by Loree Lough
“It’s called Sur les Quais. French for ‘on the water.’ And yes, I’ve been there.” She wouldn’t tell them how many times... “A few weeks before Thanksgiving, I attended a holiday party in his banquet room, and saw him on the far side of the dance floor. It wasn’t until quite some time later that I realized he owned the place.”
“Oh yes, I remember now. You went with Kent O’Malley.” Teresa wiggled her eyebrows. “Now, that’s the sort of man you deserve. Rich, powerful, intelligent, and oh so handsome, too. Didn’t he play professional football, too?”
“He’s a blowhard. Every time I’ve seen him interviewed, he’s bragging about how much he donated to this charity or that. What happened to the old-fashioned principle of doing good deeds just because they need to be done, not because of the glory or free publicity—and tax deductions—they’ll buy you?” Frank polished off his coffee. “For all we know, O’Malley served jail time, too,” he said, banging the mug down on the table. “Because who knows how he came by his rich and powerful status?” He banged the mug down on the table. “He can keep his money. And, no, he never played pro ball.”
Maleah loved him for trying to defend her, and in a roundabout way, Ian, too. But the subject had agitated him, not a good thing so soon after surgery. And it might cause an argument between him and her grandmother. She decided not to tell them that Kent had asked her to spend New Year’s Eve with him.
She turned on the TV. “I wonder if the weather reports will say Mother Nature has finished with us, or that this is just the calm before the next storm.”
“I think we’re out of the woods,” Teresa said. She pointed at the window. “The sun’s trying to burn through the clouds.”
The anchorman described the aftermath of what the media called Snowzilla: two hundred thousand people without power in the mid-Atlantic region alone, nearly two dozen storm-related deaths, stranded motorists and canceled flights, and hundreds of traffic accidents, all resulting in millions of dollars in damages and lost wages.
“I feel so guilty,” Teresa said. “Here we sit, comfy-cozy, while others have no heat, no lights, no food.”
Frank slid an arm around her. “When we can get out and about safely, we’ll call the county executive’s office, find out how we can help.”
“Certainly not with manual labor, because you’re in no condition to—”
He silenced her with a kiss. Nothing like the kiss Maleah had foisted on Ian, but sweet and loving nonetheless. It made her smile, seeing how much in love they were, even after all their years together.
“New necklace?” Teresa asked.
Maleah’s hand automatically went to her chest, surprised it that the necklace now dangled over the collar of her shirt. She sipped her orange juice, buying time.
“Brand new,” she admitted.
“Very cute. A little juvenile for a woman of your age, but different strokes for different folks, I suppose.”
How odd that Ian remembered her fondness for daisies when her own grandmother hadn’t...
If her grandfather had Grams’s talent for mind reading, he’d no doubt spout one of his family-famous, paraphrased witticisms: “Don’t read more than what’s on the page.” When the page told the story of how he’d come out in one of the worst blizzards in history while still in recovery from a near-fatal accident to make sure she was all right...
She loved her grandparents, but oh how Maleah wished it was safe to climb into her car and drive home, where she could think clearly and make some hard decisions.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“I THOUGHT YOU had better sense than that,” Gladys scolded. “What were you thinking, going out in the middle of the worst storm on record when you’re not fully recovered from the accident?” She held up one hand. “No, don’t tell me. You weren’t thinking.”
Ian sat quietly while she delivered acetaminophen and a tall glass of water. His own fault.
If he’d thought to call her, or at least leave a note...
“I was in a snowplow,” he said. A flimsy defense, but unfortunately, that’s all he had. “When’s the last time you saw one of those stuck in the snow?”
“Oh, and you had a letter from God, I suppose, guaranteeing the motor wouldn’t conk out.” She threw both hands into the air. “Did you even check to see if your friend had some means to communicate with the outside world if you had been stranded?” He had not.
“Andy said he’d call when he finished the work, so I assumed he had his cell phone, at least.”
“You assumed.” She stomped into the kitchen and stirred the pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove. “You know what they say about that word.”
Yes, he knew, and it only added to the misery he was in. Every muscle and joint ached, far more, even than during those first days following surgery. That, too, had been his own fault. Gladys dished up a bowl of the steaming brew, then set up a TV tray near his chair. He thought surely she’d crack the thin wooden legs. He’d only seen her this angry on one other occasion: the night he was arrested.
“You’re right,” he said, “I should have called, or left a note. What can I say? I’m an idiot.”
“So was it worth it?”
Gladys might have been referring to any number of things, and rather than rile her further, he sat, quietly sipping soup and waiting for her to tell him.
“Did she even say thank you?”
“Yes.”
“Did she mean it?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
She sat on the end of the couch nearest his chair.
“Soup’s delicious,” he said.
“You must think I’m an idiot, too, trying to placate me with compliments.”
“You’re the least idiotic person I know.”
“How many idiots do you know?”
“I dunno.” He shrugged, and he laughed to hide his pained grimace. “Never took a head count.”
“The fact there’s more than one only proves the old ‘birds of a feather’ adage. If you spent less time with empty-headed numbskulls...”
