The Secret Wife

J.D. didn’t realize he’d been brooding until the waitress cleared her throat.

He looked up and she flashed a smile. She looked familiar. She’d graduated with Eric. What was her name?

“Darlene,” he read off her name tag. “Sorry, guess I was daydreaming.”

“No problem, J.D.”

How’d she know his name when he couldn’t remember hers without reading it?

It was simple really. He was a McGuire, even if only by name and not blood. The McGuires stood for something in this town—they were respected, if not revered. Their money bought a lot of goodwill.

He made a mental note to leave her a generous tip, then ordered cheeseburgers for himself and the redhead. French fries. Coleslaw. Two large sweet teas. Eric’s latest mistake looked like she could use some protein. That, carbohydrates and caffeine might get her through what he had to tell her.

J.D. watched her make her way to the table. Dark circles ringed her eyes. She looked like she might blow over with the slightest breeze.

Maggie swallowed, forcing herself to meet J.D.’s gaze as she made her way around the tables. It wasn’t a crime to be poor, but the pity on his face said it sure was sad.

Smoothing her hair, she wished she’d had a place to shower and change before confronting the McGuires. Despite splashing her face with cold water and finger-combing her hair, she knew she looked like hell. Her mother would have disowned her.

Maggie stifled a hysterical chuckle as she slid into the booth. Her mother had disowned her. But for crimes much more serious than a lack of personal grooming.

The man watched her bounce David on her knee. The cookie was long gone and he started to fuss. Poor thing, it had been a long day for them both.

Pulling the bottle from a side pocket, she said, “I mixed it with warm water in the restroom.” Help, so rare and unaccustomed, left a lump in her throat. How different things might have been if… She refused to go there. “Thank you. For the formula and the other stuff.”

“No problem. Southern hospitality.”

She could get used to this Southern hospitality. And it scared her.

“Give me the receipt. I’m a student and I’ll pay you back when…”

When?

When she paid the rent? When she had cupboards stocked with food and wipes and diapers? When she graduated from college, her mortuary-science degree in hand?

That was the only chance she might have of repaying the man.

“Here. You pay me when you can.”

She accepted the folded slip of paper and just about drowned in the kindness in his eyes. Slipping the paper into the diaper bag, she didn’t even look at the amount. Didn’t have to. She could tell to the penny what he’d spent, allowing for regional differences. Doing without had made her a great comparison shopper. And she knew convenience stores charged an arm and a leg for this stuff. Including the cheeseburger, she owed the guy close to forty bucks.

“You know babies pretty well. You have children?”

He seemed startled at the suggestion. Why? He looked to be in his midthirties. Solid. Kind. Good-looking, in a rough sort of way. A man who should probably have a wife and a few children at home.

“Nope. Couple of my friends do, though. Once they get to that age—” he nodded to David cradled in the crook of her arm sucking greedily on the bottle “—a cracker’ll get them to quiet down if they’re hungry or bored.”

“An astute observation, J.D. I didn’t catch your last name? Though with the reunion in town, McGuire would be a safe guess.”

His lips twitched. So, he had a sense of humor.

“Yep. You nailed it. McGuire, J.D. McGuire. And you are?”

“McGuire. Maggie McGuire.”

His eyes widened at that. Then the frown was back. As if she’d uttered the most despicable thing in the world.

“That’s not funny,” he said.

“It’s not intended to be.”

“Passing yourself off as his wife won’t help.”

Maggie straightened her aching spine. She wasn’t ready for this kind of confrontation. Eric, yes. She’d had several thousand miles to prepare for dealing with Eric. But this guy? He made her feel like she was doing something wrong. Something immoral.

“I’m not passing myself off as anything. I’m merely being polite and introducing myself. You draw your own conclusions.”

“My conclusions have nothing to do with this. There are already two Mrs. McGuires. One is my grandmother. The other is Nancy, Eric’s wife.”

Wife?

The word bounced around her head, slid down her throat and twirled in her stomach, before dropping to the bottom, like one of those penny wishing wells at the Wal-Mart store.

“Th-that’s impossible. I’m his wife.”

