Oh, did that bring back memories.
“Jill left?” he asked.
“A few minutes ago.”
“Hope I didn’t mess up your evening.” Oblivious, he set the dirty dishes on the counter.
“Did your parents leave?”
He leaned against the counter while she rinsed his dishes. “I dropped them off at O’Hare before coming here. Which means I’m back to cooking on my own again. Well, tomorrow I am.”
Somehow she knew he’d end up at her table. She squeezed dishwasher liquid into the machine. “Did you have a good visit?”
“I guess. Actually, can we sit in the living room? I need to prop my arm.”
Meg started the dishwasher and followed him out of the kitchen. In the living room, he piled throw pillows at one end of the couch and sat next to them, removing his sling. “Much better,” he breathed. His broad shoulders relaxed. “This thing gets heavy.”
She sat across from him. “Where’s Terrell?”
“Upstairs. I told him to take a bath.”
“You—sent him to take a bath?”
“He usually takes his bath now. Right?”
Meg listened for the sound of running water. There it was. “He does.” What was the point in reminding him that this was her house? Not his?
He stretched his legs under the coffee table. “Thanks for being nice to Mom and Dad. I tried explaining that this isn’t all your fault, but I guess they’re still spoiling me.”
His words rankled. “They do know you had the affair?”
“Yes, but they don’t understand why you couldn’t have told them, at least, about Terrell.”
She let out a laugh. If only it had been that simple.
“Mom and Dad liked your church, by the way. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
He shrugged. “Too informal, just not what they’re used to.”
“Ah.”
“You’ve never told me why you’ve gotten into church so much.”
“You think it’s too much?”
“Twice on Sundays and again on Wednesdays? What’s so thrilling that you’d go that often?”
“Well, sometimes we have jugglers, sometimes comedians, sometimes—”
He smirked.
She smirked back. “It’s important because it’s a chance to learn more about God.”
“You know about God. You grew up in a church.”
“No, I didn’t know anything. Not really. What I’ve learned about God here…”
He stared at her, his expression one of confusion.
“It’s just different at this church, Mike. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
And have him make fun? Like he’d done before? “It’s not something you’d understand unless you wanted to.”
He leaned forward. “Maybe I do. Maybe I’m ready for a change.”
“This isn’t something you do when you’re bored. It’s a way of life. It changes your life.”
“Then how’s it changed your life?”
How did she sum it up? “It’s filled a void, something that’s always been missing. I liked our church growing up, but it never satisfied me.”
“And this does.”
“Yes, but not in a way that works just for me. This is what everyone needs. We’re all made to worship God. We can’t find our own way—this is the way.”
“You mean going to church—”
Frustration crept into her voice. “No. Not church.”
“Then what? You’re talking in circles.”
She gritted her teeth, irritated with her inability to communicate. “I’m new at this, all right?”
“Fine. Take your time.”
She exhaled. “I go because each service is an hour where I can focus on God, when I can learn more about the Bible and living as a Christian. I know so little compared to most people there. And that’s why I want Terrell to go too. Some of those kids have grown up in church. They’ve memorized the books of the Bible as children.”
He wrinkled his forehead. “Impressive.”
“See? I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“So what if they can memorize the books of the Bible. Do you have to recite that to get into heaven?”
There he went again—everything was a joke. “Forget it, Mike. I’m not going to sit here and let you make fun of something that’s important to me.”
His eyes widened. “I’m not making fun. I don’t understand. Explain.”
“No.” Mike would never see his need for God, and it would be his own fault. “You mock what I believe every time it comes up.”
“I wasn’t mocking.” He gritted his teeth. “It’s a bad habit. I’m sorry. I’m trying—”
The running water stopped.
Meg looked at the stairs. Had Terrell’s bathwater been running all this time?
“What do you bet that water is one millimeter from overflowing?” Mike asked.
“Let’s hope that’s with Terrell in the tub.” She jogged for the stairs, grateful for the interruption.
Mike was a hopeless cause. Men like him didn’t think they needed anything or anybody. He was faking interest for her.
For the first time Meg felt sorry for him.
Chapter Forty-One
After the near flood in the bathroom, there was no more talk of church, but when Meg entered the auditorium Wednesday night and saw Mike sitting in her usual row, her stomach sank. What was he doing, looking for new material for his jokes?
“There you are,” he said, smile bright, when she seated herself in the empty space beside him. “Where’s Terrell?”
“He has his own kids’ program.”
“What’s that like?”
“They play games, learn verses and Bible stories.”
“And memorize the books of the Bible?”
That did not deserve a reply. Something on the other side of him caught her eye. “What is that?”
“Um, a Bible.” He held it up for her to see. It was burgundy and simple, one of those cheap Bibles available in almost every bookstore.
Why had he bought it?
He spoke before she could ask. “How’s work going on Jill’s kitchen?”
“We’re still laying it out.” He’d asked that for three days straight. “Why the curiosity?”
