The Good Provider

by Debra Salonen

  His fingers squeezed, cutting off circulation to her fingertips. “Huh, Daria? Is it?” he asked, giving her arm a shake. “Do you have some regulars already lined up? I hope they aren’t too attached to their balls because I know people who will cut them off, for a price. They’ll do anything for a price, if you get my drift.”

  Fear gripped her belly. At the last Fontina family gathering she’d attended before filing for divorce, she’d overheard his brothers’ wives talking about a man who’d stolen from the family’s import-export company. Two weeks later, his body had washed up a few miles from the warehouse Bruce’s family owned in Alameda. The guy had been missing all the fingers on his right hand. Freak accident or murder? The question had made Daria slightly ill, but she was determined to stand her ground.

  “The other night was a mistake, Bruce. The holidays can make people nostalgic. I’m sorry you misinterpreted what happened, but, trust me, the things that are wrong with our marriage didn’t get fixed with one night of sex.”

  He blew out a sound of disgust. “What’s wrong with our marriage all comes down to what’s wrong with you. And why the hell do you get to call all the shots—that’s what I want to know!” His voice rose to a shout, a sound their daughters had heard many times in the past. Daria hated putting them through another argument. One that, obviously, was all her fault.

  He pulled her against him, twisting her arm in a way that added to his leverage. Her chest pressed against his, her breathing shallow and fast from fear and anger. “Let me go, Bruce.”

  He buried his face in her neck. “Your lips say no, but your pulse says yes. I can feel it racing,” he said softly, licking his tongue across her flesh.

  Racing, yes, but not because she was turned on. “Stop it, Bruce,” she cried, twisting to get free. “This isn’t happening. We’re separated. The girls could walk in any second. I don’t want to give them any hope that we might be getting back together.”

  His fingers squeezed tighter. “That’s exactly what they want, Daria. What they deserve. A mother and father who love each other and live together in the same house. Is that so much to ask? We both had that in our lives. Why are you depriving the daughters you claim to love of the same stability? What kind of mother are you?”

  “Let me go and we can talk about this.”

  Her bargain felt like bartering with the devil for another piece of her soul. She’d heard all of these arguments before. They’d attended counseling the year before Hailey was born. Daria had attempted to end the marriage then, but getting accidentally pregnant—or perhaps not so accidentally, if Bruce’s brother was to be believed—had curtailed her plans. Her brother-in-law claimed Bruce had gotten drunk the night their youngest daughter was born and bragged about messing with Daria’s birth control pills. “Keep ’em barefoot and pregnant,” he’d boasted. “Isn’t that what Dad always claimed was the only way to stay married?”

  Back then, she’d succumbed to family pressure and postpartum depression and had given their marriage another try. That wasn’t going to happen again.

  He pushed his face within an inch of hers. “Don’t screw with me, Daria. I mean it. If you learned nothing from our twelve years of marriage, you should know that I can make you regret this decision every day of the rest of your life. However long—or short—that is.”

  She gave a mighty push and backed away until she felt the prickly needles of the now-naked tree. “You’re threatening me, Bruce? How charming. And you wonder why I don’t jump at the chance to stay married to you?”

  His eyes narrowed; anger made his face as red as the plush Santa hat lying on the floor a few feet away. “That never seemed to be a problem when we were picking out your new, top-of-the-line SUV or redecorating the f’ing kitchen that you now want to take ownership of—even though I paid for it.” He threw up his hands. “What’s wrong with you, Daria? There are women who would kill to have this kind of life, and you’re throwing it all away. Private school for your kids, a gardener, caterers when we entertain. My God, woman, are you sick? Or just stupid?”

  Both, she thought, absently rubbing the ache in her side. The same sort of pain had sent her to the emergency room last summer. A barrage of tests had revealed no conclusive diagnosis, but her physician had warned that it could be the start of an ulcer. “Stress and diet. Two things you need to address so it doesn’t get worse,” he had advised.

