The Secret Wife. Carrie Weaver
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