The Good Provider

by Debra Salonen

  He nodded. “Do you need to check your e-mail or something?”

  “Would you mind?”

  He motioned her to join him on the sofa, then he quickly saved what he was working on and opened his home page. “Help yourself.”

  He returned to his tea preparations while Daria typed in Bruce’s full name. He’d hired a professional communications coach last year to help him update his image and make his Web site more accessible—at least on the surface. “You want your constituents to feel as though you’re there for them,” Bruce had parroted, attempting to explain away the cost. “Not that I actually intend to read their e-mails, but one of my staffers can.”

  Indeed, she’d thought, wondering if there was a watchdog group that welcomed anonymous tips from concerned citizens about their representatives. Naturally, she never took the idea any further.

  “Is that your ex?” William asked.

  She hadn’t heard him circle around. He was leaning against the partition that delineated the bedroom from the living area. She nodded. “He was supposed to be at a big gala reception tonight. I thought he might have Twittered about it.”

  She clicked on the appropriate link and, sure enough, his most recent post appeared. Twelve minutes earlier. Banal chatter including some celebrity name-dropping. William leaned over slightly to read the entry. “Ah…Denzel is there. Good man.”

  She chuckled softly. “How come it doesn’t sound pretentious coming from you, but Bruce sounds like a total gossip?”

  He appeared to consider her observation carefully before answering. She liked that he listened—actually listened—as if what she was saying had value. “When you work with famous people on a daily basis, you see aspects of their lives that make them more…ordinary, I guess you’d say. They’re human. Fallible. Temperamental. Subject to the vagaries of life that plague the rest of us.”

  “Do you like your job?”

  A wry smile touched his lips. Hailey was right—he really was a lot more handsome than her father. “Not all of the time, but then who does? What I like best is knowing that I’ve contributed to the growth and development of most of my clients’ careers.”

  “I read a biography of some older film star…his name escapes me, but he had a real love-hate relationship with his agent. He likened it to a parent-child thing.”

  He nodded. “I can appreciate that. There’s a tricky balancing act that takes place when you’re intimately involved in another person’s livelihood. It’s easy to get sucked into aspects of their lives where you don’t belong.”

  “Has that happened to you?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  His honesty surprised her. She wanted to hear more, but he switched subjects. “But one lesson I learned early on in this business is to never underestimate the value of respect. A little deference can go a long way.”

  “Even if the person demanding respect doesn’t deserve it?”

  “In that case, the key is knowledge. With the right information at your fingertips, you never have to apologize.”

  She shivered slightly. A nice guy with an edge of steel. She scanned through a few other entries Bruce had made during the day. “Uh-oh. Here’s a post about his wife being AWOL. Absent without leave. Like I’m a grunt soldier missing from duty.” Her cocoa gurgled unpleasantly in her belly.

  “I can’t help noticing he still calls you his wife. He hasn’t acknowledged that you’ve separated?”

  She shook her head. “He keeps telling me this is a private matter and he isn’t ready to make that sort of announcement. I told myself it didn’t matter who he told or when, as long as I was moving forward with my plans.” She swallowed. “I think I was in denial.”

  “Was he ever physically abusive?”

  Daria closed the laptop and blew out a breath. “Bruises and broken bones are only one kind of abuse. In a way, I wish he had taken a swing at me. It would have made the process easier to document, but Bruce is too smart to leave a mark.”

  “Don’t be too sure. It only takes one time.”

  His tone was so flat and stark it chilled her. “What do you mean?”

  He polished off the last swig of tea in his cup and walked to the small sink beside the non-operational microwave. He rinsed it thoroughly and turned it upside down on a paper towel. Not something she’d ever seen her ex do.

  Then he walked to the armchair adjacent to the coffee table and sat down, kicking out his feet. “Do you remember an actress by the name of Bianca Del Torres?”

  “Sure. She was beautiful and talented. She died a few years ago. Something tragic. I don’t remember the details. Overdose?”

