by Zoe Chant
“Sterling may not be New York or Boston, but we have our history here, and we’re proud of it! Some of our surviving architecture dates back to the early eighteen-hundreds, and developers are trying to tear it down for malls! Condos! E-cigarette stores!” She threw that last possibility out with such disgust that Tiffani was willing to bet she was a proudly unreconstructed smoker. Or maybe just someone sticking it to a grandchild she considered obnoxious.
“Join with Sterling’s Historical Society and preserve our city!”
McMillan looked like his life was flashing before his eyes. For once, Tiffani pitied him.
Martin was clearly reluctant to strongarm senior citizens out of the courtroom, and Tiffani could see him trading glances with the bailiff, each of them trying to see if the other would take the lead.
Finally, Martin said, “Ma’am, I think you might be in the wrong courtroom. This trial doesn’t relate to land development or historical preservation, and you’re disrupting—”
“I know where I am, young man!” the lady snapped.
(Tiffani typed that bit up with actual glee and wished she could also record the impressed shock on Martin’s face.)
“We go where our audience is,” she continued. “If crowds will turn out for bloody, despicable murder—”
“...Objection?” a lawyer tentatively said.
“—but not for our fair city staying attached to its roots and its local color, then we in the Historical Society have to reach out to the community where it is.”
She gave the seated rows of people a stern, teacherly look that suggested she had once expected better of them and had long since been disappointed.
“Powell, handle this!” McMillan said.
He couldn’t talk to Martin that way! Martin was doing everything he could to gently get them out of there—if McMillan wanted anything more drastic done, he could have done it himself and held all the protesters in contempt to have them carted away in handcuffs.
He just didn’t want to make himself look bad by taking such harsh measures against a peaceful assembly of AARP members, but he was willing to ask Martin to look bad on his behalf.
Well. Tiffani wouldn’t have it. Martin was a much better man than McMillan—miles better—and he shouldn’t have to play the bad guy, not even for a minute.
She switched on the audio recorder on her phone. Technically private recordings weren’t allowed, but she didn’t want to miss a word in her transcripts, especially not of something this good.
Then she stood up.
“Do you have a brochure?” Tiffani said brightly.
The grandmotherly woman gave her a long, appraising stare. Tiffani must have passed whatever test had been in that look, because the woman rooted around in her purse for a moment and came up with a glossy, multi-paged brochure. She handed it over.
“Thanks,” Tiffani said. “I’m passionate about this too. My stepdaughter,” at the last moment she edited out “and her boyfriend,” not wanting to risk scandalizing anyone, “lives in one of the old Steeplechase buildings, and those are always at risk of being torn down.”
“Well, they are hideous,” one of the protesters in back muttered.
They were.
The woman in front shushed them. “They’re not hideous, they’re history.”
“And they’re hers,” Tiffani said. “That’s what Sterling needs—for people to feel ownership of the town’s architectural history. When they do, you won’t be able to find enough chairs to host everyone who will want to come to one of your meetings. Isn’t that right, ladies and gentlemen?”
She said this last bit over her shoulder to the assembled Sterling public, who—poor people—had only come there wanting a little innocent scandal. Right now they probably felt like they were being volunteered for a biweekly commitment.
Martin started a wave of applause, making it spread throughout the courtroom by, Tiffani was convinced, sheer force of will.
The Historical Society woman actually blushed. “Well, that’s very nice. That’s certainly more of a response than we’ve gotten before.” She raised her voice. “We will be outside the courthouse today as you exit, taking down signatures and handing out more brochures. Remember, make new Sterling but keep the old, one is silver and other gold!”
Except you could literally have sterling silver, Tiffani thought, and not sterling gold... but Jillian really did love that creepy, ugly townhouse. Tiffani would never in a million years understand why, but she did.
If it would make her stepdaughter happy, Tiffani would support keeping all the ugly old buildings in the world.
“Come on, ma’am,” Martin said, offering the elderly woman his arm. “I can show you where to make additional copies of your brochures if you start to run out.”
“Thank you, young man. And you, young lady. It’s good to see that someone here knows how to properly handle the concerns of aggrieved citizens. Unlike you, Terry!” She directed that last bit solely at Judge McMillan, who now looked as though he wanted to disappear into his robes.
Terry?
“He used to be my neighbor,” the woman said to the room. “And believe you me, back when he was toddling around after all of us older children begging us to let him play, he didn’t seem so high and mighty then.”
This would make for such an entertaining transcript, Tiffani thought, and then she had a marvelous idea.
*
As much as she liked the idea of permanently recording Judge McMillan getting taken down a peg or two, she was willing to sacrifice that pleasure for the greater good. Or, in this case, the good of not having to tiptoe around McMillan for the rest of the trial.
She transcribed her notes during the afternoon’s recess and then went to the judge’s chambers.
McMillan let her in but said at once, “None of that was any of your concern, Ms. Marcus!”
“No, Your Honor, I’m aware of that. And I’m sure M—Deputy Chief Powell would have gotten everyone out in a nice, orderly fashion right away. I only involved myself because of the transcripts.”