“Look, lady, I don’t know you. But you seem like a nice enough person. My brother’s done some pretty crummy things in his life, but he wouldn’t stoop to bigamy.”

“At least we agree about something.”

Eric had been a jerk occasionally. Well, more than occasionally. But he’d been a charming, loving jerk most of the time. She simply couldn’t believe he would do something to hurt her so badly. To hurt his son so badly.

But doubts tiptoed through her mind. He’d never really believed David was his child. Their argument over his paternity had been intense. She’d started spotting immediately and feared she might lose the baby. After that, Eric had neither accepted nor rejected paternity. He had simply humored her, made sure she ate right, got enough rest, suggested a few names for the baby.

And when she’d told him he was listed as David’s father on the birth certificate, he’d just smiled a sad little smile and kissed her gently on the lips. Then he’d taken the newborn from her arms and settled into the hospital rocking chair.

No, he wouldn’t be that cruel.

“Maybe she’s mistaken? This Nancy woman?”

“Nope. I was best man at their wedding, right after Eric graduated high school. And if there’d been a divorce, I would have heard about it.”

That’s when the second shock seeped in. Everything she’d believed to be true was in jeopardy. J.D. was lying. He had to be lying.

“Look, is this some sort of sick practical joke?” Maggie held her breath, waiting for a camera crew to come out of hiding, hoping against hope that this was a new reality TV show designed to humiliate the unsuspecting.

“Is it? A joke?” she asked.

He couldn’t meet her gaze. Instead, he stared off in the direction of the door. As if he would rather have been anywhere in the world but here, breaking bad news to a stranger. “No, it’s not a joke.”

“If you’re telling the truth,” she whispered, squeezing the baby so tightly he protested, “that means I’m not married. And David is—”

“A beautiful, healthy child.” He leaned forward. “That’s all that matters.”

“Why are you being so kind?”

The man ran a hand over his head. “I’m not being kind. I’m just stating a fact. My brother is a real asshole sometimes and innocent people get hurt.”

Now she realized the man had said he was Eric’s brother, not once, but twice.

She slumped against the back of the booth. “You’re Jamie?”

“Only to my grandmother. And Eric, if I’m not too pissed off at him.”

Maggie eyed him. “You don’t look anything like him.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Same mother, different fathers. Eric’s dad was my stepdad.”

“J.D.—James David?” She tried to reconcile the man before her with her preconceived idea of what Eric’s brother would look like. She’d never even seen a photo of the man, but she’d assumed he would be fair like Eric. Blond hair, blue eyes.

“Yes, that’s me. I prefer J.D. though.” He nodded toward her son. “Is it coincidence, his name?”

“No coincidence. Eric wanted David named after you. He talked about you a lot. Kind of like you were a superhero.”

But it hadn’t always been a nice comparison. Sometimes, usually when he’d had one beer too many, the resentment would creep into his voice. The great Jamie, always doing the right thing, always thinking he was better.

“I doubt that. We don’t get along very well.”

She was silent, watching David’s eyes flutter. His daddy had a lot of faults. She only hoped her son inherited the good qualities. His generosity, his zest for life. The way he reached out and grabbed what he wanted.

“I need to talk to Eric. Sort all this out.”

J.D. glanced at his watch.

“It’ll wait till morning. That way you’ll be…um…refreshed before you see him.”

“That way you can warn him I’m here.”

He rubbed his chin. “The thought crossed my mind.”

“No way. I want to see him now.”

“Can’t. He’s racing just outside of town. That’s why he missed the reunion dinner. His priorities are kinda mixed up.”

“No kidding.” Maggie glanced meaningfully at David. “You said racing?”

“Yeah, you know the stuff. Where the guys drive round and round the track until all of them are wrecked or somebody wins.”

“Of course I know racing. It’s where I met Eric. But he’d given it up. He told me—”

“And you believed him?”

Shifting in her seat, Maggie couldn’t decide which was worse, the guy knowing how completely gullible she’d been, or the extent of her desperation.

“No, not completely. I tried to call him when I didn’t receive divorce papers, but couldn’t reach him at any of the emergency numbers he’d left in the past. Then I checked the Internet at the library. He wasn’t registered anywhere on the amateur stock-car circuit.”

