The Good Provider

by Debra Salonen

  Hester stayed on the perimeter. Daria caught a glimpse now and then of the woman’s peacock-blue scarf. No doubt she was reporting a minute-to-minute play-by-play to her son, but she didn’t attempt to talk to Daria again. Thanks to William.

  “What are you doing here?” she managed to ask him through clenched teeth as the paramedic took her pulse.

  “Making sure you’re okay,” William said softly. “Not doing a very good job of it, am I?”

  She smiled. “How…?”

  “Cal,” he answered, cutting her off. “Shh. We’ll talk later. I’m not going anywhere.”

  She liked the sound of that, but had to focus her attention on dealing with the emergency responders. She told them about her previous E.R. visit and gave them the name of her primary care physician.

  “Okay. Let’s get you to the hospital and see if they can do a better job of fixing the problem this time, whatever it is,” the paramedic in charge said. To William, he said, “You can meet us there.”

  “I’ll be right behind you.” He squeezed Daria’s hand and gave her one of his devastatingly handsome Cary Grant smiles. “Try not to get in too much trouble between here and there, okay?”

  She might have been able to come up with a flip answer if not for the flash that suddenly exploded between them. “You’re Congressman Bruce Fontina’s wife, aren’t you? Can I get a statement for the Bee?”

  Daria turned her head and closed her eyes, wishing she had the power to disappear. Just when you think things can’t get any worse.

  “Who are you, sir? How do you know Mrs. Fontina? One of the bystanders said she might be having a miscarriage—is it the congressman’s baby?”

  William stepped in front of the man in time to block a second photograph of Daria on the gurney. He wanted to yank the camera out of the man’s hand, crack open the back and pull out a yard or two of film, but unfortunately, that kind of satisfaction had died with the advent of the digital camera. Popping out the media disk and stomping on it didn’t hold the same appeal.

  So, he did what he was very good at—damage control. “Ms. Fontina is an old family friend. And if you know the Fontina family then you know they don’t appreciate the press intruding on their private affairs. She was flying home after visiting her grandfather and was taken ill. Her mother-in-law was here to meet Daria’s plane.”

  “And you are?” the reporter asked suspiciously.

  “An old family friend,” he repeated, dragging out each word as if the young man was a slow learner.

  “Hey, man, I’m just doing my job.”

  “Seriously, man? Which job is that? The reporting of real news or the harassing of average citizens?” William asked, barely able to contain his disdain. “There’s no story here. The lady is ill. It makes no difference that she’s a politician’s wife. Aren’t they allowed to get sick?”

  “But—”

  William stopped him. “Do yourself a favor. Drop it. Have you ever met Bruce Fontina?” He let the implication hang in the air between them.

  The reporter frowned. “A couple of times.”

  “Need I say more?”

  The guy closed his notebook. “Whatever. But I’m going to follow up on this with a call to Mr. Fontina’s office. If I find out…”

  William didn’t hear the rest of the threat because he was already on his way out the door. He had no idea where the hospital was, but his rental car had a mapping device so he wasn’t worried. He paused at the curb to let a car pass.

  “My question is the same as that reporter’s. Who are you?”

  He glanced to his right. The rotund woman with the ugly scarf. “You seemed pretty smoochy-woochy with Daria. Are you the reason she left my poor Bruce?”

  “I assure you, madam, your poor Bruce is the sole reason Daria chose to leave her marriage. I only met her three days ago.”

  She started to deny the charge but took a different route, instead. “Then why are you here? Do you live in town? You were obviously meeting her plane.”

  “As were you, madam. No doubt with the same intention—to check on her well-being. Her grandfather called me and told me Bruce had absconded with their daughters and Daria was ill. He thought she could use a friend.”

  He turned to leave.

  “They’re his kids, too, you know,” the woman shouted. “He’ll be here soon enough, and you’d better hope he doesn’t find you hanging around his wife.”

  “Ex-wife,” William would have liked to yell, but he didn’t.

  He shoved the unpleasant encounter out of his mind as he paid the parking fee and followed the verbal directions of the GPS device. He’d come to Fresno for a reason. A foolish one, but that hadn’t stopped him from hopping in his plane the minute it was fueled and ready to go.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  There was a chance he was falling in love with her. He wasn’t an expert on love so he couldn’t say for certain. All he knew was that he’d never felt this way before, and he wasn’t ready to let go of this connection.

  He found a parking spot in the visitor lot of the large, older-looking hospital and got out. He didn’t know whether or not he’d be allowed entrance to the emergency room, but he’d wait, anyway.

  At the E.R., he got in line at the information desk, but before he had a chance to talk to someone, an interior door opened and the paramedic who had helped Daria poked his head out and looked around. He spotted William and said, “Come with me.”

  “How is she?”

  “In pain. They’re running some tests.”

  Was it a miscarriage? He wanted to ask, but didn’t. He knew enough about the medical system to understand and appreciate patient confidentiality.

  “Here you go,” the paramedic said, pointing to a closed door. “I’m taking off now. Good luck.”

  William shook his hand. “Thank you.”

  “She’s a nice lady. Tell her I hope things turn around for her, okay?”

