Текст книги "The Good Father"

Автор книги: Taylor Quinn Tara

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

BRETT HAD ONE more stop to make before he went home for the night. He called Jeff on his way. Assured himself that Jeff was fine, for now. Jeff had had a good day out on the course and was buzzing about some stock that had just taken a larger upswing than he’d predicted, meaning that he was going to have a busy but good week. He was at his computer, working already, when Brett called.

The conversation was brief. But healthy. Work was the panacea. Brett knew that firsthand. And felt confident that his friend would be perfectly capable of giving his wife some more time to figure out what was going on with her life.

He was at his mother’s gated community moments later, used his access card to get in through the security gate and made quick work of checking over her place, reading the note she’d left for him—telling him that she didn’t need anything.

To satisfy himself, he opened the cupboard under the sink. Her trash was all emptied—she wouldn’t even leave him some garbage to dump—and she had a fresh case of water in the refrigerator. Couldn’t leave it for him to carry in from the garage. Not that she wasn’t perfectly capable of lifting a case of water, but it would be nice to be able to do something for her.

He checked the water-softener salt. The level was good.

Scribbling a note to her, telling her he loved her—as he did every single week—he was back out again.

She wouldn’t come home if his car was out front, and he didn’t want to risk finding out what would happen if he broke their agreement to always park out front when he visited so she’d know he was there.

He’d been tempted, though. He’d actually parked his car on the next block and walked over once, with the intention of waiting inside to confront her, but had turned around and gone back without entering. Her home was a safe place. But it hadn’t always been. His job, as someone who loved her, was to ensure that it remained a place where she felt safe.

Which meant that it was a place where she didn’t have to worry about losing control and beating on her son’s chest a second time.

* * *

WORK KEPT HIM occupied until ten, at which time he stripped down and took a swim in the heated pool in his backyard. Then it was inside to shower.

That was the part he should have skipped. A little chlorine left on his skin, or in the bed, wouldn’t have been as damaging as standing beneath the warm spray, his naked skin invigorated and chilled, basking in the purely physical pleasure until the sensation reminded him of other times. Other showers. Ones he hadn’t taken alone.

A vision of Ella, her long legs naked and wet, came to mind. Waylaying his well-trained thoughts. Steering them off course.

It was as if he could still smell her from earlier that evening. Knew every nuance of her voice. Felt her heat beside him and heard the click of her sandals on the sidewalk. His penis grew, and he closed his eyes, trying to bring himself back under control.

He was going to help her. Help Jeff. He really had no other choice. Ella believed Chloe. Because Chloe was the only one talking to her. Jeff didn’t want to put her in the middle.

Brett had talked to Chloe and to Jeff. He had both sides.

And he believed Jeff. He also agreed with Ella’s assessment that Chloe could probably benefit from time spent at The Lemonade Stand. The counselors there were superb. And since they all ate, it stood to reason that they’d all run into Chloe some time or other.

The immediate plan was to help keep Jeff patient any way he could. To give Chloe time to figure out her emotions.

The success of the plan hinged on three things.

He had to help.

He was going to do so without hurting Ella any more.

And the only way to do that was to make damned certain that they didn’t let this get at all personal.

* * *

NORA WAS AT the hospital shortly after Ella arrived on Tuesday. They’d found a bus route that she could take from outside the Stand straight to the hospital, and she’d been doing so every day since.

The young woman looked rested. She smiled. And if baby Henry remained stable, he’d be released to her care early that week.

There was already a crib waiting for him in Nora’s room at The Lemonade Stand.

Ella made a note on the chart she was keeping on Nora and Henry for her report to the High Risk team when she attended their first meeting on Wednesday. She was keeping a chart on another patient, as well. A twelve-year-old boy had come in over the weekend with what appeared to be a cigarette burn on his arm. He said that he’d been playing at the family bonfire and sent up some ashes, one of which landed on his skin. The doctor on call had been certain the burn came from something pressed against the skin and held there.

Mom and Dad had both been present at the hospital. Police were notified. There’d been a previous domestic disturbance call to the home the year before. Called in by a neighbor.

In separate interviews, both parents verified the boy’s story.

A ten-year-old sister did, as well.

