CASSIDY'S COURTSHIP

by Sharon Mignerey

  Her eyes closed, tears seeped beneath the lids. Cole waited until she opened them again.

  "No omissions."

  She shook her head, and again her glance skittered away.

  "No deceptions." He let go of her and walked toward the door. "The truth? When you're ready to tell me what really is going on, Brenna, call me."

  "I am telling you the truth."

  He stopped in the doorway without turning around. "I don't think so," he said. "When I turn around you'll look away again." He braced an arm against the doorjamb. "If you want to call things off between us, all you need to do is say so. This kind of charade doesn't accomplish anything."

  He opened the screen door and walked through it. The door closed behind him, and he went down the walk without looking back.

  The finality of the door closing resounded through Brenna's mind with the crack of gunfire. The sound echoed around her, and she finally covered her ears.

  She didn't know how long she stood in the middle of the room, tears sliding like slow rain down her face and neck. Each choice she had made during the course of her life marched through her mind, each mistake magnified, each opportunity missed. The only man she had ever been in love with had just walked out the door. And she had no one—no one—to blame but herself.

  The realization shattered her. One by one, her internal defenses fell, starkly baring all that she had failed to become.

  The sun slipped behind the buildings across the street, and she watched the long shadows creep toward her until they touched her feet. Shadows, she thought. How very appropriate. One corner of her mind began working with perfect clarity, unlike the rest of her, which felt numb.

  She had stood in shadows always. In Michael's shadow, which she hadn't resented Michael for. In shadows of her own making. She alone was responsible, even if she had once thought she had the best of reasons—wanting to be accepted for herself without competing with her brother. A choice, a stupid choice, that she had never imagined would cost her so much.

  In shadows there were no illusions, no golden sunshine, no warmth. Tomorrow she would begin to think about the future. Tonight—she swallowed and turned toward her room. Tonight she would endure, because there was no other choice.

  She undressed, letting her clothes fall where they would, and slid into bed where she wrapped herself into a cocoon of misery.

  Hours later, within the fog of a restless dream, she felt arms around her, wanted them to belong to Cole, knew that they belonged to her brother. She took Michael's hand and tried to speak.

  "Shh," he whispered. "Sleep."

  "It hurts so much," she cried.

  "I know. We'll talk about it in the morning."

  "I love him," she said as he pulled the covers around her shoulders.

  "I know."

  "I ruined it, Michael."

  He smoothed his hand over her head and sat on the edge of the bed. "Go back to sleep, Brennie. Things will be better in the morning."

  She drifted back into a fitful sleep where her half-truths and evasions and deceptions chased her.

  The Brenna James I know looks me in the eye when she tells the truth.

  "What do you mean my own daughter is too tired to come tell me hello?" came her father's too-real voice.

  Hi, dad. Are you ready to see my school papers?

  "I think she's coming down with the flu. She said something about a beastly headache and the sniffles."

  Heartache, Michael. Not headache.

  "Do I have to go to bed, Daddy?"

  Jane's lilting voice answered, "Come along, Teddy. I'll read you a bedtime story."

  Read this sign about Chimney Rock, Brenna.

  It's too heavy to be a bedtime story, Cole. I can't.

  "The apartment seems pretty small. I imagine you'll be glad to have the space back when Brenna moves."

  "She's been a lot of help, Dad."

  Read the card accompanying these flowers, Ms. James. Show the court you can read.

  I can't. I want to. But, I can't.

  Dreams and voices haunted her as she slept, and those same dreams and voices haunted her after she awoke.

  And she had no one to blame but herself.

  * * *

  Chapter 22

  « ^ »

  "You look like hell, boss," Myra said to Cole the following morning, when she arrived a few minutes before eight. "Have you been here long?"

  Cole swung his feet off the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. "Since about six."

  "Couldn't sleep, hmm."

  "Yeah."

  "Did you find the D.A.'s witnesses?"

