“Did you do your own decorating?” she asked, feeling instantly as though she could spend the next ten days in that room, reading books and feeling...safe.
The thought startled her. She didn’t feel unsafe. She’d lived alone for years and was perfectly secure.
“Yes, I did. A little at a time.” Lila’s gray pants and white blouse, her short, mostly gray nondescript hair, looked out of place in the colorful room. “Here at The Lemonade Stand, we believe that the strongest healing comes from within. We encourage our residents to look inside themselves for their inner beauty, their inner strengths. Their inner worth. We also believe that if one is told she’s bad or at fault enough times, or if one is forced to live with violence and ugliness, the beauty within becomes locked away. So we try to surround ourselves and our residents with outer beauty, with elegant and peaceful surroundings, and with kindness, in the hopes that we can help them begin to counteract the violence they’ve been exposed to and begin to access their inner bounty.”
Ella had a feeling she was hearing an oft-given speech. “As soon as I heard that I’d won the committee appointment at the hospital, I read up on all of the other team members,” she said, still standing, facing the older woman. “I’ve got The Lemonade Stand’s pamphlet memorized,” she continued, wanting Lila to make no mistake about her sincerity or value to the team. “I want to be fully prepared and able to help if I find myself with a victim in need.”
Not just for Chloe and Jeff. But for the mothers of any of her babies. Or any of the other children who came into the hospital with “at risk” symptoms.
Lila’s gaze changed. Only for a second. The calm, the kindness, covered the subtle glimpse of whatever had been there, but she was fully focused on Ella as she asked, “Have you ever been a victim?”
“Not in the way you mean.”
Taking her hand, Lila led Ella to one of the two armchairs and took the other, all the while holding Ella’s gaze. “In what way do I mean?” she asked.
“I’ve never been abused.”
“So, in what way have you been a victim?”
Whoa. Ella sat back. Feeling as though she’d been slam-dunked. And as though she wanted to cry on this woman’s shoulder.
“I haven’t been,” she assured Lila McDaniels, racking her brain for a way to explain what she’d meant. “My folks were great parents. I was disciplined by having my reading time taken away. Or by being sent to bed without dessert. They never raised a hand to me. Nor has my father ever been even remotely violent with my mother. They were high school sweethearts and are still happily married.”
“There must have been arguments. No two individuals live in complete harmony forever.”
“Of course they fought! They still do. I’ve certainly heard raised voices. But nothing that ever crossed the line into emotional battery. Or personal attacks, either, that I can think of.”
Lila’s gaze was still intent. “And what about since then?”
“I’m...I’ve never been in an abusive relationship.” Pressure built up beneath Lila’s inquisitive stare—as though the woman was certain, in spite of what Ella was telling her, that Ella was a victim.
Ella’s gaze didn’t waver. Even for a second. She of all people knew that Brett was not an abusive man. Knew, too, that there were other ways to break a heart.
Studying Ella for another few seconds, Lila finally said, “We just need to know, up front, because if you’ve been a victim, your perspective might be different,” she said by way of explanation.
“You’re saying that if I was a victim, I wouldn’t be welcome on the team?”
“Of course not.” Lila’s frown, her quick gasp, caught at Ella, putting her strangely at ease. “Oh, my word, of course not. I just...I like to know. So I can help if need be... I’ll go get that tea.”
Lila was clasping her hands together as she left the room. Ella watched her go, curious about the woman, and wishing that the managing director was a member of the High Risk team so she’d have an opportunity to get to know her better. She wasn’t, though. The Lemonade Stand’s representative was a woman Ella had yet to meet—Sara Havens, a licensed professional clinical counselor.
And in retrospect, Lila’s not being on the team was just as well. At the moment, Ella didn’t have time to make a new friend outside of work. She had her hands full with settling into a new town, a new job, finding a house and putting her family back together.
She just had to make a good enough impression to secure the High Risk team position she’d already landed.
Which was just par for her life—having to fight for what she thought she already had. Like Chloe, fighting to keep them sisters when she’d thought they were family for life. And Brett...no...she’d stop that train of thought right there.
Lila called from the kitchen, asking Ella if she wanted milk in her tea. Ella declined.
She wasn’t going to think about Brett.
Not yet.
Not until she had to.
And only then until she could get what she needed from him.
CHAPTER THREE
BRETT HAD TO be in Chicago for an eleven o’clock meeting Wednesday morning. He’d be spending the few hours he had in his first-class airline seat studying the agenda for Music Muscles, a nonprofit music-therapy organization that was one of his newest clients. One that, so far, gave him no cause for concern. From there he’d head to Detroit, where he was spending the night before an early Thursday-morning meeting, and then it was off to Washington, DC, that afternoon.
Leaving his black BMW in secured parking, he pulled the carry-on out of the trunk, slung his leather garment bag over one shoulder, his matching briefcase satchel over the other and strode straight to the preferred security line in the terminal at LAX.
After he’d checked in, with limited time before they’d be calling him to preboard, Brett reached beneath his suit coat to the holster secured to his leather belt and pulled out his cell phone.
Her number had been on the High Risk team email he’d received the morning before. He’d typed it into contacts only so that her name would come up if she phoned, and he could avoid answering.
He found the name. Hit call. And then waited. Airline staff had opened the Jetway door. He only had a minute or two.
One ring. Two. And then three. He glanced at his watch. It was before seven in the morning. Her shift at the hospital didn’t start until eight, and her apartment was a twenty-minute drive away. He was, after all, the king of online investigating. He’d sold the dot-com. Not his abilities.
He still sat on the board of the company he founded—with his percentage of the take being donated to The Lemonade Stand every month.
On the sixth ring a flight employee announced that it was time for him to board. And he was sent to voice mail.
Brett didn’t leave a message.
* * *
ELLA GOT A new patient on Wednesday. A three-pound, nine-week-old girl who came to them from the Santa Raquel hospital with a peripherally inserted central catheter and a ventilator. The tiny thing was only now at thirty-four weeks gestational age. But if all went well, she’d be running and playing with her siblings soon enough, with no memory of how rough her life had been at the start. She was a lucky one. Her heart was good. Her lungs appeared to be developing normally. And as soon as her organs were mature enough to function on their own, she could hopefully go home.
In the meantime, she’d need a diaper change every three hours, a daily assessment and very careful monitoring.
Ella felt as if she needed monitoring that day, too. She must have checked her voice mail half a dozen times. And looked for text messages twice as often. Maybe she should have picked up Brett’s call. But if she was going to do this, she had to be the one in charge.