The Secret Wife

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

FOURTEEN DOLLARS, thirty-seven cents—all that stood between Maggie McGuire and destitution. She slid the change into her pocket, along with the damp crumpled bills.

The Oklahoma rest stop was unusually desolate for a Friday morning. Or so she guessed. Maggie had rarely ventured beyond the Arizona borders.

Peeking through the open car window, she watched David squirm in his sleep. The car seat was too confining. The baby needed room to stretch out and roll.

What kind of mother hauled an infant clear across the country to Arkansas? And for what? The off chance that Eric would surface at his family reunion? Eric, who thought family was an unnecessary drag on his life?

Maggie had told herself it wouldn’t come to this, that losing her job wasn’t the end of the world. But she’d quickly discovered there weren’t many jobs where she could take her baby along, especially working nights. The child-care center where she’d been employed for the past six months had been ideal. But the building was scheduled to be demolished and replaced with a strip mall.

Brushing her hair off her forehead, she figured her ponytail had come undone somewhere in New Mexico. Now it was loose and wild, a copper-colored reminder that she couldn’t afford haircuts.

Eric.

She leaned against a primer-gray fender, glancing up at the clear sky. The air was fresh and warm. Innocent.

She’d been innocent once. A long, long time ago.

David whimpered.

Maggie let her eyes feast on the glorious sight of her child. Her David. A wave of protectiveness washed over her.

Eric had sidetracked her dreams, but he’d left her with a precious gift.

A gift that was nearly out of formula and diapers.

Panic hit as she inventoried the contents of the thrift-store diaper bag. Four diapers, four scoops of formula. Her eyes burned as her fatigued mind did the math.

That bought her six hours, tops.

And it was at least eight more hours till McGuireville.

As if on cue, the baby’s hungry wail echoed through her head. Huge blue eyes beseeched her. As if maternal guilt wasn’t enough, she was certain, somehow, some way, the authorities would know the minute the last drop of formula passed David’s sweet lips. And they’d take him away. Just like they’d taken her niece, Emma.

Maggie straightened her shoulders and shook off the specter of losing her only child. Nobody would be able to say she was an unfit mother once she had a degree in hand and a decent paying job. But until then, the rent was behind, her tuition was due and only fourteen dollars stood between Maggie and the nameless, faceless authorities who haunted her dreams.

David’s hungry cry galvanized her into action. She opened the car door and unbuckled the restraint harness. He stilled, waiting expectantly.

She kissed one tearstained cheek, then the other. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Mommy’s going to make everything right. Soon.”

Only eight more hours to McGuireville.

CHAPTER ONE

MAGGIE SQUARED her shoulders and prepared to do the impossible. Make a scene.

The door to the Grand Ballroom wavered before her eyes. A hunger headache and David’s cries made it nearly impossible to think.

“Shhh.” She bounced 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.