The Good Wife(122)
“Only if you can explain women to me.”
She smiled. “Well, I am one.”
“Maybe I should have said ‘explain women and drama.’”
“Hmm . . . maybe I should steer clear of this after all.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed, sighing, running a hand through his hair. “This is just so hard. I love my wife. I do.”
Lauren didn’t doubt it for a moment. “Then whatever it is will get sorted out.”
“I’m not so sure anymore.”
“Why?”
“She can’t let the past go.”
Lauren grimaced. “Been there. Done that.”
“But it’s going to destroy us. It will. I can feel it already eating away at us . . . the doubts are poison . . . they are.”
That did not sound good. Lauren glanced out across her section and then toward the front, making sure everything was okay. No fire, no chaos, no fuming customers. “What’s happened?” she asked, dropping her voice.
He dropped his, too. “We’ve been together a long time, been through a lot. My career hasn’t been easy for her.”
“She doesn’t like baseball?”
Boone hesitated. “I’m on the road a lot, and she’s scared by the stories she hears . . . you know, about guys being dogs.”
“But you’re not one,” Lauren said firmly.
He gave his head a small shake. “I’ve made mistakes. But I learned from them.”
Lauren’s heart thumped uncomfortably. Was he saying he’d been unfaithful?
Boone looked up at her, eyes blazing. “I screwed up. I did. I admit I was wrong, and I promised her it wouldn’t happen again. And it hasn’t. But she doesn’t believe me.”
“It’s that trust thing,” she said softly.
“Yeah. I know.”
“That’s a hard one.”
His gaze was fixed to the counter, his expression somber. He nodded again.
Lauren saw Bette, gestured to her, and Bette nodded. She reached out and touched Boone’s forearm. “Don’t lose faith,” she said, getting back to work.
* * *
Sarah hadn’t gone through his e-mail, but yesterday after Boone left for the park, she went through his pockets, searching.
She dug deep into the jeans he’d worn yesterday, found a folded slip of paper in the front pocket. She unfolded the paper, heart skidding, then exhaled when she saw it was just a receipt for Mama’s Café in Alameda.
Sarah skimmed the receipt, yesterday’s. Steak and eggs, side of biscuits and sausage gravy, coffee. Nineteen dollars and change, plus tip, then unfolded the credit-card receipt attached. A fifteen-dollar tip. On a nineteen-dollar bill. Pretty generous. Must have been a pretty waitress.
She dug deeper into the other pockets. Nothing. Picked his wallet up off the dresser. Cautiously she opened his wallet, looked inside. Lots of receipts.
She opened them one by one. Mama’s Café. Mama’s Café. Mama’s Café.
Sarah sucked in an uneasy breath.
What was it with him and this Alameda restaurant?
She needed to know. Had to find out. What was the attraction? Or more importantly, who was the attraction?
* * *
Lauren made dinner for Chris in his condo’s kitchen. She enjoyed cooking in his kitchen. All the appliances were new, and the space was gorgeous and sleek, just the way the kitchen of a penthouse should be.
They ate on his couch watching the eleven o’clock news and highlights from tonight’s game, which the A’s had won.
“You have tomorrow off,” Chris said, using the remote to turn the TV off. “Come to the game tomorrow night.”
Lauren stacked their plates. “I’m not a big Yankees fan,” she said hoarsely.
Chris took the plates from her and put them down on the coffee table. “I think you want to tell me something, but you don’t know how.”
She shot him a swift look, then glanced away. Did he know? If so, that meant someone in her family had told him. She couldn’t imagine her dad saying anything, which meant it was either Mom or Lisa.
Chris pushed a long tendril of hair back behind her ear. “Just say it. I think you’ll feel better when you do.”
“Are we talking about the same thing?”
His gaze met hers and held. “Are we?”
She swallowed hard. “Blake’s father?”
“Then we are.”
“Who told you?” she demanded.
He shrugged. “Your sister made a comment once that Blake was truly talented . . . as good, if not better, than his father. But she gave me no name.”
“So how did you figure it out?”
“She said he still played ball. You went to Napa High. I did a quick Google search and had my answer pretty easily.”