Unfortunately for us, no one else spoke out against him.
It was my word against his, no rape kit or witnesses to provide testimonies. The one and only person I told, Dr. Chores, testified against me, saying she had no recollection of my confession of what happened, nor would she have ever have brushed it off as I implied.
For the longest time, I felt crazy. Reese would hold me in our bed in our small apartment, rocking me as I sobbed and wondered if I’d made it all up. Did it really happen? Was I crazy? Did I invent the injury, the rape, all of it? Did I black out, thinking I’d told someone when I hadn’t really?
But Reese was there, holding me through it all and assuring me to trust myself, my gut, my voice. He believed me. Mom believed me. Even Reneé believed me when I came clean, and she assembled the other female students still at Bramlock to petition for Wolfgang’s suspension until the trial was over.
They won.
We, however, did not.
The trial had wrapped up over the following summer, and though it could have been a sad, painful day of loss, I didn’t see it that way. When the jury declared that Wolfgang wasn’t guilty, it didn’t change the fact that he was. It didn’t change the fact that he had assaulted me, and that against all odds, I’d fought back.
I didn’t just let him go free.
And even though he was acquitted of the charges, the university still fired him — and revoked the award they’d bestowed upon him after I’d left. As far as I knew, he was still without a job, without tenure, without a prayer in hell of working with students again. Our trial had been televised, it had made national news, and there wasn’t a pianist in this country who wouldn’t forever remember his name — only now, I was in control of the narrative.
It may not have been jail time, but it was justice.
And I was set free.
Therapy helped more than I ever thought it could after the trial wrapped up. Mom had a peer she had studied with who lived in the city — Doctor Erramouspe — and after even our first meeting, I knew she would be instrumental in my recovery. She had all the right words to say to help me see I wasn’t crazy, that my feelings were valid, that what happened to me did not define me, but it was still a part of my journey, and it was important to recognize that.
I still see her once every two weeks, and I know that with her help and the amazing team behind me, I wouldn’t be standing backstage at Carnegie Hall right now.
“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours,” Reese asked, swaying me gently in his arms.
I smiled, leaning into him with a sigh. “Just thinking of all we’ve been through, all we’ve done in the past three years.”
“I know. So much sex. In so many places.”
I laughed, smacking his arm playfully as he held me tighter, still swaying.
“I was referring to how hard we’ve been working, how much we’ve accomplished.”
“So was I.”
I laughed again, and my heart warmed with the same familiar comfort Reese always brought me. He was my person, in ever sense of the word — my protector, my warrior, my best friend, and my lover all rolled into one.
“Hey,” he said, turning my waist in his hands until I faced him. My hands slipped over his tuxedo jacket, folding together behind his neck as he stared down at me. “How are you feeling? Are you ready?”
I blew out a shaky breath. “My hands are cold and clammy, and my stomach feels like someone is dancing inside it, but otherwise, yeah. I’m good.”
Reese chuckled. “Well, if you were one of my students, I’d offer you some Propranolol to help with the hands situation. But, unfortunately, you actually do have someone dancing around in your stomach. So, no beta blockers for you.”
His hands slipped from my waist to my stomach, framing it in a sort of heart as both of our gazes fell to the spot where he held me. My heart swelled at the sight — my little stomach, rounded just enough to show there was life growing inside it, and my husband’s hands, holding our baby girl just as he always held me — with reverence and care. His wedding band glistened under the dressing room light, and I traced it with my thumb, noting how the diamond on my own finger seemed to glisten and dance in time with his ring.
“Bet you never thought that when this day came, you’d be playing with someone else on that stage with you,” Reese mused, rubbing the silk fabric stretched over my belly.
“Never,” I agreed on a laugh. “But, I’m kind of glad she’ll be with me. It’s a little less scary than going at it alone.”
Reese smiled, his eyes capturing mine before his hands slid up, framing my face. His thumb traced the edge of my jaw, and he shook his head, staring at me like he couldn’t fully comprehend the moment.
“I know tonight is going to be crazy,” he said, voice soft and low. “I know it’s going to fly by, probably in a blur, and you might black out as you play out there. But I want you to take this moment — this one right here — and celebrate. Because you did it, Sarah.” He laughed once, an expression of awe and wonder as he dropped his forehead to mine. “Against all odds, with more mountains to climb than line the ones that line the Rockies… You. Did. It.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, giggling as our daughter squirmed in my stomach. She seemed to be celebrating with us, dancing away, and I let one hand fall over my belly as the other touched Reese’s cheek.
“We did it,” I corrected him.
He shook his head, but I didn’t let him argue before I pressed my lips to his. Tears pricked my eyes, and as much as I wanted to blame the pregnancy hormones, I knew in that moment it had nothing to do with science.
It was that man, that beautiful, broken, passionate man who had brought me back to life. And it was our daughter, growing inside me, thrusting us toward a new world where our family of two would be one of three. It was being there, backstage at Carnegie Hall, knowing thousands of people would start filling the seats that stretched out from the stage I would play on later that night.
