by Loree Lough
Almost.
Maleah carried the laptop to his side of the counter, and as her fingers flew over the keyboard, she began a flurry of rapid-fire talking. Better to have him think she was the same silly chatterbox she’d been at eighteen than risk Ian finding out that despite it all, she wanted what was best for him. And unless she’d misread his penetrating eye contact, raspy-soft voice, and sad smile, he felt the same way,
Ian made a few suggestions about placement of the Washburne logo, highlighting the names of the stars who’d be present at the gala, and adding a color photos of the headliners. One by one, Maleah incorporated them all.
“It’s a great start,” she said, saving the file.
“And to think it only took us half an hour.”
Maleah closed the laptop. “Well, it isn’t like I haven’t done this before.”
“Couple dozen times, according to Stan.”
She returned the computer to its slot in her bag as he added, “I have a few friends in the media who can help publicize the event. I can make some calls, if you like.”
“Friends, as in TV and newspaper reporters?”
“Yeah.”
He rattled off a few names, and Maleah recognized each. In the past, all but one had ignored her voice mail and email messages.
“That’ll be a big help,” she admitted. “How do you know those people, if you don’t mind my asking.”
He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Helped Tom Scottson with a documentary about kids in prison he did a few years back. One thing led to another. Before I knew it, I was the go-to guy for a couple of similar TV series he filmed here in Baltimore.” He shrugged again. “The directors and a couple of the producers still call every now and then.”
So, Maleah thought, he’d committed a felony and served time for it, and instead of being shunned, the media had turned him into a silent hero of sorts? She didn’t know how to feel about that.
“Guess I’d better go,” she said, zipping up the big bag.
“Right. Four o’clock always comes earlier than I think it will when I set the alarm.”
“That’s early.”
“Earlier I get to the farmer’s market, less likely things will be picked over.”
“You do that yourself? I thought that was the chef’s job.”
“Sometimes. But Dan’s wife just had a baby—what a set of lungs that kid has—so Lee and the rest of us are picking up the slack for a few weeks.” Ian grinned. “Just until he adjusts to his new no-sleep schedule.”
Had his association with TV types taught him when and how to polish up his I’m a changed man veneer? Or was this the new Ian?
“Very nice.”
“Dan’s good people. We’re happy to do it.”
Maleah reached for her jacket, but Ian beat her to it.
“Where’d you park?” he asked, helping her into it.
“In the lot across the street.”
As he led the way to the side door, Ian said, “You want to call Stan in the morning, or should I?”
“If it’s up to me, I say we let him call us. I don’t appreciate being pushed around like that.”
He smiled. “You’ll let me know what he says?”
“What makes you think he’ll call me? My dad and Stan aren’t best friends.”
Unlocking the door from the inside, he stepped onto the sea-blue porch. “Okay, if I hear from him, I’ll let you know.” He pointed to the narrow lot on the other side of Thames Street.
“Which is yours?”
“The silver SUV, right next to that gigantic motorcycle.”
“That’s Harriet the Harley. Bought her years ago, when she was hardly more than a bucket of rusty bolts.”
“How many trips does it take to get produce here on that thing?”
Laughing, Ian took her elbow and escorted her across the street. “I use the black pickup beside Harriet for that.”
She unlocked her car and eased the briefcase onto the passenger seat, and as she slid in behind the wheel, he leaned on the driver’s door.
“Sorry if my Lincoln stories upset you.”
“Upset me? Why would they upset me? You’re the one who served time, not me.”
Had he stepped back because of her curt tone, or the smug expression that no doubt accompanied it? You’ve become a cold, heartless woman.
“You never were one to beat around the bush, were you?”
“It’s a confusing waste of time, and unnecessarily hard on the shrubbery.”
One side of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “It’s been good, seeing you. Even better knowing you don’t hate my guts.”
She’d tried hating him, but the good times they’d shared made it impossible. “Harboring ill feelings...another waste of time.”
Oh, aren’t you the philosopher tonight!
“Uh-huh,” he said. And after a moment, “So...once we get Stan’s approval, we’ll have those flyers printed up?”
“We’re not waiting for his approval. He insisted that we meet and make some plans, and we did far more than that. I’ll print the flyer and email you a copy. Once you’ve made contact with your reporter pals, let me know, so we can work out a good time for interviews and whatnot.”
He leaned a forearm on the car’s roof. “I’ll have them get in touch with you.”
“With me? But you’re their go-to guy...”
“Why would they want to feature this ugly ol’ mug when they could film your pretty face?”
Grateful for the darkness that hid her blush, Maleah buckled her seat belt.
“Good work tonight,” she said, reaching for the door handle.
He took the hint and stood back. “How long will it take you to get home from here?”
“Now? Half an hour.”
Ian nodded as she shut the door.
“Good. Drive safely now, hear?”
Maleah aimed the SUV toward South Caroline. With any luck, the traffic lights would be on her side and she really would be home in thirty minutes.