There was nothing anyone could do but keep a watch on the family. Ella’s report to the team would ensure that elementary school and junior high counselors and a social services staff member would keep both kids on their radar. Officers from the Santa Raquel Police Department would make well checks in the neighborhood.

Notes had been made to the boy’s hospital chart, a flag added to the family’s address, so that if anyone came in again, the doctor on call would be alerted to the situation.

When Ella looked at the domestic-violence statistics she’d been given, she was overwhelmed by the size of the demon they were fighting, but on Wednesday afternoon, as she sat at a conference table at the local police precinct, looking around at the other people who sat there—different races and levels of education, different genders and ages—with one common desire to eradicate the disease of domestic destruction, she knew that they’d win. Have an impact, at least.

Having traded her scrubs for black dress pants and a white blouse, she tried to blend in as she sat quietly and took notes. When she was called on, she made her report. And throughout the meeting wrote down three names she’d been given—one from child services, and two from Officer Sanchez—to check against hospital charts for recent injuries.

At the table she finally had the opportunity to meet Sara Havens, a counselor at The Lemonade Stand and the Stand’s representative on the team.

With her shoulder-length dark blond hair and blue eyes, Sara looked like a stereotypical California beach beauty with nothing more on her mind than getting the perfect tan. Until she was asked to give an overview of the team’s core approach, as well as a profile of their victims, as a reminder for the seasoned members and to educate the newcomers. There were two other new members in addition to Ella.

Soft-spoken and unassuming, Sara captured Ella’s full attention and respect as soon as she opened her mouth.

“You can’t just tell people what they have to do and expect them to do it,” she told the table at large. “We’re dealing with individuals who feel pushed into a corner—a lot of them literally as well as figuratively. So while, yes, we’re fighting a dragon and have to be willing to use every effort to slay it, we have to tread softly. To approach with an outstretched hand, not a raised fist. If we threaten, we risk doing more harm than good. We’re trying to prevent crime here. In most cases, the next choice isn’t ours—it’s theirs. We’re just here to try to shape that choice.”

She had more to say. Then, and later in the meeting, as well. Every person around the table had a chance to speak. To give a report or a simple introduction if there was no report to give.

Sara reported on a case she and her fiancé, a bounty hunter, had just worked on with the team. The victim was at The Lemonade Stand; all warrants against her had been expunged. The gunshot wound she had incurred from her husband was healing, and her parents had temporary custody of her infant son until she and child services—Sara gave a nod to Lacey Hamilton, the team’s child services representative—determined that she was mentally and emotionally well enough to give him a stable home.

Ella added baby Toby and his mother, Nicole Harris, the victim Sara had just mentioned, to her watch list. Just in case.

The meeting ended shortly afterward. Feeling overwhelmed, awed and ready to do her part, she put her folder in her bag, slung her satchel over her shoulder and was on her way out the door when she felt a tap on her other shoulder.

Sara Havens stood there, a welcoming light in her eye. “I’m Sara. Lila told me to make sure we meet.”

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Ella told the counselor in return. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“You’ll need to meet Lynn Bishop, too. She’s our resident nurse and chief medical officer. Lila told her about you at our last staff meeting.”

Ella had heard about Lynn—she and her husband lived at the Stand along with his brother and sister-in-law, who were both mentally challenged. The number of people she knew in town—and wanted to know—was growing.

In a very short time, Santa Raquel was becoming home.

Sara told Ella about a couple other staff members as they walked together out of the police station to their cars. As Ella said goodbye and turned toward her own vehicle, Sara touched her arm again.

“Can we chat a minute?” She motioned toward a bench on the edge of the sidewalk.

Curious, Ella followed her. Clearly Sara had a favor to ask. Ella hoped it was one she could grant.

“It’s about your sister-in-law,” Sara said as soon as they were seated. “She’s not my client, and I haven’t spoken with her, but Lila told me about her situation and asked that I keep an eye on her for you.”

Ella hadn’t known. But... “I can’t thank you enough for that,” she told Sara. “She’s so vulnerable right now, and I’m holding my breath every day that she doesn’t go back to Jeff before he gets help. He’s never hit her, so she doesn’t think she’s as at-risk as the other women were...”

“I understand that he bruised her pretty badly, though.”

