Emily looked at her reflection in her bathroom mirror. Her wet hair was wrapped in a towel, and she’d tucked a bath sheet around her chest. Her nose was still sprinkled with the lightest freckles imaginable; her eyes were still green, her blond hair still framed her face with curls.
Nothing was different. But everything had changed.
Oh, she was a little sore. More than anything, her thighs ached where she’d clenched her muscles tight. Her lip was raw where she’d bitten it. But no one, looking at her, would know what she’d done. No one would think anything had happened.
Except Tyler.
Her decision not to tell him had been a lie. She’d taken away his choice. And now he wasn’t answering his phone.
She’d left him three voice mail messages. Each was exactly the same: Tyler, I’m sorry. Call me so we can talk about this. I want to make things right.
But that was the thing: she couldn’t do anything to make it right. All those stories she’d grown up with, all the weight she’d placed on her virginity, day after month after year. Once it was gone, it was gone. She would never regret that she’d chosen Tyler to be the one. But she’d never forgive herself for the way she’d used him.
The phone rang, and she sprinted into the bedroom, grabbing the receiver before she could check Caller ID. “Tyler?”
“Not exactly.”
“Anna!”
“What’s going on, Em?”
A jumble of emotion churned through her belly at the accusation in her best friend’s voice. “What do you mean?”
“There’s a story making its way around all the sports blogs, about you and Tyler. There are pictures of you two in a parking lot, and he looks pretty damned possessive. Lots of people are commenting, saying he shouldn’t be doing his community service with Minerva House.”
Pictures? How the hell were there pictures?
But even as she completed the sickening thought, she could see Caden and his buddies crowding the doorway at Callie’s Café. One of the guys must have had a cell phone. Must have gotten whatever electronic revenge he could…
“Emily?” Anna pressed.
“I—” But she didn’t know where to start. Not even with her best friend. Not even with the woman who was supposed to be the most sympathetic, the most supportive person in the world. “It’s complicated,” she said.
“It seems pretty straightforward to me.” Anna sounded like she was chewing on a lemon peel. “God! Here’s a new link. Even the News & Observer is getting in on the game. Listen to this: ‘The witness, whose name is being withheld for fear of physical reprisal, offered multiple corroborating reports that Brock was seen with Holt at a Raleigh-area restaurant as recently as yesterday.’ Physical reprisal? What the hell?”
“Caden,” Emily moaned.
“Who the hell is Caden?”
“Someone with an axe to grind. He saw Tyler and me eating lunch yesterday, and things got a little out of hand. Tyler thought he was threatening me. Words were exchanged.”
“Please tell me it was only words! Tyler’s walking a tightrope, Emily! One false step and he’s done here!”
As if Emily didn’t know that. She tried to swallow her acidic panic. “We left before it got any worse.”
“I think you missed your target, Em. This is pretty much the worst possible.”
No, it wasn’t. But she wasn’t going to say that to Anna. Instead, she offered up, “I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Anna’s voice was sharp.
“Tell you what?”
“I saw the way you looked at him at the game the other night. I should have added things up then.”
There wasn’t anything to add then. Emily asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“I have a call in to the team’s lawyers. I don’t know what they’ll need, to prove Tyler’s sentence isn’t a sham. Maybe an affidavit. Or they might want to bring this in front of the judge who’s managing Tyler’s case. Maybe they’ll put you on the witness stand.”
Emily swallowed hard. The last thing she wanted was to stand in front of Raleigh, God, and everyone and testify about her relationship with Tyler Brock. But she said, “I’ll do it. Whatever you need.”
Anna’s exasperated sigh echoed down the phone line. “God, Emily, if you had to add Tyler to your list of conquests, couldn’t you have given me a warning?”
List of conquests. If Anna only knew. And the worst thing was, Emily could never tell her the whole truth. She was too ashamed of what she’d done.
