by Loree Lough
“And then you can quit worrying about ol’ lover boy, and concentrate on more important things.”
“Are you wearing your watch, Vern?”
He unpocketed the gold timepiece, inherited from his grandfather, and popped its lid.
“Ten-oh-eight,” he said, and snapped it shut again.
Too late to call Ian, she decided.
“It’s never too late, y’know...”
Laughing, Maleah said “Get out of my head, Vern Malachi!”
A moment of companionable silence passed before Vern said, “Smells like snow.”
She looked up at the cloudless sky, at the crescent moon and a thousand stars, winking from the darkness. “Goodness, I hope you’re wrong. Last thing we need this close to the gala is a snowstorm.”
“Aw, don’t sweat it, kid. It’s only mid-November. Even if we get a couple-a inches, it’s too early in the year for it to stick around for very long.”
He’d made a good point. Still...
“Are you ready for the big jamboree this weekend?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Who’s your date?”
“This isn’t 1965, Vern. Women go solo to things like this all the time.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But you young’uns could learn a thing or two from the way we did things in the old days.”
Some changes, Maleah thought, were for the best.
“If I got you a ticket,” she said, “would you go to the gala as my date?”
“I’m flattered, but...not on your life.”
Vern managed quite well on his fixed income, but what if the prospect of shelling out a hundred dollars for a dinner suit had inspired his answer? He was too proud to let her rent one on his behalf, and too smart to believe she had a coupon tucked in a kitchen drawer. He appeared to be about the same size as her grandfather, whose tuxedo had likely been in mothballs for a decade...
“Would you come with me if I could arrange for you to borrow my grandfather’s tux?”
“Why isn’t he going?”
“He’s a bigwig with the Fraternal Order of Police. Some of the members and their wives are getting together in Ocean City to plan the annual Maryland convention.”
Vern nodded, and for a minute there, Maleah thought he’d changed his mind.
“Sorry kid, but you’re on your own.”
“It’s just as well,” she said. “My jitterbug skills are mighty rusty.”
“I’ve had about all the fresh air I can take.”
He jerked open his screen door. “Remember...it’s never too late to do the right thing.”
Translation: Call Ian.
He didn’t give her time to agree. She heard his dead bolt click into place, and when his huge spotlight went out, Maleah decided to test his theory.
It was nearly ten-thirty by the time she hung up her coat and brewed herself a mug of herbal tea. Phone in hand, she scrolled to his number and began second-guessing Vern’s suggestion. During her moment’s hesitation, Maleah accidentally pressed Call.
“Everything okay?” he said.
“I was wondering the same thing. And by the way, I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“Nah. I never turn in before midnight. So...”
So...if everything is all right, why are you calling me at this hour? she finished for him. “People have been asking where you’ve been. I think they’re worried you might have picked up a flu bug.”
He didn’t answer right away.
“It’s nice to be missed.”
“They’ll be happy to hear you’re feeling fine.”
Another pause, and then, “Who’s ‘they,’ if you don’t mind my asking.”
He might as well have said Gotcha!
“I didn’t take names, Ian.”
She heard the smile in his voice when he said, “I’ve missed them, too.”
“Well, it’s late. I’ll let everyone know you’re all right.”
“Thanks.”
“Where have you been, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Man. Sorry. Could’ve sworn I told you. I offered to run some SAR workshops. Plus, we had two wedding receptions and a couple of bachelor parties here at the bistro.”
Now that he mentioned it, Maleah did remember something about seminars...
“SAR?”
“Search and Rescue. Training the dogs, actually. Couple night classes with the handlers, workbook stuff, mostly, followed by a weekend of in-the-field training.”
Maleah had read articles and watched documentaries about the dedicated individuals who, along with their well-trained canines, helped locate scores of lost and missing children and adults. Given his dedication to the kids at Washburne, it shouldn’t surprise her that Ian was involved with a group like that.
Eliot’s warning gonged in her head: It’s not a matter of if he’ll backslide, but when.
“How long have you been doing this?”
Either he’d just yawned, or she’d asked a question he didn’t feel comfortable answering.
“I, ah, I first got involved at Lincoln. Liked it,” he said, “and stuck with it after my release.”
Eliot believed Ian would never amount to anything and that, under the right circumstances, he’d revert to his old ways. Because in her brother’s jaded opinion, “People don’t change.”
But Ian had turned a failing restaurant into a thriving business, earned the respect of every volunteer he’d worked with, including Stan, a hard man to impress. “Remarkable,” she said, meaning it.
“Not really. All the credit goes to the dogs. They’re smart. Hardworking. Capable. And love what they do.”
He could have been describing himself.
“I’ve had the good fortune to work with some of the best canines and handlers.” Even after completing a Kids First task alone, he’d given credit to others. She hadn’t retained much information about Search and Rescue, but Maleah knew enough to believe the dogs were only as good as their trainers. Despite Eliot’s prediction, Ian had changed—for the better—from the guy who once blamed his mother for replacing him and his father with another man and another child, blamed his father for allowing whiskey to destroy what little was left of the Sylvestry family, blamed his friends for talking him into participating in the armed robbery.