  "Yeah. One of them will give a jury plenty to chew on."

  "You had one message from last night that came in after you checked in," Myra said, handing him the pink slip of paper. "Brenna called late—just before five."

  "She mentioned she had called," Cole said. Everything about the conversation was burned into his memory.

  "She sounded really disappointed when I told her you had gone for the day. Keeping your secret was hard. How was the picnic?"

  "It wasn't." Cole put his glasses back on and picked up a pencil. "I'd appreciate getting that brief on the Collins case from you as soon as possible, Myra."

  "Cole—"

  The only time she called him by name was when she was worried about him or when things weren't going so well. Grateful as he was for the support, Cole didn't want to talk about Brenna. He wasn't sure he could without losing his temper or bawling like a baby.

  "Not now, Myra." Cole looked up at his secretary. They had shared a lot over the last year. Cole had listened when her husband ran off with a woman half his age. Cole had sat with her at the hospital when her son was injured in a car accident. She had listened when he and Susan broke up. Most of all, Cole admired her loyalty for leaving a lucrative job when he went out on his own. But he wasn't ready to talk about Brenna.

  "Boss…"

  "Later, okay?" he said, his tone softening.

  She smiled. "Later. And I've got a bottle of Scotch, if it's that kind of talk."

  Myra closed the door behind her, and Cole swiveled his chair around where he stared unseeingly out the window. I can't read.

  Cole had never imagined three words could affect him so profoundly. An illiterate person was a migrant farmworker, or a kid running with one of the inner-city gangs, or a junkie. It wasn't Brenna—it couldn't be Brenna who was bright, and brave, and loyal. It couldn't be.

  He picked up the telephone and dialed Brenna's number. Michael, not Brenna, answered the telephone.

  Bluntly, Cole asked how she was.

  "There's a lot of ways I could answer that," Michael answered in the same vein. "Is she hurting? Damn straight. Am I mad about that? Yes. Is there one damn thing I can do to help her through this? No."

  Cole closed his eyes.

  "She's survived hurdles almost as big as your breaking her heart."

  "She deserves more than that."

  "She deserves the best," Michael said. "I like you, Cole. Until yesterday, I thought you were good for her."

  "Can she read?"

  The silence stretched over the line, and in the background, Cole could hear a radio playing.

  "That's for her to tell you," Michael said, finally.

  "She told me she couldn't," Cole answered.

  "Then you have your answer."

  "It makes no sense."

  "Did you know she's moving out?" Michael asked.

  "When?" The change of subject surprised Cole nearly as much as the announcement.

  "Saturday."

  "When did she decide that?" Had it been only yesterday morning they had ridden into town together, making plans?

  "I was hoping you could tell me. She sprang that on me this morning on her way out."

  Out where? Cole wondered. "Damn."

  "Yeah." Michael cleared his throat. "The ball is in your court. She's holding herself together by a thread. Our da
d is visiting, which is never good for her."

  "He's already here?" So much for his intention to be a buffer between Brenna and her father.

  "In or out. It's up to you." Michael paused again. "If you come back—"

  "If I come back," Cole interrupted. "It will be for keeps. You won't see me otherwise."

  "Fair enough," Michael said, breaking the connection.

  Cole stared blindly at the papers strewn in front of him, hearing Brenna's anguished voice echo through his mind. I can't read. The statement haunted him, and Cole carefully examined each incident he could remember having anything to do with reading.

  Brenna took Teddy to the library once or twice a week. In fact, Cole was pretty sure today was her day to do story hour again. If she did story hour, she read. So why had she said she could not?

  Her admission that she had not finished school challenged Cole's every attitude about high-school dropouts. And Brenna fit none of them. She could hold her own in any situation, contributing when appropriate, asking the right questions to keep the conversation moving. She was articulate. She was curious. All the things Cole had observed led him to the same conclusion. She might be a dropout, but she sure as hell could read. He didn't understand her reasons for saying she couldn't.

