The Good Father. Tara Quinn Taylor
his eyes to where he’s headed.”
“I know.”
“So, how about we go to the beach as soon as I get off work today? We can grab some dinner at one of the places on the water.”
“Uncle Bob’s?” They’d been there over the weekend, and Chloe had really enjoyed herself. “Assuming Cody doesn’t relapse.”
“He should be fine. A reaction to an immunization is generally over as soon as the symptoms disappear.”
Chloe didn’t need to create worries where there weren’t any. She had enough real demons to fight.
“You called Jeff because Cody was sick, didn’t you?” Ella asked quietly now. She’d suspected as much.
“Yeah.”
“If I hadn’t asked, were you going to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve got to have complete honesty between us, Chloe, or this isn’t going to work.”
In the six years since Jeff and Chloe had married, the other woman had quickly become the sister Ella had never had.
“I know. I was already stressing about it, which is why I hadn’t called you, and I know that honesty between us is crucial to the support system that’s going to see me through this. I’m sorry, El. It won’t happen again.”
“It might. If this was as easy as making decisions and sticking to them, domestic violence would be much easier to fight. But we’ll get through all of this. I promise you. You aren’t alone, and you aren’t ever going to be alone.”
Ella knew how being alone felt. After she’d lost the baby and her marriage had fallen apart, she’d been utterly and completely on her own in a world of pain. She’d do whatever it took to make sure Chloe didn’t ever have to experience that particular hell.
“Have you called Brett yet?” Her sister-in-law’s voice took on a stronger note.
“No.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do this. You’ve suffered enough. It’s only been in the last couple years that you’ve seemed to come alive again.”
“And that’s why I know I can see him,” Ella said, glancing at her watch. She had an assessment in ten minutes. “Besides, he’s our best hope where Jeff is concerned. And I do have to do this, Chloe. You and Jeff and Cody—you’re my family. I’d do anything for you.”
“You know I’m here for you, too, right?” Chloe asked. “More than just helping you find a house, and cooking and doing the laundry.”
Chloe was pretty much a gourmet cook and selling her current contributions far short, but, having been vulnerable and alone herself, Ella understood that Chloe desperately needed reassurance of her deeper value.
“Are you kidding? When I finally found out I was pregnant, and Brett started to change...and then losing the baby after all those years of hoping...you’re the one who kept me going. You kept telling me that someday I’d wake up and face the day with anticipation again, and you were right. I love my life. And you’re going to love yours again, too. I promise.”
“I love you, sis.”
“I love you, too. Now go hug that boy for both of us and think about what we’re going to order for dinner.”
They shared meals, she and Chloe, when they went out to eat. Neither one of them ever finished a whole meal. And sharing was a money-saving venture that allowed them to go out more.
It was all in the plan.
And life was finally, firmly, on course.
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