Reaching First

by Mindy Klasky

  The words were so simple. So straightforward. But in that three-word confession, Emily heard decades of pain. “Mr. Samson—” she said uncertainly.

  He interrupted her. “I loved her, but I never told her. She was my client, after all. It wouldn’t have been proper. Undue influence, and all that.”

  Emily wanted to say that no one had ever influenced Aunt Minnie, unduly or otherwise, but she held her tongue.

  “This house was Minnie. She’d made it her own. Every time I came to visit her, I thought I would…” He trailed off before he found a new train of thought. “I didn’t want things to change here. I didn’t want you to do anything to the house, anything that would take away…her.”

  Emily finally understood the months of resistance, the countless battles to meet the terms of her aunt’s will. She reached out to pat the old man’s hand. “Minnie trusted you,” she said. “And she didn’t give that trust lightly. You might have been the person closest to her in all the world.”

  Mr. Samson laughed, a cracked and crooked sound. He licked his lips and started to say something. Shrugged. Reached for his binder. He opened to a series of pages in the back and made a number of check marks next to apparently key paragraphs, and then he finally said, “All right.”

  “All right?” she asked, not quite daring to hope.

  “You’ve met Minerva Holt’s requirements for the fair and proper use of her funds.”

  He went on after that. Something about the probate court, about paperwork Emily had to file, about a hearing, which was strictly a formality. But Emily wasn’t listening to a word he said. Instead, she was thinking about sharing the news.

  She shoved aside her first thought, drowning it by reflex.

  Then she imagined calling Anna to crow her victory. After all, Anna Benson had been the one who told Emily she had the stick-to-itiveness to get Minerva House off the ground in the first place. But Anna was still angry with her. Barely talking to her. Too wrapped up in vital team business to interrupt with Emily’s report.

  So she went back to that first strangled thought. She wanted to call Tyler.

  That was impossible, though. She’d promised Anna she’d leave the man alone. She couldn’t risk ruining his position with the court, destroying the validity of the community service that still kept him on the team.

  Besides, Tyler hadn’t tried to reach her in the three weeks since he’d left her sitting on this same damned couch. She stifled the ache of that memory with the mantra she’d perfected in the past twenty-one days: she loved him, but he didn’t love her, and she could live with that.

  She had to live with that. Because what alternative did she have? There was no way to go back and change things, to tell him the truth she should have told him months before.

  Emily shook her head and reached out for the documents Ethan Samson was giving her. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for letting me keep Minerva House. Now, how about that tea? Let’s talk some more about Aunt Minnie.”

  * * *

  A month later, Emily sat on the witness stand, staring out at the courtroom. The benches were filled with a motley mix of reporters, baseball fans, and a few innocent onlookers who seemed to have stumbled into the media circus by mistake.

  A nervous young prosecutor stood beside one table, barely visible behind his wall of briefcases and boxes of documents. He looked like a child playing in a fort, and Emily almost forgave him for his part in this mess.

  At the other table was one of Raleigh’s most senior litigators. Lyman Reynolds was comfortable in his bespoke suit, flashing ruby cufflinks and matching tie pin. He was solicitous of his client, Anna Benson, pouring her a cup of water, leaning close to explain the proceedings.

  Anna smiled sourly, obviously not thrilled with the festival atmosphere of the courtroom. Nevertheless, she nodded at her lawyer’s words, accepting the advice she was paying an arm and a leg for.

  And next to Anna was the star of the proceedings—Tyler Brock himself.

  Emily had seen him the instant she walked into the courtroom. He wore a conservative suit, navy serge, tailored well for his broad shoulders. His starched white shirt was impeccable. His jet black wingtips were flawlessly shined. He sported a traditional red- and blue-striped tie, the Rockets’ colors, the brand of his recently-adopted home.

  Emily saw all of that in a heartbeat. Then, she was left trying to read the expression in his eyes. Because Tyler wasn’t a coward. He didn’t try to look away from her.

