Kept Page 19

  “Good girl. You keep your chin up.”

  Like she had a choice.

  Adrienne adjusted her bag. “I gotta go. Call if anything changes with the blog.”

  “Will do.” Miska followed her. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

  “No promises.” Adrienne opened the door. “I’m—”

  Tracy stood in the hallway, her fist raised to knock.

  “Well, hey there.” Adrienne sent Tracy a patronizing smile. “Tracy, right?”

  “Yes. How are you, Adrienne? Miska?”

  “Oh, we’re just fine.” The fakeness dripped. “What are you doing here?”

  What Adrienne had against Tracy, Miska would never know. “We’re watching Downton Abbey, season two. You want to join us?”

  “How quickly you forget that I have plans.”

  Let her think that. “Next time.”

  “Absolutely.” Adrienne sent Tracy another sickening smile. “You two have fun. I’ll see you later, Miska.” Adrienne waved her manicured nails and slipped into the hallway.

  Tracy stepped inside. “She does not like me, does she?”

  Miska motioned toward the living room. “Adrienne doesn’t like a lot of people. Don’t take it personally.”

  “I don’t.” Tracy pulled the DVD case out of her purse. “So are we ready? To find out what happens with Matthew and Mary?”

  Miska followed Tracy around the couch and sank onto one end of it, feet tucked beneath her. “What do we watch after this? Season three?”

  Tracy’s smile faded. “I have an idea of something to do, but—well, I think it’s an awesome idea. I’m not sure you will.”

  “Tracy, I refuse to go skinny dipping in Buckingham Fountain.”

  Tracy’s eyebrows rose. Her mouth fell open, and laughter erupted.

  Miska joined in.

  “Oh. My. Goodness.” Tracy ran her fingers through her hair. “That would draw a crowd.”

  “Like I said. Ain’t happening.”

  “Good, because climbing in to give you a towel would be awkward. Plus we’d both get arrested.” She shuddered. “Moving on. Here’s my idea.” She took a breath and squared her shoulders. “We should read a book together.”

  “Fiction? I’m not big on non-fiction.”

  “Well, I was thinking…” From her purse she pulled a thin paperback. “We should do a Bible study together.”

  Miska eased back. The title read John, and a man’s name sat low on the cover.

  “I used to be right where you are. I thought the Bible was boring, outdated. Then I came to a point where I needed something beyond myself.” Tracy set a hand on Miska’s knee. “Miska, I think you’re there.”

  Whatever she thought of this book, the concern and love in Tracy’s eyes made her pause. She wanted to say no, to get the book out of sight. But Tracy had become a true friend, a friend who hadn’t thrown her away when she’d deserved it. A friend who seemed as steady as her dad was unsteady. Everything she’d seen in Jordan and Tracy and Garrett and Dillan—at least, before he’d seen her with Kendall—all of that made her hesitate.

  Maybe this book made them the way they were?

  Tracy held her gaze, almost as if she knew her thoughts.

  No, she couldn’t toss the idea out. Not without thinking about it. Tracy deserved that much. She took the book and stared at the cover, if only to have somewhere else to look. “Why, Tracy?”

  “Because this is where it began for me. This book completely changed my world, Miska, and I wouldn’t be any kind of friend if I didn’t share it with you.”

  Her throat tightened. She turned to the back and pretended to read. “I’ll think about it.”

  The truth, though, was that Tracy had already convinced her. Because what kind of a friend would she be if she said no?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Iced tea in hand, Mark eased onto the overstuffed chair.

  Darcie’s image filled the great room’s TV. Her wavy bob bounced around her jaw as she updated viewers on last night’s fire. He hated to admit it since he preferred long hair, but the short haircut looked great on her. She’d said something about it bringing out her cheekbones. He’d agreed. What was he going to do, tell her to glue it back on?

  He set his glass aside and grabbed the laptop off the matching ottoman. The screen showed the blog one of his teammates had laughed about, the woman who lived off two pro athletes. Evan had said he needed to find himself a woman like that to make road trips easier.

  Initially Mark had ignored talk about the women on the SportsCenter clip, but when Evan wondered why a woman would take on a second man if she was in love with the first, he knew.

  Revenge.

  This Midwestern woman—could it be Miska taking revenge on him?

  He ran through the evidence he’d accumulated so far. She was in love with the first athlete, who was married. The second athlete helped make ends meet, particularly the mortgage she was trying to pay off.

  Miska had told him she’d bought more house than she could afford, but she hadn’t moved—because he’d helped her, right?

  The woman lived in a major Midwestern city on a lake. That could be Milwaukee, Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit. Maybe the Twin Cities?

  Plus Miska loved words. He could see her blogging.

  He scrolled back to the first entry. She’d just met a pro athlete who’d suggested a proposition that would benefit her financially. She debated because the money was amazing. A couple years with him, and she could be set. But she felt guilty because she loved another athlete, a guy who’d forgotten her.

  That wasn’t a match. He’d driven down to see her a good five times last off-season.

  He read on. She’d accepted this second athlete’s offer because the men’s sports were in opposite seasons. She’d checked their teams’ schedules and their paths wouldn’t cross.

