The Good Father

“Of course not. I have nothing to do with any of that. You know that.”

“You still get the reports.”

“Yes.” The place was his responsibility. Others did the work, but ultimately the buck stopped with him. He had to read the reports.

Ella nodded and sat back as their vegetable tray was delivered with a chrome bowl filled with dip in the middle of it.

As soon as her hors d’oeuvres plate was in front of her, she filled it. He watched, knowing before she reached where her fingers were going to land. Carrots, celery, broccoli and cauliflower. No peppers. Ever. The cucumbers weren’t peeled.

She passed them by just as he’d expected.

He paid attention. And when his study—of life, of situations, of people—presented choices, he made the one that made the most sense.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BRETT POURED HIMSELF a little more wine and topped off Ella’s glass, too, though neither of them had had much to drink, and looked out over the street of homes below them. Provincial, large and in pristine condition, the old Victorian homes stood tall and proud. And yet, intrinsically vulnerable, as well. To the weather coming in off the ocean. To a modern-day society that wanted everything to be new.

Homes that were similar to his own.

The plumbing was a challenge. Electricity had had to be rewired to be up to code and still had hiccups now and then. But there was affection in knowing the home’s eccentricities so well. Security and a kind of beauty that couldn’t be created overnight. Or purchased.

Like good art, he could enjoy their value.

And like good art, he could enjoy a moment sipping wine with a woman who, while young, had the wisdom of age and wore her value beautifully.

“You had a rough day today.” The words came as she was down to her last stick of celery. He’d shied away from personal conversation. But he was confident that they were on the same road where Jeff and Chloe were concerned, which to him meant that getting her to agree to the plan was no more than a formality at this point.

A presentation and acceptance that would end their meeting.

Taking a short breather from the business at hand was perfectly acceptable. Maybe even advisable to further the good working relationship they were establishing.

He wished he’d held his tongue as the shadows came back over her face. Why did he have such a propensity for hurting her? Almost as though it came naturally to him.

Old feelings of guilt and frustration filled him. Panic would follow. He knew the way it worked. Brett reached for a carrot. Took a sip of wine. Distracted himself long enough for the sensations to pass.

“I’m assuming you’ve read the emails,” Ella said while he was busy tending to himself.

“I haven’t seen anything since first thing this morning,” he told her. “As soon as the day’s meetings were over I headed to the hospital and then here.”

“Your mother didn’t text you?”

“No.” Pulling out his phone to check for any missed communication, he asked, “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Lila must not have been in touch with her yet,” Ella said. “It’s not like it’s an emergency as far as the Stand is concerned. Not like we can do anything, and if we all got in 911 mode for every at-risk woman we dealt with, we’d never get out...”

“El...” He reached forward and touched her hand. As he’d done a million times before when she thought out loud before letting him know what was going on.

Getting ahead of herself, he’d always called it.

“I got ahead of myself, didn’t I?”

Every nerve in his system tightened as she voiced the words running silently through his mind.

“It’s Nora Burbank,” she continued, unaware of the discomfort he was feeling. The connection that had just been revealed to him.

Him. Her. Still of like minds.

He’d thought the divorce had taken care of that.