  There had to be some other reason for her not meeting him last night. Only what?

  Unable to concentrate, he pushed his chair away from the desk and stood up. He felt as though he had all the pieces of a complex puzzle, pieces that were turned facedown so he couldn't see anything but the individual shapes to assemble the whole. Pieces that, alone, made no sense.

  Cole pulled his jacket from the back of his chair and strode out of his office, telling Myra he didn't know when he would be back. If she was at the library reading, it was simple. She knew how to read and something else was going on with her.

  After Cole parked the Jeep, he sat in front of the library a few moments more, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. A confrontation with Brenna was the last thing he wanted, but he had to know.

  He was positive she read. She was confident with the kids, holding the book and sharing it, with a comfort level that would be impossible if she wasn't thoroughly familiar with the story. She held the children's interest with nothing more than the power of her voice. To do that, she had to read.

  Didn't she?

  Cole left the Jeep and strode across the parking lot and through the front door of the library. He went down the stairs to the children's section. The children were gathered around the story-hour corner, and Cole could hear Brenna's voice weaving the story around them. At the moment, Cole was tempted to go back up the stairs. He had proven what he needed to.

  He was no closer to understanding why she would tell him that she could not read. People who loved each other and trusted each other didn't lie. Period.

  Instead of leaving, Cole found himself peering around the corner until he could see her. Brenna sat in front of the children, her legs crossed, a book with brilliant pictures held in front of her. Her voice drew him as it drew the children, but unlike the children he couldn't have repeated a single word she said.

  Cole was shocked at how pale she was. She looked worse than he felt. Her eyes were on the children, not on the book. She didn't glance at it at all except to turn the pages, holding the book so each child could see the illustrations.

  Brenna was just halfway through the story of the Little Red Hen when she became aware of someone else joining the children. She lifted her eyes expecting to find a child shyly standing at the back of the group. Instead she found her gaze focused on a pair of crisply pressed trousers.

  Her hands grew suddenly clammy. Knowing who she would see didn't keep her gaze from climbing the length of his body until she met Cole's eyes. All the hardness she had first known in him was present this morning, his features chiseled into a somber mask, his eyes dark, hooded, expressionless.

  She dropped her gaze. Her voice died away and the book fell heedlessly to the floor. Wearily, she picked up the book from the floor. She opened it, but she couldn't have said if she had stopped telling the story on page 1 or if she had finished.

  Dear Lord, why was he here now?

  The children turned around to look at Cole, then glanced back to Brenna.

  Finally, she said, "I've lost my place. Where were we?"

  "The little red hen needs help harvesting her wheat," said Teddy.

  "Oh, yes." Brenna paged through the book until she found the illustrations for that part of the story. Somehow, she had to ignore Cole long enough to finish this. She wanted to flee, wanted to demand that he leave, knew neither one was possible.

  Brenna continued with the narration, only half aware of what she was saying. When she glanced back at Cole, he was watching her with an intensity she found unnerving. She finished the story without knowing how. She only knew that she wasn't ready to talk to Cole.

  He remained standing where he was after the story ended and the children got up and gradually left. After the last child said goodbye, Brenna sat a moment longer, her head bent.

  "Hi, Cole," Teddy said.

  Brenna watched him tip his head way up and smile.

  "Hi," Cole responded. His gaze left Brenna and focused on Teddy. "Would you mind sitting down here and reading for a few minutes? I need to talk to Brenna."

  "I think she needs to talk to you, too," Teddy said, his voice serious. "Last night she cried." He pointed to a table across the room. "I'll be over there. Okay, Auntie?"

  Brenna nodded.

  "Come on, Brenna," Cole said, coming a couple of steps closer. "We've got to talk."

  As she had only scant weeks earlier, she wanted to tell him they had nothing to talk about. Instead, she stood and followed Cole up the stairs and through the wide front doors of the library. After the relative cool from the air conditioner inside, the air outside was hot. She watched Cole loosen his tie and unbutton the top button of his shirt as he led her to a bench underneath a couple of mature spruce trees.