  So the second athlete seemed to be a winter athlete. Basketball? Hockey?

  Which meant the first athlete had to be a baseball or soccer player.

  How had he missed that?

  He grabbed paper and pen from Darcie’s desk. He read on, writing down everything that fit. Her love for her city; Miska thrived off Chicago. The foot and a half of snow that had fallen January eighth; Milwaukee and Chicago had each received close to eighteen inches of snow; Detroit, twelve; Cleveland, nine; Minneapolis, three.

  Okay, it was Milwaukee or Chicago.

  Her guilt over the second athlete seemed to fade as he continued reading. Either she didn’t care anymore or she was falling for him.

  Darcie’s voice interrupted.

  Mark scrutinized her banter with the weather guy. Did she seem overly friendly? Or was he reliving the past?

  The most recent blog entry was May 22. The woman wrote about her first close call, one athlete coming on the heels of another. He tried to think of anything that stood out from his last visit to Miska. What day had he arrived?

  His calendar stilled him. That same night.

  He read her words again. You won’t hear from me for a while. They’re coming in one after another, something I was sure would never happen.

  Okay, this was something concrete.

  He checked Chicago’s NBA schedule. They were playing Cleveland in the playoffs, but the games had been in Chicago while Mark was there. Once he left, the series went back to Cleveland. A quick check of Chicago’s soccer team showed they’d been playing on the East Coast.

  So it wasn’t Chicago.

  Relief rushed through him. He fell back against the chair and chuckled at the ceiling. See? He’d worried over nothing. It wasn’t Miska.

  So what city was this woman in?

  Milwaukee’s NBA team was out of the playoffs. And they didn’t have an NHL team—

  Chicago did. And they were playing Boston for the Stanley Cup.

  In a few keystrokes he pulled up the schedule. Game one of the Finals was May 28. A day and a half after he’d left Chicago.

  He stared a
t the screen.

  Was this woman seeing a hockey player?

  He studied the schedule again. His shoulder throbbed, and he tried to work his fingers deep into the muscle the way the team’s trainer did. Stanley Cup games three and four, yesterday’s and tomorrow’s games, were in Boston. Games five and seven were in Chicago.

  It could still be Chicago. It could still be Miska.

  He re-read her texts. The word choices seemed similar, the style like the blog. But he was no expert. He could be seeing a match because he was paranoid.

  Was he paranoid?

  After Darcie flirted on local TV? After she took advantage of his schedule? He remembered pitiful glances from the clubbies. Oh, yeah. He was paranoid.

  He scrolled through the blog again, scanning a line here, another line there. There had to be something—

  The fountain outside my home turned on today. Every spring I live for this day. It’s like a fresh start, a promise that the cold and bleakness of winter are gone. A promise that from now on it’s all sunlight and lake breezes.

  The date was the end of his first road trip to Chicago, the Thursday he’d left. The time posted, 1:15 p.m.

  He’d been at Wrigley Field by then. Miska had been on her own.

  What’re you looking at?

  Buckingham Fountain. Isn’t it beautiful?

  He’d surveyed her instead.

  He propped his elbows on his knees. Blew out an anguished breath. It had to be Miska.

  And it sure sounded like this second guy was taking better care of her than he was.

  He rubbed the sides of his throat.

  On TV Darcie talked about a near-drowning on Lake Michigan. She’d almost left him for her old weather guy, some twerp five inches shorter than him who looked decent in a suit and tie. Not good. Decent. Some loser who’d only wanted her because of who she was married to.

  And Miska?

  She’d sold herself for money—something, frankly, that he could understand. Wasn’t he with Darcie for the same reason? His money?

  He scrolled through the blog posts, rereading the ones that talked about her guilt over athlete two. He tapped a finger against the laptop. Before he did anything, he had to be certain. He had to make sure it really was Miska.

  He stretched his shoulder, pantomimed his pitching motion. The sharp jolt of pain was still there. He’d had worse. He could play through this, still be seventy percent.

  But perhaps it was time to tell the trainer about the injury he’d been hiding. Miss a start, take a few days off, and figure out exactly what Miska was doing—and with whom.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Dude, you read it yet?”

  His brother’s words made no sense. Eyelids drooping, Dillan glanced up from where he filled the dishwasher before calling it a night. “What?”

  Garrett leaned against his bedroom doorway. “Miska’s blog. You read it?”

  “No. Tracy said it wasn’t worth reading. I already knew that.”

  “It’s not that. She wrote about you.”

  He closed the dishwasher and dried his hands on a towel. “About me?”

  “Oh, yeah. You made an interesting impression on her at one point.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “That she wuvved you. Wanted to marry you.”

  Dillan tossed the towel at him.

  Garrett snagged it, laughing. “Read it yourself. Tell me what you think.”

  “Give me something.”

  Garrett waggled his eyebrows. “Nope. Read it and see.”

  *****

  His sermon wasn’t coming. Again.

  Dillan stared at the computer screen, seeing the type but not registering it. Why was he having such a tough time? What was wrong here?