From the look on his face, McMillan had spent even more time thinking about the transcripts than Tiffani had.
“What about them?” he said warily.
“This is an important trial. I’m sure my records will be consulted many times in the future—long after the media coverage has faded away, these will still be the official record of what happened here today. I had to make a judgement call, Your Honor, about whether or not you would want those irrelevant matters cluttering up the legal record. I know your professionalism, obviously, so I thought that you would prefer to have a transcript largely clear of those distractions.”
Hope began to dawn in McMillan’s eyes. They didn’t look used to having anything dawn in them at all. Their sudden optimism didn’t seem to go with his stern, hangdog face.
“That would, of course, be best.”
“But I also know my own professionalism,” Tiffani said, “and how important it is that everyone involved in this trial execute their tasks fully. If I were to stay at my desk, I would have the responsibility of transcribing every word of that outburst, relevant or not. But if I were forced to get involved, I could indicate that in my records—accurately—to account for any gap. I doubt anyone would mind that, since it’s clear that the protest was irrelevant to the outcome of the trial.”
She handed Judge McMillan the crisp, freshly-printed pages of her transcript. She had put a sticky tab on the most relevant page.
It was the one that now had a large, bracketed break in the center of it:
[At this point court reporter (Tiffani Marcus) was needed to intervene in peacefully clearing the protesters from the courtroom. Missing dialogue not germane to the trial, a fact testified to by Deputy Chief Marshal Martin Powell, here witnessed, and Tiffani Marcus, here witnessed. Court resumes.]
McMillan looked up from the page.
“Ms. Marcus,” he said, “you kept a remarkably clear head during all that
uproar. I’m glad to have a court reporter of your talents assigned to me on such an important trial.”
“I’m only doing my best, Your Honor,” Tiffani said.
Chapter Fourteen: Tiffani
Once again, it was her particular, dangerous pleasure to step outside after a long day’s work and run into Martin.
Maybe this was going to be her life now. Was that way too much to hope for?
“Hey there, tall, dark, and hands—wait, don’t they measure horses’ heights in hands?”
His mouth quirked. “They do.” He lowered his voice even though they were alone, and it made everything feel more intimate. “I’m eighteen hands, roughly. My mother used to mark our heights against the door of the barn.”
That was precious. It was so adorable it should have been a watercolor painting at some county fair: a cute little colt with his neck stretched out as far as it would go, a laughing woman with a Sharpie. The wings would give it a surreal touch, of course.
She shook her head, not that it did that much too clear it. It had been one hell of a day. A hell of a week. “You got off early.”
“Gretchen’s still managing the office while I watch your courtroom.”
“You’re not watching the courtroom now,” she pointed out. “Don’t they need you?”
He shrugged. This was the first time she had seen him look like his body didn’t fit him; like he was as uncomfortable in his own skin as he would have been in new and very itchy clothes.
“I’m not going to be able to split my focus very well until all this wraps up. When the courtroom is open, when court is in session, I’m courthouse security. I’m a Marshal and that’s the job. But otherwise, as long as it doesn’t bother you, I... want to make sure you’re safe. Can I take you to dinner again? Walk you to your car, at least, if you have to go home?”
It was such an innocent question. It reminded her of the swoony fantasies she’d had about boys before she had ever even kissed one: he would be chivalrous and walk her to her door at night and give her his letterman’s jacket if she got cold. It wasn’t naive to believe that Martin was, against all odds, really that guy. Tiffani had a lot of faults, but being naive wasn’t one of them, not anymore. She trusted her own judgment enough to believe that he really was the perfect dream guy.
After all, what little girl hadn’t grown up wanting a flying horse?
He was her dream. And if she still had trouble believing she was his, well, she had to admit he made her want to.
Besides, after this afternoon, she felt like kind of a badass.
Suddenly, she had a ludicrous and wonderful idea.
You said you’d let him sweep you off your feet, she reminded herself. And so far, as amazing as everything has been, you have still very literally been on the ground.
She nodded. “Okay. And yes to dinner, definitely. But instead of walking me to my car, why don’t you give me a ride?”
“Oh, of course, I just meant—”
“No,” Tiffani said. She latched her thumbs together and flapped her hands like wings. “I mean, why don’t you give me a ride? Can you do that?”
She could have looked at that grin all night. It was the kind of look that could give a woman ideas. She set off walking, making herself only look where she was going. Looking at that grin was only going to make her think about other kinds of rides.
She had loved lying beneath him in that hotel bed, watching the way the muscles in his arms stood out as he bore forwards, reaching around to feel his ass. That wasn’t even a part of a man she’d thought she cared about before, but there was something mouthwatering about his.
She had loved the moment when a drop of his sweat had fallen on her skin. She’d been so hot for him that she had almost expected to hear it sizzle and steam.
And that was not what she wanted to be thinking about right now, not when she was still in the courthouse hallway. And not when she was asking for the kind of ride that was for the girl in her, not the woman.