A vision of Chloe’s injuries two weeks ago sprang to mind. “Yes.” Ella swallowed, looked away and then back. “My brother’s not the stereotypical abuser,” she said. “He’s so easygoing...I can hardly remember him ever being angry when we were growing up. I don’t know what’s gotten into him...”

Sara said nothing as Ella paused. But her gaze showed that she was completely focused on Ella and Chloe’s situation. “I think that’s part of what makes it so hard for Chloe. Jeff’s normal demeanor...he’s like that dog that lets you hang off his ear. He’s gentle. Soft-spoken. Kind.”

Sara was nodding, and Ella stopped, worried that she wasn’t painting an accurate picture, that she was protesting too much, or not enough.

“It’s easier to wall your heart off to a mean person” was all Sara said. “Or one who has a hair trigger and keeps you constantly alert to potential danger.”

The sun was setting in the late-afternoon sky, practically blinding Ella if she glanced to her left. Feeling her eyes grow moist, she looked away from its brilliance.

“My ex-husband...he was a victim of domestic violence,” Ella heard herself saying, though this wasn’t about her. They were talking about Chloe.

About helping Chloe...

But she continued, anyway. “He described his home as a minefield. He said he never knew—whether he was getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, or coming down to dinner when he was called—if he’d tip off an explosion.”

“Was it his mother or his father?”

People came and went several yards away from them. One or two at a time.

“His father. The way he tells it, for the first ten years of his life, his dad was a great guy. The best. But then they found out his sister had leukemia, and his dad lost his job. I don’t know which came first, the drinking or the beatings, but they both came. And for the next eight years, my ex was on alert every day, setting himself up as his mother’s protector. He intervened whenever he could. And bore the brunt of his father’s outbursts when his mother wasn’t around.”

Ella stopped short of giving Brett’s name. And then wished she hadn’t mentioned him at all. His anonymity at The Lemonade Stand had been the one sticking point for him. He’d been unwilling to compromise on that. Period. He’d felt, erroneously in Ella’s opinion, that if people knew the founder was a victim, they’d be less likely to take The Lemonade Stand seriously. He’d also once told her that he couldn’t stand the idea of being scrutinized as a victim everywhere he went. But that had been long ago.

And Ella had been protecting his secrets for so long...

“In cases like that, fear, either of retribution or of an inability to make it alone, is often what keeps someone there. And while it’s a horrible, criminal situation, it’s also sometimes easier to treat. Assuming you can get the victim safely away.”

Which was the purpose of their team.

Sara waited, as though allowing Ella time to continue. She’d already said too much.

“Cases like Chloe’s, in some ways, can be a lot tougher to help,” Sara continued after many seconds of silence had passed. “The bond of trust between your brother and his wife is still intact. Her sense of safety, while somewhat breached, has not been broken.”

Two sentences, and Ella’s perspective crystallized in a way she could grasp. Work with. “She’s not afraid of him.”

“She hasn’t built walls against him. More likely, at this stage, she’s trying to understand, to empathize, in an effort to be able to help him herself.”

“She makes excuses for him.”

“That’s her way of trying to make sense out of something she doesn’t understand. She’s trying to find a way to justify actions that are out of character without accepting that maybe the man she fell in love with has changed.”

“Is that what you think? That the Jeff we all know and love has suddenly become a monster?” She blurted out the words without stopping to consider how she sounded.

“No.” Sara’s quick covering of Ella’s hand brought her back to the current situation. They were there to help Chloe.

“I’m only saying that Chloe is probably too confused to be able to act rationally at the moment. Her head tells her one thing while her heart is telling her another.”

“I do agree with that.” Which was why Ella was living second to second, always worrying that she’d get a call at work telling her that Chloe was on a bus back to Palm Desert.

“Good, because you need to understand her struggle to be able to deal well with what else I have to tell you.”

Her chin fell. “What?” Was Chloe gone already? Was that why Sara asked for this chat? Had Chloe said something at lunch that day? Or not shown up at the Stand at all?

“Our residents’ cell phones are taken away when they arrive at the Stand,” she said. “They’re kept at the local precinct...”

Just in case, Ella surmised, based on what she’d read, but also on what she’d heard that day. The police would need to be able to listen to messages. And wouldn’t want them traced to the Stand, either.