  He shoved back from the desk and strode down the hallway to the windows in the living room. Far below, Buckingham Fountain calmly sprayed while tiny people meandered around it.

  Pastor Frazier had asked him to fill in Sunday morning, to preach where he’d left off in 1 Corinthians. Dillan mentally ran through the passage, the first half of chapter six where Paul dealt with Corinthian church members suing other church members. That part was no problem.

  It was the three seemingly out-of-place verses that ended the section, the verses that listed those who wouldn’t inherit the kingdom of God—idolaters, adulterers, homosexuals, thieves, drunkards, and others. And then the final verse reminded readers of the letter that they had once been such people.

  That verse always fascinated him. Such were some of you—until God got a hold of them. How cool would it have been to be in that church? To see idol worshipers, adulterers, and thieves changed into God-honoring people? How amazing would that have been?

  Were any of them like Miska?

  That sobered him.

  He couldn’t believe he’d fallen for her, a little. Then again, women didn’t come much more beautiful or feminine than her. The farther he stayed away, the better, because he was weaker than he’d realized.

  Now every glimpse of her reminded him who she really was, of the deep soul danger she represented. Every glimpse filled him more and more with disgust.

  If he read her blog, he’d probably be even stronger.

  “Garrett, you moron,” he muttered.

  He wandered back to his office, leaned against the doorjamb, and stared at the computer. All he had to read was the last month. If she’d written details about Scheider or Sullivan, well, he didn’t need to read those.

  He plopped onto his chair and searched for her blog title which had branded itself into his mind. Her blog was the first listing.

  Her profile described her as a Midwest girl loving life in the big city, doing her best to make ends meet.

  He snorted. Buy a house in the suburbs and you won’t have to prostitute yourself.

  The most recent entry detailed her two worlds almost colliding, something she’d never expected.

  Whatever.

  The next entry talked about the beautiful spring weather she wished she felt deep inside.

  Oh-kay.

  The third entry, “Wait For It,” made him pause.

  I confess I love a good historical romance, especially one set in the Regency or Victorian era when people were such prudes. So much potential for scandal makes for a fun romance. But I’m glad that’s not how we live today.

  Can you imagine trying to get a good workout in a corset or petticoats? Or posting a picture on Instagram where you and a friend of the opposite sex are—gasp—touching and being shunned for it?

  Or actually waiting until marriage for sex?

  I’ve met someone who thinks we’re still back in olden times. Who believes in waiting until after he says, “I do.”

  That’s right. Some man said that to me.

  We’ve all been told to save it. You know, wait until it’s someone you really love, someone you can see yourself with long term. But wait until marriage?

  He tried to talk me into that view today. We had a nice, heated discussion about it and his views on how we came to be—that Adam and Eve story. The one that says God made everything out of nothing.

  He’s the epitome of the religious nut. A pastor.

  Dillan clenched his teeth.

  He says he’s waiting for the right woman. In all his twenty-eight years, he’s never had sex with a woman.

  I find that hard to believe.

  Would a decent-looking guy wait that long? He’s all male, rather good-looking in an un-GQ way. Can carry on a conversation if you start it. Is into sports and running. A guy like that waits?

  On the other hand, he’s a pastor. A Bible thumper. A man who buys into all that nonsense. Not very manly if you ask me.

  Let’s be honest—have you ever seen a truly masculine man of the cloth? Look at what the Catholic Church has dealt with in recent decades, all those priests with gay tendencies, even as they denounce homosexuality and preach abstinence or marriage.

  This guy wouldn’t be the first to li
e about having sex, would he?

  Dillan growled.

  So maybe he hasn’t had sex with a woman. At least, not in a very long time. Maybe he’s a gay man hiding it under the guise of waiting for—

  Dillan stormed to his feet, stomped to his door, stomped back to the computer. What an idiot he’d been, what a fool to share the truth with her. Trying to give her answers. Trying to point her another way.

  And here she was, telling the world he was gay.

  Well, he’d had it with her stabbing him in the back, with her fake friendliness and questions. He’d call her on it.

  He sent the post to the printer.

  The hum of the machine pounded in his head. She deserved a piece of his mind. How smug would she be when she found out he knew what she’d written?

  He pounded on her door, chest thumping with the speed of his breathing. “Come on,” he muttered. He raised his fist to pound it again.

  The knob turned.

  Miska opened the door, her forehead marred by questions. “Dillan? What is it?”

  “This.” He held the paper in front of her, aware that he was shaking with anger. “This garbage you wrote on your blog.”

  She took the page from his hand and stared at it, backing up a bit as she read.

  He barged into her hallway, letting her door bang behind him. “The things I could write about you. The way you pretended interest in what I thought. The way you asked me what you should do about Mark. And here he was, only one of your men.”

  “We had just argued, Dillan. If you bothered looking at the date, you’d remember this was right after you told me you were waiting.”

  “Well, you sure took it and ran with it. Wrote some great fiction there. Attached my name to it.”

  “I never gave your name.”

  “Tracy knew it was me.”

  “I’m sorry, but I never imagined you’d see this—”

  “No. Really?”

  “Dillan, you were an anomaly. I’m serious. I’d never met someone who believed this way.”