The Good Provider

by Debra Salonen

  He smiled, trying to visualize what she meant. The only videos he was familiar with involved rock music and all sorts of outrageous elements. It took him several seconds to realize she wasn’t speaking in the abstract. She wanted to do this for him.

  “What kind of video are we talking about?”

  “Relax. It’s not work. It’ll be fun. And I’ll get to know you better.”

  He didn’t say anything right away. What could it hurt, he asked himself? So she saw a few old family photos. So she saw the big and important lives of his parents and felt sympathy—maybe a tiny bit of revulsion—for the surly, always frowning little boy they’d left behind.

  No doubt she’d come to the same conclusion William had when he flicked through the shots. He was born a loner. He was an observer, not a participant. And he had not the slightest idea how to be part of a family.

  Better she finds out now rather than later, right?

  “Very well. Shall we get started?”

  “THESE ARE SPECTACULAR PHOTOS, William. Your father is almost as handsome as you are.”

  He looked up from his phone, where he was checking some music apps for a certain song he claimed would fit perfectly with the slide show she was assembling. Claimed being the operative word—his obvious lack of enthusiasm for this project was a little disheartening, but she didn’t let it stop her from going forward.

  She loved working with this medium to tell the story of a person’s life. Her sense of accomplishment once she exported the final version of “Mary’s Life in Pictures” to Cal and Libby had assuaged some of the anguish she felt over missing the funeral. And the positive, glowing feedback she’d gotten for her efforts had been a nice thing at a particularly difficult time in her life.

  “Look at this clip, William. It’s of your parents’ meeting in Boston. They look so young. And serious. Your mother has a sort of part-nerd, part-hippie look going. And there are some great shots of the three of you in England. You might well have been the cutest toddler on the planet.” She grinned. “Of course, that was before my daughters were born.”

  He rolled over and shimmied closer.

  She felt his warmth even though they weren’t touching. She breathed deeply to smell him. She wanted to memorize that scent forever. She had no idea if it was cologne or soap or hair product or what. But on him, it was intoxicating.

  “I was looking for a song that typified the early 1970s,” he told her. “Something by the Beatles is the obvious choice, plus Mum once told me she had a terrible crush on Paul McCartney. But Father was a Stones fan. They had one of those Coke-Pepsi kinds of rivalries.”

  She hit the play arrow.

  His eyes opened wider and he watched intently, a smile slowly coming into play on his lips. “‘Ferry Cross the Mersey.’ Nice pick. This is…very good, Daria. I’m impressed. Especially considering you’ve never met either of them.”

  “Anonymity provides objectivity,” she told him. “Most of the homemade videos I’ve watched could have benefited from a little editing. It’s much more difficult when you’re emotionally attached to the person in the photos.”

  The clip ended and the song stopped. He looked at her. “What’s next?”

  She angled the laptop for him to see. She’d grouped another few shots together. He wasn’t in any of them, but she’d realized how important these images were in telling the story of his parents. She also understood more clearly why he felt disconnected from these two, amazingly accomplished people.

  “Good. Father’s first election. I saw more of Notty than Father that year.”

  His tone was casual but she knew that blasé ruse was designed to mask his pain. She clicked on a shot of William and his mother standing before a mud hut of some kind. “The date on this one is the same year. You must have traveled with your mother more of the time because your father was so busy.”

  He stared at the image for several seconds before he shrugged. “If you say so. I can’t remember that trip, specifically. All of these strange and exotic places began to blur after a time.”

  Her heart felt pinched by the image of a lonely little boy tossed back and forth between his busy parents like a sack of potatoes. She couldn’t help but marvel at his resiliency and resourcefulness. She hoped her children would come away from this divorce with something good and lasting after all that she and Bruce had put them through.

  Speaking of her children… She nudged the computer off her lap and stood up. “Break time. I need to call the girls and see how they’re doing.” She stretched, knowing William was looking at her. His gaze was never a burden or intrusive. He made her feel beautiful. Sexy. In fact, after she called home, she might suggest a communal dip in their room’s oversize tub.

  She grabbed her phone from the dresser and walked to the balcony. “Yesterday was Hailey’s second dance lesson. I’m dying to know how it went. The first got mixed reviews. Hailey loved the dancing part, but hated learning the same steps over and over.”

  William smiled. “Does your ex-mother-in-law know how to e-mail photos? I’d love to see the little pigeon.”

  “I doubt it, but I’ll ask. Bruce was supposed to be down from Sacramento for a visit. He might be able to handle it.”

  The question disappeared from thought the moment a male voice answered the phone. “Hello, Daria. Mom said you were going to call. The girls are outside. I wanted to talk to you before I give them the phone.”

  “Hello, Bruce. I thought you were happy communicating through my lawyer.”

  “That was before you went over to the dark side.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re cavorting with the enemy. It’s one thing to blink your pretty long lashes like a helpless, pathetic victim so he’d fly you around the country for free, but it’s quite another to sleep with the guy to thank him for the blackmail booty.”

  Blackmail booty? “What are you talking about, Bruce? Wait. I don’t want to know. William is a friend, and we’re having a very nice time. I’m sure that irks you to no end, but I don’t care. Please put the girls on.”

