Doin' Me by Wanda B. Campbell Page B

meeting with a client, and she didn’t want to miss his call.
    By the time she’d filled her lunch containers with leftovers and cleaned the kitchen, Peyton still hadn’t called. She pressed the talk button on the phone to make sure the device was working. After calling the phone company’s twenty-four-hour problem line and having them run a test on her line, Reyna dialed the cell number Peyton had given her. When the call went to voice mail, she disconnected without leaving a message.
    Her alarm sounded at 6:00 A.M. the next morning, but her phone remained silent.

Chapter 15
    Tyson leaned back in his chair and rested his size-eleven Brooks Brothers shoes on his expansive desk. He’d never done that before, but an early morning workout, lunch consisting of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and a banana, and two deposition hearings in five hours had left him mentally and physically drained. His thumbs and forefingers massaged his temples and forehead in a circular motion in an effort to ease a throbbing headache. After a few minutes, Tyson gave up and retrieved a bottle of aspirin from his desk drawer. He concentrated so hard on removing the foil seal from the pill bottle, he didn’t see or hear his visitor arrive. His secretary had left shortly after he returned from the courthouse.
    â€œTyson, are you all right?”
    His head snapped upward, and the pill bottle—still sealed—fell onto his desk. He met his father’s concerned stare with one of his own. His father rarely addressed him by his name and visited his office even less. Was the judge sick?
    â€œFather?” Tyson’s brow furrowed as he questioned his father’s sudden appearance.
    â€œWhat brings you here? Is Mother all right?”
    Judge Stokes stepped completely into the office and dismissed his concern with a casual wave of the hand. “Other than being mad at you for no-showing at the fund-raiser last week, your mother is fine. Are you sick?”
    Tyson lazily shrugged his shoulders, as if standing Beverly Stokes up was a common and acceptable practice. He had wanted to attend the event but hadn’t been up to the matchmaking his mother had orchestrated. It didn’t matter how captivating this Mylan person was; he wasn’t interested. His heart belonged to his new tenant. He did, however, send a substantial contribution.
    Tyson retrieved the pill bottle and replaced the plastic red cap. “No, just a little tension headache.” He placed the bottle back in the drawer, deciding that having difficulty opening the bottle was a sign he didn’t need the drug. He’d endure the pain; he didn’t like taking pills, anyway. “What brings you by?”
    Judge Stokes uncharacteristically stuck his hands in his front pants pockets, then looked nervously around the office. “Well,” he began, then paused. “I’m free this evening. I called from the car, and your secretary said you were finished for the day.” He cleared his throat and sat down. “A few weeks ago you mentioned having dinner. Well, son, I haven’t eaten. I thought, well, maybe . . .” Judge Stokes’s words ran together. “If you’re hungry, we could eat together.”
    The strain on the judge’s face didn’t go unnoticed, and if his head wasn’t throbbing, Tyson would have been elated his father wanted to spend time with him. The best he could offer was a weak smile.
    â€œThanks.” Tyson paused and knitted his eyebrows. “Wait a minute. Father, are you sick?”
    Judge Stokes looked perplexed. “No. Why?”
    â€œBecause you haven’t addressed me as son since . . .” Tyson thought for moment. “I don’t recall hearing that since I passed the bar. That day I went from being Tyson, your son, to Attorney Stokes.” Remorse gripped him when his father’s shoulders dropped. He had never seen the judge’s face clothed in regret