The Tax Preparer's Return
"Beatrice has done taxes for her community for thirty years. When a handsome widower brings in a mess of receipts and a bigger mess of emotions, she helps him find more than deductions."
Tax season is my Super Bowl.
January through April, I'm in my office from 7 AM to midnight. I'm Beatrice—fifty-nine, CPA for thirty years, the woman South Side Chicago trusts with their numbers.
"I need help."
The man in my doorway looks lost. Shoebox of receipts in one hand, grief in his eyes.
"Everyone needs help in January." I gesture to the chair. "Sit down."
His name is Marcus.
Wife passed eight months ago—cancer, quick and cruel. She handled everything financial. Now he's drowning in paperwork he doesn't understand.
"I didn't know she did so much," he admits.
"Most people don't." I start sorting receipts. "Until they have to do it themselves."
The return is complicated.
Medical expenses, estate issues, every form the IRS ever invented. He comes back weekly while I untangle it.
"You're patient," he notices.
"Numbers require patience."
"Is that all?"
"What do you mean?"
"You could have handed this off. Referred me to someone else." His eyes meet mine. "Why didn't you?"
"Because you needed someone who cares."
The words slip out before I can stop them. He sets down the coffee he brought.
"Do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Care. About more than my 1040."
"Marcus—"
"I know. I'm your client. This is your business." He moves his chair closer. "But I've been coming here for two months, and the taxes have been filed for three weeks. Why am I still here?"
"Because you keep making appointments."
"Because you keep accepting them." He takes my hand. "We're both pretending."
The kiss happens over a desk full of paperwork.
Schedules and forms scattered everywhere while his mouth finds mine.
"This is unprofessional," I gasp.
"Bill me extra." He smiles against my lips. "I can afford it now, thanks to you."
His house is warm, lived-in, healing.
Photos of his wife everywhere—he doesn't hide them, and I don't ask him to.
"She would have liked you," he says.
"How do you know?"
"Because you're competent, kind, and you don't let me feel sorry for myself." He pulls me close. "That was her specialty too."
He undresses me in his bedroom.
Pictures facing out, her memory watching. I should feel strange about it.
I don't.
"Beautiful," he breathes.
"Marcus—"
"Let me show you what I see."
His mouth traces my body.
Down my neck, my breasts, the soft abundance of my middle.
"Here?" he asks at my thighs.
"Yes. Please."
He worships me thoroughly.
Patient, attentive, nothing rushed. When I come, he doesn't stop until I'm begging.
"Now," I gasp.
"Are you sure?"
"I've been sure since March."
He slides inside me and we both exhale.
"Finally," he says.
"Better than expected?"
"Better than everything." He moves slowly. "So much better."
Afterward, in his bed, he holds me.
"Next year," he says.
"What about it?"
"You're doing our taxes." He pulls me closer. "Together."
"We don't have combined income—"
"We will." He kisses my forehead. "If you'll marry me."
"Marcus, it's been two months—"
"It's been eight months of grief and two months of hope. I know the difference." His eyes are serious. "Say yes, Beatrice. Let me file jointly."
I laugh despite myself.
"That's the worst proposal I've ever heard."
"Is that a no?"
"...That's a yes."
The wedding is in April.
Right after tax deadline, when I finally have time. His children accept me—grateful their father found something other than grief.
"To balance sheets," Marcus toasts.
"To new returns," I counter.
We kiss while the accountants cheer.
Some partnerships are financial.
Some are personal.
And some tax preparers find that the best deductions are the ones that come with love.
Filed jointly.
For life.