“And you didn’t find him under Eric MacGuire, with an A?”

“No.”

“How about Johnny Bravo?”

Bingo. His favorite cartoon character. J.D. had just handed David’s lovable, lowlife, scum-sucking, no-good jerk of a father to her on a silver platter.

CHAPTER THREE

MAGGIE SURVEYED the cramped lobby while she swayed from side to side, David’s head growing heavy on her shoulder. The motel was neat and clean. Not luxurious, but certainly not a dive—and way off the beaten track.

She watched J.D. set down her suitcase to pull a wad of bills from his pocket. He peeled off several and tossed forty bucks on the counter like it was pocket change. Maybe for some people.

The room was paid up for one night, and one night only. Noon checkout, and Eric’s brother expected her to be long gone by then.

He had a lot to learn about her.

What she might lack in worldly knowledge, she more than made up for with grit. How else would she have survived till now?

J.D. handed her the key card. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed her face.

She kissed the top of David’s downy head, avoiding J.D.’s questioning gaze.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

God, she was getting tired of saying that. Tired of depending on a stranger. But it couldn’t be helped. She’d get her mortuary-science degree, become the best damn funeral director in Phoenix and then she’d never have to rely on anyone again.

“Go get some rest. I’ll drop by tomorrow morning and take you to see Eric. They serve juice and doughnuts right here in the lobby, so you don’t have to go anywhere for breakfast.”

The threat was implicit.

He didn’t want Eric’s second wife parading around where anyone could see her. Just wanted her to disappear like a wisp of smoke. No ugly scene. No smudge on the sainted McGuire name. Sure, she’d let him savor that little fantasy a while longer.

“Oh, good. I’m really beat. We’ll just get settled in, get rested up….”

“Do you need me to carry your suitcase to your room?”

“No, I can handle it.”

“I’ll pick you up at nine tomorrow morning.”

She nodded.

He turned and strode out the door without a backward look. Problem solved. It wouldn’t have surprised her to see him dust his hands.

Maggie slid the key card into her back pocket and watched him get into his candy-apple-red pickup. She’d dropped him off to get his truck, then followed him to the roadside hotel. When she’d lagged behind, so had he. There was no way her little Toyota could outrun him, so she’d had to wait for an opportunity to ditch him.

Shaking her head, Maggie had a hard time believing J.D. and Eric came from the same family. He was everything Eric wasn’t—solid, dependable, controlled. An accountant hiding out in a football player’s body. The kind of guy who should have a four-door sedan, a Volvo station wagon even. Something safe, reliable. Boring.

If J.D. was a station-wagon kind of guy, then Eric was definitely meant for sports cars. Lots of flash and excitement, but never dependable. And her Toyota, where did that fit into the scheme of things?

A little battered, but reliable and good on gas. But underneath the hood, the little import longed to be a sports car.

David shifted in his sleep, settling against her shoulder with a sigh.

But sports cars weren’t conducive to children. And if she were one of the little Toyotas in a world of sports cars and SUVs, that didn’t mean she couldn’t be as successful as the next person. It would simply take more work.

Maggie fought a wave of loneliness as she watched the taillights fade into the distance. J.D. wouldn’t be back until morning. Lifting her chin, she shook off the pressure in her chest. Getting sappy wouldn’t pay her tuition.

Maggie waited a good fifteen minutes after J.D. left. When she was sure he wasn’t coming back, she settled David in his car seat and continued her mission.

The racetrack wasn’t hard to find once she stopped at a convenience store for directions. Straight through town, five miles on the other side, just where the clerk had said.

She swung the little car into the dirt parking lot and wedged the car into a space at the end of a row. In Arizona, the dust would’ve choked her. But here, it was the mosquitoes. They swarmed around her as she exited the car, ravaged her bare legs when she reached in to remove the sleeping baby from the back seat.

She wrapped a lightweight cotton blanket around David to protect him from the cloud of insects.

Unfortunately, her shorts left plenty of bare skin for the little bloodsuckers. One voracious mosquito died from her stinging smack, only to be replaced by ten more. Finally, she gave up.