She had a feeling if she asked who he blamed for his years at Lincoln, Ian would say, “Me.”
Yet another positive change.
He broke into her thoughts with “You should meet my mutt.”
“I didn’t realize you had a dog. But of course you have a dog. You’re a dog trainer. And a Search and Rescue guy. What’s her name?”
“Cash, a hundred pound, black-and-gray German shorthaired pointer who thinks he’s a teacup poodle.”
“Maybe you can bring him to Washburne sometime.”
“But...you’re afraid of big dogs.”
She’d never forget the day they’d gone hiking in Patapsco Park. A couple, picnicking near one of the trails, had tied their slobbering mastiff to a metal ground spike. All it took to snap it like a dry twig was the sight of a squirrel, racing down the path.
“I think the name Brutus is branded into my brain,” she said, laughing.
He laughed, too. “Don’t think I ever saw anyone run as fast as you did that day.”
“I climbed that tree pretty fast, too, for a girl in shorts and flip-flops.”
After the danger had passed that day, Maleah’s giggling had nearly turned to tears of joy.
Right now, though, she felt like crying.
“Well, it’s late. I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll pass that on to the others...unless you’re planning to come to Washburne tomorrow.”
Ian cleare
d his throat. Had the memory choked him up, too?
“One last class,” he said, “and a bridal shower in the banquet room. So no, not tomorrow.”
Just as well.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“HOW MANY PEOPLE do you think are here?” Gladys wondered aloud.
“I read someplace that this room holds five hundred, and it’s packed,” Ian said.
“Then the gala is a hit, thanks in no small part to you.”
“Me? No way. I made a couple phone calls, arranged a few interviews. Maleah’s personality...that’s what sold the event.”
His aunt rolled her eyes. “It isn’t against the law to take credit for what you accomplished, you know.” She glanced toward the wall of French doors, then pointed toward the bar. “Be a sweetheart, will you, and get your parched old auntie something cold to drink.”
“Root beer or ginger ale?” he teased.
“Surprise me.” Gladys winked. “I think I spotted an old friend. You’ll find me near the entrance.”
It was Maleah she’d spotted, greeting newly-arriving guests.
“Hi there,” he heard Gladys say. “You probably don’t remember me but—”
“Of course I do. You’re Ian’s aunt. We were almost on the same committee for the Kids First swim club.”
“Ah...the year I broke my hip. Bad memories. Let’s change the subject, quick!”
Laughing, Maleah said, “It’s good to see you’ve completely recovered.”
“You call that changing the subject?” Another wink and then, “Love your gown. Don’t tell me...it’s from Sweet Elizabeth Jane’s.”
“Yes. It is. But...how did you know?”
“Why, it’s only my favorite shop in Ellicott City. I make the trip from Fells Point to Main Street every couple of months, just to see what’s new over there.”
Gladys waved Ian over.
“Look who I ran into,” she said, relieving him of both goblets.
“Will you listen to that?” Gladys shouldered Maleah into Ian’s arms. “They’re playing your song.”
Ian steadied Maleah, then frowned at his aunt. “What are you talking about?”
“People are starting to stare. Dance, you two, dance!”
He led Maleah to the center of the floor. “Don’t know what gets into her sometimes. Sorry.”
“No apology required. I’d have ended up on the floor if you hadn’t caught me.”
He’d forgotten how good, how right she felt in his arms. If she kept looking up at him that way...
“You look pretty good in an evening gown.”
“And you look good in a tux.”
“Good thing it didn’t snow, like Marty Bass said it would.”
“In his defense, he said might.”
“So he did...”
“But you’re right. If it had snowed, I’d break my neck in these shoes.”
Ian disliked small talk almost as much as the foot and a half separating them.
An elderly couple plowed into his back, driving his bearded chin into her forehead.
“Sorry,” he repeated.
“Any plans to shave it someday? Not that you don’t look handsome.”
“It serves a purpose,” he said cautiously.
“Oh?”
“There was this new guy at Lincoln,” he began. “Skinny li’l fella with thick glasses and buck teeth. He looked crossways at a couple of the tough guys one day, and they started in on him. Three against one wouldn’t have been fair, even if he’d been the size of a linebacker.”
“So you stepped in...”
“Yeah, and one of the guys whipped out a shiv.” Ian took her hand in his, guided her finger along the scar. Maleah snapped her hand back fast. “Sorry you asked?”
“No.”
She looked into his eyes. Deep into his eyes.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.”
He waved her sympathy away. “Good crowd,” Ian said, surveying the room. “How much do you think Washburne raked in tonight?”
“Why? Are you going to round up your buddies and rob the ticket counter?”
The comment cut to the bone, surprising Ian so badly that he nearly trod on her toes. But really, what did he expect? What he’d done had turned her life completely around.