If it took longer, she wouldn’t complain. She’d always done her best thinking behind the wheel, and the meeting with Ian had given her a lot to think about. How to explain to her family that she’d work with “that bum Ian Sylvestry” until the night of the gala, for starters. And how he’d parlayed life as an ex-con into respectable relationships with the media...something she’d hadn’t accomplished in her years with Washburne. At least, not to the degree Ian had.
On the other hand, she hadn’t yet seen proof that he could arrange the interviews. For all she knew, the promise was all part of a well-rehearsed act. If so, would Stan place the blame where it belonged? Because one thing Maleah didn’t need at this point in the gala’s schedule was another reason to resent him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE CHRISTMAS TREES of the World display that opened the Kids First event was one of the best Ian had ever seen. Hundreds of them, all shapes, sizes and colors, adorned with ornaments depicting the traditions of each represented country. His assignment? Make sure the lights stayed lit and the decorations stayed in place.
“Too bad they’re fake,” said a deep voice.
Turning, Ian looked into the eyes of Maleah’s older brother.
“Eliot. Long time no see.”
“Ten years, plus what, another fifteen?”
Ian chose to ignore the sarcasm. “Give or take.”
He gave Ian a quick once-over. “You’re rougher around the edges than I remember, but you didn’t age near as much as I thought you would.”
Ian saw two boys, perhaps six and eight, hovering nearby.
“Your kids?”
“Yeah, poor poor Dad,” said the taller of the two, “it’s his weekend with us. We’re doing stupid stuf
f until he can drop us off.”
If Ian had ever seen a man look more hurt or embarrassed, he didn’t know when. A lot of life had happened to Eliot during Ian’s years on the inside...marriage, kids and divorce. The guy had never gone out of his way to be friendly—quite the opposite, in fact—and yet he felt bad for him.
“I read someplace,” Ian told the older boy, “that dads aren’t as good at the one-on-one stuff as moms because they’re too busy protecting their kids from the dangerous stuff in the world.” He glanced at Eliot. “Especially dads that are cops.”
The smaller kid piped up with “Dad is always, always telling us to keep our wits about us, because there are crazies around every corner.” He looked up at his father. “Can we go to Dairy Queen after this?”
“Sure, sure.” Eliot slid a ten from his wallet, handed it to his oldest son. “There’s a gift cart right there. See if you can find something your mom might like.”
In one blink of the eye, Eliot looked as grateful as someone who despised him could look.
In the next, his expression reverted to the no-nonsense tough cop Ian remembered so well.
“I don’t need any parenting help from the likes of you, Sylvestry. My boys and I get along great.”
“I’m sure you do.” Ian glanced at the kids, squinting at the price tags attached to delicate, hand-blown glass ornaments. “They look a lot like you. Seem like good kids, too.”
Eliot’s frown deepened. “I didn’t come here seeking your compliments or your approval.”
“Yeah? Then why are you here?”
“In a word, Maleah. She said over Sunday dinner that some Washburne big shot pressured her into working with you. And I’m here to say if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do your job and nothing more.”
He didn’t like Eliot’s tone. Or his ready-to-fight stance, for that matter. He tried to put himself in the man’s shoes. What red-blooded loving brother would stand idly by while his only sister dated an ex-con? Understanding the man’s behavior was one thing, but he didn’t appreciate being raked over the coals in front of paying customers and other event volunteers.
He was about to say all that when the sound of shattering glass stopped him. “Wasn’t us, Dad,” said the little guy. “It was that kid.” He pointed. “The one who’s been running around.”
“I know,” Eliot said. “Saw him out of the corner of my eye.”
“We bought Mom an angel ornament,” his older son said, holding up a small white box.
“Good. Zip up your jackets. We’re leaving.”
“Can we still go to Dairy Queen?”
“Sure. Why not?”
He faced Ian, pointed a finger and narrowed his eyes. “Remember...do your job. That’s it. Or else.”
Or else what? he wanted to ask.
“One question,” Ian said instead.
“Yeah...”
“Did Maleah put you up to this?”
“Absolutely not. She doesn’t even know we’re here. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep it that way.”
Again with the “if you know what’s good for you” garbage. To avoid regular beatings, like those he’d been subjected to that first year at Lincoln, Ian had learned to endure a certain amount of bullying. But he saw no reason to tolerate Eliot’s intimidation now, even if his intentions were more or less good. He put himself in Eliot’s path, effectively blocking his exit. “Look. Eliot. I get it. If my sister was cavorting with a known felon, I’d wig out, too. But you need to know that I have no interest in Maleah.” Too much time had passed, time that changed them. Yes, he liked her even better now, maybe, grown up, feisty and independent, than he had all those years ago, but that didn’t mean things could ever be the same. “So save your threats for somebody who doesn’t have her best interests at heart, okay?”
The boys ran up and, grinning, flanked their father. “We’re ready for ice cream!” the little guy said.
Ian watched them walk away, hand in hand, Eliot nodding and smiling as the boys chattered all the way to the main entrance. Despite the older one’s surly comment earlier, it was clear father and sons really did have a good relationship.
And for the first time since meeting Eliot, Ian envied him.