Glancing around, Maggie was glad to note that she wasn’t late. People streamed toward the entrance gates. She let the crowd swallow her until she neared the ticket booth. There, she split off to the left, following the chain-link fence that separated her from her destiny.

Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the pit entrance. Her face warmed with embarrassment. It wasn’t right to avoid paying. But it was the only way.

Maggie raised her chin as she passed the big-bellied guy checking passes. Juggling the baby and the diaper bag, she worked on an innocent fluster—as opposed to a guilty one. The blanket inched down to reveal David’s face.

“Aw, shoot. I must’ve left my pass in the car. Bobby’ll skin me alive. He’s pittin’ tonight and I promised I’d kiss him for good luck.”

She didn’t know if it was her winsome smile, or the sight of the sleeping baby, but the guy nodded and let her through.

Maggie released a breath. Hurdle number one.

Shielding her eyes from the glare of the stadium lights, she searched the pit area. No number fifty-three. That had always been Eric’s lucky number. But number eight was a spanking clean white-and-kelly-green. Eric’s colors.

Familiar sights and sounds brought a lump to her throat as she made her way through the pits. People jostled her, the stands seemed to close in. She jumped as an air tool hammered in the area to her left. The din was strange, no longer music to her ears. She didn’t belong anymore.

But like his father, David could sleep through it all, the noise a familiar lullaby from the womb. She’d been at the track so much when she was pregnant, it probably seemed reassuring to the baby.

Maggie eyed the green-and-white car. Was number eight Eric’s? She cautiously approached, afraid someone would haul her out by the arm. But nobody noticed. They were too busy with their respective jobs, readying the car for the race.

A familiar crouched figure seemed oblivious to the whine of the air gun as he tightened lug nuts. He turned and the light fell on his face. Randy, Eric’s buddy and leader of the pit crew. If he were here, then so was Eric.

But there was only one way to be absolutely sure it was Eric’s car. Her heart hammered as she scooted behind Randy. She used the surge of the crowd as a shield so he wouldn’t see her.

Leaning through the window of the car, she surveyed the dash. Amid all the dials and stuff was a small photo taped to the dash. A wedding photo, circa the late sixties. Eric’s mom and dad, or so he’d said. He never started a race without touching the photo for good luck.

Number eight was Eric’s car all right.

The battered motor home parked fifty feet away had to be his, too. He insisted on sleeping at the track to be near his car. It looked like a few months hadn’t improved Eric’s financial position any more than it had hers.

When she’d met him, he’d had only the best—a shiny new motor home and only the finest gear. But he’d dipped into the sponsor’s pocket one time too many for bogus supplies and the gravy train had run out. Even an old family friend had a limit to how much he would allow himself to be cheated.

Though the conditions weren’t lavish like before, Maggie knew how Eric prepared for every race. He’d be reading his Bible. Maybe on his knees praying.

Funny, he might be a self-centered SOB most of time, but right before a race he always found God.

Maggie sauntered over to the motor home, acting as if she belonged. As if entering Eric’s motor home were the most natural thing in the world.

Regret flared, then died. There had been a time when she’d revolved in Eric’s orbit. Absorbed his reflected excitement and glory.

Her hand froze on the knob.

Maggie couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t.

She had vowed never to ask him for anything, but for her son’s sake, she’d always accepted the small money orders he’d sent from time to time. Now she was about to beg for regular child support. And have him explain the twisted mess of their “marriage.”

Maggie swallowed hard. All she wanted to do was turn around, get into her car and head back to Phoenix. But she deserved answers and a whole lot more.

A chubby little hand patted her cheek.

David certainly deserved more. “Hey, little guy, are you my moral support?” She hoisted him under the armpits so they were eye-to-eye. His wide smile told her she was the most important person in the universe. David planted a wide open baby kiss on her nose.

Pulling him close, she hugged him tightly. Her throat prickled with the enormity of her love for this child. For David, she would do anything: beg, plead, demand.

She grasped the doorknob before she could lose her nerve. The door opened easily, without even a squeak. Tiptoeing inside, she hesitated, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The tiny light above the stove gave off a weak glow.

The motor home was strangely silent.