  He sat down next to her, leaned his elbows on his knees, and stared through his loosely clasped hands. "I don't understand," he said a few moments later. "You tell me that you can't read. And yet you're here. If reading stories during story hour isn't reading, Brenna, I don't know what is."

  "I wasn't reading," she replied, still not looking at him directly. "I pick stories I know already. I pace the story according to the pictures. That's all."

  Cole thought about that for a moment. Though it sounded a little far-fetched to him, her explanation seemed reasonable. More, her voice had a ring of truth he hadn't heard in it last night.

  She lifted her gaze to his. "Is that the problem, Cole? That you don't believe me?" Her voice caught. "That you think … I'm lying?"

  "I don't know what I believe." He straightened and glanced at her. "Your being here ought to prove that you read."

  "I told you the truth."

  "When?" he asked, pinning her with a hard glance. "The night you told me you hadn't finished school, but conveniently neglected to tell me you're illiterate? That first night at the bar? The day you told me about the year when your mother and grandmother died? All the weeks in between? Tell me, Brenna, just when did you tell me the truth?" He surged to his feet and thrust his hands into his pants pockets.

  "It was all the truth," she answered, meeting his gaze. "All of it… It just wasn't the complete truth."

  "Lies by omission," he muttered.

  "You're right," she said, standing up. "I know I hurt you, Cole. I never meant to."

  "That doesn't help a hell of a lot at the moment," he said.

  "Do you think I wanted this?" she whispered. Emotion closed her throat and her eyes burned. She wrapped her arms around her waist and turned away from him. "At first, it didn't matter. I didn't ever expect to see you again, much less fall in love with you. And then…" She paused and took a deep breath. "Did you know that I told John Miller I couldn't read?"

  Cole shook his
head.

  "I thought he'd protect me. I thought he had to know, and that was what I paid him for. Only he decided I was stupid. I trusted him." Her glance lifted to Cole's. "I didn't want to trust you."

  "But?" he prompted.

  "I did." Her voice fell again to a whisper, but she held his gaze. "And then it was too late. I didn't want … things … between us to end. And I knew it would the minute I told you. So I kept putting it off, hoping I'd figure out a way. And I kept thinking, how do I tell him? A dozen different times I've wanted to, and I just couldn't make myself say the words that would send you out of my life." She took a deep breath. "I don't expect you to understand that."

  She glanced away. Never had she looked more vulnerable. He yearned to reach for her. But he didn't.

  Her chin quivered, then firmed, and she looked back at him. "After you brought me home yesterday, I knew I couldn't put this off any longer. It wasn't being fair to you or to me." She took the crumpled card that had accompanied his flowers out of her pocket and held it out to him. "Don't you think I'd give my life to know what this says?"

  Brenna dropped the card in his palm and walked away. Cole watched her, all his convictions shattered. He had been so sure he knew how to dispassionately discover one way or the other whether Brenna could read. Life was messier than law, though, and he had just discovered nothing could be less simple.

  "Cole?"

  He raised his head to look at her poised at the entry to the library. "I'm sorry I hurt you." Then she pulled open the door and disappeared into the building.

  He raised his face to the heat of the bright sunshine, then dropped his head and opened up his palm. He smoothed the crumpled sheet of paper, hearing her voice echo in his mind. Don't you think I'd give my life to know what this says? Never had he heard her so anguished. And he just stood there, so sure he was right, discovering that he had wounded her in ways he was just beginning to comprehend.

  As for himself, his head pounded and his heart ached. Literally. With every breath he took. Sometime later he found himself in the parking lot in front of his office, shocked that he didn't remember getting into the Jeep or driving across town.

  He got out of the vehicle and went inside, automatically acknowledging Myra as he went through the outer office. At his desk, he stared at the folders littered over the surface and tried to marshal his thoughts into some sort of order.