The Secret Wife. Carrie Weaver
the baby on her hip. “Mama’ll make it better, sweetheart.” Her voice lacked conviction, and only made him wail louder.
It had to be done. There was no other way.
She flung open the door before her stomach could rebel at too little food and an abject fear of confrontations. A wave of air-conditioning and escalating conversation washed over her.
Lush aromas taunted her. Beef, catfish, potatoes, vegetables. It all made her mouth water, her stomach growl. Even David seemed mollified by the plenty.
She hesitated, but only for a second.
Her gaze swept the room. Searching. She’d know him anywhere. She could be deaf, dumb and blind, and she’d still know if he was near. The mere electricity of his presence was enough to send prickles down her spine.
Nothing.
She eyed the lovely dresses, the summer suits. Her tattered pair of denim cutoffs and worn out tennies didn’t even come close.
“I think I’m underdressed,” she whispered against the baby’s downy hair. “Wish me luck.”
It seemed like it took years to traverse the ballroom, even though she knew she must look like one of those racewalkers, elbows flying, intent on the finish line.
Finally, she reached the raised dais at the front. She turned, facing the room full of lovely people.
“Excuse me.” Her voice didn’t carry to the first row of round dining tables.
“Excuse me.” A little louder this time.
They barely paused in their conversations.
Her face burned. She didn’t belong here. And if she were really, really lucky, the ground would swallow her up whole.
Then she looked down into her son’s bewildered eyes and decided the old Maggie would have to learn new ways.
She would stuff away what little remained of her pride. And she’d make the biggest, noisiest, nastiest scene she could. Until Eric crawled out from under his rock and accepted responsibility for his son.
What she needed was a megaphone. Her gaze swept the dais.
A podium stood nearby, complete with a microphone. Probably for long-winded dissertations on how the saintly McGuires had founded the town. Single-handedly prodded the economy. Provided scions of business.
Except Eric, of course. The black sheep.
She scanned the crowd one last time, hoping to settle this quietly, discreetly. But she didn’t see him anywhere.
Probably at the hotel bar, picking up a cocktail waitress.
Well, she’d make darn sure he heard her. Even in the lounge.
The new Maggie stalked over to the microphone and grabbed it off the stand. An earsplitting squeal startled David.
Silence descended on the high-ceilinged room. Except for David’s offended screech.
She jogged him on her hip as she tried to attract attention.
“Sorry to interrupt all you nice folks during your dinner. Can you hear me there at the back of the room? No, well let me speak a little louder.” Maggie raised her voice until it bounced off the walls and tinkled the crystal chandelier.
“Good. I’ve got your attention. Just tell me where that lowlife Eric McGuire is and I’ll let you get back to your meal.”
Her only response was a room full of gaping mouths. Maybe they were all mentally deficient. Maybe Eric had been the sharpest knife in their family drawer.
The thought made her speak very slowly and distinctly, as if they didn’t understand English. “I said…where is that lowlife, scum-sucking, lazy, no good SOB, Eric McGuire?”
They must’ve heard her this time, because they gasped in unison, every set of eyes as big as half dollars.
“You can’t hide from me, Eric. I know you’re out there. So get your hands off that waitress and come out here and face me like a man.”
She watched the double doors, but no lowlife, or anyone else for that matter, entered the room.
An elderly woman in the second row of tables gasped for air. Some guy with a shaved head and shoulders the size of Mount Rushmore handed the woman a glass of water and patted her hand solicitously.
David suckled on her shoulder, leaving a big wet ring on her last clean T-shirt. The baby was hungry and patience wasn’t one of his virtues. Just like his daddy.
“Look. This is David. He’s Eric’s son. We’re not here to cause trouble. We just need some…help.”
It was nearly impossible to spit out the last word. To beg for what should have been hers.
The old woman gasped, fixed her with a weird stare. The Vin Diesel look-alike whispered something in the woman’s ear, squeezed her shoulder and headed for the stage.
The guy was pure enforcer. From the top of his well-shaped head to the toes of his size-twelve dress shoes. He tugged at his crisp, white collar as he ambled toward her. His jacket fit, but just barely.
He moved with graceful control, like the guys she’d seen on televised bodybuilding competitions. The evil glint in his eye told her he’d take great pleasure in throwing her out on her rear.
The man stepped up on the dais and stood in front of her, his shoulders effectively obscuring her view of the assembly and vice versa.
He seemed ready, willing and able to block her only chance at making a better life for her child.
“Eric,” she yelled. “All I want is to talk to—”
Her jaw dropped as the enforcer produced a cracker and handed it to David. His baby sobs were muffled by the ecstatic gumming of salt and carbohydrates. Then the man pried the mike out of Maggie’s hand and grabbed her by the upper arm.
“But—”
“You wanna know about Eric?” His voice rumbled low in his throat.
She raised her chin. “Yes.”
“Then come with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Not till I talk to Eric.”
The man ran a hand over the black stubble on his head and took what looked like one of the deep cleansing breaths she’d learned in her childbirth class. She half expected him to start the hee-hee-hee breaths through clenched teeth.
Instead, he fixed her with a bright, white smile. One that didn’t come close to easing the tight lines around his eyes.
“You’ll talk to Eric.” His voice was soothing. And totally insincere.
She stood her ground and glared at him. He intended to trot her out the door and hand her over to security.
“Everyone’s been through enough.” He gestured toward the roomful of silent onlookers. “They don’t need this—” His eyes narrowed as he turned to survey the baby. “And neither does the kid.”
“He has a name. David McGuire.”
The man stared long and hard. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the old woman. When he addressed Maggie, his voice was low, desperate.
“Please. We’ll go somewhere, get a bite to eat. There’s a diner nearby. The baby…David, is it? He’s gotta be tired and hungry.”
Her tummy rumbled at the mere mention of food. Her son squirmed on her hip. Dampness saturated her shirt where it was wedged between her body and the baby’s. Warm and pungent, it would be only a matter of minutes before the odor of baby urine spread across the stage.
“Only if you promise to tell me about Eric. Promise?”
“Of course.”
David