Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) (27 page)

“You murder someone?”

There went the landing gear. Here came the sound of the engines. The plane disappeared behind the trees. Mike took a deep breath. “Not exactly.”

Clark said nothing.

Mike waited for the next plane to appear, watched it grow until it crossed in front of them, lowered its wheels, and descended out of sight.

Still, Clark said nothing.

Mike’s thoughts tumbled from his mouth. “Have you ever hurt so badly you wanted to give up?”

“Is that how you feel?”

“Worse lately.” He tugged on the hangnail, ignoring the sharp jump of pain. “Actually, worse since I started going to your church.”

Clark chuckled.

“Oh, real funny.”

“Sorry.” He swung his legs to the deck and faced Mike. “Why are you feeling worse?”

“It’s this guilt. I’ve hurt Meg, I’ve hurt Terrell, I’ve hurt a child I’ll never know. I see Meg react to what I’ve done to her, and…” He dropped his head against the chair. “I look over the last decade of my life, and I think what have I done? I’ve hit homers, I’ve stolen bases, I’ve made money.” He shrugged. “But inside, I—” He stopped at the tremor in his voice and took a deep breath. “I wish I could change everything.”

This time the deep breath did not help. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Mike, you don’t have to live with guilt.”

What a joke that was. “I’ve had six years to forget about Meg and five years to forget about my child, and it hasn’t happened. And I don’t see it happening. You know what I see? Meg hating me for the rest of my life. I see Terrell growing up to realize what a loser he has for a dad.”

“You don’t know the future.”

“You’re right. It could be worse.” He yanked again at the stubborn hangnail. He deserved the pain. “You know what I’ve learned about myself?”

“What?”

“That I’m a horrible person. All those people who asked for my autograph today—I wanted to tell them they were crazy. There isn’t anything good about me.”

“You’re right.”

Mike squinted at Clark. “You don’t have to agree so quickly.”

Clark ignored him. “Everything you’ve said is the first step toward changing.”

“Please don’t tell me there are eleven more.” There he went, making jokes. Mike let his hands fall onto the armrests. “Sorry. Go on. I think.”

“You’ve told me you believe in God.”

He nodded. God seemed pretty obvious.

“Do you know that God says there is no one who’s done good, that all of our good works are like dirty rags? Not just you, Mike. Everyone. Me, Jill, Meg, Terrell.”

“Can’t say that I see that in you, but we’ve established that I’m not perfect.”

“No one is. We’ve all fallen short of God’s glory. It’s like this. Let’s say you and I go to your stadium. We each have to hit a ball out of the park.”

“Okay.”

“You go first. You hit a ball that lands on the warning track. Almost a home run. Pretty good. Then I get to bat.”

“If I can hit a ball to the warning track,” Mike joked, gesturing to his cast, “you can hit a home run.”

“Let’s say I do. It lands in the bleachers, back row. I got farther than you, but I still failed to hit the ball out of the park. So what does it matter who did better? We both fell short of the goal.”

The image made him think. “You’re saying it doesn’t matter how good you are.”

“It’s not what I say, Mike. It’s what the Bible says. We all fall short. Are there people who live better lives than others? Sure. But the sin we
all
have keeps us
all
from God.”

Inside, sin coated Mike. Every day he lived with its weight. But how did he get rid of it? “You’re not making me feel better.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better. I want you to see the truth. The truth is what changes you.”

Could he change? “Clark, I understand enough to know that if I believed what you believe, I’d have to completely change my life.”

Clark held his gaze. “Is the way you’re living that great?”

Mike opened his mouth, closed it.

“All these things you’re realizing about yourself, all the sin you’ve done—that keeps you from God. He’s holy, Mike. Perfect. He created a perfect world, and we destroyed it and each other. God has every right to let us go on in the mess we made. To face the consequences of our sin. But he loves us. He made a way for us to be free of the guilt. Free to have a second chance.”

A second chance. Mike sat up in his chair. “I’m listening.”

Somehow Mike made it to the Sunday evening service.

Meg had not expected him—the Wind’s afternoon game had gone into extra innings—but he must have left as soon as the game ended. He pulled into the church parking lot just as she and Terrell reached the main doors.

It had been nice, sitting alone with Terrell in the morning service. Mike had been at the stadium, working out with the trainers, then with the team during the game. Now he sat beside her, fidgeting as if his seat were upholstered with steel wool. He leaned forward and rubbed his face with his palm, blowing another deep breath from puffed-out cheeks. What was the matter with him?

Every movement was characteristic of Mike on edge. He’d acted the same on draft day while they’d waited for a major league team to call. He’d been like this in the Virginia Burger King when he’d asked her to marry him.

Mike sat back hard, and Meg’s seat jiggled.

Why was he nervous?

The piano began the closing song, and Meg stood with everyone else. The head pastor gave his usual invitation.

Mike pulled his hand from his pocket and ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes squeezed shut.

Around her people began to sing, but Meg could not. Surely Mike wasn’t—

A laugh welled up in her throat, but she held it back at the misery on his face. She had to be mistaken. Mike wouldn’t—

No. This couldn’t be.

She gripped the seatback until her knuckles turned white. If Mike became a Christian, everything would change. Terrell, Jill, Clark—they’d all expect her to marry him and would never understand why she didn’t. Mike would end up the good guy, and she’d be labeled a bitter, unforgiving—

He shifted in place.

She caught her breath, holding it until she was sure he wasn’t going anywhere.

Still, his fingers drummed the top of the chair in front of him.

The song played on, and Meg held herself motionless, watching his fingers fight to release his tension.

The song finally ended. Pastor prayed, said amen. People turned, gathering their things. Conversations built around them.

It was over, and Mike still stood beside her.

Maybe she’d read him wrong. She bent to pick up her purse and Bible. Of course she’d read him wrong. Mike would never—

“Meg.”

His voice startled her, and she straightened, cracking her head against his chin. “Ow.” She held a hand to the top of her head. “What?”

“I need to talk to someone.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got to find Clark.” He looked past her, searching the wide auditorium. “Do you see him?” His eyes halted on a spot beyond her. “There he is.”

Mike strode up the aisle, his focus glued to the far wall where Clark laughed and talked with a young couple. He hurried along the back wall, giving a distracted smile and nod to the many who said hello before honing in on Clark.

She couldn’t stand to watch. Not when everything was about to change. She clutched her Bible to her chest. “Let’s go home, Terrell.”

An hour later, Mike’s Range Rover pulled into her drive. Clark stepped out of the passenger’s side and walked with Mike to her front door, the two of them smiling, laughing, as they talked.

Meg’s heart sank.

Which was horrible. How could she be upset about this?

Yet there it was. She did
not
want to talk to him. Not right now.

She opened her front door, a smile pasted on her face, and the men stepped inside.

Meg studied Mike. All the tension from earlier was gone, and his eyes—even his eyes smiled.

Clark broke the silence. “Meg, we’ve been talking with Pastor. Mike wants to tell you what’s happened.”

He didn’t need to tell her; she already knew.

But Mike ducked his head, a smile filling his face. “I’ve been struggling with guilt—for a long time. Guilt over you, over everything we’ve talked about.” He glanced at Clark. “Clark and I have been talking. I stayed up last night, reading some verses he showed me, and I had to admit that the things I’ve heard at your church are the truth. The things you and Terrell believe, the things Clark teaches—” His smile increased. “I know they’re true, and I’ve given myself, such as I am, to God. I’m gonna follow him.”

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.

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.