“I can do that,” Martin said, falling into stride beside her, bringing that gorgeous grin of his into her peripheral vision. “I’d love to.”
“And people won’t see?”
He shook his head. “People don’t see us unless we want to be seen.”
“So would I look like I was just floating through the sky?”
Martin laughed. “No, it’s an all-inclusive invisibility. I’d take you with me in every sense of the word.”
She swallowed. “I’d like that. I would... love that.”
“I’ll always take you with me,” Martin said softly.
Some small part of her still whispered that she wasn’t what he was looking for, no matter what he thought. Maybe his primal instincts wanted her, but primal attraction, however hot and heavy, wouldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, he would want class and good conversation and courage. Two things Gordon had said she could never offer and one thing she knew she had never had.
But Martin thought she was courageous.
Smart and funny and brave—that’s what he called me.
If Martin was such a smart guy, what made her think he was so wrong about her? Why was she believing Gordon’s assessment of her over Martin’s?
Gordon knew you longer, a mean voice in her head whispered. He had years to form an opinion. He knew you better.
But the part of Tiffani that had gotten her out the door to take those stenography classes, the part of her that her stepdaughter knew and loved—that part of her said that Gordon never really knew her at all.
Okay. She was putting Gordon behind her. Not just for the rest of the day, but for good.
She could leave him on the ground while she soared up with Martin.
“Then let’s go,” Tiffani said. She held out her hand to him and he took it. His fingers were broader than hers, slightly squared at the tips, and callused. It made her weak at the knees. “Take me on a magic carpet ride.”
*
It was better than any magic carpet ride.
Martin swept her up a side stairwell. Racing up the stairs made them both breathless, but it didn’t stop them from kissing each other up against the wall. Tiffani felt giddy, as heedless and silly as a teenager. Really, though, all those stairs they had just sprinted up were years laid out beneath them. They had been the years it had taken to get them both here, to this moment of Martin swinging open the door to the courthouse roof.
“Should that be unlocked?” Tiffani said, momentarily distracted. “It seems like a security risk.”
“It is, and we warn them about it, but it always gets that way anyway. The bailiffs break the lock so they can get out onto the roof and smoke, and everyone turns a blind eye because half the time there’s a judge out here with them.”
It was just a little strip of chalky, stuccoed rooftop, a way of getting to some of the water-and-power systems. Not exactly scenic. Looking at the courthouse from the ground, most people probably wouldn’t even know this little patch of rooftop was there. They would only see the dome and the peaks to either side and miss this little runway.
This little runway that, for right now, was just theirs.
“No judges now,” Tiffani said.
“Just you,” Martin said. “Smoking.”
“Look who’s talking.”
In the dusky purple twilight, he did look especially gorgeous... though who was she kidding? He would probably look gorgeous under florescent lights in the middle of having stomach flu.
“Pony up, cowboy,” Tiffani said.
He laughed. “Your wish is my command.”
This time he transformed with all his clothes still on. Tiffani could see the practical angle of that—as well as why somebody wouldn’t want to undress on a rooftop of their workplace on a night that was turning a little chilly—but she had to admit to being a little disappointed.
And there he was. Still Martin—though it was hard to imagine a horse named Martin—but so incredibly different. He tossed his mane at her.
She tossed her hair back at him.
He laughed a horsey laugh.
Very tentatively, as though he would melt away beneath her touch like a dream, she stretched out her hand and petted his nose and the star on his forehead. It was like touching warm velvet.
“I’ve never been on a horse before,” she said. “That was another thing I used to lie about. Don’t tell anyone—actually, you know what, tell whoever you want, I’m done caring. How do I, um, mount?”
Martin lowered himself to the ground, which was probably not a level of consideration you got out of actual horses.
He also folded his wings down to each side, swooped almost flat, which was definitely not a consideration you got out of actual horses.
Tiffani took a deep breath and carefully climbed up.
His back was so wide and he was tall even with his knees bent. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he came slowly up to his full height.
“If I start choking you, neigh,” she said. “But otherwise, I’m probably going to wind up clinging pretty tightly. And the rider holds on with her knees too, right?”
Martin nodded.
Tiffani jammed her knees as tightly against his ribs as she could. She hoped she wasn’t hurting him, but she also hoped she wasn’t getting herself killed. At the moment, the latter fear had a slight edge.
“Okay,” she said. Her voice shook a little. “If I fall and smack my head and wake up telling everyone I fell off a pegasus, don’t let them commit me. And if I die, tell Jillian I love her.”
Martin made an outraged-sounding whinny.
“I’m not saying I doubt your driving skills. I’m just saying this is intimidating. But... I’m ready.”
As soon as his hooves left the roof, Tiffani knew this for the lie that it was. She hadn’t been ready. There had been no way she could ever have been ready.
She was gliding through the new night air, smooth as a knife through butter, and the breeze was warm and Martin’s wings moved in steady, slow beats. Her place on his back was rock-steady. Her frantic clinging to his neck became a much gentler embrace.