  William shook his head. “Murder-suicide at the hands of her live-in boyfriend. Ocho was part of her past. They grew up together in a little town near Jalisco. They went to Mexico City, where she got her start in Telemundo soaps. Eventually, she moved to L.A. Ocho followed.” His sad, inward-looking smile nearly broke Daria’s heart.

  “She was one of my first clients. So young and needy and talented. In addition to championing her career, I became a sort of a big brother or a father-figure. She came so close to making it big. But, in the end, she couldn’t cut loose the baggage that kept weighing her down.”

  Daria swallowed harshly. She heard a warning in the subtext of his message.

  There was real pain in his eyes when he looked at Daria. “Every time Ocho knocked the stuffing out of her, she’d call me. ‘William to the rescue,’ she’d joke afterward, when things calmed down. She’d hide out at my house, walk on the beach. Vow never to give him another chance.”

  “But she did, didn’t she?” Daria asked, remembering the headlines all too vividly. Murder-suicide. Promising young star dead.

  “Every single time. He knew how to work her. He’d weep and beg for forgiveness. Swear on his dead madre’s grave that he’d change. That no one would love her more than he did.” Daria could read his anger, but there was something else there, too. Guilt. “The last time she caved in and took him back, I told her I was done. Finito. She assured me that this time was different. Ocho really meant it. He’d seen a priest and confessed. God was helping him.”

  Daria sat forward, wishing she was brave enough to reach out and comfort him. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  His gray eyes looked tormented. “That’s what everyone told me. But I’m the one who turned off my phone after her first call. By the time my guilty conscience kicked in and I called to check on her, the police answered. She was dead.” His lips curled back in a snarl. “Ocho had killed her then turned the gun on himself. The newspapers reported that he’d bought the gun that morning. Like I said, it only takes once.”

  She realized that this poor woman’s story was probably the reason he’d agreed to put his life on hold to fly her and her daughters to South Dakota. She owed him some assurance that history was not going to repeat itself where she and Bruce were concerned.

  “I didn’t suddenly wake up one morning and decide I wanted a divorce. I’ve known for a long time that my marriage was an unhealthy place for me. I fooled myself into believing that I could stick it out until my children were grown. For some reason, that seemed like the adult thing to do.

  “But last summer, I had a health scare. A side ache that turned so horrible I thought I was going to die. Bruce was in Alaska on a fishing trip with his brothers, and my mother-in-law was out of town. It seemed as though the whole Fontina family was AWOL,” she said, liking the tie-back to their earlier conversation.

  “What did you do?”

  “I called a friend. Julie and I hadn’t really talked in several years. Her husband kept the girls and she stayed by my side the whole time in the emergency room. Talking with her, once the pain meds kicked in, made me realize how isolated I’d let myself become. I’d dropped her as a friend because Bruce didn’t like her. I think he felt threatened by her.”

  William nodded. “Ocho hated me, called me a leech. He tried to convince Bianca that I was screwing her out of
money that was rightfully hers. I’m fairly certain she never believed that.” He shook his head as if to dislodge the memory. “So, what caused your pain, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “The E.R. doctor took an X-ray. He thought he saw some spots on my liver, which really freaked me out. My family practitioner ran tests and ruled out liver cancer, thank God. They finally narrowed it down to either my gallbladder or an ulcer. Since the pain went away on its own, I decided not to do any more invasive testing. My mother used to say that the body heals itself.” She shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  She looked upward and took a deep breath. “The point of this much-too-involved story is that my trip to the E.R. was a wake-up call. I decided I didn’t want to live a half life anymore. I deserve more. So do my girls. Bruce moved out in early September, and I’m ready for this to be over. My lawyer is supposed to present my final settlement offer to Bruce in the morning. Simple. Fair. Generous sharing of time with our daughters.”

  “Good.”