  I’ve missed you, she said.

  But she could not read his response.

  I’d do anything to change this hearing, to make the judge understand, she said.

  But she could not read his response.

  I’m sorry, she said.

  But she most definitely could not read a word of his response.

  “Miss Holt?” Judge Perkins boomed.

  She jumped and said, “I’m sorry, Your Honor.” She returned her attention to the prosecutor. “Can you repeat the question?”

  The poor guy looked like he would rather be cleaning toilets than asking another round of questions. “I asked if you had maintained contemporaneous records about Mr. Brock’s service to Minerva House.”

  “Yes, sir.” And she proceeded to describe, in minute detail, the steps she’d taken to record Tyler’s hours.

  “And when was the last day Mr. Brock worked at Minerva House?”

  She didn’t need to consult any document. “August 8.” The day before they’d met at Callie’s Café. The day before Caden Holloway had changed their lives forever.

  “And why did Mr. Brock cease working at Minerva House after that date?”

  Because I lied to him. I tricked him. I didn’t trust him to be better than other guys, to be more dependable, more reliable, more true. Because I was wrong.

  She cleared her throat and answered out loud. “After that date, rumors began to spread that Mr. Brock and I were involved in an intimate relationship. In consultation with Rockets management, we decided it was best to terminate Mr. Brock’s engagement with Minerva House.”

  “And, reminding you that you are under oath Ms. Holt, were you involved in an intimate relationship with Mr. Brock prior to or on August 8?” The young lawyer’s ears were bright red as he asked the question.

  An expectant hum sharpened in the crowd behind the prosecutor. It was nothing the judge could sanction, nothing that would make him slam his gavel down and throw anyone out of the courtroom. But the sharks sensed blood in the water. They were circling for the kill.

  Emily had practiced her answer with Anna’s lawyers. Her tone was perfectly even as she said, “Mr. Brock and I were not intimate at that time.”

  It was the truth. Eating dinner in a public restaurant wasn’t intimate. Talking on a phone, half a continent apart, wasn’t intimate. Joking about household renovations, talking about growing up, getting to know each other better every single day, wasn’t intimate. Even getting drunker than she’d ever been in her life, making a pass at the man, and ultimately sleeping with sheets and a blanket between them, wasn’t intimate.

  All right. She was splitting hairs on that last one. But the prosecutor hadn’t defined his terms. And Emily wasn’t about to help him out.

  The lawyer didn’t have any more questions. Lyman Reynolds stood at his table and thanked her for her testimony, but he declined to ask her anything. With the judge’s permission, she stepped down from the witness stand and took a seat in the front row of spectators.

  Reynolds was still standing. “Your Honor,” he said. “We ask the Court’s indulgence for Tyler Brock to read a statement that is directly pertinent to this matter.”

  Read a statement. Emily heard the words. Nearly disregarded them. But sitting behind the Rockets’ table, she saw tension lance through Tyler’s shoulders. Even without seeing the expression on his face, she could tell he was nervous, stretched nearly to a breaking point.

  The judge seemed unaware, though, as he directed a quest
ion to the prosecutor. “Any objection?”

  “Er, um, no,” the young lawyer said, darting out a hand to steady one of his three-ring binders. “So long as I can question him when he’s done.”

  “Fair enough,” Reynolds said. His relaxed gesture invited Tyler to take the stand. A clerk swore him in. The attorney said, “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Brock.”

  She watched Tyler nod and reach inside his breast pocket. He pulled out a hand-size computer. As he pushed a button on the device, he licked his lips. Aside from that one sign of nerves, he looked calm, ready, like he was standing beside home plate, dug into the batter’s box, waiting to see whatever the opposing pitcher had in mind.

  “Your Honor,” Tyler said. And then he looked down at the computer and read: “Thank you for letting me read here today.”