His shrug seemed overly careless. “Just want to see it done. That kitchen is bad.”
It wasn’t that awful—Meg caught her breath. “You sent the money!”
“Shh.” Mike shot her a fierce look, then slouched in his seat, glancing around the filling auditorium. No one seemed to be listening. He leaned toward her. “It’s not a big deal. I make more than that in one at bat.”
True, but he’d never been so generous during their marriage. “That was very nice, Mike.”
“Well, I try. And you should let me do something for you too.”
Admiration faded to suspicion. “Like what?”
“Expect groceries tomorrow morning.”
No problem there.
“And let me watch Terrell at my place while you work. I’m only good for a couple weeks until I start serious rehab, but you might as well use me while you can.”
She’d dreaded this next step. “I don’t know, Mike.”
“What’s not to know? I’m his dad, right? And no one takes care of your kid like yourself, no offense to Jill. I can pick him up and drop him off. He’ll keep me company while I ride the bike and do other self-imposed torture.”
“But I don’t know what your house is like.”
He stared at her. “It’s got four walls and a roof. I insisted.”
That wasn’t what she’d meant. Sending Terrell to be alone with Mike was a big step. What would he expose Terrell to? What might he do or watch that she wouldn’t like?
“Come over tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll pick you two up and make dinner.”
She looked at his cast, then at him. “Dinner?”
“I can grill ribs a
nd—well, I’ll figure it out, but there’ll be plenty to eat. I’ll also give you a tour of my place, after which you may voice your concerns.”
“I’m not concerned—”
“Don’t lie in church, Meg. Even I know that’s got to be wrong.”
The drive to Mike’s home took twenty minutes, thanks to empty afternoon highways. Mike lived in a town known for its exclusive homes, but the grandeur of the neighborhood he drove through was more than she’d expected. Two- and three-story houses with multiple chimneys and garage doors dotted wide, manicured lawns with manmade ponds in the distance.
“Aren’t you a little far from the ballpark?” Meg asked, spotting another six-car garage. The house attached to it looked like a small castle behind its dramatic iron gate and fountain centered in the cobblestone drive.
“This is my off-season place. I’ve got a condo in Lincoln Park for the season. Since I’m not able to play for a few weeks, I decided to move back here for a while. It’s a little closer to you.”
He wanted to be closer to her? Why was she touched by that?
He pulled into an S-shaped drive in front of a sprawling mocha-colored brick house built in French Provincial style. Four chimneys rose above the multi-pitched roof, and a massive two-story entryway sat in the home’s center, an elaborate chandelier filling the curved window above the double front doors.
Mike parked in front of the four-car garage.
Meg stepped from the Range Rover, imagining what the inside of this amazing house must look like—ornate hardwood floors, marble countertops, vaulted ceilings, at least five bathrooms and bedrooms, and fifteen or more rooms with custom everything. She followed Mike and Terrell, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open, up the landscaped front walk.
She understood Terrell’s reaction completely. The house dwarfed even the Layton’s McMansion.
He unlocked the double front doors and pushed one open.
Terrell darted inside, halting almost immediately. “Whoa. You could fit ten houses in here.”
“I don’t know about ten.” Mike flashed her a grin and motioned for her to enter.
She did, stepping onto a polished marble floor. Before her, a grand staircase curved up to a second-floor landing supported by matching marble pillars. The opposite wall, other than an ornate carved door which she assumed hid a coat closet, stood bare and empty. Beyond the foyer lay a wide living room.
Mike passed her and tossed his keys onto a side table. “Want a tour?”
“Sure.”
He stood beside her and held out his good arm. “This is the living room.”
She eyed its sparse décor, a black leather couch and matching chairs surrounding a glass coffee table that disappeared into the expensive but bland winter-white carpet. Even the fireplace faded into the white wall.
“Back here’s the kitchen.”
Meg followed Terrell and Mike past a staircase tucked behind the living room’s fireplace and into another white room, saved by dark-stained cabinets. More marble countertops blended into the walls and tile floor, but the deck doors at the far end of the room let the view of the pond and green outdoors invade the stark interior.
Mike led them through a barrel-ceilinged butler’s pantry that connected the kitchen to the formal dining room and from there to the two-story family room with more views of the pond in the distance. French doors on the other side of the living room led to a library with polished oak bookshelves lining the walls. Most of the shelves were bare, but the lack of white walls made her label this room the most welcoming so far, despite the room giving the impression that Mike was about to move.
No wonder he spent so much time at her house.
She followed him downstairs to a walk-out basement, one wall filled with paned windows and French doors. But the room lacked appeal with the massive television screen and white built-ins, filled as they were with Mike’s baseball awards, framed photos, and memorabilia. Mike’s exercise equipment at the other end of the room did nothing to warm the space.
The second floor was more of the same. Meg had seen many well-designed houses buried beneath furnishings. But this one—anorexic described it best.
And, surprisingly, she’d seen none of the furnishings they’d fought over in the divorce. Maybe all of that was at his Lincoln Park condo?
