She looked at him, waiting for more.
But they were waiting for a reaction from her.
She drew in a slow breath. “Wow,” she managed.
“Yeah. Hearing me say things like this—it’ll shock a ton of people. But I know I’ve made the right decision. Already I feel like—like I have hope again.” He swallowed and looked away. Cleared his throat. When he turned back, his eyes were damp. “Thank you for telling me what you believed, even when I made fun. I’m sorry for that.”
Meg couldn’t look away from him. “It’s all right.” How she wished she felt like that again, full of hope and laughter at what the future might hold.
“Where’s Terrell?” Mike moved farther into the foyer, peering into the living room. “I want to tell him too.”
“He’s in bed.”
“I’ll be right back.” Mike took the stairs two at a time.
When he reached the top, Meg turned to find Clark studying her. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” she lied.
“You want to talk about it? Want to talk to Jill?”
Did she? “I don’t know what I want, Clark. I don’t know what to do about this. Or even think about this.”
“You don’t have to do anything, Meg. Just be happy for him.”
“Right.” Except being happy for Mike was the last thing she wanted to do.
And she hated herself for it.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The clock in her car read 6:28 when Meg parked in Mike’s driveway Monday night. She rang his doorbell, her stomach growling as she waited for the turn of the doorknob. Tonight, the first drive-through she passed was cooking her dinner. Mike had probably fed Terrell.
The day had gone better than expected. In the morning, she’d dropped Terrell off at Mike’s and escaped with a wave before peeling out of his driveway. At the client’s home, things ran smoothly, a rare occurrence. Now if she could get home and eat, she’d relax for the night.
When Mike didn’t answer after two more rings and didn’t answer his phone, she walked around the massive house to the stone terrace outside the basement level. On the lawn beyond the terrace, Mike crouched like a catcher, his back to her, while several yards away Terrell, ball glove on his hand, looked over his shoulder as if there was a runner on first.
So today he was a pitcher.
Terrell went through his wind-up, looking like a right-handed Chris Sale with his crazy delivery.
The ball sailed to Mike, thumping against what sounded like a glove.
On his right hand? His throwing hand? Meg frowned. “What are you catching with?”
Mike turned at her words and lost his balance, falling backwards onto the grass. Terrell laughed and ran to his dad who shaded his eyes with the catcher’s mitt on his right hand.
“We bought it this morning.” Mike lifted his gloved hand to her, a flirtatious grin on his face. “Help me up?”
No, thanks.
But that grin…
“Here, Dad.” Terrell grabbed Mike’s good arm, planted his feet, and pulled.
“Ow.” Mike hauled himself to his feet. “A little less skin there, but thanks.” He tucked the glove between his side and upper arm and pulled his hand free, then set the glove on Terrell like a hat.
Terrell shook his head, and the glove slid to the ground.
“How’d work go?” Mike asked.
She kept her eyes on Terrell, who shoved half his forearm into the adult-sized mitt. “Fine. Thank you for watching him. Terrell, time to go.”
Terrell’s face fell. “Not yet.”
“Stay, Meg,” Mike added. “We can order Chinese.”
“You haven’t eaten?”
“We were having too much fun playing baseball.”
Mike ruffled Terrell’s hair, and Terrell grinned at her. “Dad says I could be the next Cy Young.”
“Do you even know who that is?”
Terrell shot Mike a confident look. “No. But Dad says he was pretty good.” He clutched his glove beneath his throat. “Pleeeease can we stay?”
Mike cocked an eyebrow. “Sweet and sour pork, Meg?”
That wasn’t playing fair. “All right. Chinese it is.” They’d eat and leave.
But the night didn’t end with dinner. Their food arrived as a game between Pittsburgh and St. Louis began, and Terrell talked her into staying a little longer so he could talk pitching with his dad.
Meg gave in and followed them downstairs to eat in front of the big-screen TV.
The game turned into a pitchers’ duel. Terrell hung on every word as Mike explained the catcher’s role in the game. Meg curled up in one of the side chairs—what it lacked in looks it made up for in comfort—and felt the day’s exhaustion seep from her. Even when the clock passed Terrell’s bedtime, Meg said nothing. Mike was pouring all of his attention into him. This was one of those nights Terrell would never forget. If he managed to stay awake on the drive home, he’d be begging for a catcher’s mitt.
“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 abov
e 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.
Chapter Forty-Nine
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.
Chapter Fifty
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.
Chapter Fifty-One
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.
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