She hung up the phone and placed another call to Tyler. Left another message. And then there was nothing left to do, but wait to hear what the lawyers had to say.
* * *
“I’m sure you understand,” Anna said, the very next day.
Emily sat across the desk from her best friend, feeling like a child called into the principal’s office. She cleared her throat and braved the wrath of the Rockets’ putative owner, keeping her voice low and steady. “You’re overreacting.”
“If anything, Emily, I’m under reacting. My general manager wants to sue you for intentional interference with Tyler’s contract! I’m not just telling you to stay away from Tyler for the good of the team. I’m trying to protect you!”
“You sound like Aunt Minnie, forbidding me to go on a date!”
“Aunt Minnie was a lot smarter than you gave her credit for.” Anna sighed and finally met her eyes. “Emily, you’ve got to help me out here. I can’t risk you and Tyler being caught together. I’ve seen what reporters do to ballplayers in this town. They were relentless with DJ Thomas and his fiancé. They’ll watch you day and night until they get the story they want. So I’m begging you: Don’t talk to him. Don’t see him. Please. Promise me.”
Every fiber of her being screamed not to make that promise. But a good number of those fibers were seriously compromised—they had been from the first moment she’d laid eyes on Tyler Brock.
Anna said, “I’m not talking about forever. Just until this blows over. Until the court decides what to do about his sentence.”
Emily stared at her hands miserably. This was precisely the time she most needed to talk to Tyler. She had to apologize for trapping him. She had to see if there was any hint of a shadow of a chance they could clear the slate. Start over again, without any lies between them.
But she’d known Anna a lot longer than she’d known Tyler. And the team had millions of dollars hanging in the balance, on Tyler’s contract, on whether he’d be able to play or if he’d be sent to prison. And Tyler wasn’t returning her phone calls anyway.
“Okay,” she said. “I won’t see him. For now.”
* * *
Promises were easier to make than to keep.
Emily hadn’t realized how much she’d come to rely on Tyler. She expected him to be around the house, helping Will put the finishing touches on the renovation. She expected to talk to him after his games, to hear the elation in his voice after a win, to comfort him when the team lost. She expected to hear the slow way he said her name, dragging the vowels through honey.
But a promise was a promise.
Even when the court refused to issue a decision. Even when the team hit a losing streak of seven games. Even when Emily lay awake, night after night, remembering the throbbing heat of his body, the way she’d felt herself awaken, the way she longed to make love with him, even one more time. They could do things right. Make things fair. They could be together without lies or artifice.
But she’d told Anna she wouldn’t see him. And the consequences of breaking that promise were too much to bear. So she watched the Rockets play every night. She tracked their road trips like a travel agent. She saw them go from Cleveland to Arizona to Texas.
Texas—where Tyler had played the beginning of his career. Texas—where Tyler had gotten into the bar fight that had started this entire mess. Texas—where he’d lived a lie, where he surely needed to talk to a friend, to someone who would accept him for everything he was.
But she didn’t call. She only waited for the rules to change.
* * *
Tyler stood on the porch, staring at the doorbell he’d just rung. “Hey, Mama,” he said when the door was finally open.
“Tyler!” She folded him into a hug that smelled like baby powder and cinnamon sugar, same as always. “I knew you were playing here tomorrow, but I didn’t think I’d hear from you till then!”
“We have a travel day today. The team’ll get in tonight, but I came out early.”
“Your brothers will be so happy to see you! Come in, come in!” She chivvied him into the kitchen. “Let me just call them now, maybe Billy and Tom can get over here for lunch.”
He caught her hands before she could grab the telephone from its hook on the kitchen wall. “Sit down, Mama. I want to talk to you.”
She looked surprised. And for just a heartbeat, afraid. But she let him lead her over to the kitchen table. “What’s wrong, son? Is this about that story I read in the paper? You and that girl, the one you were working for, the one you were…dating?”
“We weren’t dating,” he said, fighting a cold wash of embarrassment. “Not the way they made it look, anyway, when they took those pictures.”