“Is this the first single-family home you’ve owned?” she asked as they returned to the first floor.
“Yeah. After the townhouse, I lived in a high rise, but I decided I wanted something where I could walk in and out without having to say hi to anyone if I didn’t want to.” He stopped at the edge of the living room and looked around.
Did he see the same white-out she did?
Mike turned. “Let me get the grill going.”
Meg followed him and Terrell through the kitchen to the deck. Jewel-green grass spread before her, the backs of other massive homes dotting it, the sky above a brilliant blue with little lamb clouds floating past.
Mike opened the door to a storage space built into the house and, with one hand, lifted a large, unopened charcoal bag as if it were nothing, his T-shirt stretching across his chest.
Meg caught her breath. Looked away.
He’d been strong back when they’d been newlyweds. But he’d still been a kid, basically. An eighteen, nineteen, twenty-year-old kid.
Not anymore. Not even close.
She peeked at him.
He frowned, concentrating as, with one hand, he tugged the opening strip off the top of the charcoal bag. His dark hair was getting long across his forehead, the stubble he’d returned from Kansas City with thickening into a rather appealing beard he kept short.
What would that feel like beneath her hand?
Stop it, Meg.
Swallowing, she focused on Terrell, running the length of the deck. “You use a charcoal grill?”
“Not usually.” He dumped briquettes into the grill. “But I like ribs best over charcoal.”
“What else are we eating?” There. She was fine. Back in control of herself again. “Or should I fill up on ribs?”
He grinned, piling the briquettes. “No need. I picked up a broccoli salad, Jell-O for Terrell—”
She stuck out her lower lip, mimicking Terrell. “I like Jell-O too.”
“I’ll let you have some if you’re nice to me.”
“Forget it.”
Mike jerked his gaze up from the grill. “What?”
She laughed, waving a hand at him. “I’m kidding. Continue.”
“Oh.” He lit the mound of charcoal. “So the Jell-O is still just for Terrell, and I also bought corn on the cob and cornbread.”
“No dessert?”
“I’m getting there.” He stepped back as flames leaped from the grill. “How’s strawberry pie sound?”
“Perfect. You know, for having one arm”—one very strong arm—“you throw together a pretty good meal.”
“Thank you.” He raised his eyebrows at her, his smile bringing back a dimple and carving those attractive lines around his mouth. “Maybe we should do this again sometime. Just you and me.”
The idea appealed. He appealed. Meg shrugged, then smiled at him, ready to stop fighting his pull. “Maybe.”
Chapter Forty-Two
When Mike came in after the fire died down, he found Terrell spinning in circles and Meg standing before one of the family room windows.
Terrell staggered toward him. “Dad, can I watch something on that big TV downstairs?”
Mmm, alone with Meg. “Go ahead, but don’t touch anything else down there.”
“I won’t.” He tripped off in the general direction of the stairs.
“What are you going to watch?” Meg called.
“There’s a ballgame on MLB Network,” Mike said.
Terrell nodded, still stumbling over his feet.
“Are you sure he’ll be all right?” she asked.
He seated himself on the blue sectional where he could see the grill through a window. �
��Baseball on a TV that big? He’ll be entertained for hours.”
She stood silently until Terrell’s footsteps faded. “You have a beautiful view.”
“You should see it with a layer of snow.”
“You really live here during the off season? No home in Arizona where you can golf every day?”
“I don’t want to go to Arizona until I have to.”
“Why not?”
That’s right—she didn’t know. He swallowed and made a play at nonchalance. “I guess the northern boy in me needed seasons. I grew up here—before we moved to Dixon, you know? The suburbs, the winter, the snow… I missed it.”
She sat on the other end of the couch, giving him a view of her profile.
Mike rested his ankle on his knee and sat back, content to watch her for as long as she let him. She seemed different somehow. Softer, gentler.
“How long have you lived here, then?”
“Bought it the November after I was traded.”
“You must have paid a fortune.”
He was still paying a fortune. “Let’s just say I have a mortgage.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. It’s a custom build I bought from a guy who got transferred to New York partway through construction. That’s why it’s all white—that, and I’ve been too busy to get it decorated.”
“It’s an impressive house. My home must look paltry to you.”
Was that what she thought? “Meg, your house is beautiful. My place looks great on the outside, but the inside—I don’t have a clue what to do.” But she would. If he asked, would she decorate this beast for him? This, and the one downtown?
“Mike, I have to ask.” She studied him, curiosity and apprehension mixing in her eyes. “I haven’t seen a single thing I recognize.”
“Like what?”
“Everything you took in the divorce—none of our things are here.”
No. Panic raced through his chest. Oh, no, no, no. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Of course she’d look for items she’d chosen for her home.
“Mike?”
His foot slid from his knee. He leaned forward, rubbing his forehead. He’d treated her terribly. And now, when she seemed more receptive, he would ruin it.
Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) Page 18