was not going to be that man.
So he and Ella weren’t going to talk about any of it. Not now. Not ever.
Ella took another sip of wine. Leaning forward, he topped up her glass. The sun had set, and the ocean was darkening. Soon there would be nothing but blackness beyond the window.
“I didn’t mean to bring up the past,” Ella said with a grin that made him sad. “I just need you to know that I have absolutely no interest in you personally, Brett.”
Was this the part where one doth protest too much?
“I don’t want you to think I’m here out of some pathetic hope that you might change your mind about me. Or to think that I’m stalking you or something.”
Protesting too much yet?
“The job is a big part of my decision to move here. And I always loved Santa Raquel. You know that.”
They’d visited his hometown. More than once. Each time she’d said she wanted them to settle there. To raise their children there.
Looking back, he saw that even then, he hadn’t ever really believed her fairy tale could happen. He’d just wanted it so badly he’d been a selfish ass, just like his old man, grasping at her hope and hanging on.
Until he couldn’t anymore.
Brett sat forward. Set his glass on the table and folded his hands in front of him.
“It’s a great job, a great place to live, but there are other great opportunities. I know you, Ella. There has to be more going on.”
“I made the final decision to accept the job offer because of The Lemonade Stand.”
He frowned, honestly confused. “I offered you a position on the board. You didn’t have to join the High Risk team to be involved.” She’d supported the idea of the Stand from the very first time he’d mentioned that if he ever won the lottery he’d open such a place. She’d been a sophomore in college at the time. He’d been a junior. They hadn’t even talked about marriage yet.
Her fingers, blunt tipped and slender, able to handle crises on a daily basis, climbed up and down the stem of her glass. She traced a pile of crumbs around the white linen tablecloth. I moved here because of The Lemonade Stand.
His throat dried out like burned timber.
“Ella?” He needed her to quit studying the damned table and look at him.
Had someone hurt her? On one of those blind dates Chloe had arranged? Or someone else? Were the police involved?
Why hadn’t he known? Jeff had sworn to him that if Ella were ever in trouble, if she ever needed anything, he’d let Brett know...
He couldn’t just sit there...couldn’t stand the thought of his Ella being...
Sweet God, that was why he’d left her. To save her from loving a man who had the pattern of abuse lurking inside him. He knew the statistics. More than half of abusers had grown up with abuse. It was a pattern that repeated itself. And he’d faced the beast of his father inside himself when he’d lain in bed after finding out Ella was pregnant, when he’d closed his eyes and slept. Night after night. He’d seen his father. The raised hand. Heard the anger. And then his own face had been there...
I moved here because of The Lemonade Stand.
His palm settled on the back of her hand, holding it still against the table. “Talk to me, El.”
She looked at their hands. Then up at him. A sheen of tears glistened in her eyes. Panic surged inside him.
“Did someone hurt you?” The words forced themselves out.
She shook her head. But didn’t speak.
Every nerve in his body was tense. He couldn’t get them to release their grip on him. It was a feeling he knew well.
Bracing for a blow.
Only this one wouldn’t be as simple as a fist in the face. Or a belt to the back.
“It’s not me, it’s Chloe.” He heard her, but the words only confused him more. What did her sister-in-law, living in Palm Desert with Jeff, have to do with The Lemonade Stand?
Oh, God. The idea hit him, accompanied by a maelstrom of rejection.
Ella’s gaze was steady now. Steady and needy.
“Chloe’s hitting Cody?” The godson he knew only through pictures. He’d told Jeff, when his friend had called to tell him about the boy’s birth, that, with him being divorced from Ella, he couldn’t possibly be anything to the boy, but Jeff had insisted. It didn’t mean anything. It was just a title.
The shake of Ella’s head caused a new wave of foreboding.
“Chloe’s with me,” Ella said. “Her and Cody.”
“Visiting?”
Another small shake of Ella’s head. Brett realized he was still covering her hand with his own, but he didn’t let go.
“They’re living with me.”
“Where’s Jeff?”
“Palm Desert.”
He sat back, letting his hands fall into his lap. Then reached for his wineglass. “They’re divorced?”
He’d never, in a million years, have figured that one. If anyone was the perfect couple it was Jeff and Chloe. They were crazy about each other. In a way that couldn’t be faked. Even Brett, who’d never personally witnessed a healthy relationship in his life, could feel the bond between Ella’s brother and his wife.
“No!” Ella’s shock righted a world that was quickly spinning out into space. “Of course not.”
Until he considered that she’d just told him that Jeff’s wife and son were living with her, not him.
Not him.
Ella watched him.
Jeff. Jeff?
If she wanted him to think that Jeff Wales had done something that would make his wife need a women’s shelter then she was just plain—
“It’s Jeff, Brett,” she was saying. “He has...bouts. They’ve escalated over the past few years. This last time...Chloe asked me to come get her, and I did. Jeff doesn’t know. That she’s with me, I mean. He has no idea where she’s staying. They communicate by cell phone, and she has a pay-as-you-go one so he won’t be able to get any details from their bill.”
She’d thrown him for a loop. “Have you talked to him? Does he know you know she’s gone?”
“He called me, I think trying to figure out if she was with me, but I went on and on about the new job and how I was in the middle of moving into my new apartment and it was only at the end, when I asked him why he’d called, that he told me she’d left.”
Brett felt as though he had rocks in his gut. He could just imagine how Jeff must be feeling.
“Your brother is the kindest man I’ve ever known.” The only person who’d ever seen Brett cry.
Ella’s older brother had held an eighteen-year-old college-freshman Brett as he’d sobbed out his anguish over his parents. Helped him treat the raw strap marks on his back, left by his father’s belt, so that he didn’t have to report them to anyone. He’d spent many a night sitting with him that first year they were roommates, listening to him talk, or more often, allowing him complete silence without the aloneness that usually accompanied it, and had never told another soul about any of it.
“I know he is.” She was blinking back tears.
“He puts bugs outside rather than killing them.”
“I know.”
Memories