by Loree Lough
Brady held up his mug. “Care for a cup?”
“Thanks, but I’d better not. I’ll have enough trouble falling asleep.”
His dad’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? Something went wrong at the bistro?”
Ian dropped onto the seat of a ladderbacked chair. “If only.” He scanned the room. Gladys had been after him to update the space, but the homey, old-and-stable look reminded him of happier days, spent in his maternal grandparents’ kitchen, where rising bread dough and fresh-baked pies welcomed family, friends and country-born neighbors.
“So where’s Gladys?”
Brady shrugged. “How should I know. She was in here not ten minutes ago, lecturing me, reminding me that with all I have to be thankful for, I have no right to behave like a moody teenager.” He nodded toward the hallway. “Wish I could say she went home, but she’s probably in the head.”
Nearly thirty years since Brady’s honorable discharge, and he still used Navy terms to refer to things like the bathroom.
“So what’s eating you, son?”
“Aw, it’s nothing I can’t handle.” Eventually...
“Lay it on me, so I’ll have something to think about besides my own pathetic life.”
They’d been down this road before, and Ian wasn’t in the mood to cover the same ground yet again. His dad had a good job. A safe place to live. Food on the table and clothes on his back. And a family that loved him. Would it ever dawn on him that when Ruth left him, she’d left her only son, too?
Her self-centered move drove her husband to cheap whiskey and her only son toward a bunch of wild hoodlums that made him feel like part of a family again. Those first few years in lockup, he’d found plenty of reasons to lay everything rotten in his life at her feet. Additional years—and a lot of maturity—led him to the conclusion that he, alone, was responsible for the state of his life. Seemed to Ian his dad could benefit from the same attitude adjustment.
Brady lifted the mug to his lips. “So...?”
Ian leaned back and, arms crossed over his chest, said, “So I saw her tonight.”
The mug hit the table with a clunk.
“Yeah, that’s pretty much how I felt.”
“Jeez, son. I... I don’t know what to say.”
Of course he didn’t. Good advice—advice of any kind for that matter—wasn’t in Brady’s parenting manual. At least it hadn’t been since Ruth ran off with the professor.
“Man.” Brady ran a fingertip around the rim of his mug. “That had to be tough.”
“Yeah. Tough.” Particularly that last moment, when those huge blue eyes traveled from the top of his head to the toes of his boots and back again.
“So how did you two leave things?”
“Leave things?”
Brady shifted in the chair, clearly uncomfortable playing Good Dad.
“Was she civil, at least?”
“We didn’t speak. And that’s fine with me.”
“What’s that old saying? ‘You sucker your friends and I’ll sucker mine, but let’s not sucker each other.’”
“If that’s an old saying, why haven’t I heard it before?”
Grinning, Brady gave Ian’s bicep a friendly punch. “Maybe because you’re just a young whippersnapper.”
Brady had exceeded his fatherly concern limit. Ian could put responsibility for Brady’s me-me-me mind-set on Ruth’s shoulders, but common sense told him that, hard as it was to admit, his dad had always been this way; put to the test by his wife’s betrayal, he’d simply shown his true colors. As a teenager, the role reversal thing caused resentment that revealed itself in dour expressions and whispered complaints. But Lincoln had taught him that it didn’t pay to waste time wishing for the impossible, and he’d taught himself to accept things—and people—at face value.
“Whippersnapper,” Ian echoed. “You’re not old enough for language like that.”
Gladys breezed into the room. “Who’s a whippersnapper?” she asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“This boy of mine. I recited an old adage, and he’d never heard of it.”
She joined her brother and her nephew at the table. “What old adage?”
Brady got to his feet, stretched and yawned, then said, “I’m beat. See you two in the morning.”
Gladys sized up the situation in two seconds flat: “So the kid laid something on you that you couldn’t handle, and you’re off to escape to dreamland, are you?”
Ian had developed a talent for sizing things up, too, and unless he was mistaken, his dad was about to retaliate. He’d been on the receiving end of the man’s sharp tongue often enough to know that Brady didn’t play fair. Only the good Lord knew what awful thing from her past he’d dredge up to even the score...if Ian didn’t intervene.
“Hey auntie...who you callin’ kid?”
In one blink, he got a taste of the glare she’d aimed at his dad. In the next, her expression softened.
Gladys clutched her throat and wrinkled her nose. “Auntie?” she repeated. “Auntie? Real funny, nephew, but fair warning—Call me that again and...” She leaned closer and patted his forearm. “...and I’ll wait until the bistro is filled to capacity to give you a big juicy kiss, right on the lips, and call you sweetheart!”
She’d do it, too! “Fat lotta good that’ll do ya,” he said, snickering, “when everybody knows I’m nobody’s sweetheart.”
Brother and sister exchanged a questioning glance.
Brady shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.”
“Yeah, well, he’s your son.”
“Yeah, well, you played a bigger role in raising him than I did.”
“Only because you’re such a—”
Ian made a big production of shoving back from the table. Grabbing a mug from the drain board, he filled it to the rim and said, “Knock it off, you two, or I’ll send you both to bed with no supper.”