  It was the voice she knew, the baritone rumble that had haunted her dreams for nearly two months. His words were measured and calm. But she could still hear his anguished cry: “I can’t read!” She could see the pain in his face as he told her the truth.

  Something had changed. The Tyler Brock sitting on the witness stand was a new man.

  “I worked for Emily Holt at Minerva House,” he read, methodically working his way from word to word. “I put in eighty-three hours and then I stopped.”

  Apparently unaware of the miracle he was interrupting, Judge Perkins said, “Why did you stop, Mr. Brock?”

  Tyler blinked. “Emily and I had a difference of opinion about something completely unrelated to my court sentence.”

  Difference of opinion. Even now, after everything that had happened, he was protecting her, preserving her privacy. In that instant, she fell in love with him all over again.

  The judge gestured for Tyler to continue. He went back to his screen. “When I left, I met Dr. Raster. Dr. Raster helps people who can’t read. People like me. People like I was.”

  The reporters exploded, and the judge hammered with his gavel. “Silence in the gallery, or I’ll have this courtroom cleared!” It still took a vicious glare before the restless herd quieted. “Is it your testimony, Mr. Brock, that you were unable to read before you consulted with Dr. Raster?”

  Tyler looked up from his computer screen. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And what, precisely, did Dr. Raster do, that has changed your ability in such a short time?”

  “He taught me to use this computer.” Tyler lifted the device in his hand. “With it, I can make text larger. I can switch fonts, to ones where it’s easier to make out the differences in letters. I can change the contrast too, put white letters on a black background. I’m still learning, but I can read.”

  “That’s all well and good, Mr. Brock. But you abandoned your assigned community service without approval of this court. And even if we accept all of Ms. Holt’s records as accurate and correct, you are still short seventeen hours.”

  “No, sir.” Tyler shook his head. “I worked with Dr. Raster, helping patients at his facility. I completed my community service at the University.”

  The reporters were eating this up. Emily could hear them behind her, feel the electric hum as they scribbled down every word Tyler said.

  The judge frowned. “And do you have any record of the time you allegedly volunteered for Dr. Raster? Any documentation at all of your community service after you left Minerva House?”

  Lyman Reynolds cleared his throat. “Your Honor, we’ve got that right here. A notarized affidavit from the doctor, with witnessed spreadsheets stating the precise days and times Mr. Brock volunteered at the University of Raleigh.” The attorney handed one set of documents to the prosecutor and another to the court clerk, who stamped them and passed them up to the judge.

  The judge paged through them, shaking his head. “Mr. Brock, I still have a problem with your walking away from the community service program this court approved. I’m deeply troubled by the job Ms. Holt did, managing your supposed rehabilitation.”

  Emily quailed beneath the judge’s brittle gaze. She knew the reporters were staring at her. She watched Anna’s fingers tighten on a pencil, nearly snapping the writing utensil in half.

  “Your Honor,” Tyler said. “None of this is Ms. Holt’s fault. If Ms. Holt hadn’t done what she did, I wouldn’t be able to read my testimony today. She’s the only reason I finished my community service, the only reason I could help more than two dozen children with learning disabilities at the University of Raleigh. Your Honor, because of Emily Holt, I’m a completely different man than the one who got into a bar fight in Texas three months ago.”

  Ostensibly, Tyler spoke to the judge. But Emily knew his words were for her. They were an offer of forgiveness. An apology after two months of silence. A bid to start things new, to peel away all the layers of misunderstanding, of secrets, of pain.

  After that, she lost all track of the hearing. Tyler went back to his computer, reading the end of his testimony before he stepped down from the stand. The judge asked Reynolds a few more questions, technical things about Dr. Raster’s records. The prosecutor fumbled through a closing argument, insisting that Tyler had violated the law, that he had not fulfilled his sentence, that he should return to standard sentencing. Reynolds made his jovial case that Tyler had gone above and beyond the order of the court.