  She’d changed both—no more spicy pasta dishes and no more hot-tempered Italian husband. And it had worked; she’d been pain-free these past few months. Until today.

  She was well aware of what she was doing, and she knew her choice would impact her daughters’ lives forever. She was prepared for how much Bruce’s family would hate her and anticipated them trying to turn the girls against her. The only way she could hate herself more was if she did nothing about her situation and stayed. But there wasn’t enough money in the world to bribe her to do that, or enough booze in the world to mask her pain if she did.

  She’d been thinking about moving for almost a year. She’d confided in no one except her grandfather, Calvin, whose support had been the one constant in her life. She was beginning to think maybe he was right—maybe she couldn’t remain in Fresno. She’d wanted to stay in her house until the girls completed school, but the look in Bruce’s eyes told her that wasn’t going to happen. This disappointment seemed to have taken his antipathy to a new level.

  “We’re not good together, Bruce. Look at you. You’re clenching and unclenching your hands like you want to wrap them around my throat and squeeze until I’m dead. It isn’t healthy. Why do you even want to be with me?”

  He drew his hands up to look at them. He made two fists then let them drop to his side. He lowered his chin and stared straight into her eyes. “It’s not you that I want, Daria. Never was. It’s the perfect wife and mother image you bring to the table. Your leaving negates every possible benefit you offer, making you virtually worthless to me. The only thing keeping me from beating the crap out of you is knowing how traumatic that would be for the girls. But believe me, once they’re old enough to see what a lying, worthless bitch you are, if something happens to you, the loss won’t hurt so bad.”

  He flipped her off for good measure, then turned and left. Daria’s knees were shaking so badly she barely managed to stumble to the closest chair. Oh, God, tell me he didn’t mean what he said.

  But when she closed her eyes and recalled the venom in his tone and the glittery shards of hate in his eyes, she knew the man she’d once loved and promised to be with for life wanted her dead, and he’d find a way to make that happen when her death would be less of an inconvenience.

  With violently trembling hands, she punched her grandfather’s number into her cell phone. “Grandpa Cal,” she cried softly the moment he picked up. “I need to come to Sentinel Pass. Now. As soon as possible. With the girls. Bruce is…oh, Grandpa, what have I done?”

  “A TOAST TO THE BRIDE and groom. Where’s William? He’s really good at this sort of thing.”

  William Hughes heard Cooper Lindstrom’s voice echo off the stretched canvas walls of the oversize teepee. Everyone did. The sixty or so people squeezed into the odd, distinctly Sentinel Pass venue turned to look at him.

  “My pleasure,” he lied, crafting a deliberate smile that he was certain would fool most people.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the newlyweds. He did. Kat was one of the sweetest people he’d ever met, and Jack seemed like a decent chap. The two were the embodiment of love. At the moment. No, the problem stemmed from William’s total lack of faith in the institution of marriage.

  A part of him wanted to cry, “Why bother?”

  But, of course, he couldn’t do that. Never mind that one of his clients had texted him earlier that day to say she’d met lucky husband number six—or was it seven? Never mind that William’s parents, who had been married six months longer than William had been alive, had spent the vast majority of those years on separate contine
nts, maintaining completely separate lives that only included him when it was convenient.

  He would do his duty, support his friends and give it the old-school try. The English way. Forget the fact he was only half Brit.

  He set his empty champagne glass beside one of the many poinsettia plants anchoring the reception’s holiday theme and walked to the center of the circular room. Famous faces, like Cooper and paparazzi favorite Morgana Carlyle, shared space with regular folk, the disparate group brought together by Sentinel Passtime, a TV show based on Cooper and his wife Libby’s real-life love story.

  He looked at the pair, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, Coop’s hand resting on Libby’s pregnant belly. William was glad he wasn’t flying them back home after the wedding. Libby’s doctor had provided a written okay for her to fly in her third trimester, but only on a commercial airline. That was fine with William—his mother might be able to deliver babies under extreme conditions, but William was a pilot, not a selfless doctor-slash-saint.