“That was completely uncalled-for,” she said, “and didn’t come out at all like I intended it.”
He couldn’t imagine how she’d intended it, because the only thing Ian could think of was an article he’d read in the Sunday Sun about how the brutal truth was often hidden behind sarcastic humor. If that’s how she really felt...
If—biggest li’l word in the English language.
It had never been more clear than right now: for the rest of her days, she’d see him as a semi-reformed prisoner. And the worst thing about it was, he couldn’t even dislike her for it. On the off-chance that she’d look into his eyes again, Ian pulled her close, so close she couldn’t see his face at all. With any luck, the song would end soon and he could leave the dance floor without looking like an inconsiderate jerk.
Eliot hadn’t said it in so many words, but the guy believed that misery was the only thing Ian could give Maleah; he probably hadn’t given a thought to the fact that his sweet, innocent sister could mete out her own brand of misery.
She had a good life, a great job, a loving family. The Washburne big shots didn’t mind having Ian around to do the heavy lifting and grunt work, and didn’t complain when his PR contacts brought much-needed attention to the institute’s fund-raisers. But their Maleah, associating with a known felon? The last thing Ian wanted was to jeopardize her credibility with those same bigwigs, or cause strain in her family.
The song ended, finally. It wasn’t easy letting her go. He’d just have to take comfort from the fact that it was best for her.
Maybe someday, if he kept living an upright life, it’d be best for him, too.
* * *
“I WAS BEGINNING to get the idea you’d decided to work through the night,” Brady said.
Living above the bistro made it easy to work late without the dreaded long drive home. But now, again, Ian wished he hadn’t given his dad and aunt keys to his apartment. Cash trotted over and sat at his feet, waiting for his customary hello scratch on the forehead. Ian dropped his keys into the hand-carved bowl beside the door, hung the tux jacket on the hook above it, and stooped to greet the dog.
“Hey buddy. Did ya miss me?”
Grinning, the dog loosed a breathy bark.
“Yeah, well, I missed you, too.”
Standing, Ian whipped off the bow tie and added it to the wooden bowl.
“So what’s up, Dad?”
“Just killin’ time.” He dropped the recliner’s footrest. “I’ll move to the couch so you can enjoy your La-Z-Boy.”
“Don’t worry about it. Gonna grab something to eat.” He moved to the other side of the island. “I’ve got ham and cheese. Rye bread, too.”
“Sure. Why not?”
Ian leaned into the fridge and grabbed two bottles of root beer...the closest thing to real beer he kept in the house. It had been an easy decision thanks to the times he’d come home to find his dad, passed out cold and surrounded by empty cans. Side by side on tall swivel stools, father and son assembled sandwiches in comfortable silence.
Ian speared a tomato. “Want one?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Lettuce?”
“No thanks.”
Normally, his dad enjoyed the works. Tonight’s bare minimum attitude made Ian wonder which ugly memory had inspired the visit.
“Pass the mayo, will ya? And then tell me what’s going on.”
Brady stopped chewing. “What makes you t
hink there’s anything going on?”
He wasn’t in the mood to recite his dad’s something’s-up indicators: Dour expression, growly one-word responses, slouched shoulders...
“Let’s just call it ex-con-tuition.”
Brady winced. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.
He took a swig of root beer. “So how was the party?”
The mention of it was enough to awaken the image of Maleah, all dressed up like a storybook princess.
“Good turnout,” Ian said. “Food was decent. So was the music.”
“See anybody you know?”
“Just the usual suspects. Reporters from the Sun, TV anchors, that balding host from the news show...”
Brady nodded. “I can’t stand that guy. In my day, reporters were objective. John Q. Public had no idea how they felt about things.”
“Which is as it should be,” Ian finished with him.
That, at least, inspired the hint of a smile.
“Did Gladys have a good time?”
“Seemed to.” Her smug expression came to mind. First chance he got, Ian intended to give his aunt a piece of his mind; if she hadn’t forced Maleah into his arms, her cutting remark wouldn’t keep him up tonight—for God only knew how many more nights. On the other hand, he wouldn’t have the memory of how wonderful she’d felt in his arms, either...
“So where is that sister of mine?”
“I offered her a ride, but she decided to call a cab.” He struck out his pinky finger and said in a shaky falsetto, “As one of the high muckety-mucks, you’re expected to hang around until the bitter end.”
That got another grin from his father.
“When I left, she was schmoozing with a couple of the big league guys.”
“That’s no surprise. She’s all wrapped up in another team fund-raiser, though for the life of me, I can’t remember which charity this time.”
“She loves it.” He met his dad’s eyes to add, “Wouldn’t hurt you to get involved.” He recited Father Rafferty’s advice: “Doing for others is a surefire way to get your mind off yourself and your troubles.” He’d consider himself lucky if focusing on his dad right now helped him get his mind off Maleah later.
“Troubles? What makes you think I’ve got troubles?”