Gladys’s voice trailed off, and for her sake more than his own, Ian hoped her vexation had reached his peak.
“I’m genuinely sorry for worrying you, Gladys, and the soup really is good.”
Tears shone in her eyes when she said, “If you ever, ever do anything like this again, so help me, I’ll... I’ll give you that butt-whoopin’ I’ve been threatening all these years!”
That would sting a lot less than seeing the hurt and disappointment on her face...the same expression his mother had worn when he’d stubbornly refused to attend her wedding...and Maleah, too, as they led him from the courthouse. If he didn’t shape up soon, his tombstone would read:
HERE LIES IAN SYLVESTRY
HURTER AND DISAPPOINTER
OF THE WOMEN WHO LOVED HIM
Gladys’s phone rang, a jarring punctuation mark on his epitaph. “Ruthie,” she said, “so glad you called.” She dragged a kitchen stool into the hall and, began an animated conversation with her sorority sister.
Her friend’s name—the same as his mother’s—reminded Ian that he still hadn’t made that call to England...
Satisfied that he could take care of himself, Gladys had been spending less time at his apartment and more in her own. As soon as she left, he’d dial his mother’s number. Provided he could convince Gladys he could take care of himself tonight. Unless he could demonstrate that he didn’t ache from scalp to heels, she’d insist on bunking down in the guest room, forcing him to choose: put off the call yet again, or endure another dressing-down—this one undeserved—for wanting to reconnect with Gladys’s nemesis, Ruth Sylvestry Allen.
Ian took a deep breath and held it as he slid the tray aside and hoisted himself from the chair. On the exhale, he picked up the emp
ty soup bowl and carried it to the kitchen island. Slow and steady.
He could almost feel her gaze watching for the slightest hitch in his step. As he helped himself to a second bowl of soup Gladys ended her call and came back inside.
The plan had been simple: fake hunger—everyone knew that pain diminished the appetite—and get to and from his recliner without staggering or scowling with pain. So far, so good. Now if he could get Gladys’s mind off the reason he’d ridden a snowplow to Ellicott City in the first place—
“You never answered my question.”
Ian was tired, physically and emotionally. He ached from head to toe and wanted nothing more than to get that phone call out of the way and crawl into bed until Cash roused him for their morning walk. But there sat Gladys. Her steadfast tough love had quite literally saved his life. The least he could do was show her the respect and patience she’d earned.
He gentled his voice to ask, “Which question?”
“You took an incredible risk with your life when you did that, Ian...”
Memory of Maleah’s kiss resurfaced, along with the memory of her quick mood shift, from loving to withholding. The feelings that had warmed him earlier now chilled him to the marrow of his aching bones. He felt awful that his time at Lincoln made her so wary of him; if he could find a way he’d make it up to her. But he was done being toyed with. Gladys would say he deserved better than that. Gladys deserved better than that.
“Was she worth it?”
“Maybe, maybe not, but it sure feels good, knowing her grandfather will have a safe route to the hospital if, God forbid, he needs one.”
She nodded. Smiled. Patted his hand. “I always liked Frank. He’s good people.”
“That he is.”
“So, is that bottomless pit you call a stomach finally full?”
He hadn’t even touched the second bowl of soup.
“Because if you are, I’m going home.”
“Sorry,” he said again, “that worrying about me kept you up all night.”
Bending at the waist, she kissed his forehead. “Get to bed...idiot.” She winked. “I love you, too.”
Cash followed her to the door, waited for the usual pat-pat-you’re-a-good-boy farewell, then trotted back to Ian’s side. The dog would need another trip outside before settling in for the night, so Ian worked his way out of the chair, grabbed his coat and Cash’s leash, and went out by way of the back door.
“No sense saddling her with a guilt trip, right buddy?”
Cash huffed his quiet agreement, front paws clicking on the hardwood in anticipation of his walk.
It wasn’t easy, finding a clear spot in all the snow where the dog could relieve himself.
Back inside, Ian changed into sweats and scrolled to his mother’s number. Ruth lived with her husband and teenage son, so why hadn’t he prepared himself for the possibility that a deep-voiced man might pick up? A man with a crisp British accent...
“Hi, uh, this is Ian. Ian Sylvestry.”
“Hello. Yes, I know who you are. Mum will be so pleased.”
So this was Frederick, his half brother. “I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“No, not at all. It’s just past ten here.” The boy laughed. “I’m always up past midnight, trying to keep up with my studies.”
“Ah, well, I’m sorry for interrupting.”
“You didn’t. It’s quite a pleasant diversion, actually.” Following a pause, Frederick said, “Would you like me to fetch Mum? I’m sure she hasn’t nodded off just yet.”
“Oh. She’s in bed already, then.” He should have known that. “Don’t bother her. Just let her know I called, and that she can—”
“We were talking about you just yesterday. Your snowstorm made the news over here, you know. I think it’s hilarious the way they’re calling it Snowzilla.”
“Yeah, hilarious. The American media cracks me up all the time.”
