The Secret Wife. Carrie Weaver
see her through this the way she always had for him. How could he be her rock, her anchor, when he felt so lost himself?
He forced himself to think of a favorite place in the Smoky Mountains, but his mind turned to Maggie. She’d smoothed her thick, copper curls into some sort of looped braid. And her voice. Why hadn’t he noticed the perfect pitch of her voice before? He sighed.
He wished she’d come back and distract him some more. Run those cool hands over his face. Make it all go away.
But she couldn’t. Nothing changed the fact that Eric was dead. And no matter how much J.D. wanted to make it all better, it was beyond his control. Him. The big brother who made everything right.
Failure washed over him in waves. He should have been there. He should have protected his brother.
J.D. twisted in the seat, searching for an escape route. Then, in the very back row, a pair of green eyes held his gaze. Maggie’s presence reassured him. Calmed him. She understood what he was going through and expected no superhuman effort—just that he get through the funeral.
He idly wondered where she’d secreted the boy while she helped him. The kid was now happily ensconced on her lap.
Shaking his head, he decided the details didn’t matter. Knowing she was there made it possible for him to get through the service and even stay behind in the foyer, shaking hands, accepting condolences, making the appropriate responses. And every once in a while, he’d catch a glimpse of Maggie in the background, a constant source of encouragement.
It seemed like hours later when the last guest offered his sympathies and left.
J.D. looked up and saw Maggie.
Slowly, she nodded her approval.
It was humbling, letting a woman see his weakness, yet surprisingly liberating. As if she knew the worst, most cowardly part of his soul and didn’t judge him for it. The irony didn’t escape him. But it seemed right to have set aside his reservations and offered shelter to Maggie and her son. In turn, she’d offered him shelter when he’d needed it most.
“There she is,” his grandmother whispered, indicating Maggie. “I knew she’d come to pay her respects. She loved Eric. I could tell.”
J.D. swallowed a lump in his throat. “Yes, I guess she did.”
His grandmother called out, waving to her. “May I hold my great-grandson? It would do me good on such a sad, sad day.”
Maggie hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward and handed the sleepy boy to the older woman. “Certainly. You’re always welcome to hold him.”
“Come here, precious angel,” J.D.’s grandmother crooned.
David studied her, frowning. Finally, he reached up and patted her lined cheek.
J.D.’s chest grew tight. It was the first time he’d seen his grandmother smile in several very long days. Hugging the child close, she said, “Yes, you’re a precious one.”
Then she turned, still holding the baby, and marched out the double doors. “David can ride with me in the limousine to the wake. Nancy is riding with Roy. J.D., you can follow with Maggie,” she said over her shoulder.
Maggie’s face paled. “No, I can’t. Wait, where are you taking my son? Come back. He needs a car seat. He needs me.” There was a note of panic in her voice.
J.D. touched her shoulder. “Apparently she’s taking him to her house. I bet the limo has a built-in car seat. Come on, I’ll drive.”
MAGGIE USED J.D. as a human shield as they made their way through the crowd of mourners, many of whom shot her dirty looks. Whispers followed.
Holding her head high, she tried not to think of how she must seem to them. Instead of seeing Eric’s estranged wife and mother of his child, they saw The Other Woman. A woman brazenly flaunting herself at Eric’s wake.
She grasped J.D.’s arm and halted his progress. “I have to get out of here.”
“Tough crowd, huh?” He tilted his head, his eyes questioning.
“I don’t belong here.” She turned and pushed her way through the press of people, ignoring the hurtful whispers and the realization that no one met her gaze. The truth was, she didn’t belong much of anywhere, at least where family was concerned—Eric’s or her own.
Another funeral came to mind. Another person she’d loved dying too young. For a moment, it seemed as if she could feel Cassie there beside her, encouraging her to be brave, to fight for her son and her future. Ironic, because Cassie had committed the utmost act of surrender—she’d killed herself.
Maggie felt a hand on her shoulder and turned, half expecting to see her sister. But the person detaining her was very much alive and very much a threat, though he seemed genuinely concerned at times. He was still a McGuire and she’d best remember his loyalties would naturally be to the McGuires.
“Are you okay?” J.D. asked.
“I will be. Once I get my son and get out of here.”
Maggie pushed her way through the crowd to reach Edna. Holding out her arms to David, she said, “We have to go.”
David grinned at her through a mouthful of crumbs. He clutched a sugar cookie in each hand. But he didn’t move.
“He’s being such a good little boy,” Edna crooned. Raising her chin to address Maggie, her mouth thinned. “Stay just a little longer.” It wasn’t a request.
“A few more minutes,” Maggie murmured and stepped away from the crush of people.
There was a commotion near the front door, where a beautiful blonde dabbed her eyes and accepted sympathetic hugs and handshakes. A short, stocky man followed behind her, cupping her elbow solicitously.
Turning away, Maggie suppressed a pang of longing, wishing she could find comfort in the collective embrace of Eric’s friends and relatives instead of rejection and suspicion. Maggie longed for a safe, sympathetic resting place where she could give in to the confusion and grief lodged in her chest. But after that, she feared anger would follow. Anger, betrayal and envy. Emotions she could barely admit to herself, yet they simmered beneath the surface, demanding to be heard, demanding release.
Maggie felt firm pressure on her arm.
She looked up to see J.D.
He nodded toward the baby and his grandmother. “I take it she’s not about to give him up yet? At least not without a fight?”
Nodding, Maggie fidgeted with her purse. The room seemed to close in on her. Her breathing grew shallow.
“How about if we wander over to the kitchen? I’ll come get David for you in a couple of minutes.” His voice was reassuring in the midst of her anxiety. He, at least, was somewhat familiar.
“I—”
“Please? You look like you could use a break.” He glanced toward the blonde. “None of this is Nancy’s fault. She doesn’t deserve a scene any more than you do.”
Maggie hesitated, resisting the urge to understand what the other woman might be going through, the urge to understand her own conflicting emotions. Anger rippled through Maggie. Anger at a dead man for putting her in the position of feeling sorry for Nancy. Anger that she felt obligated to hide out because of his sins.
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