“Every resident is given the option of having a prepaid cell while she’s with us. They aren’t prisoners, and if they have other loved ones who can help them once they resume their lives, we find that it helps for them to be in contact during the recovery process...”

Ella hadn’t known that. It made sense. But what did it have to do with Chloe?

“Our residents are made aware of the danger of being in touch with their abusers during their recovery process. If he continues to control her mind, she’ll never heal. If he reminds her of who she was, fills her head with ‘abuse talk,’—you know, telling her it’s her fault, or reminding her that if she leaves him she’ll have nothing, she’ll lose everything...”

Ella nodded, familiar with the material.

“Because of their heightened awareness, a couple of the women who work with Chloe in the kitchen came to me this morning. They said that Chloe’s husband has been calling her.”

“I know they’re in touch. But only occasionally. They still have bills to pay and responsibilities to tend to. For now no one else knows that Chloe’s left him.”

“He called her four times in two hours yesterday. I made it a point to be busy in the kitchen this morning and witnessed three calls myself.”

Ella and Chloe had played cards last night after Cody went to bed. Her sister-in-law hadn’t said a word about speaking to Jeff.

“You’re sure it was Jeff?”

“Positive. She called him by name the first time. And ended all three conversations with ‘I love you, too, babe.’”

Babe. Chloe had always called Jeff that. A term of endearment Ella had always liked.

She didn’t now.

Chloe was lying to her. Not uncommon in domestic-violence situations, but still, Ella was hurt.

“Did she seem upset?”

“From what one of the other girls said, he seemed to be trying to find out where she was. Which was why their alarm bells first went off.”

Brett had said he’d talk to Jeff. Tell him that he’d seen Chloe and that she was fine. Hadn’t he done so?

She’d assumed he had. He always did what he said he was going to do. But it wasn’t as though he reported in to her. Brett Ackerman hadn’t been all that great about sharing even during the last couple years they’d been married. She knew better than to expect it of him now.

“Did she tell him?”

“No.” Sara’s glance was warm and filled with compassion. “I made certain of that much. And the last time he called, I heard her chuckle before she hung up.”

Jeff was charming her. Or was he keeping her mentally enslaved?

Ella hated that she could even think such things about her brother.

But it was for his own good. She was trying desperately to save Jeff from himself. From a future that could kill him. If it didn’t kill someone else first.

“I have no idea what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Sara said, taking her keys in hand. “Chloe’s an adult. She’s taken the first step—coming to stay with you. Feeling her way. Finding out who she is with Jeff, and apart from him. If you push too hard, you might just push her away.”

“So you aren’t worried about the calls?”

“I’m concerned. I’m planning to try to engage her in a serious conversation, get her into counseling if she’s ready to go that far. And I wanted you to know so you could be aware.”

Standing as Sara did, Ella thanked the other woman. Agreed to stay in close contact. And felt as though she’d gained a hundred pounds in an hour as she walked slowly to her car.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ELLA HAD INTENDED to go straight home after the meeting. Chloe was spending the entire day at the Stand to oversee the dinner hour, which meant Ella would have a little time to herself in her apartment.

As much as she loved Chloe and Cody, as adamant as she was about wanting them with her, she’d been living alone for a long time and had been looking forward to having some space for a few hours. To be able to talk out loud to herself if she wanted to. Or sing off tune.

But home spoke of Chloe, too. Chloe’s and Cody’s things were scattered around the apartment. Reminders everywhere of the problems they faced.

Ella had a potential new house to drive by. A for-sale option Chloe had found on the internet the afternoon before and suggested she look at. She’d taken the address with her when she’d left the house that morning.

And didn’t get it out of her purse.

Just as she didn’t think about where she was going when she turned on her car. Didn’t consider options, or ask herself what she should do. Didn’t give herself a chance to object.

Putting her car in Drive, she pulled out of the police-station parking lot and headed straight to Brett’s place.

To share the burden of Jeff and Chloe’s situation with him.

Because she wasn’t like him. She asked for help when she needed it.

* * *

HIS BAG WAS packed, by the door, and he was ready to catch a flight later that night. With a pool towel in hand, Brett was walking naked through his living room when he heard the front bell ring.