“Mum’s up,” Frederick said. “Every floorboard in her room squeaks. Probably coming out to find out who I’m talking to at this hour.” He lowered his voice to add, “She doesn’t know it, but I often talk with my girlfriend, long into the night.”
“I remember those days.” If Ian had a dollar for every time Maleah’s dad stomped into her room and unplugged the phone at midnight or beyond...
“Well, here she is. Pleasure chatting with you, brother.”
“Same here. Good night, Frederick.”
“Ack. Please, call me Fred.”
As the boy handed over the phone, Ian heard him say, “He sounds quite nice, Mum. Funny, too. I wish you’d let me talk to him before.”
He couldn’t hear her whispered response, but it was clear from Ruth’s tone that she’d told Fred the same lies she’d told Ian: “He’s afraid to talk with you.” He’d never asked why, and evidently, neither had Fred. What possible reason could Ruth have for keeping her sons apart?
“Hello, Ian. I’m so glad you called.”
“Sorry to call so late, though.”
“We’re five hours ahead of you. You never were very good at math.”
“I’m doing better with it now,” he said. “Had to learn. Keeping the books myself is cheaper than hiring a pro.”
“How are things going at the bistro?”
“Closed today, thanks to the blizzard. But fine, otherwise.”
“You’re all right? I mean, you have power and all?”
“We’re doing fine here. Some of the suburbs weren’t as lucky, though.”
“We, meaning Brady and Gladys. How is she?”
“She’s great. Busy. Active. Ornery as ever.”
He’d called to see how she was doing, not talk about his aunt.
“Still no husband?”
What difference did that make! “By choice.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean anything by that.”
The conversation was hard work, and Ian didn’t much feel like putting more time and energy into it. He’d say a gracious goodbye and promise to call again soon. Maybe once he got the green light from his surgeon, his patience level would rise.
“Did your Christmas gifts arrive?”
But...it was nearly Valentine’s Day. “Uh, not yet.”
“I thought it best to send them to the post office box.”
There were two things wrong with her line of thought: first, that’s where his business mail went, and she knew it. She also knew that packages, no matter how small, had to pass through customs before being delivered. He’d mailed their gifts early in November. Amazing, he thought, how not even living with an Oxford professor and having a second son had changed her. Ruth, he’d learned long ago, thought first of Ruth.
“How long ago did you mail them?”
“A week? Two, maybe? I sent it by standard post.”
If time allowed, she might give a thought to others. It made him feel sorry for Fred.
“Fred sounds like a great kid. Not the least bit like a—how was it you described him? Oh yeah. ’Fraidy cat.’”
“Thankfully, he has outgrown that.”
Yeah, same here, Ian thought.
“He reminds me a lot of you.”
“Good grief. For his sake, I hope not.”
“You made one mistake, and paid dearly for it. But there’s nothing to be gained from living in the past.”
The past, where people hoped secrets and sins would die before they had a chance to contaminate the future. Ruth had buried her share of bad memories. He supposed he ought to feel grateful that he hadn’t been one of them.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
Tried to... “Nah. No time for dating.”
Her soft sigh filtered into his ear. “Ian, sweetheart, you deserve a good woman at your side.
Someone to celebrate your successes with, who’ll comfort you when things go wrong, keep you warm on cold winter nights.”
The way Maleah had kept him warm in the snowdrift before kicking him to the curb? No thanks.
“If such a woman exists, I sure haven’t met her.”
“What about Maleah?”
Punch to the gut. Giving her up once had been hard enough.
Doing it again...
“Maleah has issues,” he said.
“That dreadful, judgmental family of hers, I’ll bet.”
Judgmental, he’d give her. But dreadful? No way. “They’re good people. If I had a daughter, I’d want to protect her from a guy like me, too.”
“A guy like you?”
“I committed a crime. Spent time in prison. I have long hair. A beard. Tattoos and an earring. Drive a Harley. You get my drift... Your son isn’t exactly what a family of cops wants for their little girl.”
“But she isn’t a little girl. Maleah is a grown woman with a mind of her own. If they’re such good people, why is she afraid to tell them how she feels about you?”
“I don’t think she knows how she feels about me.”
“In all this time, you haven’t asked her?”
Ian hoped Gladys’s mind-reading antennae were up, because he sure could use an interruption from her right about now. “Ah, because you’re afraid of the answer.”
He’d never considered it from that angle.
“Mum,” Fred said from the background. “Look at this...”
“I’m still on with your brother, son. Can’t it wait?”
“You’ll want to see it, I promise. I Googled Ian just now—and Ian, I know you can hear me. And I found this article from the Baltimore Sun.” Ian groaned. If he hadn’t been half-lit on pain meds in the hospital, he never would have agreed to the interview.
“I can save you the bother of reading the whole boring thing,” he said. “A few weeks ago, there was an accident. A water main burst and took a house off its foundation. We went in to get the couple who lived there and the roof collapsed.”
“It isn’t boring!” Fred shouted. And at the same time, Ruth said, “Ian! Sweetheart! Why didn’t you let me know? Frederick and I would have come immediately.” He’d considered it, but Ruth and he hadn’t been all that close, even before she ran off. So why worry her with something completely out of her hands?