  “Ahem. If you please. Don’t make me shout. You won’t like me if I shout.”

  The threat drew a few chuckles, but it also accomplished what he’d intended. The crowd quieted. The only noise was that of the caterers in the adjoining shop.

  “Friends and family of Kat and Jack, we’ve come together on a snowy night in the Black Hills of South Dakota to witness a union between two friends who have decided to make this odd journey we call life together. By lifting our glasses high—” he snagged a glass of bubbly from a passing waiter, his last, since he planned to fly in the morning “—we wish you a beautiful life filled with all the mayhem and excitement that makes for a good story in the twilight of your years. To you both.”

  He clinked his glass around the bridal table. “Your gift from me awaits you at the airport, fueled and ready to take you on the first leg of your honeymoon,” he told the bride and groom.

  The bride’s sons let out a loud cheer, since they were included in the first part of the trip—a visit to Disneyland. As he understood from Cooper, the two boys would then spend a few days with Shane and Jenna, two close friends in L.A. who weren’t able to make the wedding.

  “A fabulous gift, William,” Kat said, her sparkly tiara slightly askew. “We appreciate it so much. We’ll be packed and ready to leave on time, I promise.”

  He nodded at Jack, intending to leave, but Kat suddenly reached out and caught his sleeve. “Wait. Um, could Jack and I speak with you in private a moment?”

  “Of course. Where…?”

  She looked at her sons and made a scooting motion with her hand, which he couldn’t help noticing was adorned with an intricate henna tattoo. “Boys, will you please take Megan to check on the cake? We’ll be right there.”

  William’s admiration for the woman grew. She was a good mom.

  “I know now probably isn’t the best time and place to bring this up, but Libby got a call from Calvin—Mary’s…um, husband…sorta.”

  William had met the man and was aware of the octogenarian’s relationship to Libby’s late grandmother. “Yes. And…?”

  Libby shifted sideways, wincing slightly as the baby she was carrying shifted position, too. “Cal’s granddaughter and her husband have been separated for about six months. According to Cal, the guy’s done everything in his power to slow down the divorce process. Then, over the holidays, Daria—that’s the granddaughter’s name—felt sorry for the jerk and… Did I mention they have two daughters? Anyway, she let him hang out with the family some and he took that to mean she wanted him back. He showed up this morning ready to move in again. Things got ugly and now she’s afraid for her safety. And the girls’, too. I told Cal we’d do whatever we could to help.”

  Cooper leaned around his wife and added, “By we, she means you. As in, would you mind turning around as soon as you drop these guys off in Anaheim and fly to Fresno to pick up a battered wife and two traumatized kids?”

  William’s heart rate spiked slightly. Flying was his drug of choice, and he rarely passed up a chance to escape into the clouds. But messy divorces were definitely not his thing. He’d babysat more than a few clients who couldn’t pick a decent mate if their life depended on it, and at least once, it had.

  Libby gave Coop a hefty nudge with her shoulder. “Daria was clear about this to Cal—Bruce hasn’t hit her. But he did threaten her. And his family reputedly has certain underworld connections.”

  “Mafia,” Cooper mouthed with an over-the-top look of mock horror.

  Libby ignored him. “Cal is worried sick. He wants Daria and the girls to come here, at least until the divorce is finalized.”

  The pleasant tingle of the excellent champagne on his tongue turned flat. “Give her my cell number. Weather permitting, I’ll take her anywhere she wants to go—even here.”

  “Thank you,” Libby said, sniffling. “You’re the best.”

  “Hey, how ’bout a little of that hero worship for me?” Coop said, obviously trying to lighten the moment. “William might be the hotshot pilot, but it’s my plane, too.”

  “That’s correct. We use Cooper’s gas,” William added. “Because he’s so full of it.”