  Emily expected there to be a delay, that the judge would take his time deciding the matter. But instead, he leaned back in his chair and said, “Considering all the facts in evidence before me, I conclude that Tyler Brock has served his complete and entire sentence. I hereby order his underlying offense to be expunged from his record.” The judge crashed his gavel against its brass plate. “Young man,” he said to Tyler, before anyone else could move, “don’t make any more mistakes. I don’t want to see you back in this courtroom again.”

  Tyler uttered some polite reply. The clerk made them all stand. The judge left the room. The reporters burst into questions, all vying to speak with Tyler, with Anna, with Emily herself. Lyman Reynolds puffed out his chest and issued a prepared statement, boasting that he’d been confident of the results before he’d ever set foot in the courtroom.

  But Emily barely heard his lawyerly bravado. Because Tyler was standing in front of her, reaching out for her hand as if he expected her to run away. The warmth of his fingers immediately reminded her of other ways he’d touched her. The pressure of his touch was steady, gentle, and she had no choice but to look up, to meet his eyes.

  “Emily,” he said.

  She could barely breathe past the furnace he ignited in her belly.

  “Em,” he said, and he flexed his wrist, pulling her close enough to feel the heat of his body, the energy radiating through his crisp white shirt. “I have something else I want to read,” he said. “Something for you.”

  She was helpless as he reached inside his jacket pocket. Like a mouse transfixed by a serpent, she could only watch him thumb on the computer screen. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and she watched his tongue smooth over his lips.

  He was nervous. He’d faced an entire courtroom, argued for his future, his freedom, and he’d scarcely hesitated. But now, she saw the way he glanced at her, the way he shrugged his shoulders, as if he were trying to settle into a more comfortable position.

  She forced herself to nod. “I’m listening,” she said. And she wasn’t the only one. The flock of reporters had fallen dead silent, as if every one of them were holding his breath, trying to hear what Tyler Brock was about to say.

  He read, “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no records of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”

  Love keeps no records of wrongs.

  The words were from the Bible, simple and familiar. But as often as she’d heard them—at countless weddings, in the church services her par
ents had led in Africa—she’d never truly felt them. But when Tyler Brock spoke of love, the words vibrated to her very heart.

  “It’s from Corinthians,” he said, slipping the computer back into this pocket.

  “I know.”

  “My mama made my daddy read it at their wedding. She wanted him to remember it, every day they were married.”

  She swallowed, her heart swelling at the image of simple faith, of true love. Tyler easily recaptured her left hand as he sank to one knee.

  “Tyler!” She instinctively tried to pull away, but his grip was firm. She suddenly realized she had no desire to escape. Her fingers shook in his.

  “Emily Holt, will you marry me?”

  She understood each individual word. She knew that the reporters were watching with rapt attention. That Anna was gaping. That even Lyman Reynolds had finally fallen silent.

  “Tyler,” she said, tugging on their joined hands, forcing him to stand beside her. She turned her back on the crowd behind them and said so softly only he could hear. “You can’t mean this. I lied to you.”

  His smile was just for her. “You were scared.”

  “But you weren’t. You trusted me.”

  “Come on, then. Return the favor. Say yes, Emily.”

  “Yes,” she said, and she was astonished to hear herself laughing. “Yes. Of course I’ll marry you!” Or maybe she wasn’t laughing. She was crying. She was standing there, shaking, with only their clasped hands anchoring her, only his touch making everything real.

  He swept her into his arms. His kiss was chaste, designed for the applauding onlookers, but she felt the dart of his tongue against her closed lips, a promise of more to come.

  Pulling away far too soon, he produced a ring from somewhere. He must have had it in his pocket, next to his magical computer. The gold band glinted in the courtroom’s light, its tasteful diamond sparking to blue fire under the overhead fluorescents. “This belonged to my mother,” Tyler said. “You’ll make me the happiest man in the world if you’ll wear it.”