His mother just stared at him—trusting him, believing him, because that was her job. That was what she’d always done.
“Mama, her name’s Emily. And I told her something. Something important. Something I’ve never said to anyone else, even though I should have told you years ago.”
Her lips quivered into a smile and she reached out to pat his hand. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart. I’ve always known you love me. Even if you never said it out loud.”
But Tyler hadn’t told Emily he loved her. He’d thought it. Realized it just as his world came crashing down around him. He shook his head. “That’s not it.” He took a deep breath and looked directly into his mother’s eyes. “I told Emily I can’t read.”
“Of course you don’t read! You don’t have time for it. Always traveling from one park to another, getting ready for the next game. You’d have to be a superhero to have time—”
“No, Mama,” he cut her off. “I didn’t say ‘I don’t read.’ I can’t.”
She sat back in her chair, deflating like he’d stuck a pin in the balloon of her happiness. “Why do you have to bring that up again? You know how upset I was when your fourth grade teacher started telling those lies. I don’t know what I would have done if your daddy hadn’t stepped in. If he and your coach hadn’t set that school straight.”
Tyler shook his head. “I couldn’t read then. And I can’t read now. And it’s not because I’m lazy or stupid or stubborn, like Daddy always said. There’s something wrong with me. Something mixed up in my head. My brain doesn’t put the letters together the right way, doesn’t connect things up the way it’s supposed to.”
He watched her start to protest, start to tell him that there was nothing wrong with him at all, that he’d always been perfect in her eyes. But she caught herself. Swallowed hard. And then she asked, “Is that what you told your Emily?”
His Emily. Yeah. Like Emily Holt was ever going to be his again.
“Actually, she’s sort of the one who told me, at least the stuff about my brain. She says there’s a doctor I can see. Someone at the University there in Raleigh. He might have new ways to teach me. Different machines that can make my brain work better.”
His mother looked scared. “And you believe her? She’s not just trying to use you? To find her way into your bank account?”
Tyler shook his head. “She’s not like that.”
Somehow, his mother heard the words he didn’t say. She leaned forward and put her hand against his cheek. “What is she like, then?”
And before he’d planned on sharing, he found himself telling his mother about Emily Holt. About all the things that were wonderful. About how she’d helped him. How she’d hurt him, too.
Well, not exactly how she’d hurt him. His mother would be mortified if he shared those details. But he explained how he’d trusted Emily with his greatest secret, but she’d been afraid to tell him hers. He finished with, “And now it’s all messed up. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know what to do. And the worst thing is, I can’t figure out why she did it. Why she didn’t just tell me the truth.”
Those were probably the most words he’d ever said to his mother at one time. He sat back in his chair, embarrassed, but also relieved. Until his mother laughed. “Oh, son,” she said. “It’s different for women. We talk to each other. We share so much. But every single one of us has something that’s too terrible—too frightening, or embarrassing, or sad—to share with anyone.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“No, it isn’t. It isn’t easy to talk about our worst secrets. You, of all people should know that.”
She was right. He should. He felt ashamed.
His mother took mercy on him. “Your Emily’s secret may have felt like it was about you, but it wasn’t. It was about her. About who she is. Who she wants to be. She never meant to hurt you.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I do, Tyler. Because I’m a woman, too.”
For the first time in his life, he realized that the woman sitting in front of him wasn’t just his mother, wasn’t just a wife, wasn’t just Mrs. Brock, the keystone in the family arch he’d known forever. He sat there, trying to imagine what secrets his mother must have. In about a heartbeat, he decided he never wanted to know.
Instead, he fiddled with the edge of the oilcloth on the table and said, “I want to forgive her. I’m ready to forgive her. But we’re not even supposed to talk to each other until October, until the court hearing on my community service.”
