Breach of Promise

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I’ve always been a fan of James Scott Bell.
Breach of Promise
is one of his best books yet! I laughed, cried, and hurt with this character as he struggled to protect his five-year-old daughter from the ravages of divorce and found himself growing into the man he never knew he could be.

Terri Blackstock, author of
Cape Refuge
and
Southern Storm

Another great read by James Scott Bell.
Breach of Promise
is an emotionally gripping story of love, hope, and perseverance as one man faces impossible odds armed only with his emerging faith in God.

Bill Myers, author of
The Face of God

 

James Scott Bell explores depths of a father’s heart in
Breach of Promise
creating a deeply satisfying read. I loved it!

 

Angela Elwell Hunt, author of
The Canopy

Few writers can match the power and intensity found in James Scott Bell’s books. His newest novel is that rarity in the book world: a truly riveting read.
Breach of Promise
took me on a roller-coaster ride of emotion that left me breathless and lingered long after the last page.

Colleen Coble, author of
Without a Trace

James Scott Bell does it again! A tender, heart-wrenching tale of the intense love of a father for his child,
Breach of Promise
delivers a steady rush of adrenaline. Once again Bell mixes the vibrant hues of faith and real life and applies them to the fiction canvas with a deft and intriguing hand.

Lisa Samson, author of
The Church Ladies
and
Songbird

Breach of Promise
captures you from the first page, pulling you into a story that touches every emotion as you live a battle between a broken system and father’s love.

Nancy Moser, Christy award–winning author of
Time Lottery

 

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Deadlock
Sins of the Fathers Presumed Guilty No Legal Grounds

BREACH OF PROMISE
JAMES SCOTT BELL
For Allegra
Contents

MOON DANCE 11
BAD THINGS 19
DEMONS 47
HOMECOMING 59
LAWYERS 83
THE SYSTEM 111
MEMORIES 123
VISIONS 149
VISIT 175
THE SETUP 203
BAD TO WORSE 217
MAKING NEWS 263
MANAGING 289
THE EDGE 303
FINDINGS 325
SIGNS 339
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 345
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER 350
SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS 351

I have walked through many lives, some of them my own,
and I am not who I was . . .

—Stanley Kunitz,
The Layers
B
REACH OF
P
ROMISE
M
OON DANCE
1

Halfway through
Twister,
when Helen Hunt was about to run down another relentless force of nature, I turned to Paula and said, “Please don’t do it.”

“Shh.” Paula put her finger to her lips. She was really into the movie.
I hadn’t been able to concentrate on the film since the first tornado. In fact, I felt like a tornado was churning inside me, destroying all my fixtures, and I knew I had to get Paula’s answer.
“I really mean it, Paula.”
I saw her turn toward me, her face reflected in the glow of the movie screen.
“Why are you talking about it now, Mark?”
“I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“We already talked it out.”
“You talked. I went along.”
A
shush
issued from in front of us, like a snake hiss.
“Can’t this wait?” Paula whispered.
“No.” I surprised myself at my own insistence.
“We’re coming back to see this,” Paula said emphatically, then got up and started for the exit. I followed her out.
The bright lights of the lobby and the smell of popcorn—that odd theater smell, somewhere between fresh popped and yesterday’s laundry—hit me. So did Paula Montgomery’s glare.
“Do you think,” Paula said—her hands were in front of her, palm to palm, fingers pointing at my chest like a spear—“that this is an easy decision for me?”
“No, of course not.” I was only vaguely aware of the old couple shuffling into the theater next door, showing the Tom Cruise movie
Mission: Impossible.
“Then why bring it up again?” Paula said. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. They gathered on her lower lids like rain on lily pads. I hugged her, burying my face in her midnight hair, which smelled like honey and cinnamon. Her shampoo. Which I loved.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I said.
Baby.
“But I want it. I want our baby.”
“Please. Mark.”
“And I want to marry you, Paulie. I do.”
She pushed me away and cursed at me. The old couple stopped in the maw of the theater doors and the woman’s mouth dropped open. Paula turned and ran away.
I found her crying at Pretzels Plus in the heart of the mall. I hardly knew how to approach her. There was a big, fat pretzel lying under the glass, dotted with chunks of salt. Another twister, of a sort. Everything was twisted now.
It wasn’t fair to spring this on her in the middle of a movie. She had struggled hard with the decision. I knew that. I knew pregnancy wasn’t good for her career. Not at this point. She’d have to be written off the soap if they couldn’t get her pregnant in the story. Maybe she could sue them, like that one actress who sued Aaron Spelling. But Paula didn’t want to sue. She wanted a career. And hers was just starting to take off. She’d gotten a cover on
Soap Times.
“Up and Coming Vixens” was the title of the article.
Abortion was the logical thing. I had accepted it. For about a day.
But it gnawed at me until I had to say something. I didn’t want her to do it. But not wanting that probably meant I had lost Paula Montgomery for good.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Paula was leaning against the yellow tile wall next to the pretzel glass. “All right,” she said, her voice a thin reed.
I touched her shoulder. “All right what?”
“I’ll marry you,” she said.
Half my heart filled with new life.
“And the baby?” I said.
She looked at me, eyes red and wet. “Do you know what this is going to mean?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, you better learn.” She hit me in the shoulder as hard as she could, then threw her arms around my neck and held me like I was now her tether to earth.