It wasn’t a common occurrence. His place was set back from the road, and labeled with no-trespassing signs, so he didn’t get door-to-door salespeople, or religious advocates knocking on his door. He hardly knew his neighbors. And the rest of his life was run by someone who refused to see him.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he went to investigate. He saw her car first. And then, through the peephole, Ella, in street clothes, her dark hair curling around her shoulders, looking...good.

Too good.

He considered pretending he was already out back in his enclosed backyard, under water in the pool. Considered turning his back, walking outside and diving in. She’d have no way of getting his attention.

And even as he considered doing so, he pulled open the door. If he thought he had to avoid her, they had a problem.

“Oh!”

Whatever words had been on her lips, ready to be delivered, didn’t make it past her open mouth as she stared at him.

“I...I’m sorry...” She was backing away, one step at a time. “I didn’t realize...”

Intrigued, a bit turned on and not unhappy to see her, Brett switched gears when it occurred to him how the situation might look, from out on the porch, looking in.

Not yet dinnertime. Him clearly naked beneath his towel...

She could easily assume he had a woman inside.

“It’s not what you think...” He spoke quickly, before she turned tail and ran. When he and Ella had lived together, they’d made love before dinner on a regular basis. They’d been apart all day. And were hungry.

“I should have called,” she said, awkwardly looking around—everywhere but at him.

“Probably,” he allowed. “But more because your chances of catching me at home are slim.”

Yet she had.

“I was just going for a swim. You want to join me?”

The question was uncharacteristic. As was the fact that he’d uttered it without forethought. Uncharacteristic to the man he’d become.

Not uncharacteristic to the much younger man who’d once been married to this woman. She’d always had a strong effect on him. And instead of dissipating, it had only grown stronger the longer they were together. Most particularly as he watched her put herself through procedure after procedure because she’d so badly wanted to bring their child into the world, and then try to comfort him after every disappointment. He’d been strangely detached himself, to the news of no baby, but each time, he’d grown more and more invested in her disappointment. He couldn’t make her happy. The conception challenges were hers. They’d had tests. She suffered from a hormonal imbalance that rid her body of fertilized eggs before they could implant. He didn’t have to feel guilty about not being able to give her a child. No, his unease was much more selfish, much more like something his father would have felt. He’d hated that she’d had to have a baby to be happy.

He’d hated the fact that he wasn’t enough for her.

He’d fought the intensity. Keeping himself in check as he’d learned to do. Preventing any chance that he’d do something unforgivable.

And he’d seen the hurt in her eyes. Day after day after day. Because of the baby they couldn’t conceive, he’d told himself. But he’d known that his distance was hurting her, too. He just hadn’t been able to do anything about it.

“I don’t have a suit.”

She hadn’t said no. She’d made an excuse. Wasn’t going to swim with him. But she hadn’t said no.

The distinction counted.

It shouldn’t.

“Although a swim sounds good.” The words came slowly. Hesitantly. As though she reserved the right to take each one back as she uttered it.

She was looking at him now. At his chest. He could almost feel her reaching out to him, running her fingers through his chest hair, pausing to tease his nipples, as she’d done so many times in the past.

“I need to speak with you, Brett.” Her frown held a question as she watched him. And for a second he wondered if he’d imagined her words. About swimming with him.

Or maybe it had just been the intonation he’d mistaken. She’d been making a casual comment, and he’d heard innuendo.

“It’s important.” Arms crossed now, she stood on his front porch, slender and tall with her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders, looking sexy and serious. Professional. Turning him on...

He spun around abruptly, before his body betrayed him. “I’ll just go get dressed,” he said. “Come on in.” Leaving the door wide, he strode back to his master suite, concerned about where this project was leading him.

* * *

ELLA WASN’T GOING to be affected by him. Or by his home. She’d never seen the inside before, of course. They’d only visited Santa Raquel during their marriage, not lived there. They hadn’t owned a home there. And he wasn’t hers anymore. Not her lover. Not her husband or partner or spouse.

But he had been once.

There was something in that.

As much as she told herself there wasn’t. As much as she tried for there not to be, there was.

So. Fine.

She knew. She was on top of it.

The danger was in not knowing what was behind you, catching up to you, preparing to take you unaware.