  “The only problem is, Bruce won’t sign the divorce papers. He’s somehow managed to convince himself that we’re going to get back together. I fully expect him to go ballistic, which is why we’re on our way to Sentinel Pass. I don’t want him to make an impulsive, irrational decision that we’ll all regret later.”

  “Do you think your life is in danger?”

  She polished off the last of her cold cocoa—she found it sweet but hard to swallow, like a lot of things in her life the past few years.

  “Bruce’s family is Italian. I know this will probably sound cliché, like something out of The Sopranos, but Bruce has always claimed to have connections.” She made air quotes. “When his brother and sister-in-law were having problems a few years ago, I remember Bruce saying she’d better clean up her act or he was going to have to call someone. I took that as code for hiring a hit man. I decided I’d rather be paranoid than a sitting duck.”

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it, then, with obvious reluctance, asked, “Why didn’t you leave sooner?”

  She’d asked herself the same question a million times, if not more. “Because it wasn’t always terrible. At first, I was so busy making my husband’s career my life’s work that I didn’t realize I’d lost myself in the process. When Hailey started school, I figured I’d go back to work. But Bruce wouldn’t hear of it. He said that between him and his family, they had enough clout to get me fired from any job.”

  William rubbed his hands on the tops of his thighs, as if itching to put them around someone’s neck—probably Bruce’s. “After Bianca died, I did some research about spousal abuse. What I realize now that I didn’t even think about then is that anytime anyone limits your choices, they have wronged you.”

  “Wow. That’s very profound. And true. Have you thought about writing a book or making a movie about her life? It might help someone in her situation. Or maybe even someone like me.”

  He smiled for the first time. “I started out as a book editor in New York. I learned early on that as much as I love books, I’m not a writer. I don’t have the patience. But I did float the idea past a couple of writer friends. Do you know Shane Reynard and Jenna Murphy?”

  She shook her head. She recognized the names but hadn’t met any of the people associated with transforming her grandfather’s rustic little town into a household name.

  “Shane’s coproducer of Sentinel Passtime and Jenna is head writer. They’re considering introducing a storyline that involves spousal abuse into the show next season.”

  “Really? Congratulations—you made something positive come out of something really awful. I hope I’m that successful where my daughters are concerned. Whenever things get tough and there are more bills than money, I wonder if what I’m doing is worth it. But then I think of Miranda and Hailey. There’s no way I want them to grow up believing that repression and bullying is normal or okay.”

  He started to say something but a sudden, worried, “Mommy?” sounded from the other room.

  Daria jumped up. “Right here, sweetheart,” she called, mouthing a silent “Bye” as she dashed back to her own room.

  She closed and locked the door as if to keep all their dark, weighty confessions from dogging her heels. She needed a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow was going to be intense. Tomorrow, Bruce would hear from Daria’s attorney and be faced with a once-and-for-all line in the sand.

  She needed this divorce to be a done deal. Now. So she could start living again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “LUCAS IS SICK,” William told Daria the moment she and her girls arrived in the lobby of the motel. He’d already settled their bill and arranged for a ride back to the airport. “Laryngitis and a low-grade fever. His aunt is taking him to the doctor. I told him I’d pay his way back home as soon as he’s able to travel.”

  “Poor guy,” Daria said. “Thank goodness he’s with family. Is there anything we can do to help?

  He liked the way she put Lucas’s welfare ahead of her own worries. “I don’t believe so. His chief concern was not being able to get you to your grandfather’s, but I assured him we’d take off as planned. The weather report is clear, and we’ll have a good tailwind so we should make great time.”

  “Good,” she said, glancing at her daughters. “Grandpa Cal called this morning. He was worried about us.”

  A slight quiver in her voice told William there was more to that comment, but he didn’t press her. He had a faint headache, probably brought on by a poor night’s sleep. He’d shared things with her he had no business sharing. Bianca Del Torres, for heaven’s sake. He never talked about that painful time in his life. Too much heartache, not to mention a trip down guilt alley.

