The Family Solution
Bobby Hutchinson
My thanks to Paul Eviston in Vancouver and
Bruce Gilmar in Sparwood for real estate information—and for both leading me gently to two signs that said Sold.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PROLOGUE
BELLA JANE MONROE TURNED thirty-seven on October 9.
As consciousness slowly dawned, she had no presentiment that this was the morning her life would change. She simply woke up feeling guilty and remembering too late one of her mother’s favorite sayings—which of course Mae Howard had never applied to her own short-lived marriage.
Never go to be bed angry with your husband. Disregarding the source, the advice was solid. Why, Bella wondered, did she only remember good advice after the fact?
Last night she’d been mad enough at Gordon to want to smack him with something heavy. But she wasn’t really the violent type, except in her imagination. If she wasn’t a fighter, however, then neither was she a lover. She’d come to the conclusion during the past year that she didn’t love Gordon any more, which made her feel sad and guilty, and was probably at the root of the problems between them.
Certainly she’d loved him sixteen years ago, when they were married. At least, she was pretty sure she had loved him, even if she wasn’t sure exactly when she’d stopped. She was clearer about why, but then she’d made promises that long-ago day—vows that had to do with other things than love.
There was honor, and sickness and health, and worldly goods, not to mention the kids. She was determined that Josh and Kelsey would not grow up the way she had, in a single-parent home. And there was loyalty. Bella prided herself on being loyal.
She opened her eyes, yawned and stretched. Her back was still turned to Gordon’s side of the king-size bed, the way it had been when she finally got to sleep. She squinted at the clock and did a double take. Eight forty-seven? Holy crap. The alarm hadn’t gone off.
The kids would be late for school. Monroe’s Hardware wouldn’t open on time. Bella groaned and sat up, registering the odd fact that Gordon wasn’t snoring beside her. In fact, he wasn’t in bed at all, which was a shocker. For the past six months, ever since the business had started going south, he’d refused to get up before ten, which meant she had to drive Kelsey and Josh to school and open the store. It was that and a dozen other irritations that had driven Bella to confront him the night before.
Attack him, actually—be honest here, Bella. The discussion had started over something basic. As long as Gordon wasn’t working at the store, Bella thought he could at least figure out something for dinner and make an attempt to have it on the table when the kids got home.
And somehow the whole thing had rapidly escalated into World War III, ending only when he made his standard retreat into stone-cold silence.
She felt a little sick, remembering it. What if Josh and Kelsey had overheard? Teenagers had enough to contend with, without hearing their parents have a meltdown.
A chill October breeze drifted in the open window. The room was freezing, the damp Vancouver air filled with the promise of rain.
Bella dragged herself out of bed, shivering as she slammed the window shut. A piece of yellow lined paper fluttered off Gordon’s pillow and landed on the floor. She leaned over and picked it up, one hand pressed against the front of her flannel nightgown in an effort to stay warm. Just for an instant, hope flickered. Gordon had never in living memory admitted he was wrong or said he was sorry. Maybe this time…
“I’m taking off,” she read. “You and the kids will be better off without me. I’m sorry about the Volvo and the money in the savings account, but I need them. In return I’ve signed the house and store over to you—power of attorney is on my desk. Tell the kids I love them. G.”
Bella read the note twice, and then a third time, slower, as if it had been written in a foreign language. When the words finally started to make sense, her heart was thudding against her ribs and she heard herself begin to moan.
Her legs buckled, and she sank to her knees on the carpet. Rocking back and forth, she crumpled the note into a ball and threw it across the room.
Betrayal, abandonment, rage—terror. The feelings of desperation poured through her.
She grabbed the neck of her nightgown with both hands and pulled as hard as she could, until the soft fabric tore all the way to the hem, then she ripped it crosswise. She wished it was Gordon’s heart she’d just dispatched, but it felt so much more like her own.
CHAPTER ONE
HANDS TREMBLING FROM too much caffeine and not enough sleep, Bella sipped yet another mug of coffee and tried to figure out how to balance a stepladder halfway up the stairs.
It was Sunday morning, ten days, two hours and seventeen minutes since she’d first read The Letter, and when the doorbell rang, relief and anticipation replaced the anxiety that generally sat like a rock in the middle of her chest.
Niki was early, bless her heart. Desperate to unload the newest details of her life into the sympathetic ears of her best friend, Bella hurried to the door and threw it open.
“Morning, Ms. Monroe.”
The man on her makeshift front steps was of medium height, of medium weight and with more than medium shoulders, and she’d seen him somewhere before. He had nice eyes, and his broken nose gave his handsome features character. He wore jeans and a denim jacket lined with sheepskin, and the fact that he wasn’t dressed in a suit like the other real-estate people she’d encountered in the past week misled Bella, but only until he began to speak.
“I’m Charlie Fredricks. We met the day you came by the real-estate office? You spoke with my brother, Rick.” He smiled and extended a large hand, which he obviously intended for her to shake.
Bella tried to swallow her fierce disappointment, and then gave up the attempt to control her temper, which, according to her mother, she’d inherited from her absentee father.
What was it with the men in her life?
“It’s Sunday. You do realize that? You people are driving me nuts. I have more work than there are hours in the day. Emotionally, I’m a wreck. I’ve explained to about 227 other real-estate idiots from your office why I can’t afford your rip-off commissions, and I’m sick to death of being hounded this way.”
Somehow forgetting the heavy mug in her hand, she swung an arm to slam the door. Hot coffee flew—some of it hitting her hand. She