes them to the trunk, tossing them in on top of all their well-worn camping gear.

  “Fine,” I force out, trying to calm my breathing. “How about you?”

  “Pretty good.” After slamming the trunk shut, he shoves his hands into his jeans and contemplates me with those sharp, pale eyes of his, the only facial feature he passed on to his son. The other traits they have in common are their tall, fit figures and a posture that radiates complete self-confidence, devoid of any kind of awkwardness.

  Mike McKinley has, if possible, an even bigger presence than my husband, though. A retired police officer, he still walks and carries himself with that unmistakable cop swagger. Before it became threaded with silver, his hair was a brown several shades darker than Logan’s, and his good looks—which no doubt still turn women’s heads, even though his sixtieth birthday has come and gone—are more of the rugged and unrefined kind than his son’s.

  Because Logan resembles his mom more than anything, which is something I know from a handful of pictures in a tattered old photo album that sits on the top shelf in Mike’s living room. Roselyn McKinley was a woman of ethereal beauty, the kind that belongs in ads in posh magazines, zoomed in and displayed in all her flawless glory.

  And for all that anyone knows, she’s retained that loveliness even as she ages—wherever she’s been for the past three decades.

  “Logan told me you got yourself a big-shot client,” my father-in-law says with his custom directness that somehow manages to sound both like a friendly observation and an interrogation. A former detective with experience in almost every branch of the San Diego Police Department, he now augments his pension with work as a private investigator. And he’s putting those decades of experience to use doing freelance work for corporations and law firms—in between the more mundane but high-demand job of catching cheating spouses in the act. I’ve even hired him to help me with some cases in the past

  “Yeah. I was pretty thrilled,” I tell him with a twist of my lips. “For a while.”

  His countenance remains calm, understanding. It took only minutes after I first met him to figure out that Logan’s obvious reverence of his dad was justified, that Mike McKinley is truly one of the good guys. We hit it off immediately, and he’s taken a neutral position since Logan and I separated, probably because he doesn’t want to jeopardize his access to his grandkids.

  “You’re both pros,” he points out as his dog—a retired K9 officer—returns with his drool-covered and chewed-up tennis ball, and Mike grabs the toy and tosses it across the lawn again, where it disappears down the side of the house, and Baldwin takes off after it. “Shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

  I shoot him a sardonic look as I suffer flashbacks to the two exchanges I’ve had with Logan so far this week. “I think maybe you’re giving us too much credit.”

  “Nah,” says the older man, the a-sound of the word short and nasal, a remnant of his New England upbringing. “I have faith in you.”

  Doubtful, I only arch my eyebrows at him.

  Mike shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’ll tell him not to be an asshole. He listens to me.” And then he adds dryly, “Sometimes.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and though he’s being funny, I have no urge to laugh. My heart gives a lurch as it dawns on me how lucky we all are to have this man in our lives, and I experience a stab of regret—and yes, shame—that I’ve never properly let him know how much I appreciate that he’s always been there when he’s needed, even during the past year.

  And not once has he said a word or shown animosity toward me because I want to move back up north, even though he must know and must be unhappy about it.

  Stepping up to him, I go up on my toes and give my father-in-law a quick hug, which he returns with a hard squeeze. “Have a good weekend,” I say, the word muffled by his shoulder. “The kids will love it.”

  As he pats my shoulder, I hear the girls’ animated chatter coming from the house, and I turn to see them descending the steps, carrying their water bottles. Behind them, Logan and Elliott are following, hand in hand.

  When they reach me, I hold out my arms for goodbyes, and Abi is the first to notice. Her thin little body clings to me as I wrap her up, and that knot in my throat threatens to return as she whispers a sweet, “I love you, Mommy.”

  Next I’m happily surprised when Freya hugs me willingly and doesn’t even try to get away until I’m ready to let her go, answering that she loves me, too, and nodding when I tell her to have fun.

  While the girls climb into the Tahoe, I pick up my little boy and, avoiding Logan’s gaze, hold him close and kiss his soft, chubby cheek as I walk around to the other side of the car, where Mike is holding the door open for me.