  “If you don’t mind breakfast on the run, we’ll grab something on the way to the airport,” he said as their taxi pulled into sight. “Here we go. Ladies first. And, ah, yes, the birdhouse,” he said taking the gift bag from Daria’s outstretched hand. “We can’t forget that.”

  The lengthy line at the town’s closest drive-through breakfast lane added at least five bucks to the meter, but the choice of meals seemed to please Hailey.

  “Look, Mommy, a wiggle game.”

  William had no idea what that was, but he couldn’t look because he was busy balancing the cardboard carrier holding their drinks on his lap. He did manage to lower the window a couple of inches. The aroma of fast food was not one of his favorites.

  “Thank you,” he heard Daria say softly.

  They were a mile or so from the airport when Hailey sighed elaborately and said, “I like this place. Can we come back someday, Mommy?”

  William spotted Miranda, who was sitting directly behind the driver, roll her eyes dramatically. “You say that about every place we’ve ever been. You don’t know anything about this town. And look at all the snow. You’ve never lived in snow. You’d probably hate it.”

  “Would not.”

  “Would, too.”

  Daria shushed them. “Stop it, you two.” Her voice was brittle and she sounded even more exhausted than William. “Hailey, love, we should make an effort to come here again. The mountains are really pretty. Miranda, please…”

  Miranda gave Hailey a little shove and turned her face toward the door.

  William faced forward again, wishing he had a free hand to rub the knot in his neck. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck to ease the tense muscles. He’d tossed and turned so many times during the night he woke up feeling as though he’d run a marathon. And his early morning call from Notty hadn’t helped.

  “Something wrong with your neck?” Daria asked.

  He looked in the taxi’s side mirror and could see a tiny-size image of her. “I usually bring my own pillow when I travel. The ones at that hotel were like sleeping on a puffy rock.”

  Miranda let out a loud guffaw. “When Hugh Grant was on Oprah he said he never went anywhere without his own pillow. He said that made him old.”

  He is old. Older than me, he
almost answered. Instead, with as much dignity as possible, he told her, “Actually, offering a menu of pillow choices—firm, memory foam, hypo-allergenic, et cetera—is not uncommon at five-star hotels.”

  “So, our hotel was like a one-star?” she asked.

  Their driver, who was probably in his midtwenties, snickered in a start and stop way, like a cat working up a hairball.

  “Miranda,” her mother interrupted, “that in-room coffee didn’t agree with me. Could we ride in peace, please?”

  That explained her paleness, William thought. He sat forward enough to actually turn and look at her. “You don’t have a fever, do you? Or a sore throat?”

  “Are you sick, Mommy?” Hailey cried, reaching for her mother’s hand.

  Daria gave William a cross look. A mind-your-own-business look. “I’m fine, honey. My tummy’s a little upset, that’s all.”

  William turned back around, distracted by the low hum of his phone. Balancing the tray of drinks on his knees, he reached in the pocket of his jacket. Libby. “Hi, Libby, what’s up?”

  “Where are you guys? I just got off the phone with Cal. He said you got waylaid by weather, but he couldn’t remember the name of the town. Is everything okay?”

  “We decided to sit out a storm that’s now long gone. We’re on our way to the airport as we speak.”

  “Good, I’m glad to hear you’ll be there soon. Cal sounded pretty upset. I think he’s heard from Daria’s ex-husband.”

  In the mirror, he saw Daria sit forward, concern clearly visible on her face. “Hang on, Lib. I’m going to hand the phone to Daria. I’m just the pilot, remember?”

  Libby’s laughing, “In your dreams,” was the last thing he heard as he held the phone over his shoulder. Daria took it from his fingers with great care. Her touch sent a tangible vibration along his arm and through his body. Interesting. Dangerous.

  No, he decided, crazy.

  The last thing either of them needed was him thinking he was physically attracted to Daria—even if she had been the real source of his restless night.