Читать книгу The Good Father - Tara Taylor Quinn - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

IT WASN’T BRETT’S way to put things off. The more unpleasant something was, the sooner he tended to it. A lesson learned from his past. One that defined his present and safeguarded his future.

Someone from Americans Against Prejudice—and Brett was fairly certain he knew who—was misusing a line item in the annual budget. Filtering monies meant for the general operations and sinking them, instead, into a legitimate investment in beachfront property. Brett was fairly certain the filterer had made the investment with the intention of skimming profits off the top for himself.

And that wasn’t the worst of it. The beachfront investment was only what had triggered his suspicions. Now he had one hell of a mess on his hands. He was fairly certain that the entire Americans Against Prejudice board, working together, had hired him as a cover for their illegal lining of their own bank accounts with charity funds.

Which meant they were either overly confident or just plain stupid. Didn’t they know that he’d started one of the first—and still one of the most reputable—public-record-finding dot-coms in existence? He was an investigator. A person who could find anything there was to be found.

And so, while the ladies and gentleman that he’d been sitting on a board with for three months were enjoying lunch at a nearby French restaurant, Brett, the sole nonvoting board member, was alone in the executive offices rifling through files. Thank God they were mostly computerized, and he could scan them quickly.

Fortunately he found the information he needed within minutes. Not so fortunate was the fact that his suspicions had just been confirmed.

Before the members of the board would have had time to order their gourmet sandwiches and have them delivered to their table, paid for by nonprofit monies, Brett had reported every one of them to the local police.

* * *

ELLA’S PLANS TO be home early were interrupted by her cell phone ringing just as she was leaving work that afternoon. Lila McDaniels, managing director of The Lemonade Stand, was on the other end.

“I’d like to meet with you,” Lila said after introducing herself. “I’ve just read the email naming you as the most recent addition to Santa Raquel’s Domestic Violence High Risk team. And while those appointments are made by a committee, the idea for this program originated from our facility, and I make it a point to get to know everyone on the team.”

Ella had heard about the team in a recent hospital staff meeting and, thinking the opening was a gift from angels, had applied immediately. She’d heard back within the week that she’d received the appointment. Committee work was a required and ongoing part of most professional hospital positions. At least if one had an eye on career advancement.

Ella’s motive for seeking this particular committee position was much more personal, however. And if securing the position meant taking a detour on the way home, then she’d do so. She’d agreed to a four o’clock meeting in the director’s office. And now, following the instructions Ms. McDaniels had given her, she was looking for the small public parking lot in front of the facility. The question was, did she pretend she’d never heard of The Lemonade Stand before? Or did she tell the woman that she knew the man who’d founded the place?

Had known him intimately?

And had spent years recovering from the pain he’d caused her?

* * *

BRETT WAS BACK in Santa Raquel in time to have an early dinner. He ate his peanut-butter-and-bacon sandwich pacing in front of the sliding glass door that led from his kitchen eating area to the deck and the garden and acre of woods beyond. Still in the navy blue suit he’d worn to attend the morning board meeting, he’d loosened the knot of the red tie a bit. His one concession to relaxation. His wing tips were shined. His watch in place.

Brett’s life was a mission—and all pieces were accounted for.

Except one.

That phone call he’d had that morning.

His ex-wife was in town. She had to be if she was on the High Risk team.

Facts listed themselves off in his mind as he paced and chewed in rhythm. Peanut butter and bacon. One of the few good things in his life that came from having known his father.

The old man would take credit for Brett’s choice of repast. And probably try to draw some major conclusion from the fact that the unhealthy and unrefined meal was still his favorite.

Turning to pace back in the direction he’d come, Brett admonished his father’s memory for being in his head at all. Let alone right now.

Ella was in town. No mystery as to why his father was suddenly coming to mind.

She was in town, and she hadn’t contacted him.

Not that she had any reason to. They had no connection—nothing in their lives that would necessitate them to be in the same area at the same time. He’d made certain of that. Schmuck that he was.

Even his own mother, while she’d agreed to act as his business assistant, wouldn’t be in the same room with him. Or even have a real conversation with him.

She was in his home, in his life, only when he wasn’t there.

But Ella seemed to be with him wherever he went. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake her.

Which made getting rid of her presence in his physical space, his town, anywhere he might run into her, paramount.

* * *

WITH HER PAST and her present, her current career, Ella didn’t get ruffled by much these days. Her dream of sharing a passionate, all-in relationship with another person was packed firmly away with the rest of her childhood memorabilia.

And the second she met Lila McDaniels, she felt a bit like a child again. Believing that everything would be okay. Because of the kind look in Lila’s gaze as she introduced herself?

The unusual reaction was a warning to her. She wasn’t as unaffected by the world around her as she wanted to be. Note taken. To be dealt with as soon as she was alone.

