The Good Father. Tara Taylor Quinn

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       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 СКАЧАТЬ