Reaching First (16 page)

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.”