Meaning to stay in the foyer by the front door, her gaze focused off in space, Ella caught a glimpse of something in the room off to her right. A sunken room with lush beige carpet. And brocade furniture. An antique armoire.

The frame she’d seen drew her closer, and she saw that she’d been right. He had the photo they’d always kept in their living room on the mantel above the fireplace. It was a landscape, a small patch of beach with the ocean in the distance. Not anything that would stand out to anyone. Except the two people who’d made love for the first time there and then taken a cell phone photo of the beach as a promise to each other to never forget their first time.

She’d given him the framed photo on their wedding night.

And had wondered, after the divorce, what had happened to it.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and Ella turned, intending to say something to him about the photo—about the fact that he’d kept it, but all she saw was his back. As though he’d seen her standing there and had turned away.

“Come on out, and I’ll get us some tea,” he called from several feet down the hall, as though she knew her way around his home.

She followed the sound, wishing she could have just stayed in the foyer by the front door. Years of work, of healing, suddenly felt at risk.

She couldn’t help looking around her as she came into the large kitchen with the bay window alcove that held a butcher-block table with fall leaf quilted placemats. A gourd acting as a bowl to smaller gourds painted like fruit sat in the middle of the table.

And beyond the window was the loveliest backyard she’d ever seen. Bougainvillea climbed six-foot stucco walls off in the distance, cornering a rock waterfall. Behind the wall were some woods. She could see the tops of the trees. The pool took up half the yard and was flanked by a built-in fireplace and grill.

“Are those orange trees?” They were off to the side of the pool.

“One navel, and one ruby-red grapefruit. There’s a lemon tree on the side of the house.”

Lost in the beauty of his home, she didn’t think about the past. Or the future. She wanted to sit down. And stay a while.

“Here’s your tea,” he said, handing her a glass.

She took a sip to soothe her newly parched throat—unsweetened, with just a hint of lemon, exactly as she liked it.

He’d remembered. “These are lovely,” she said, pointing to the place mats. Their home had been nice, too, but they’d both been students when they’d first married, living paycheck to paycheck. “My mother’s doing,” he said, standing there with his tea, watching her.

She wanted to see the rest of the place.

And knew she didn’t dare. She was strong. Happy. And intended to remain that way.

She’d lost too much of herself to this man the first time around. Giving him everything, trusting that he was as invested in her as she was in him, only to find that he’d seen a divorce lawyer without even telling her that he wanted out.

Trusting that he wanted a baby as badly as she did only to find that he didn’t want one at all.

She wasn’t going to be drawn in again. Even if that meant they stood there, awkwardly holding glasses of tea while they talked.

Opening the sliding glass door off to one side of the alcove, Brett stepped outside. “Let’s sit out here,” he said and because she needed to get out of his house, she followed him.

He’d put on black pants and a striped business shirt.

“You have a meeting tonight?” Setting her glass on the table, she sat in one of the four padded chairs around it.

“A plane to catch. I have an eight o’clock board meeting in Oregon in the morning.”

A busy man. An important one. But he evidently had time for a glass of tea. In lieu of the swim he’d been about to take?

The pool was kidney shaped. Had a basketball hoop at one end, a hot tub off to the side and was surrounded by landscaped flower beds.

If they hadn’t divorced, this could have been her home...

“Did you talk to Jeff?” The question was a little more baldly stated than she’d intended.

“Of course. I said I would.” Sitting across from her, he raised an ankle to his knee and gazed out toward his yard.

“You told him you’d seen Chloe and that she was fine?” She glanced at him and then away.

“Yes.”

“How did he react?”

Brett’s gaze landed on her, and Ella lost her breath. “He was grateful that I’d checked up on her for him.”

“Did he ask how you found her?”

“I didn’t give him a chance. Before I told him I saw her, I told him I contacted you and asked you to arrange a meeting for me. After all, he knew I showed up because you contacted me saying you were worried about him.”

It had happened exactly as he said.

“And?”

“He was glad to hear that she agreed to see me. He sees that as a good sign.”

“Good sign?”

“Jeff wants his wife home. He wants to save his marriage. But he’s unsure of Chloe right now.”

That was what they needed. For Jeff to understand that if he didn’t get help, he risked losing his family forever, not just for now.

“Did he say anything about how he thought to go about saving the marriage? Like getting help for his anger issues?”