  “Fine. I will. But don’t you want to know how he got his hands on that shit he threatened to use against me? Hell, he had some nerve talking about bribes when you know damn well that so-called proof came from a healthy under-the-table transaction. Is he really an agent, or is that his spy cover?”

  “He’s not a spy, Bruce. I don’t know what you’re talking about nor do I care. Could I please speak to Hailey or Miranda?”

  He didn’t answer. She thought he’d hung up but after a few seconds of dead air she heard the high-pitched squeal of her youngest daughter’s voice. “Mommy. I danced. On my toes. Sorta. It was cool. Really cool. I wanna go again next Saturday. Can I?”

  “Sure, honey. Tell me all about it,” Daria said, but as she half listened, her mind was working feverishly in the background trying to pinpoint something that Bruce had said that was bothering her. Spy…bribes…blackmail. Pure craziness. Then it hit her. That he threatened to use against me. When had William had any direct contact with Bruce, other than those few minutes in Sentinel Pass?

  She damn well intended to find out.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  WILLIAM LOOKED UP from the piece of art Daria had created. He was half-afraid he might humiliate himself by breaking down in tears. She’d captured certain elements of his parents’ romance and first years together so eloquently, he could almost believe they had been in love. Not the comfortable mutually beneficial arrangement they presently shared, but the kind of blood-pumping passion and attraction he felt toward Daria. And hoped—was fairly convinced—she felt for him. Even though neither of them had said a word about love.

  “Is everything okay?” He could tell something was wrong. He pushed aside the computer and leaped to his feet. “What’s wrong? Did Bruce do something? Is it Hailey? Her breathing?”

  She shook her head but didn’t answer. In the space it took for her to get control of her emotions so she could spea
k, William experienced a precognition of doom. Something had happened to effectively kill the harmony and goodwill between them.

  “When did you speak with Bruce?”

  A dose of acid hit his stomach. He knew she didn’t mean that morning in South Dakota. “He called me on my way to the airport. The same day I flew up to give you the file.”

  “The information you gave me to do with as I saw fit.”

  He didn’t like the severity of her tone. “Yes.”

  She advanced a step and faced him, arms akimbo. “But then you took away my choice by threatening him behind my back.”

  “He called me, Daria.”

  “Did you threaten him?”

  “He basically threatened me if I didn’t show up.” She waited for him to answer her question. “Yes. I’d read the file. I knew he was full of shit. I snapped. I told him if he didn’t back off and do everything in his power to make your divorce go smoothly, I would ruin him.”

  She walked to the window and looked out. She didn’t say anything for nearly a minute, then sighed. “Bruce was always making decisions for me. He never understood why I’d get upset about not being consulted over small, inconsequential things. Things like which phone company to use, what newspaper subscription to order. Dumb things. But every choice he took away made me feel smaller and less important. Feeling insignificant is a terrible way to live.”

  He hurried to her side. “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to make you feel badly. Just the opposite. I hoped that by playing the bad guy, you wouldn’t have to make that choice.”

  She moved a step away to avoid his touch. “You’re right. It’s not a big deal. I’m probably overreacting. We both know I’ve been known to do that.” Her words were conciliatory, but he could tell she was still upset. “Listen, I know we had plans for dinner tonight, but I’m feeling a little wiped out. Emotional. I’ve had a wonderful time this weekend—better than I could have dreamed for a first date. But I think I need to leave.”

  “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

  “I need some space to work things out in my head. I’m sorry, William. I know you’re not Bruce. You’re not anything like Bruce, but going behind my back like that was so Bruce.”

  William had no excuse. He didn’t know how to plead his defense when she was right. He’d felt superior, triumphant, self-righteous that afternoon at the bar when he’d verbally pinned Bruce to the wall. At that moment, he’d bested the bully as his father had so many years before.

  But hadn’t he always maintained he had nothing in common with his father? Nothing. Which of his other core beliefs were equally flawed, he wondered?

  “Daria,” he said, taking her shoulders between his hands. Her immediate flinch stabbed him in the heart and he dropped his arms. “Please, don’t go. Let’s talk about this. I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”

  She glanced at the bed where his computer sat open to a photo of his parents. “We all make mistakes, William. Like you said, it’s how we learn. I’m simply trying to make sure I don’t repeat the same one over and over.”

  She walked to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer.

  “What about the slide show?” William asked, desperate to distract her from leaving. “It’s only half done. Stay. We can work from opposite sides of the room. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”

  She gave him a smile but shook her head. “I can’t. I need to think. And plan. My grandfather invited me to move to Sentinel Pass after school lets out. He even had Libby’s brother design an addition to the house so the girls could each have a bedroom.”

  She realized now that one of the reasons she’d put off answering Cal had been because of her feelings for William. She knew that his business was bicoastal. Adding a stop in the middle of the country every now and then sounded like a pretty terrible way of conducting a relationship.

  “Daria, please stay. I know you’re angry with me, but we have something besides sex between us. It’s real and good and filled with potential. Tell me you know that.”