Maggie observed the usual mess Eric left behind. Racing magazines, gloves, a sweating bottle of blue sports drink.

But no Eric.

Strange.

He was a creature of habit. And supremely superstitious. He had an unchanging ritual before a race. First, a Bible reading, then prayer. But his Bible wasn’t lying open on the table.

She rummaged through what had always been the junk drawer in the other motor home. Her fingers folded around a slim volume of the New Testament, the corners accordion pleated from jamming the drawer so many times.

Weird.

Had he changed that much in the six months since she’d seen him? Two since she’d heard from him?

The bathroom door was closed. Maybe a last-minute bout of nerves?

She tiptoed to the door and tapped.

“Eric?”

No answer.

Opening the door, she leaned in to peer around. Light trickled in through the bathroom window, casting everything in varying shades of gray. The shadows were barely discernible from the objects that created them.

David snuggled close, resting his cheek against her chest. His breathing slowed. Poor baby. They were both exhausted.

The white of the sink glowed pale against the gloomy backdrop. The faucet dripped.

Terrible waste of water. Maggie turned it off.

Black splotches decorated the otherwise pale sink rim, kind of like a Rorschach test, dribbling down the side, to leave tiny specks on the floor.

It was something dark, something liquid.

Oil maybe? It had splattered too much to be grease.

Maggie ran her fingers through it. Thick, crusty and drying around the edges. Definitely not oil. It almost looked like…no, her brain rebelled at the very thought. Not blood.

She searched the gloom for a roll of toilet paper, but came up empty. Typical. Eric could never remember to put out a new roll.

Sighing, she adjusted the sleepy baby a bit higher on her hip and wiped her hand across the leg of her shorts. They’d need washing later in the hotel sink.

The silence surrounded her, intensified by the muffled clanking, banging and hammering outside.

Maggie backed out of the bathroom.

She would come back after the race. If she waited any longer than that she might lose her nerve.

David squirmed in his sleep and made one of his puppylike snuffling noises. He deserved a good night’s sleep. In a real bed. And so did she.

Maggie stifled a yawn and headed for the door.

As she grasped the knob, she turned to take one more look at her past. What had once appeared dangerous and exciting, now simply looked sad.

She shook her head. Something white on the lower bunk caught her eye.

There was a lumpy sleeping bag, as usual, tossed over Eric’s belongings, as if no one would be smart enough to look there for his valuable stuff. His guitar, his pistol…

The light-colored thing took on eerie dimensions as she stepped closer to check it out. Almost like a—

Hand.

She jostled what she figured had to be his arm under the sleeping bag.

“Eric,” she whispered. She didn’t want to wake the baby.

She shoved a little harder.

No response.

“Come on, Eric, this isn’t funny.”

David whimpered in his sleep.

Losing patience with Eric’s games, she grabbed the sleeping bag and flung it back.

Time froze, Maggie froze.

She scrambled for the hand she’d seen, grasped the wrist. It was warm.

The wild thumping of her heart eased.

Until she looked at his face.

And knew, without a doubt, her searching fingers wouldn’t find a pulse. She’d been around enough corpses in her embalming class to recognize death.

Her eyes widened at David’s shrill screech of baby rage. It rang in her ears, bounced off the fake wood-grain walls, slashed through her to the very core. Only when she slapped a hand to her open mouth did she realize the screams came from her. Then, and only then, did the baby join in.

MAGGIE SHIFTED in the cold, metal chair, David’s cries echoing in her head and in her heart.

She could almost feel his terror as he’d been taken from her arms. His little hands had clutched at her shirt, his eyes wide with panic.

And she’d been forced to let him go. Hand him over to strangers. It was her worst nightmare come true. Nameless, faceless authorities taking her son away because she wasn’t a fit mother.

Tears sprang to her eyes, but she brushed them away. This was all a big mistake. They would figure out she wasn’t capable of hurting Eric, wouldn’t they?

She eyed the two deputies as one set down a foam cup of coffee for her. Both wore bland expressions.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

A half truth. Used to drink the stuff by the bucketful. Back before David, when she’d been a college student with ample scholarship money. These days, generic cola was much cheaper and did a decent job of keeping her eyes open.