Gladys’s left eyebrow rose. “Sweetheart,” she said, accentuating each syllable, “it’s nearly one in the morning.”
“And I had supper at six.”
“Way past your bedtime, then,” he told them. “Don’t forget to say your prayers...”
He’d just provided his dad with the perfect opportunity to leave the room—and the conversation. How many seconds before he took advantage of it?
“Alarm’s set for five. Think I’ll turn in.”
Half a second later, the door slammed behind him and Gladys said, “All right. Out with it. What’s eating you?”
She’d keep at him until he told her something, so Ian said, “Same old stuff.”
“Baloney.”
“Come again?”
“Here’s an old adage you’ll recognize. ‘You can’t fool an old fool.’ Now spit it out, buster, or I’ll go next door and get my guitar...”
Ian reared back as if she’d smacked him and feigned terror. Hands up, he said, “I’ll talk!”
Folding his hands on the table, he shared the true story of an incident that had taken place years ago when, after recognizing the prison tattoo on his forearm, a fast food clerk refused to serve him. A humiliating experience, since everyone in the restaurant stopped what they were doing to see how Ian would react.
“They expected a fight,” he told Gladys, “but they left disappointed.”
“Good for you. After all these years of walking the straight and narrow, you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone.”
Almost word for word what he’d told himself as he left the place...without so much as a French fry.
She folded her hands, too. “First of all, how’d that self-righteous fool know it was a prison tat, unless he’d served time, too?”
Leave it to Gladys to find the needle in the haystack.
<
br /> “And second of all?”
“You’re a good man, and I couldn’t love you more if you were my own son.”
Wrapping her hands with his, Ian said, “Don’t make me start into another rendition of ‘you saved my sorry hide’ tale.”
“Tale? Hmpf. It’s one hundred percent true. Why would I mind hearing it again?” Their companionable laughter blended, producing a warm smile on his aunt’s face. A smile that quickly diminished as she withdrew her hands.
“You aren’t all down in the mouth because some wiseacre burger pusher gave you a hard time...”
“Well, silly me,” he kidded, “thinking I could fool you.”
“’Bout time you wised up. For the last time, out with it.”
What did he have to lose?
“I saw Maleah tonight.”
“Oh my. Oh wow. Holy smokes.” Gladys sipped her coffee. “Good grief,” she said, wincing. “Who taught that father of yours how to brew a pot?”
“Ruth.”
“Still can’t bring yourself to call her Mom, can you.”
Ian shook his head. She hadn’t earned the title.
“So did Maleah see you, too.”
“She was a little busy, hanging all over her cover-model date.”
The left brow rose again.
“Kent O’Malley. Baltimore Magazine’s Bachelor of the Year?”
“Oh yeah.” Nodding, she said, “Oh my. Oh wow. Holy smokes.” Then she slapped the table, making Ian jump. “No way you can convince me she’s serious about that blowhard.”
“Wasn’t aware you and Kent were acquainted.”
“Don’t need a personal introduction to know he’s all shine, no substance. Not Maleah’s type at all.”
A lifetime ago, he’d been her type. “A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since that day in court. “I’ve changed. She has, too.”
“Not that much. I’ll bet my diamond tiara it was a work-related date and nothing more. Now tell me everything.”
“She seemed...she looked...” Ian didn’t know how to describe how she looked as she stood, entangled in O’Malley’s arms, comparing the once clean-cut boy he’d been to the scarred, tattooed ex-con he’d become. “I think it surprised her, seeing how much I’ve changed. Scared her a little, too, I think.”
“That’s natural. Man doesn’t spend ten years doing hard time without it taking a toll.” Unable to come up with a suitable response to that, Ian only nodded.
Gladys got up, put her mug in the sink, then emptied what was left of the coffee into the drain. “Promise me you’ll teach that brother of mine how to use a coffeemaker, will ya? Grounds are too expensive these days.”
She stood behind him and gently tugged his foot-long ponytail. “Oh what I wouldn’t give for a pair of scissors right now...”
“If I had a dollar for every time you told me you love my hair, I could buy that newfangled icemaker I’ve been drooling over.”
This time, she wasn’t so gentle when she jerked the ponytail. “Small talk is not your forte, Ian Sylvestry. You can try to distract me with ice makers and coffeemakers and—”
“You’re the one who took a side trip, talking about coffee.”
“You’ve got me there, too.” She kissed the top of his head. “Feel better now?”
He wouldn’t feel better until he could blot Maleah’s image from his memory.
“My advice?” she said, walking toward the hall.
Ian braced himself.
“Call her. Put all your cards on the table. Trust me, she’s not involved with Mr. Owns-the-East-Coast.”
He wouldn’t reach out, not even if O’Malley told him directly that he had no interest in Maleah. He’d already put her through enough. What if she’d been with him that day at the fast food place? No way he could live with seeing her humiliated because of her association with him.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you, now?”
“You think you hurt her, hurt her so much that she can’t forgive you for something you did when you were a stupid, naïve, impressionable boy. But let me remind you that Maleah has a big loving heart.”