It was the rough road we traveled to get to this spot.
And it was knowing that though this had been my dream for so long, it was never the end game.
It was only the beginning.
Reese groaned when I deepened our kiss, pulling back with a shake of his head. “I’m ruining your lipstick.”
“That’s your duty as my hot husband,” I reminded him. And then, I wrapped both arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “And, my duty as wife of the birthday boy.”
“Ugh,” he groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
“Forty years old,” I mused, fingertips wrapping gently in the tendrils of his hair as I marveled at every feature of the man who held me.
“Old man status.”
“Hottest old man I’ve ever seen,” I argued, pressing my lips to his. “And thank God you’re my old man.”
He shook his head, but kissed me anyway, not bothering to argue — which was smart of him, since we both knew who would win.
“Alright, I need to warm up,” I said, breaking our kiss but holding him still in my arms. “Is Mom here yet?”
Reese nodded. “She is. And Randall and Betty, too. I just wanted to come back to wish you luck before we grab our seats.”
“Is it weird that I’m more nervous to play for you four than I am for anyone else?”
He chuckled. “You could stand up there and just wave the whole time and we’d still give you a standing ovation.”
A flutter of butterflies took flight in my stomach, and suddenly, though I knew I needed to warm up, I didn’t want Reese to leave.
“And Rojo?” I asked, trying to make the conversation last.
He smirked. “I took her on a long nice walk in the park before we left, and the walker is going to check on her in a few hours so we can go out after.”
“I wish dogs were allowed at Carnegie.”
“She’d probably run up on stage so she could curl up near your feet the way she does at home.”
I smiled, heart bur
sting as I looked at him — my husband. We had a family. We had a past, and a present, and a future.
We had each other.
“See you out there?” I asked, pressing up onto my toes to kiss him one last time.
“I’ll be the loud one in the front row.”
And I knew it to be true, without a single doubt in my mind. He wouldn’t just be loud, he’d be the loudest. He would be there after the show, whether I crushed it or completely bombed. Forever my number-one fan.
Forever my number one. Period.
And I still didn’t understand it, how we had somehow found each other in a world with billions of people, billions of lost, searching souls, trying to find the missing piece. Somehow, against all odds, we had come together. We had fought the demons of our past, and faced the challenges of our future — together. We had a million reasons why we shouldn’t have worked, and yet, we did. We just did.
Maybe I would never understand it fully, I realized, as my husband smiled at me over his shoulder, closing the door behind him and leaving me alone in my dressing room. Maybe I would never see the full map, the roads that had led us to each other, the one road we traveled together now — as a team, as a unit.
But that was okay.
I didn’t need to see the plan, didn’t need insurance of any kind to know that this was it. Reese wasn’t just my for now. He wasn’t just a lesson, or a role played in my life when I needed someone to help me walk through the darkness.
He was my forever.
And what a beautiful forever it was.
I couldn’t stop smiling as I warmed up my wrists, my hands, my fingers, playing a little of the songs I knew and loved on the piano set up in my dressing room. When the twenty-minute warning was given, my hands started playing the song I’d written for Reese, and I smiled when the little eggplant-sized human in my belly danced with joy at the sound.
“You like that one, huh?” I asked, smiling as I finished the melody. Then, I stood, smoothing my hands over my dress as I faced the mirror one last time.
And for the first time that night, I saw it.
It really was me — the hair, the skin, the wide eyes, the long, silky black dress, the dazzling crystal shoes. It was me, standing backstage at Carnegie Hall. It was me, reaching up to hold the crystal that hung around my neck.
“I feel you here,” I whispered. “I hope you’re as proud as I am.”
My daughter danced again, as if she was speaking on behalf of her grandfather, and I laughed, placing the hand not on my crystal over my belly, instead.
“Alright, Mallory,” I said, testing out the name. I hadn’t told Reese yet, that I wanted to name our daughter after his sister. But when I said her name in that moment, a smile split my face.
Because everything about it felt right.
“Let’s go knock ‘em dead, shall we?” I said, squeezing my crystal and patting my belly one last time.
My eyes found the woman’s eyes who stared back at me, and my heart kicked to life in my chest.
This is it.
This is what you’ve worked for.
And seemingly before I even did, that reflection smiled back at me, pointing her finger directly at my chest. She and I, we were survivors — warriors who had fought one hell of a battle. Despite the losses that had broken us. Despite the injuries that had hindered us. Despite the enemies who had tried to take us out.
We were still here. We were still fighting.
And this was our victory dance.
As I turned out the lights, making my way through the hallway and down the stairs that led to the stage, I couldn’t help but count the biggest blessing of all: that I had the best dance partner in the world to celebrate with.
When the lights went out, when I stepped onto that stage to the tune of a thunderous applause, it was his eyes I found.
It was his smile that made my heart stop.
It was him I had in my heart as I played.
And it was him I would have in my heart always.
