Husband by Choice. Tara Quinn Taylor
a sad smile on her face, looking as if she wanted to say more.
“That’s fine, then,” she said. “Your secrets are safe here.”
“I appreciate that so much.”
“When you’re ready, I hope you’ll talk with one of us, Sara or myself or any of the other counselors. We’re here to help. And anything that’s said within these walls stays here.”
“Thank you.” She’d met Sara. Had liked her. But Jenna could probably facilitate any counseling session these good women had to give. There was nothing they could tell her, in terms of battered-wife recovery, that she didn’t already know.
And sometimes all the knowing in the world, all the protection in the world, wasn’t enough.
Sometimes a woman had to be enough all on her own. No matter the consequences.
“You’re sure you don’t want us to notify the police?”
“No!” She almost sat up at that. And calmed herself. “Please, no,” she said. This point was not negotiable. “It does you no good to do so behind my back, right?” she felt compelled to point out. To reassure herself. “There’s nothing to report if I don’t speak up.”
“That’s correct. But we wouldn’t go behind your back in any case, Jenna. Not unless you were a minor or had a minor with you. In that case, we have no choice but to involve the police.”
She nodded. Understanding. And concentrated on relaxing her muscles. One at a time.
The diary in the desk was bothering her. Burning at the edges of her concentration. She was going to have to hide it. Or have it on her person at all times.
“Do you have my cell phone?” she asked now. Lila had mentioned a prepaid device that she could have if she wanted it.
“I do.” Reaching into the pocket of her suit jacket, she pulled out an old-fashioned looking flip phone.
It would do nicely.
“You can’t text or get email, but you can make calls....”
“That’s fine,” she said, sitting up to take the phone and liking the way she could clutch the thing securely in one hand. “I don’t have anything to text or email to anyone.”
And she wouldn’t send either if she did have something to say. Data could be traced.
She had a phone. An untraceable phone. The air in the room lifted. Being without a phone had not been good for her. Making a mental note to have an extra prepaid cell phone on hand at all times, she waited for Lila to stand and go.
“I know that there’s nothing I can say that will help you trust me, Jenna,” the woman said instead. And frowned. “Very few of our residents trust any of us at first. I understand that. Trust has to be earned....”
And sometimes trust came too late to do any good.
“But you...you’re different.”
Yes, she was. Oh, she’d been a battered wife like everyone else staying in the bungalows at The Lemonade Stand. But the physical beatings she’d taken had been the easiest part. “I get the feeling that you’ve been here,” Lila said, unsettling Jenna with the uncanny resemblance to her own thoughts just minutes before. “I’ve been at The Lemonade Stand since day one and I know I’ve never seen you before.” Lila shook her head. “And yet, I feel as though you know this place. Or one like it.”
Four like it. The shelters had been the only places Steve had never been able to breach. Most often, the general public knew of them, but didn’t know the exact location of the buildings where the women stayed. At The Lemonade Stand they were sprawled across several acres hidden behind a two-block strip of shops also owned and run by the Stand.
Others had had a known home office, with housing buildings situated in various and changing locations around the city in which they were located.
In each shelter, in different cities, she’d become reacquainted with the self she’d been before he’d found her again. She’d found a way to believe once more. To venture out...
Not this time. Her stay at The Lemonade Stand was for one specific purpose only. To have a safe place to formulate her plan. She needed a little time to research the psychology of abuse, to get so deeply inside Steve’s head that she could figure out how best to manipulate him. Undercover work at its best. Ironic that she’d take what she’d learned while living with an abusive detective to finally be free of him. She’d do the necessary research at the on-site library, or from a computer there. Figure out where and how to meet up with him. Practice until she could act in her sleep.
And then, as quietly as she’d arrived, she’d leave this place.
“You can trust me, Jenna.” Lila’s expression was genuine, the compassion Jenna read there wrenching at emotions she couldn’t afford. Or allow. “I...I...just, please, know that no matter what, you can come to me. Any time of the day or night. All rules and regulations aside. Don’t let anyone stop you. Not staff, not security. Not anyone. If you need me, you get to me.”
The speech wasn’t normal. Didn’t resemble any of the other first night welcome talks, or any other talk she’d ever had at any of the other shelters where she’d sought solace.
And Jenna instinctively knew, as she sat there on the bed with the gray-haired woman, that Lila had never said those words before.
Not to anyone.
“Yes, ma’am.” She swallowed. Knew that she needed to rest. Sleep would ease the need to cry.
Lila sat with her for several more minutes. A silent companion. And then without any fuss she stood and left.
Waiting until she heard the door click shut, Jenna slid off the bed, retrieved the diary from the desk, and tucked it into the waistband of the pair of dress slacks she was no longer going to need. Then, without turning off the light or visiting her adjoining private bathroom, she lay back down on the bed, cell phone still held securely in her palm, and went to sleep.
In the morning, things would look different.
In the morning, she’d know the next step to take.
In the morning....
MAX PUT HIS son to bed right on time. Routine was important. Keeping Caleb’s boundaries the same would give him a sense of security.
Max needed the toddler asleep so he’d quit asking for his mother.
The boy complied with relative ease. Almost convincing Max that he was overreacting— panicking too soon.
She’d left the keys in the car. Not under the seat, which she’d stipulated would be her sign if she was running from Steve, but in the cup holder. That had to mean something.
He wandered through the rooms of their home. Hearing her laughter at the bottom of the stairs. In the living room it was her assertion that one maroon wall would give the place more life—she’d been right.
Because he’d insisted that Meri would have talked to him if she’d truly wanted out of their marriage, or maybe because she’d felt sorry for him, Chantel had agreed to use her off-duty time to continue looking for Meri, following up on all leads, making calls, attempting to locate Steve Smith who’d left detective work and had fallen off the grid....
The kitchen reverberated with the echo of excitement in his wife’s voice as she rattled off the money she’d saved with her shoppers card and coupons—money that they both provided in excess of their needs.
Eventually he wound up in their bedroom. And turned right around and headed back out again. Caleb was still sleeping in a crib. He wouldn’t be up wandering in the night, looking for his parents to be in their bed. No risk of him finding it empty and