  William nodded. He hoped so, too. He also hoped he’d have the courage to say the right thing—even if that was goodbye.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “HELLO.”

  “William,” she cried, reaching out to motion him in—until the tube attached to her arm stopped her. “I hate IVs.”

  He strolled in looking every bit as gorgeous as he had in her previous night’s dream. She called it her guilty pleasure dream—emphasis on the guilty. Her life was such a mess—children missing, an undiagnosed pain in her gut and who knew what kind of nastiness Bruce might have in store for her. But as soon as she closed her eyes, there she was, making out with William. It had been the best part of her day, by far.

  He came straight to her gurney and looked her over from head to toe. She was glad the gown they’d given her was one of the more modest varieties.

  “You look better. Good color in your cheeks. Relaxed. And I love the gown. Very chic. Whatever’s in that bag, I want some.”

  She grinned. “That’s simple saline, I think. It was the lovely shot they gave me that did the trick. No pain. No problem.”

  “The pain. Same thing you mentioned before or did you—?”

  She cut him off. “It wasn’t a miscarriage. That would have been impossible because I was never pregnant. My overactive conscience tag-teamed with my ongoing medical condition to make me think I was pregnant.”

  “Would it be too nosy to ask what your ongoing medical condition is?”

  “Still waiting for the tests to confirm it, but this E.R. doctor—different one from last August—said he’s certain it’s my gallbladder. Now if I only knew what exactly a gallbladder was.”

  He pulled out his phone. “I have a vague idea, but I can check.” He typed and tapped and a moment later said, “To paraphrase, ‘a small sack beneath the liver that stores bile.’” He made a face. “Doesn’t sound very attractive, does it?”

  She agreed. “I might need surgery to remove mine.”

  “I can see why. Who wants a bile sack hanging around?
”

  She snorted but the pain medicine was catching up with her and she could feel herself starting to drift. But there was something she wanted to tell him first.

  “I’m glad you came. And not just because you were there to catch me.”

  “Then why?”

  “I wanted to tell you that it doesn’t matter if Santa Claus is real or not.”

  He looked around, obviously puzzled by the non sequitur. “Okay. And what does that mean exactly?”

  “The look on your face when I told you I’d slept with Bruce was exactly the same as Hailey’s when her sister sprang the news about Santa. Disappointed doesn’t quite cover it.”

  He shook his head as if to deny that he’d felt that way, but she knew better. “As part of our court-ordered marriage counseling, Bruce and I saw separate therapists. Mine said Bruce put me on a pedestal and then waited for me to fall.”

  “Why?”

  “So he could pick up the pieces. Smaller and more manageable than a whole, healthy, emotionally together person.”

  “That’s very profound. Did Bruce agree?”

  She laughed until she started to cough, which made her pain start to flare up. “He said his therapist called me a b-i-t-c-h, and he agreed.” She made a face. “My point is I’m sorry to let you down, but I’m not standing on another pedestal for anybody. Santa might be perfect—if he existed—but I’m not. If that means you don’t want to go out on a date with me, I understand.”

  “The divorce is still on, I take it?”

  “Damn right. I’m petitioning for full custody as soon as I get rid of this gallbladder thing. Was that too blunt?”

  He took her free hand and brought it to his lips. “No. Blunt is good, even if some of that attitude might belong to the narcotic in your system.”

  He had a point. She wasn’t usually quite so direct. But she liked this newfound sense of freedom. She decided this might be her only chance to tell him a few other things, too. “You know, William, I like you. I think you’re hot.”

  William did his best to hide his shock. He wondered if she was going to remember—and regret—this forthright honesty once the painkillers wore off. “Thank you. I find you very attractive, too.”

  She looked at him dryly. “Isn’t hot easier to say?”

  He nodded, biting down on his lip. “I think you’re hot, too.”

  “Good. Because I’m going to be single and gallbladder-free one of these days.”

  “Shall we pick a date for our date?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Bruce has my kids and I’m going to be busy jumping through legal hoops for a while. Dating a hot guy would probably make matters worse, don’t you think?”

  “Unless he was the one dating a hot guy.” A thought struck him. “Would you like me to hire a P.I.? See if there’s any dirty laundry we could air? Might take some heat off you.”

  “Heat is good. Don’t you think so? Did I mention I think you’re—”

  “Hot. Yes, actually, you did. Now, about that P.I.—”

  His question went unanswered because a brief knock on the door introduced a burly biker-type fellow in surgical scrubs. “Hi. Are you Mr…. Fontina?”

  William shook his head. “No. I’m a friend.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, we’re going to be moving her upstairs for the night. We need to run a couple more tests, but, Daria, it looks like we’re going to take out your gallbladder sometime tomorrow. They’re scheduling an O.R. Are you okay with that?”

  She nodded. “The sooner, the better. I have a hot date.”

  The surgeon looked at William, who tossed up his hands. “Good drugs.”

  “Obviously they worked.” The man made a notation on the chart then turned to leave. “Do you know anything about the large group of people in the waiting room? Rather loud and not very happy?”

  “Her ex-in-laws, I’d guess.”

  “Should I let them in?”