  She didn’t know anything anymore. “I know I need time to think. I can’t do that while sharing a room with you. I feel too much when I’m with you. Remember when I told you you tend to put people on pedestals? Well, maybe I did the same thing to you. I told Julie you were my hero, but when you actually tried to save me—and I’m sure you had good intentions—I discovered I didn’t want you to. I really do want to stand on my own two feet and feel as though I have control over my life.”

  “Does that mean you’re never going to let yourself fall in love again? I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, Daria, but letting you go without telling you I love you would probably be the biggest.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, I don’t have any faith in the word. Bruce claimed to love me, too. Screw love. I’m sick of it. I’m going home. Regroup. Plan for the future. Period.”

  William looked hurt. Stunned. Why wouldn’t he be? He was a terrific catch…if she were looking for love. But she wasn’t.

  “But you have a point…about your parents’ video. That was my idea and I hate leaving things undone.”

  Plus, she felt good about the way the project was coming together. She’d be damned if she’d let either of the men in her life ruin her fledgling sense of accomplishment.

  After she finished packing her few pieces of clothing and sexy shoes, she zipped the suitcase and snapped the handle into its extended position. She still needed to get her cosmetics out of the bathroom, but first she walked to the bed and sat.

  Drawing the computer onto her lap, she quickly typed away for a minute. “I’m copying the rest of the photos and my rough draft to an online storage site. When I get home, I’ll finish the video and send you the link.”

  A few minutes later, she gave him a hug goodbye and left.

  She couldn’t say why she was leaving. Was she mad at William for doing something very Bruce-like, or was she afraid she might have fallen in love with the wrong man? Again.

  She wasn’t even sure she wanted to know the answer. All she knew for sure was that she had to go.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  NAUGHTON HAD WARNED HIM. “He’s lost a lot of weight, William. And the drugs have left him a bit unsteady so he’s using a walker.”

  Still, the moment William first spotted his father, his knees nearly gave out beneath him.

  “William,” his father called, his voice raspier than before, but filled with joy. “You’re here. I’m so glad to see you. Come in, come in. I look like hell but I’m not contagious.”

  Whatever William thought he might say or do when he met his father again disappeared from mind. Here was the man who’d read to him every night that he was home, bought him his first bike, taken him to Paris when he was ten—because William asked what was so great about the Eiffel Tower.

  “Father,” he said, struggling to keep the sadness from his tone. Notty had demanded William “keep a stiff upper lip—as tired and cliché as that sounds. We must help him fight the good fight and never let him see us cry.”

  The two embraced, a process made even more awkward than usual because of the walker. “How was your flight, son? Did I hear you flew commercial?”

  “From JFK. I hired a young pilot to be my copilot to the East coast then hopped a Virgin Air flight. Very nice, actually. I slept most of the way.”

  “I’ve heard they have seats that turn into beds. Lovely. Let’s sit, shall we?” His father’s breathlessness made William reach out to help, but Notty, who was standing a foot or so away, shook his head furiously.

  “Where’s Mum?” William asked, pacing his stride to baby steps as they slowly made their way into the study. William’s eyes went wide as he took in the changes to the room that had been off-limits his entire childhood. Not until he’d returned from college had he been invited into this inner sanctum to share a brandy with his father and uncle.

  “On her way. Should be here any ti
me.”

  The leather tufted couch and matching armchair had been pushed aside to make room for a hospital bed. A moveable tray table was cluttered with medical supplies, a small vase of flowers and a plastic upchuck basin William remembered being given as a child when he was ill.

  His father paused. “I know,” he said, his tone resigned. “It looks pathetic, doesn’t it? But the place is actually quite functional. Your mum can work on the computer while Naughton drinks my whiskey in front of the fire.” He took a shaky breath. “And I suck down my oxygen.”

  “Would you like to lie down, James?”

  Father gave Notty a dark look. “No. I’ll be lying down for eternity soon enough. I’m going to have a conversation with my son. Leave us a bit, will you?”

  The last he added less antagonistically than he’d started out. Notty gave a mock salute. “I’ll make tea.”

  William took his father’s elbow and helped him to the chair. “The ottoman, too, son. If you don’t mind.”

  William’s hands were trembling as he gently lifted his father’s narrow, skinny feet to the overstuffed stool. He tucked a woolen throw around him without being asked. “Is there anything else you need? A drink of water, perhaps?”

  He shook his head. His near baldness wasn’t as big a shock as his overall emaciation had been. James had started losing his hair in his thirties and had worn it closely trimmed for most of William’s life. And while he’d never been fat, he had sported a bit of a spare tire around his middle for the past ten years or so. That small cushion of reserves was gone now.

  As if guessing his son’s thoughts, James said, “It’s amazing how fast the body starts to fall to pieces once you place yourself in the hands of the medical experts. Specialists are the worst,” he said, scowling. “They treat the one aspect of the disease they know best while entirely ignoring the host body. I told your mother recently how proud I was that she remained a general physician.” He looked at William sadly. “Of course, now she’s giving herself a hard time for bringing remedial health care to the children of the world instead of finding a cure for cancer. Imagine that? Lamenting all the good you’ve done simply because someone you loved was stricken by an incurable disease.”