She smiled fondly at him before she got up to pour a glass of milk. She was probably just as grateful as he was that they were through talking about secrets and the way women’s minds worked and all of that. When she set out a plate of snickerdoodle cookies, he inhaled two.
But it wasn’t until he reached for his third that his mother started to tell him exactly what he needed to do to make things right with Emily, once and for all and forever.
* * *
Emily sat on the edge of the couch in the Resource Room, filled with remorse and apprehension.
Remorse, because she couldn’t look at the couch without thinking of Tyler, without remembering exactly what they’d done in this very spot.
Apprehension, because Ethan Samson was the man who sat beside her now. Ethan Samson, with his ill-fitting suit, and his lopsided mustache, and his sour smile as he paged through a three-ring binder filled with checklists. Aunt Minnie’s executor eternally looked like a man who disapproved of the world.
“Please, Mr. Samson,” Emily said, unable to take another moment of torture. “May I get you a cup of coffee, while you go over those documents?”
“Not necessary,” he said, clicking his tongue three times. “Not necessary at all.”
Maybe not for him. But she was about to declare a caffeine emergency. She barely resisted the urge to chew on her fingernails. The last thing she needed was to ruin her manicure. She’d purposely had her nails done to impress the dour old man, to make him think of her as a mature adult, instead of Minnie’s wayward niece.
Of course, if he had the first idea of what she’d done on the very cushion where he was perched…
She cleared her throat and ordered herself to block the memory. Instead, she looked around the room.
The computers were up and running. Each displayed the dynamic Minerva House website, the meticulously organized screens of information to help clients who couldn’t make it to the physical house. Emily could just make out her own smiling face on the nearest display—the photograph Jamie Martin had taken.
Behind the computers, the bookshelves were filled with resources—books and magazines and pamphlets, all grouped by topics. A colorful display held the flyers Emily had slaved over, each one branded with the Minerva House logo.
Everything looked neat and clean and inviting, not that Mr. Samson seemed to have noticed. He pushed his nose deeper into his mysterious spreadsheets, muttering to himself as he flipped forward half a dozen pages, then flipped back two.
Emily stifled a sigh and looked across the foyer. The Fun Room was ready for her clients’ children. She’d had the kid-size furniture delivered from the warehouse store. The toy chest was filled with blocks, and art supplies were stacked on the counter.
If she craned her neck, she could make out one of the back rooms. She’d set out a circle of folding chairs, made it look like a meeting was about to happen any minute. Alas, Mr. Samson didn’t seem to have the imagination to picture a book group, or a support group, or any other type of gathering.
Maybe she should have hired actors. Maybe if he saw actual families gathered in Minerva House, using all the tools she’d assembled for them…
Mr. Samson slammed his binder shut with enough force that Emily jumped. “Well, we definitely have some problems,” he said peevishly.
“Problems?” Emily was proud that her voice didn’t quaver.
“Minerva would hate what you’ve done with that woodwork. Painting original oak? That’s a sacrilege!”
“It wasn’t original oak,” Emily countered. “The windows were out of kilter for years, and all the sills were damaged beyond repair. By replacing them with less expensive wood, I was able to invest Aunt Minnie’s funds in more meaningful ways. The paint makes the rooms more welcoming. Brighter.”
“Brighter.” Mr. Samson shuddered. “That’s another problem. It looks like an operating room! Minerva would find that vulgar.”
“My clients won’t be eating a formal dinner in what used to be the dining room. They’re not listening to records on the hi-fi in the living room, like Aunt Minnie did. They need light, so they can see each other. So they can attend meetings, and group sessions. So they can read a broad range of resources.”
“Resources,” the supercilious man said, as if the word coated his tongue with oil. “Minerva would never accept flyers from any old storefront that wants to prey on these poor families.”
“Mr. Samson, I have personally vetted every organization that offers its services at Minerva House. The printed resources come from our federal and state governments, the University’s outreach programs, and various area hospitals.”
