In the courtroom of life, sometimes the toughest case is love.
Some might think attorney Elijah Cummings has everything—a loving family, supportive friends, great looks and respect in the community. But Elijah’s problems are mounting—a suit filed against him, a financially dependent son, and an ailing mother who relies on him for care. His new gay law partner, Riley Hansen, might be what the business needs. But the younger, fresher version of himself reminds Elijah of what pains him most—the difficulty of coming out and finding love at the age of forty-two in a youth-obsessed culture.
Riley Hansen has ideas on how to attract more business, but whatever he does seems to annoy his new law partner Elijah Cummings. Having invested his savings in the firm, Riley needs to make things work with Elijah—and that starts by banishing the unprofessional thoughts he’s been having about his handsome new partner.
Publisher's Note: This book is linked to the All on the Line series, and features characters from Found by Chance
General Release Date: 12th November 2024
Elijah
It was the kind of weather I had been hoping for—miserable. I was relieved that my last client of the day had left, leaving just me and my son, Timothy, in my law practice that comprised the bottom floor of our house. Since Timothy also worked as my receptionist, I told him to pack it in for the day and reminded him that there were leftovers in the refrigerator he could warm up for dinner. I grabbed a light jacket and car keys, and I made my way to the door. Timothy didn’t ask where I was heading. Having been adopted twenty-two years earlier, he had had more than enough time to learn how I alleviated stress.
The sky was gray and the air misty, creating a murky fog that gave San Francisco a post-apocalyptic appearance. It was just what I sought when I was feeling down about my continued bad luck. I never understood people’s impulses to surround themselves with cheeriness when depressed. Doing so added irritation to my sadness—I was put off by the insipid comedy on the television or embarrassed for the recording artist singing about an idealized version of love. Put me behind the wheel of my beloved Jeep Cherokee and let me drown in some moody Depeche Mode or Nina Simone music while driving through the dreary atmosphere the city so often provided. At least then my disposition felt in tune with the universe.
I was still obsessing over my conversation with my mother’s neurologist. Early dementia. Her memory, especially short term, had been progressively worse for the last several months. Her recent urinary tract infections had made me hopeful they were the cause. And while the doctor had agreed they were contributing factors, my mother’s recall wasn’t a whole lot better once the infections had cleared with the help of antibiotics. The tests were conclusive—she would only get worse. At least the neurologist was hopeful that medications could slow the disease.
My mother had been struggling with hallucinations, outbursts and general confusion, which the physician had informed me were common symptoms. I could expect for them to become more frequent. It was time to begin researching memory-care facilities where my mom could receive the daily oversight she was lacking in her independent-living apartment complex.
I still had to break the news to her. The neurologist thought it would be best coming from me. My mother had been anxious since the day her primary care physician had referred her to the specialist, and hearing the confirmation of her worst fears would send her into a tailspin. When I wasn’t speaking with one of my clients, I was rehearsing lines in my head of how I could communicate the bad news in the least frightening way possible. But there was no palatable delivery. It was one of those conversations that just sucked—and everything after it would suck more.
I had started looking into the costs for the type of care she’d need. Her remaining savings would be wiped out within months. To ensure she had the best treatment in a nearby facility, I would need to supplement whatever Medicare would cover. It would put enormous pressure on my already tenuous situation. Besides everyday expenses like covering the mortgage and bills for the Victorian building that served as my home and office, and paying my son’s salary, I was also letting Timothy live with me rent-free and paying off his college loans. In addition, I needed to continue making alimony payments to my ex-wife Ellie and fork over legal expenses to combat a client’s unfounded malpractice claim.
When my friend Hugh Findley had suggested I seek a partner to invest in my firm and bring in more case work, I had balked. I’d had my own shingle hanging outside my door for a dozen years, and changing it was like replacing the sign with one that read ‘Attorney Elijah Cummings, Failure.’ But Hugh had told me how since moving to San Francisco and entering a partnership with his son, Chance—a friend and former client of mine—his life was much easier and his earnings were even greater. Unfortunately, Timothy wasn’t a lawyer, nor was he in a financial position to help me as Chance had his father.
The windshield wipers were now moving in rhythm with Enjoy the Silence from Depeche Mode, and I steered the car to one of the less-traveled city roads. I had no destination. I just wanted to cruise around, taking in the gloomy ambience.
Tomorrow, I would need to sign the papers that made it official. I’d be handing over half my business to the young, eager lawyer who came with solid references, a winning track record and enough money—probably from his parents—to buy into my firm. There hadn’t been any other takers once they’d seen my current and potential legal fees, as well as the modest amount of business I conducted.
Riley Hansen had been unfazed. He had told me he already had ideas on how to draw in customers. One thought was that we lean into support from the LGBTQ+ community, since he had noticed the Pride flag I flew from the front porch of the building. That discussion had led to Riley’s disclosure that he was an unattached gay man, as well as questions about my sexuality. I shared that I had recently divorced my wonderful and supportive ex-wife, and that I was gay—not that it mattered at my age of forty-two. It wasn’t as if there would be a traffic jam from gay men driving over to meet me. Before he could respond with obligatory niceties, I shared that my son was gay, as well. It was Timothy coming out to me and his mother years earlier that had forced me to be honest with myself—as well as Ellie and Timothy. After riding the wave of different emotions for a few weeks, my ex-wife had moved to acceptance then encouragement. But I missed her. If I was going to be alone anyway, I wondered why I had ruined what I had. I had loved her—I still did. Sex had been pleasant, if not my secret preference. In the end, though, I figured she deserved better. I just wished I hadn’t lost all the delightful things that went with being in a relationship.
Though I wouldn’t trade my life by giving up Timothy, Riley Hansen would be a reminder of what could have been had I had the courage at a younger age to come out. Hearing the younger, fresher version of myself talk about his exploits would be an irritant I could do without. The guy was a looker, and I had no doubt he was popular in every sense. I was even more frightened at the thought that he and my son would hook up. That would make for an awkward working arrangement. Is there a polite way of telling my new partner that my son is off limits? With a mom-and-pop shop like mine, I knew there weren’t laws against fraternization unless it was unwelcomed by one of the parties. Considering how my life was going, I braced for the possibility. Riley Hansen—new partner and potential son-in-law—and if my luck kept spiraling down, he’d probably turn out to be a pain in my ass on both a business and personal front.
I pulled the car over to the side of the road and leaned back in the seat. The wipers kept swooshing to the beat of the music, and I watched the gray of the day start to blacken as night fell.
Gareth Chris has a degree in English and a minor in Theater / Playwriting. When he isn't writing stories about dashing men overcoming challenging situations, he provides consultative organizational design and executive coaching to international clients. He volunteers his time to local charitable organizations that focus on helping the less fortunate - particularly those needing food and shelter.
Gareth makes his home in the lovely New England area of the United States, where he, family, and friends enjoy the proximity to beaches, mountains, and numerous historical cities and sites.
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