Just then, Ian spotted Maleah an aisle away, giving directions to a visitor. When she looked up, he waved. He hadn’t intended it as an invitation, but when she started moving toward him, he thought, Two birds with one stone. Find out what, if anything, she wanted him to do, and—
“I see you had a visitor.”
It surprised him to learn that she’d watched all that and hadn’t intervened. “Yeah. A real fun reunion.”
Maleah didn’t respond, and Ian decided she hadn’t heard him as she turned to straighten a crystal angel on Finland’s tree.
“Maybe next time you guys have a Turner family get-together, you can set your brother straight. Make sure he knows you’re safe from the big bad ex-con.”
She took half a step back. “No need to shout, Ian. I’m standing right here.”
“Sorry.”
“So is that what Eliot told you? That he thought you were threatening me in some way?”
“No. He’s concerned I’m trying to pick up where I left off. Pretty much told me to do my job and keep my distance...or else.”
“Or else what?”
“That’s what I wanted to know. I didn’t ask him, of course, because his kids were with him.”
She lifted her chin. Crossed both arms over her chest. Took half a step forward.
“If you’re waiting for me to apologize on his behalf, don’t. Eliot has always been protective, and under the circumstances, you can hardly blame him. I was a mess, for months, thanks to you. And he was right there, helping pick up the pieces.”
A two-by-four to the head couldn’t have hurt worse.
“I get it. In fact, I admitted to him that I get it. Doesn’t mean I like being taken to task in front of a bunch of strangers.”
She shrugged again, as if to say That’s the price you pay for participating in an armed robbery.
If that’s what she truly felt, he couldn’t blame her. That hurt, and riled him, too.
Every time the prison mailman handed him a Return to Sender envelope, his heart shrank a bit more; when Turtle poked that last one through the chipped gray bars, Ian all but gave up. Lincoln’s chaplain, having heard that he wasn’t eating or sleeping much, made an unscheduled visit to cell block D, during which the old priest said something Ian had never forgotten: “Self-pity is the most destructive of human emotions. Get involved in activities that put you last, not first.” The advice had served him well...until he saw her on the bistro’s dance floor. Since then he’d flip-flopped from wondering if what they’d once had could be revived, and wanting to protect her from him. He reminded himself how important family had always been to her. If it came down to choices between their feelings and even the most casual business relationship with him, she’d choose them.
As she should, since—as she’d pointed out—they’d been there to pick up the pieces after he went away.
“Just so we’re on the same page,” she said, standing as tall as her five-foot frame would allow, “we both know that Eliot has nothing to worry about...right?”
“Right. And neither do you. Soon as this Kids First stuff ends, you’ll probably never see me again.”
“No need to back away entirely. Washburne needs all the capable volunteers it can get. I’m sure they can find ways you can continue helping out that don’t involve working with me.”
She must have realized that her curt words rattled him, because Maleah smiled. Not the big happy grin that once lit up her entire face, but Ian preferred it to the way she’d been looking at him since Eliot left.
“Have you had a cha
nce to see the entire exhibit yet?”
“Not yet. Too busy fixing what these curious visitors mess up. My mom used to say ‘You look with your eyes, not your fingers.’ Guess they never heard that one.”
“Funny. My mom said the same thing.”
It’d be nice if it meant she was looking for common ground, but Ian knew better.
“Too bad I can’t make a couple of signs, post ’em around the auditorium.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I, ah... Well, where can I find paper, markers and tape?”
She pointed. “You’ll find everything you need in the storeroom. Can’t wait to see if your artistic abilities held up after all those years...”
Her voice trailed off. Blushing, she said, “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“Hey, it is what it is. No need to walk on eggshells around me. My name isn’t Eliot.”
The smile vanished like the smoke from a spent match. In its place, the same look of disapproval that had furrowed her brother’s brow moments ago.
“I need to make a few phone calls. If you need anything, text me.”
Ian couldn’t think of a thing he might need, but she’d walked so quickly away, he didn’t have a chance to say so.
On his way to the storeroom, she cut a glance his way before ducking into the main office. Part of him wished he could read her mind. Was she wondering how big a mess he’d make of the posters, and who she’d have to answer to once he distributed them throughout the hall? Ian made up his mind to do her proud, and create the best “Please don’t touch the merchandise” signs this facility had ever seen.
At least then he’d have the satisfaction of knowing his actions wouldn’t cause her any grief.
Because God knew he’d already caused her plenty of that.
* * *
SURELY THERE WERE better ways to avoid Ian than by hiding out in the office, shuffling papers and scanning her phone’s contacts list.
She hadn’t been close enough to hear the exchange between the men, but the look on her brother’s face had told her what she’d needed to know. When Eliot put his mind to it, he could be downright abrasive and, having been on the receiving end of it too many times, she felt sorry for Ian. Ridiculous, considering all he’d put her through. What he’d put everyone through. Yes, he’d been young, and of course it had been a hurtful shock, hearing that his mother’s life continued to tick along swimmingly, even as his dad was drowning at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. But not even pent-up anger and bitterness excused what he’d done. He’d earned a stiff punishment, but she hadn’t!