It was the first nice thing she’d said about Maleah since he got out.
“She loved you, for a while anyway, and that tells me she’s not all bad.” Gladys rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. “Because in those days, you weren’t easy to love.”
One of a hundred reasons he wouldn’t call her.
“Promise me you’ll think about it,” Gladys said from the hallway. He took a moment, just long enough to let her think he’d seriously consider making that call. “G’night, Gladys. Sleep tight...”
“...and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
Her all-knowing expression told him she believed he’d take her well-meaning advice.
But he wouldn’t. Ever.
* * *
A WEEK AGO, to the day, her brother had found the silver-framed photo of Ian and unearthed every memory she’d carefully and deliberately buried.
The photo itself had been taken with her metallic pink pocket camera, his second birthday gift to her that year. “Sorry it’s such a mess,” he’d said as she’d removed wrinkly, balloon-festooned paper, “I’m all thumbs.” After showing her how to use it, Maleah posed him in front of the Blue Poison-Dart Frog enclosure at the Tropical Rain Forest exhibit. (Tickets to the National Aquarium had been his first birthday gift to her.) Some girls claimed their sixteenth birthdays were the best, but for Maleah, the magic number would always be seventeen...
...because at the end of that remarkable day, Ian surprised her with a third present: a thin silver band that held what he’d called the smallest diamond on Planet Earth. “Before you put it on, you should know this isn’t one of those goofy friendship rings your girlfriends are showing off.” They needed to graduate from college, find stable employment, and save their pennies for a safe place to live, he’d recited in an oh-so-grown-up voice. Until then, the ring symbolized the promise between them: Someday, they’d become husband and wife.
Maleah eased the picture from its new hiding place. I dare you to find it at the bottom of my underwear drawer, Eliot! She returned the picture to the drawer. If Eliot snooped and found it, no doubt he’d retaliate in his typical tough cop way: “If you’d thrown it out, like I told you to, there’d be no need to worry about snagged panties or bloodied knuckles.”
She’d tried. Several times. Once, she got as far as placing it atop an empty cereal box in the kitchen trash can before rescuing it. Of all the memorabilia, why did this photo hold such significance?
Knock it off, idiot. Memories like that were the reason Eliot didn’t trust her.
She kicked off her heels, hung up the little black dress, and slipped into her PJ’s. Hair piled loose atop her head, Maleah scrubbed lipstick, mascara, and eye shadow from her face, loaded her toothbrush, and leaned into the mirror. “If you could see me now, Kent O’Malley,” she mumbled.
“You’re the sexiest woman on feet,” he’d whispered into her ear.
“Just because I’m blonde,” she’d whispered back, “doesn’t mean I’ll fall for a tired old line like that.”
“Oh? What line would you fall for, then?”
He’d chosen that moment to spin her around. And that’s when she saw Ian, all alone at the edge of the dance floor, looking as stunned and confused as she felt. Somehow, she managed to follow Kent’s lead while they danced, praying all the while that he wouldn’t turn her again, because she wanted—needed—to see more of Ian.
She’d often wondered how much he’d changed after ten years in prison, and now she knew. Poets might describe him as ruggedly handsome, and Maleah had to agree. The close-cropped beard and silver strands threading through nearly-black hair gav
e him the distinguished look of a college professor, but the muscles bulging from his formerly reed-thin frame were anything but professorial. The biggest difference, Maleah decided, were the worry lines, etched between still-dark brows. That, and a sad, almost pleading look in those oh-so-serious eyes. Go to him, was the crazy, unbelievable thought that popped into her head. If Kent hadn’t stopped dancing, hadn’t said, “You’re white as a bedsheet. What’s wrong?” would she have done it?
She checked her calendar on her phone. Two back-to-back meetings, both before ten, both with the parents of severely autistic kids, followed by a volunteer stint at Johns Hopkins Children’s Oncology, to paint Batman and Superman and Pokémon characters on the patients’ faces. If she didn’t get a few hours’ sleep, no telling what nonsensical things she’d say—or do.
Maybe a cup of chamomile tea would settle her nerves...
But an hour later, she was still wide awake.
Tucked under a downy comforter, she closed her eyes and pictured the teacher of the yoga class, “Breathing to Relax,” that she’d signed up for years ago.
“It’s like counting sheep,” the petite redhead had instructed. “Inhale for a count of four, exhale for a count of four—all through the nose—and repeat until you feel the tension and stress floating away.”
Even after twenty reps of four, sleep eluded her.
Angry, flustered and exhausted, she tossed the covers aside.
The power went out often enough that Maleah taught herself how to get round the century-old town house in the dark without stubbing toes or bumping into furniture. Surprisingly, it took very little time to memorize every square inch of the old house...
Sixteen steps across the velvety Persian rug put her at her dresser, where she flicked on the light and jerked open the top drawer.
Twelve stairs led her down to the first floor, and twenty-seven paces brought her into the kitchen.
This silly ceremony could just as easily have been performed upstairs in the master bathroom. But knowing what nestled at the bottom of that waste basket would have guaranteed a fitful, completely sleepless night.