“Hospitals,” Mr. Samson repeated. “Minerva would be aghast that her home, her private residence, has been converted—”
And that was too much. Because the entire idea behind Aunt Minnie’s will had always been that her home was going to be converted into a new space. Emily cut off Mr. Samson’s wheezing indictment before he could spit out his last hateful words.
“Mr. Samson, I’ve obviously failed to communicate effectively with you. Minerva House is a unique institution, a clearinghouse of resources for some of the most underserved people in our community. My aunt wanted to help our nation’s veterans, and I’ve relied on her generosity and giving spirit to convert her home into a flexible, comfortable, professional space. I’m proud of what I’ve done here. Any fair review of Minerva House would conclude that the terms of my aunt’s will have been met. Indeed, every one of them has been surpassed.”
She sat on the very edge of the couch, quivering with rage—with Mr. Samson for pushing her too hard, with Aunt Minnie for setting up this ridiculous test in the first place, with herself for losing her temper. She set her jaw, and she waited for Mr. Samson to tell her she’d failed. She braced for his final, withering line of attack.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, the man’s watery eyes grew red. His lips began to tremble beneath his uneven mustache. He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing in noisily and exhaling with a series of stuttered gasps. Mr. Samson was crying.
“Mr. Samson?” Emily asked. When he didn’t speak, she began to grow alarmed. “Mr. Samson, are you all right?”
He nodded and waved one dark-veined hand in a gesture she would have considered dismissive just a moment before. He fortified himself with another shaky breath, and then he said, “I’m fine, child.”
Child. Mr. Samson had never shown Emily the first sign of affection.
“May I get you a cup of tea?” She couldn’t think of anything else to say, anything else to offer. At his curt nod, she scurried into the kitchen. Waiting for the water to boil, she went back over their entire conversation, his endless criticism of Minerva House, his constant objections.
She placed Aunt Minnie’s creamer and sugar bowl on a tray and added a pair of cups and saucers. Scooping darjeeling into the pot was a soothing bit of routine; she’d made tea for her aunt countless times. After the water boiled, she added a strainer to the tray and carried everything into the front room.
Mr. Samson was sitting back on the couch, staring at the bookshelves with a distracted air. He stood as Emily entered, and he helped her settle the tray on the nearby desk. He picked up one of the teacups and stared at the old-fashioned red and yellow roses.
“Minnie loved this pattern,” he said.
Emily heard the quaver in his voice. “Mr. Samson?” she asked. She didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t know how to ask the dozens of questions that spun inside her mind.
But that one opening was enough. Ethan Samson set down the teacup and stumbled back to the couch. He looked at her pleadingly and said, “I haven’t been fair to you, dear.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mr. Samson blinked several times. “Minnie wouldn’t like the things I’ve done.” He swallowed hard. “I loved her.”
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 question 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 parents 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.”
Her eyes filled as she took in the setting. It was proper and sweet, a little old-fashioned. It had seen a woman through decades of marriage, through the chaos of raising a household of boys. Through the challenge of raising Tyler. “I love it,” she said. “I can’t imagine anything more perfect.”
He slipped the ring over her finger, then bent down for another chaste kiss. But Emily wasn’t going to let him get away with that. She leaned her body into his and slipped her arms beneath his jacket. She needed to feel the strong muscles of him, his broad back marked with the jagged points of his tattoos. She needed to measure the sharp breath he caught as she deepened their kiss, as she tilted her head so their tongues danced together.
A lifetime later, she felt his hands on her hips, steadying her. “Ready to get out of here?” he asked.
She glanced at the reporters, at Anna, and her lawyer. “Do you think they’ll let us go, without asking a million questions?”
She caught his sly smile before his lips nuzzled her ear. “Maybe. There’s a first time for everything, you know.”
He laughed as she blushed. But he pulled her close to his side and led the way through the crowd, protecting her, trusting her, never ever failing her. By the time they reached the courtroom doors, they were laughing too hard to hear the shouted questions behind them.