“We can take a tour of the grounds later,” the older woman said, whisking Ella through an entrance that reminded her of the heavy, pass-key-admittance-only door that led into the NICU. “For now I thought we’d have some tea.”

No question about whether or not Ella liked tea. But she did, and tea sounded good. Still in her pale peach scrubs with little bears all over them, and wearing the black rubber-soled shoes that tended to squeak a bit when she walked, Ella followed the older woman through a large, nicely appointed office into a smaller living space furnished with an elegant, claw-footed chintz couch, matching claw-footed side tables and two rose silk wing-back armchairs. The room was delightful. And took her breath away.

“Did you do your own decorating?” she asked, feeling instantly as though she could spend the next ten days in that room, reading books and feeling...safe.

The thought startled her. She didn’t feel unsafe. She’d lived alone for years and was perfectly secure.

“Yes, I did. A little at a time.” Lila’s gray pants and white blouse, her short, mostly gray nondescript hair, looked out of place in the colorful room. “Here at The Lemonade Stand, we believe that the strongest healing comes from within. We encourage our residents to look inside themselves for their inner beauty, their inner strengths. Their inner worth. We also believe that if one is told she’s bad or at fault enough times, or if one is forced to live with violence and ugliness, the beauty within becomes locked away. So we try to surround ourselves and our residents with outer beauty, with elegant and peaceful surroundings, and with kindness, in the hopes that we can help them begin to counteract the violence they’ve been exposed to and begin to access their inner bounty.”

Ella had a feeling she was hearing an oft-given speech. “As soon as I heard that I’d won the committee appointment at the hospital, I read up on all of the other team members,” she said, still standing, facing the older woman. “I’ve got The Lemonade Stand’s pamphlet memorized,” she continued, wanting Lila to make no mistake about her sincerity or value to the team. “I want to be fully prepared and able to help if I find myself with a victim in need.”

Not just for Chloe and Jeff. But for the mothers of any of her babies. Or any of the other children who came into the hospital with “at risk” symptoms.

Lila’s gaze changed. Only for a second. The calm, the kindness, covered the subtle glimpse of whatever had been there, but she was fully focused on Ella as she asked, “Have you ever been a victim?”

“Not in the way you mean.”

Taking her hand, Lila led Ella to one of the two armchairs and took the other, all the while holding Ella’s gaze. “In what way do I mean?” she asked.

“I’ve never been abused.”

“So, in what way have you been a victim?”

Whoa. Ella sat back. Feeling as though she’d been slam-dunked. And as though she wanted to cry on this woman’s shoulder.

“I haven’t been,” she assured Lila McDaniels, racking her brain for a way to explain what she’d meant. “My folks were great parents. I was disciplined by having my reading time taken away. Or by being sent to bed without dessert. They never raised a hand to me. Nor has my father ever been even remotely violent with my mother. They were high school sweethearts and are still happily married.”

“There must have been arguments. No two individuals live in complete harmony forever.”

“Of course they fought! They still do. I’ve certainly heard raised voices. But nothing that ever crossed the line into emotional battery. Or personal attacks, either, that I can think of.”

Lila’s gaze was still intent. “And what about since then?”

“I’m...I’ve never been in an abusive relationship.” Pressure built up beneath Lila’s inquisitive stare—as though the woman was certain, in spite of what Ella was telling her, that Ella was a victim.

Ella’s gaze didn’t waver. Even for a second. She of all people knew that Brett was not an abusive man. Knew, too, that there were other ways to break a heart.

Studying Ella for another few seconds, Lila finally said, “We just need to know, up front, because if you’ve been a victim, your perspective might be different,” she said by way of explanation.

“You’re saying that if I was a victim, I wouldn’t be welcome on the team?”

“Of course not.” Lila’s frown, her quick gasp, caught at Ella, putting her strangely at ease. “Oh, my word, of course not. I just...I like to know. So I can help if need be... I’ll go get that tea.”

Lila was clasping her hands together as she left the room. Ella watched her go, curious about the woman, and wishing that the managing director was a member of the High Risk team so she’d have an opportunity to get to know her better. She wasn’t, though. The Lemonade Stand’s representative was a woman Ella had yet to meet—Sara Havens, a licensed professional clinical counselor.

And in retrospect, Lila’s not being on the team was just as well. At the moment, Ella didn’t have time to make a new friend outside of work. She had her hands full with settling into a new town, a new job, finding a house and putting her family back together.

She just had to make a good enough impression to secure the High Risk team position she’d already landed.

Which was just par for her life—having to fight for what she thought she already had. Like Chloe, fighting to keep them sisters when she’d thought they were family for life. And Brett...no...she’d stop that train of thought right there.

Lila called from the kitchen, asking Ella if she wanted milk in her tea. Ella declined.

She wasn’t going to think about Brett.

Not yet.

Not until she had to.

And only then until she could get what she needed from him.