One would have thought that a Christian wedding would have pleased all concerned, especially Paula’s Bostonian matriarch mother, Erica. After all, I was “doing the right thing” by marrying Paula. But Erica the Red, as I called her only to myself, did not like me. Never had. Not good enough for her daughter. I had the feeling no one ever would be.

The Christian part of the wedding was Erica’s choice, too (Paula’s father, Franklin, had died two years before). I was not a Christian yet. I worshiped at the altar of Brando and James Dean. My view of Jesus was that he would be a good role to play if Steven Spielberg or Antonio Troncatti directed me in it.

Paula was not a Christian, either. She had some sort of Buddhist leanings. But we both enjoyed the pomp and circumstance that attended us in the big church in Hollywood. The Presbyterians might have been a mystery to me, but they sure had themselves a good land deal and a wonderful architect.

And Paula Montgomery was stunning in her wedding dress. I couldn’t believe she was walking toward me.
We had met at a party a year and a half before, thrown by my crazy friend Roland. Roland was a gifted jazz musician by night and a writer of jingles by day. He could sit at the piano and create an ad line for any product you cared to name, right on the spot. He was doing just that when Paula walked in the door.
And knocked me out. As she did maybe half a dozen other guys there. She had hair the color of a Malibu night and violet eyes that ran on their own electricity. I had to do a lot of broken field running to get to her. But I finally managed to get her out to the balcony for some air—sweetening the deal by snagging a bowl of peanut M&M’s—and I had the chance to work my magic.
Which she didn’t fall for. After my few, fumbling attempts at charming small talk, she looked me in the eye and said, “Why don’t you put a hold on the fluff and just tell me what you’re passionate about?”
Her eyes were not just hypnotic, they were intelligent. I told her I loved acting, old movies, and baseball.
She smiled, and my heart pounded for mercy inside my chest. “Me, too.”
I was so in love my mouth refused to work. I’m sure she thought I was a babbling idiot.
So the next night, when I called to ask her out (I practically assaulted Roland for her phone number), the
Yes
I heard from her was a shock on the order of holding a winning lottery ticket.
I took her to Micelli’s, where working actors liked to eat. It gave hope.
“Too bad LA is not a theater town,” Paula remarked at dinner. “I’d love to do Rosalind someday.”
She was a serious actress, in other words. Shakespeare was not something a lot of young actors attempted anymore. It’s scary to do the Bard, but also the best feeling when you carry it off.
“I’ll do Orlando,” I offered.
She laughed and said, “It’s a deal.”
I fell more deeply in love. It was like Shakespeare had written the scene for us, in modern lingo. I promised myself we would do
As You Like It
someday. As husband and wife.
And now I was marrying her. When it came time to promise to love, honor, and all the rest, I said
I do
with more intense joy than anything I’d felt before in my life. And then she promised the same. It was too much like a dream.
The nightmare was still five years away.

Throughout her pregnancy, Paula continued to act on the soap. Her character was having an affair with the respected town doctor, who was pressuring her to have an abortion. I wanted to go into the TV and slug the guy. It felt good to want to do that.

Paula did have her moments of disquiet about the upcoming birth. I was often not very helpful.
Once, after our Bradley natural birth class, we went to Ralph’s Market to pick up a few items. I grabbed a straw from the deli counter and then went to the produce section and selected a big, ripe cantaloupe. I took the items over to Paula.
“See,” I said. “All you have to do is pass this—” I held up the cantaloupe—“through this—” the straw. “It’s easy!”
“Shut UP!”