  I step up into the cab and put Elliot
t into the car seat that’s fastened into the middle spot of the vehicle’s second row. He grins at me as I strap him in, putting his tiny and slightly sticky palm on my face. With a growl, I pretend to try to bite his hand, and I’m rewarded with a peal of belly giggles. When he puts the hand out to keep the game going, I grab it and kiss his knuckles before smooching his nose, saying, “Love you, buddy. Be good for Daddy and Grandpa, okay?”

  Seconds later, with all three kids safely stowed in the car and my father-in-law in the driver’s seat, all that’s left is to say goodbye to my husband. Which means I have to acknowledge his existence, something I’d rather not do right now.

  Still, instead of just making it short and effective, something prods at me to cross my arms in front of the passenger-side door, staring him down as I ask, “Are you coming to Abi’s dance recital on Tuesday?”

  “I’m in court that day.”

  “It’s at six p.m.”

  He shakes his head. “I won’t be done until five, and there’s no way I’ll make it out here that quickly in rush-hour traffic.”

  He’s right, and I know that it’s not just an excuse, so even though part of me wants to keep giving him crap about it, I decide to let it go. Without a word, I step away from the car door, giving him room to open it.

  This is fine. We can part in peace today.

  But as he grasps the door handle, his eyes flash with something dark and unexpectedly…challenging?

  “Why? Do you miss me?” The words come out as a drawl, and his eyes darken as he adds, “I guess it’d be hard to get what you need out of any toys and accessories, huh? They probably don’t…sting enough.”

  My breath escaping in a rush, I take another step back. What is this? Bringing up the games we would play that always made sex with him such an adrenaline rush… Why? Is he flirting with me?

  If he is, it looks nothing like it has in the past. There’s an edge to the way he’s looking at me, something that goes beyond lust and possessiveness, something that’s not even a little bit playful.

  He’s angry. It’s a deep and persistent fury, the kind that blends with the blood in your veins and spreads to every corner of your body.

  Well, that’s just great. I’m that angry, too. Possibly even more.

  “Don’t forget,” I grind out, ignoring his question, “the kids and I are leaving for San Francisco next weekend. We’ll be gone—”

  “—through the next weekend,” he interrupts with a nod while yanking the car door open, “and you’ll make up for it with letting me have them the following two weekends. Got it.”

  Stay calm. Breathe through your nose.

  “Do not take them to McDonald’s for dinner,” I say, gritting my teeth.

  “Right. Slippery slope to childhood obesity and premature death.” He says it like my rules against giving the kids fast food is on par with giving them charcoal from Santa.

  While I clamp my mouth shut, he gets into the car and slams the door.

  Ugh. Grinding my teeth, I watch as he yanks on his seat belt and Mike turns the key so that the SUV coughs to life. Am I really going to let him get the last word?

  To hell with that.

  As my father-in-law starts backing out of the driveway, I rush up and rap on the window next to Logan’s head. Mike slams on the brake. His face tight with impatience, Logan rolls down the window and says, “What?”

  “I forgot to tell you that I started weaning Elliott off his pacifier a couple of days ago.”

  “What?” he repeats, his eyebrows crashing down.

  “It’s been fine during the day,” I say hurriedly, “but he’s been kind of a pain to put to sleep at night.”

  As my husband’s jaw drops, I tilt my head to look at my kids in the back seat. Waving, I shout, “Have fun!”

  It’s petty and immature, and I kind of hate myself for it, but I can’t help but throw Logan a smirk before I walk away, jogging back up the steps to the house.

  After Logan picks up the kids on Friday afternoons, I clean the house. It’s become routine by now, and I never slack on it, no matter how tempting. The sooner I get it done, the longer I get to enjoy having a spotless home before the mess makers return.

  I don’t get any further than putting music on the stereo and picking up a couple of things that don’t belong on the kitchen counter, though, before thoughts of work and Caroline and facing off against Logan distract me. So then I find myself plunking down in a kitchen chair with my cell phone in hand, looking for Beth’s number.

  Since I left Stevens and Hammerness six years ago, my friend has become one of the most successful divorce attorneys in the city. She’s so good that I didn’t hesitate to ask her to handle my own divorce, something she’s definitely more eager than I am to finalize. Probably because she’s the only person I’ve confided in. Before my marriage went downhill, my husband and my best friend were getting along just fine, but now Beth outright despises him and isn’t shy about voicing it. She’s the only one who knows what he did to me.

