Keeping Score

“That’s true, in a typical marriage. But your marriage isn’t typical, is it?”

Warrick considered the other man’s question. Behind him, he heard Julian moving around.

“Can you cook?”

Warrick wandered away from the view. “A little.”

“How about bake?”

Warrick shook his head. “Sorry.”

Julian’s disappointed expression quickly brightened. “I still have some of Althea’s cookies left. Come on.”

Warrick followed Julian down the hallway toward his kitchen. He’d known DeMarcus’s father was dating Althea Gentry, Jaclyn’s administrative assistant. But he hadn’t realized the older woman could bake.

Julian fished the plastic bowl of homemade cookies from a kitchen cupboard and put it in the center of the table. “Marriage is a union that involves two individuals who are growing and changing. Sometimes, you grow together. But sometimes you grow apart.”

Was that what was happening to him and Marilyn? Were they growing apart?

Warrick chose a cookie from the container. “How do you know which one it is?”

“You don’t, at least not right away. It may feel as though you and Mary are growing apart, but be patient.” Julian paused as he filled two glasses with milk and carried them to the table. “Between the NBA finals, Mary losing her job, and the two of you living in a media storm, emotions are running high.”

Warrick caught and held the older man’s gaze. “I want you to know that I have never and would never cheat on my wife.”

Julian sat across the table from Warrick and offered him one of the glasses. “You don’t need to explain anything to me.”

/> Warrick took a sip from his glass of milk. The cool drink eased his dry throat. “It’s important to me that you don’t think I’m a womanizer.”

“I don’t.” Julian sipped his milk. “For the most part, the press left Marc alone when he played for the Miami Waves. He was single, but his social life wasn’t interesting enough for them. Still, I know the media can distort a person’s image so much that even their families don’t recognize them.”

Warrick stared into his glass. “I wish my family had realized that.”

“Go easy on them, Rick. This situation is hard on everyone.” Julian washed down a bite of cookie with a swig of milk. “I’ll say this for your Mary, though. There are a lot of women who would have left the minute Jordan Hyatt stepped onto the scene. But your Mary stood beside you. She really does believe in you, Rick.”

Warrick considered Julian’s words. Marilyn had stood by him. She’d even tried to help him discredit the other woman. She’d never doubted him, never questioned him—until Jordan Hyatt told New York about his tattoo. Was he being unfair just because she was asking questions now?

21

Faye Ryland walked into Marilyn’s home and rested her hand on her shoulder. “Girl, you look like shit.”

Peggy and Susan joined the other woman in the entryway. They didn’t echo Faye’s sentiment, but their expressions told Marilyn they agreed. She turned to close her front door, ignoring the lone photographer who slouched against the tree in front of her home, taking pictures. She secured the lock, then led her unexpected guests into her family room.

Peggy lowered herself into one of the two overstuffed coffee-colored armchairs. She smoothed her turquoise and silver maternity dress around her. “Susan told us you’d called to say you couldn’t make today’s meeting, so we brought the meeting to you.”

Marilyn wrapped her arms around her waist. Warrick’s worn black Monarchs T-shirt was soft in her fists. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m not really up to company.”

Susan wandered the room. Her four-inch red stiletto heels tapped the polished maple flooring. In her flowing crimson top and black yoga pants, she was a dramatic figure in front of the white stone fireplace. She paused to study the framed photos arranged on the blond wood mantel.

“You were a pretty bride.” The compliment seemed almost grudging. Susan met Marilyn’s eyes over her shoulder. “How many guests did you have?”

“I don’t remember. A hundred?” What did it matter? Marilyn glanced at the pearl clock mounted above the mantel. Almost six o’clock.

“What’s this? You like Grease?” Susan frowned at the compact disc soundtrack that Warrick must have left on top of the CD player.

“Hey, that’s good shit.” Faye sprang from the sofa. She snatched the case from Susan and sang a couple of lines of the movie’s soundtrack.

Marilyn blinked. “You know the words?”