  “Could you give us a couple of minutes alone? Then I’ll slip away and you can do whatever you think is in her best interest.”

  The doctor nodded and closed the door behind him.

  William looked at Daria, who was sound asleep. Her mouth was open in the most adorable way and he wanted to scoop her into his arms and whisk her away from this place, those people, and all the problems coming her way. But what she said about him putting people he loved on a pedestal struck a familiar chord.

  Bianca wasn’t as educated and self-aware as Daria, but she knew people. She once told William, “You give people one chance and one chance only. They let you down, you drop them.”

  He’d argued that that wasn’t true. He could point to several of his clients—JoE, for one—who were on their second or third trip to rehab, and William had stood by them. “Si. But you don’t love them,” she’d maintained.

  He’d loved her. Not as a girlfriend, but as a little sister, a daughter, a dear, dear friend. And when she disappointed him by going back to Ocho, he let her fall.

  “Goodbye, Daria,” he said, leaning down to kiss her lips. “Be well.”

  He didn’t know whether or not they’d get their hot date, but there was something he could do to make her life a little easier, and he knew just who to ask for help.

  Without bothering to calculate the time difference, he made the call from the rental car return lot as he waited for a shuttle to take him to his plane. If he woke his uncle, tough.

  “Well, this is a surprise. Are you at the airport, needing a ride?”

  “I’m at an airport, but not Heathrow. I need a favor.”

  Notty chuckled like a vaudeville villain. “It will cost you.”

  William sucked in a breath and answered, “I know.”

  “We have a deal.”

  “You haven’t heard what I want you to do.”

  “William, whatever it is, trust me, I’ve either done it, watched it done or planned to have it done. You can’t shock me.”

  William felt a small chill pass up his spine. His father joked at times about Notty being a spy, but Naughton always downplayed his civil servant job. “A boring paper pusher,” he called himself.

  Practically speaking, hiring a local P.I. made a lot more sense, but William was reluctant to do that for several reasons. First off, he didn’t know who to trust. The last thing he wanted was for word of this investigation to get back to Bruce or his family. Daria had mentioned they were prominent business people.

  “A friend of mine is getting a divorce and her husband is a problem.”

  “You want him killed.”

  “No,” William sputtered. “I want to hire a P.I. to look into his past. I could call Cooper Lindstrom. He had—”

  “Stop. Before you say anything else, let us be clear. If I do this, you will in turn return to England as soon as I give you the information I’ve collected. Agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Done. E-mail me the man’s name and any pertinent facts you’re aware of. I’ll call you if I have any questions.”

  “Done.”

  Notty chuckled. “Lovely doing business with you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of something.” He hung up before William could reply.

  William didn’t know if this was a good idea or not. He pictured the envelope containing the voice mail tape that Daria had given him for safekeeping. She hadn’t mentioned using it against her ex. Either her lawyer had downplayed its usefulness or Daria had changed her mind about using it. Another reason to keep this probe between him and his uncle. Daria had a soft heart, a forgiving heart. She might not have the fortitude to ruin the man, but William could—and would—if Bruce became too much for Daria to handle.

  “DARIA?”

  Bruce? How had he gotten here so quickly? Had he abandoned the car and the girls, sprouted wings and flown? On a broom, perhaps? She felt her lips respond to the image with a smile.

  She opened her eyes, looking for William. He’d been there when she’d clo
sed her eyes. Hadn’t he? Or was that a dream, too? She looked around. Not only was there no William, she was in a different place. A private room by the looks of it.

  She took a breath to test her level of pain. A small heated knot was still there and was starting to radiate outward. She vaguely recalled a doctor telling her they would do surgery.

  “When?” she tried to say, but the word came out garbled because her mouth and throat were so dry.

  “Water,” she managed to cry.

  “You’re awake. Finally. I’ve been waiting forever,” Bruce said. He ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. “What a nightmare! The girls and I grabbed the last three seats on a flight from Salt Lake City. I actually had to bribe an old woman to give up her place. Cost me an arm and a leg, but when Mom called and said you were having a miscarriage…” His voice stumbled over the word.

  Daria tried to tell him he was mistaken. There was no baby. No miscarriage. But when she looked into his eyes, she could tell he already knew.

  “You’re damn lucky it wasn’t a miscarriage, Daria. If I thought for a minute that you’d run off to your grandfather’s, pregnant with my child, to get an abortion, I would kill you.” He leaned close enough for her to smell the alcohol on his breath. “Do you hear me? I mean it.”

  Her pain returned as swift and piercing as it had been at the airport. It made her groan and curl into a fetal position. Her nausea returned, too, and she started to retch.

  Bruce ran to the doorway, shouting, “Nurse. Somebody. Can we get some help in here? My wife needs help.” When no one came right away, he stormed into the hallway, his voice carrying.

  Daria felt some improvement the moment Bruce left her side. She spotted a glass with a straw in arm’s reach and took a sip. As she lay waiting for deliverance of some sort—medical, a lightning strike, something—she thought about William. She had a sketchy memory of them talking about going on a date. Was she crazy? What did it say about her that she raced headlong into a relationship with another man before she was completely rid of the last?