THE END
AUTHOR’S NOTE
* * *
I find myself struggling to find the right words for this note, so much so that I’m actually pulling a little of it from a book I previously wrote — the second season of Palm South University: Anchor. In that book, and in this one, I tackled writing about something that is a trigger for many women (and men) and that, I think, should be a topic of conversation.
The sexual assault of Sarah was not easy to write about, and my stomach hurts just thinking about putting myself in her shoes. Unfortunately, I know many women in my life who have been through what Sarah endured. And, even I, myself, have battled various levels of sexual abuse in my life. Sadly, I believe it’s a part of life when you are a woman, and whether it affects you in the same way it affected Sarah or not, it’s still something that changes you in some way.
While it was important for THIS particular character and story, for Sarah, to go down the path she did, I want you to understand as my reader that if you ever do or ever have found yourself in this terrifying situation or one similar to it, you have options.
If you become a victim of sexual assault, call 911 or RAINN at 1-800-656-HOPE immediately. Just like in Sarah’s situation, four out of five rapes are committed by someone known by the victim. Similarly, 68% of rapes are not reported to the police, and 98% of rapists never spend a day in jail or prison.
This was a big reason why I chose to tackle Sarah’s situation the way I did. I wanted to be real, to be raw, to steer away from the easy, happy ever ending and touch on the horrible reality that sometimes, even when you do everything right, justice is not served. It breaks my heart that we see this happen so often — to strangers in the news, to our friends, to our family — but even so, we must still fight against sexual assaulters and the injustices in our system.
If you’re like Sarah, you may feel that it’s useless to tell anyone — especially if the first person you trust to tell doesn’t handle it appropriately. It may feel embarrassing, or you may worry no one will believe you, or, even if they do, that the abuser will end up winning in the end, anyway. But, no matter what, what I hope you will understand is that it is not your fault and there is help available.
Maybe it won’t all turn out perfectly. Maybe it won’t be the justice you want. But, it will be a fight, it will be a spotlight on that person who hurt you, and it will be you not sitting back and letting it all go. You are a human, a person, a living, breathing being — and you deserve to be treated like one. Fight for justice. Fight for yourself.
I hope you never find yourself in this situation and that you never have in the past, but if you’re reading this and you feel isolated and alone, please, reach out to someone. Reach out to a friend, a family member — hell, reach out to me. You can email me at [email protected]. I am always here, and I care about you — every single one of you.
Take care of your mind, your body, and your soul. You’re the only one who can.
For more information and resources, please visit www.rainn.org.
If you loved this series, you’ll also love The Becker Brothers. Here's a sneak peek inside book one — On the Rocks!
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
Noah
When you hear the word Tennessee, what do you think of?
Maybe your first thought is country music. Maybe you can even see those bright lights of Nashville, hear the different bands as their sounds pour out of the bars and mingle in a symphony in the streets. Maybe you think of Elvis, of Graceland, of Dollywood and countless other musical landmarks. Maybe you feel the prestige of the Grand Ole Opry, or the wonder of the Country Music Hall of Fame. Maybe you feel the history radiating off Beale Street in Memphis.
Or maybe you think of the Great Smoky Mountains, of fresh air and hiking, of majestic sights and long weekends in cabins. Maybe you can close your eyes and see the tips of those mountains capped in white, can hear the call of the Tennessee Warbler, can smell the f
resh pine and oak.
Maybe, when you think of Tennessee, all of this and more comes to mind.
But for me, it only conjured up one, two-syllable word.
Whiskey.
I saw the amber liquid gold every time I closed my eyes. I smelled its oaky finish with each breath I took. My taste buds were trained at a young age to detect every slight note within the bottle, and my heart was trained to love whiskey long before it ever learned how to love a woman.
Tennessee whiskey was a part of me. It was in my blood. I was born and raised on it, and at twenty-eight, it was no surprise to me that I was now part of the team that bred and raised the most famous Tennessee whiskey in the world.
It was always in the cards for me. And it was all I ever wanted.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Until the day Ruby Grace came back into town.
My ears were plugged with bright, neon orange sponges, but I could still hear Chris Stapleton’s raspy voice crooning behind the loud clamor of machines. I wiped sweat from my brow as I clamped the metal ring down on another whiskey barrel, sending it on down the line before beginning on the next one. Summer was just weeks away, and the distillery swelled with the Tennessee heat.
Being a barrel raiser at the Scooter Whiskey Distillery was a privilege. There were only four of us, a close-knit team, and we were paid well for doing a job they hadn’t figured out how to train machines to do yet. Each barrel was hand-crafted, and I raised hundreds of them every single day. Our barrels were part of what made our whiskey so recognizable, part of what made our process so unique, and part of what made Scooter a household name.
My grandfather had started as a barrel raiser, too, when he was just fourteen years old. He’d been the one to set the standard, to hammer down the process and make it what it is today. It was how the founder, Robert J. Scooter, first noticed him. It was the beginning of their friendship, of their partnership, of their legacy.
Best Kept Secrets: The Complete Series Page 81