  His joke earned a chuckle from everyone at the table and shifted the focus to Coop, giving William a chance to slip away. He didn’t want anyone thinking of him as a hero. He’d already proven he couldn’t be trusted in that role. He’d give this woman a lift if she called, but chances were good she wouldn’t. And as selfish as it sounded, he hoped she’d try some other avenue first. Counseling, therapy, a restraining order—anything that didn’t involve him.

  “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  Yes. Apparently his social radar was broken. He hadn’t even heard Morgan approach the small bistro table where he was standing.

  “No, Morgan,” he said. Morgana to the world, Morgan to her friends and family. And agent. “Everything’s divine.”

  “Liar. Do you know how I know something’s going on with you?” She’d been his client for several years, and she knew him as well as anyone did.

  “You’re fidgeting. You never fidget.”

  He looked at his hands. Good heavens, she was right. A napkin he couldn’t recall picking up was in a shredded heap at his feet.

  “I had word today that my father is ill,” he admitted.

  “He called you?” Her surprise showed on her expressive face. Morgan was one of the few people who had some small inkling of the disconnect between William and his parents.

  He wiped his hands on what was left of the napkin and deposited it in an empty glass. “No. Uncle Notty e-mailed.”

  “You have an uncle named Naughty? How very British.”

  “Short for Naughton. We’re not blood relatives. He and Father were school chums. They’ve shared a flat in London ever since Father won his election. I told you he’s a member of Parliment, right?

  “Father is a bit of a Luddite, so Notty acts as an online go-between.”

  Her gaze shifted to a point over his shoulder. Keeping track of her betrothed, no doubt. “What’s wrong with your dad? Not the computer-hating thing—that, I get—I mean, how ill?”

  William suppressed a sigh. His father had never—ever—been a dad. No tossing of a ball, no cheering on his son at a rugby match, no shooting the breeze over a pint at a local pub. Father was brilliant, high-brow, reserved. A dedicated servant of the realm. And a smoker for most of his adult life. “Lung cancer.”

  “Oh, William.” She hugged him but quickly stepped back as if suddenly realizing who she was hugging. “Sorry, I know you’re not a touchy-feely kind of person, but that’s so awful. Cancer.”

  “The C-word,” Jack’s sister had called it. William’s minor involvement in the planning and execution of this wedding had put him in contact with her on several occasions. She’d mentioned her father’s death and her boyfriend’s remission almost in the same breath. While not privy to the details of either case, William assumed that meant the disease wasn’t a mandatory d
eath sentence.

  “Your mother’s a doctor, right? What does she think? Is it bad? Did they catch it early? Will they operate?”

  Those very same questions had been ruminating around in his brain for hours, contributing to his current headache. “I have no idea. I only heard the news a few hours ago. I haven’t spoken with Mum, but Notty did mention she was returning to England.”

  “Does she specialize in cancer?”

  No, she specializes in sainthood. “She works in third-world countries treating AIDS patients and undernourished children. I don’t know how much practical help she’ll be, but her returning is a nice gesture.”

  “Gesture?” Morgan tilted her head in obvious confusion. She’d dyed her blond hair a rich mahogany color to play the role of Libby in Sentinel Passtime, and the color made her look more serious and less like a Hollywood starlet. “She’s his wife. Aren’t sickness and health part of the vows she signed up for?”

  William must have believed that at some point in his life, but sadly, he no longer thought so—particularly where his parents were concerned. “Some marriages are less…devout than others. My parents have spent the better part of their forty-plus years of union on separate continents.”

  She frowned in a way that made most men suddenly want to jump up and fix whatever might be troubling her. “But they’ve remained married so their feelings must be there on some level,” she insisted. “And she’s rushing home to nurse him. What does that tell you?”

  “That Mum is a doctor first, wife second?”

  “You’re a very cynical man, William Hughes-Smythe,” she said, using his full name. He’d dropped the Smythe when he moved to America, thinking the combination seemed a bit pretentious when paired with the accent he couldn’t completely shake. Maybe a part of him had hoped for some sort of reaction from his parents. Outrage. Annoyance. Even relief that his underachieving choice of job wouldn’t sully the family name. There had been none.