  And since she can’t punch him in the face, she sees my divorce proceedings as her opportunity to destroy him.

  Logan knows that. Remembering the way his face drained of color when I told him I’d paid Bethany a retainer actually kind of warms my heart. Not that I need her to fight my battles for me, but it still feels good to have her in my corner, like I’ve got an attack dog on a leash.

  Hopefully she can give me some useful pointers on this case.

  I scroll through my contacts until I get to W. Which is where Bethany’s still listed, since she never did get married and change that thorn-in-the-behind of a last name. Derek, the fiancé who gave her that gigantic rock, made it big as a fashion photographer, and tagging along while he jetted around the world from gig to gig was not on Bethany’s agenda. It was not a pretty breakup.

  She’s still single. About three years ago, though, she gave up on finding a guy and decided to adopt two baby girls from China by herself. I was thrilled for her and gave her more advice and support than she probably needed—while part of me couldn’t help secretly thinking she was crazy, choosing to become a single mom.

  I would’ve thought it was even crazier if someone had told me back then that I’d be in a similar boat today.

  My call goes to voice mail, so I leave a message, knowing she’ll call back as soon as she can.

  I start to stand up so I can get going with the chores, but the song that begins streaming out of the speakers in the living room stops me short, my chest dropping into my stomach. That funky beat and guitar riff, the high-pitched voice.

  It’s “Kiss” by Prince.

  And like always, it takes me back to the Christmas party.

  Were there warning signs I missed that night? It was pretty much the first time I had a real conversation with Logan, and it was probably when he first started to truly get under my skin.

  At the end of the night, though, I left the party more determined than ever to stay the hell away from him. Because I thought I had him all figured out, and I knew he was bad news.

  Turned out I had him all wrong.

  And it took the better part of a decade of marriage and three kids before his real self was unmasked.

  Chapter 6

  Paige

  Ten years ago

  “All right, say cheese!” Bethany’s fiancé—the dark and handsome Derek with his shoulder-length, wavy hair—peers through the viewfinder of the little digital camera, waiting for us to strike a pose.

  Throwing her arm over my shoulders, my colleague—and, to be honest, new best friend—raises her margarita glass and says, “Billable hours are up!”

  Laughing, I put my own arm around her waist and lift my drink in a toast as well. “Christmas bonus, baby!”

  While poppy holiday music plays on the speaker system and with clusters of firm employees mingling around us on the luxury yacht’s main deck, Derek tilts the camera this way and that, even jumping up on a table to shoot us from above—which
should turn into a great picture of our cleavage, what with our low-cut necklines. My white cocktail dress with its black floral print definitely feels more revealing right now than it did in the fitting room last week.

  As Derek leaps back down onto the deck, I ask teasingly, “Do we need to pay you for that?”

  Handing the camera to his girl, who slips the compact gadget back into her clutch, he grins and arches his eyebrows suggestively. “Beth’s got that covered.”

  Bethany snorts, though her mouth curves and her eyes twinkle. “That’s gonna take more than a few photos, babe.” After lifting her salt-rimmed glass to her lips and emptying the last few drops of liquid, she thrusts it at him. “Getting me another drink would be a good start.”

  As he gives a thumbs-up and starts walking toward the bar, Bethany calls after him, “Get me a mojito this time!”

  I take a sip of my Campari and soda, savoring the bittersweet taste with a hint of spice, feeling sure that it’ll keep me relatively sober. Getting drunk at a company holiday party just seems like a terrible idea. Especially when it’s on a boat. The statistical probability of someone falling overboard and drowning is way too high right now.

  With the sparkling lights of the city in the distance, we’re cruising calmly through the black water under a cloudless, moonlit sky, the vessel a blazing and noisy beacon in the darkness. I know I’m not the only one who was stunned by the opulence of the chartered yacht when we first boarded, dazzled by all the gleaming hardwood, the lush leather, and most of all, by the size of the thing, like a small, floating mansion.

  And while I’m sure everyone finds it reassuring that the firm can afford this, I doubt I’m the only one who thinks the money could’ve been better used elsewhere. Such as raises for us associates, who spend so much time at work that our decent salaries turn into a pretty pathetic hourly wage, especially considering our education level. Many of my colleagues were not as fortunate as me, avoiding student loans by having parents able to pay for it all.