“What you’re seeing all around you was formerly swampland, folks,” Grant explained. “In fact, the name Chicago comes from the Native American word chicagoo, meaning a wretched and smelly swamp.”
Sophie served two sodas and listened happily to Grant’s confident narrative, feeling a bounce in her step after their morning kiss. With a light breeze swaying her ponytail, the bright sun beating on the back of her neck, and all hope restored in her relationship with Grant, she could work one hundred cruises without tiring.
Grant finally forgot about Roger sitting next to him and simply connected with his love for the amazing city he described. “This land around you is named Ogden Slip, which refers to William Ogden, the first mayor of Chicago. He was responsible for much of the construction and restoration that took place here. And straight ahead of us is the Trump International Hotel and Tower. Trump’s beautiful hotel lobby features the enticing aroma of vanilla candles.”
Grant went into his Donald Trump impression, and they continued their hour-long journey down the river. Roger sat silently, but felt amazed to learn quite a few facts about the city, despite having owned the business for almost ten years.
As they headed back to the dock, Grant delivered a tasteful tale about the construction of the Spire, then grew suddenly quiet. He stole a nervous glance at Roger, who was preoccupied with the navigation of the ship, then walked to the rear of the bridge to glance down at the passenger section.
As if she sensed him staring at her, Sophie looked up from her tray of empty cups and their eyes locked. She smiled her support that he follow through on their unspoken agreement. She nodded at him, and he reluctantly nodded back.
Grant returned to the mic and—closing his eyes for courage—announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attention this afternoon. We will be docking soon, and I’d like to leave you with a song.”
Grant saw Roger’s eyes dart toward him, narrowing warily.
His voice as smooth as silk, Grant started into his standard crowd-pleaser, Sinatra’s “My Kind of Town.” Sophie silently mouthed the words along with him, hoping that when Grant sang about what could “only happen in Chicago,” he was referring to meeting her.
“Everyone, join in!” Grant cajoled, and once the passengers heard the familiar refrain, quite a few sang along. Chicago was their kind of town too.
Roger docked the ship, and the jovial passengers began to disembark. Tommy and Sophie stood by the exit, thanking them for their patronage.
Grant took off the headset, feeling an oppressive silence between him and his boss. Roger’s face was completely unreadable, and Grant had no idea how to interpret his current lack of cursing.
After a few moments, Roger ordered, “Get Taylor up here. I want to talk to you both.”
Nodding, Grant replied, “Yes, sir,” and descended the steps to collect his partner in crime. Soon they both stood before their boss, putting on their best brave faces.
Roger slowly shook his head. “I’ve been running this business ten years,” he told them. “Ten long-ass years.” He looked out at the water on his left, mesmerized by the green hue of the rollicking waves. “Fucking carrots,” he muttered, taking another bite of his healthy snack.
“And in ten years, I have to say, that was the best damn cruise I’ve ever seen.” He broke into a wide grin, and Sophie’s mouth dropped open. Grant felt immensely relieved.
“You two have sold out almost every cruise since I’ve been gone!” Rog exclaimed. “I wondered how you pulled it off, how you were so successful, and I’m still not sure, but I think it has something to do with your fucking singing, Madsen. How the hell did you come up with that idea?”
“Sophie encouraged me to do it, Rog.”
“Grant sang one night, and the passengers kept asking for him to do it again,” Sophie added. “Doesn’t he have a gorgeous voice?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Taylor,” Rog retorted. “But it does seem to put the passengers in a good mood, and happy customers are returning customers. Look, it’s clear to me that you two have done a kickass job running my business. I’m going to rip Tommy and Dan a new one in a second, but I want to reward you for your hard work. After tonight’s cruise, you have two days off.”
Sophie almost squealed, but Grant said, “Are you sure you don’t need us on Wednesday and Thursday?”
Roger chuckled. “Christ, Madsen, take some time off and don’t complain! Now go tell your two coworkers to get their lazy asses up here.”
As Sophie and Grant made their way down the stairs, Grant reached out his arm to stop her. “Do you know where we’re going after meeting with Jerry tomorrow?”
She shook her head.
“The White Sox versus the Cubs, baby. An afternoon game!”
Her face lit up with pleasure. “It’s a date.”
19. The Womanly Touch
She came out of Jerry’s office and immediately noticed him sitting on the chair. His head was tilted back against the wall and his eyes were closed, revealing eyelashes that seemed much too long to occur naturally on such a masculine face. Female runway models would kill for those luscious lashes. His position showcased his long tanned neck and the slight protrusion of his Adam’s apple.
As Sophie approached his quiet form, she smiled fondly, realizing he had fallen asleep awaiting his turn with Jerry. Softly she sat down next to him and gently nuzzled the crown of her head into the crook of his neck.
His first conscious awareness was the clean lavender scent of her hair. What an exquisite way to wake up. He was touched by her intimate snuggle, and with eyes still closed asked, “Did I conk out?”
“Yes, sleepyhead. Why are you so tired?”
Sophie sat up and Grant slowly followed suit. Both nightmares and Roger’s snoring had limited his sleep. He decided on a half-truth. “The snoremeister is back.”
“Oh, that’s right. Rog is home from the hospital! You poor thing.”
The door swung open and Jerry gave Grant the evil eye. “Do you need a goddamn engraved invitation, Madsen?”
Grant jumped out of his seat and swiftly entered the office.
“At least I didn’t catch you two kissing this time—yack!” Jerry growled.
Ten minutes later the two parolees strolled outside. Grant wore a coral-colored plaid madras shirt over jeans, and Sophie a baby-blue camisole and white pants with light blue stripes: cool clothing for a hot late-June day.
Grant was in a hurry. Rushing to keep up, Sophie asked, “How was your meeting with Jerry?”
“Fine,” he replied, tight-lipped.
They hustled down the steps, and Sophie felt an irritated tightness in her chest. Mr. Aloof had returned.
“Hey,” she cried, causing him to pause on the concrete sidewalk. “The Sox game doesn’t start for a few hours, right?” Grumpily he nodded. “Well, where are you going then, in such a rush?”
He didn’t have an answer for her. He just had to keep moving, had to keep running from his past. Unfortunately, she insisted on following him.
“How about we use the time to find you an apartment?”
“An apartment?”
“Yes. You told me staying with Rog was temporary, and with the fat paycheck we just got, you should be able to afford the deposit on a place now.”
Lost in thought, he bit his lip. “But I don’t have any furniture.”
She smiled. “Me neither. I think that’s why there’s something called a furnished apartment.”
Her teasing did not go unnoticed, and he would have smiled if not for all his nervous fidgeting. “You’ve already thought this all out, huh? Are you also, um, planning on getting a place of your own?”
“I can’t afford it right now. I have school loans to consider. Besides, I like living with Kirsten.”
“Well, what if I like living with Rog?”
Sophie snickered. “Yeah, you love living in that little studio with Señor Snore—our boss nonetheless—listening to him complain all day l
ong about eating vegetables.”
This time he did manage a smile. “Aw, c’mon, Rog and Ms. Broccoli are getting along much better these days.”
“Well, I don’t want to be the one they turn to for couples counseling,” Sophie said. “Can you imagine being married to that man?”
“I still can’t believe Rog was married,” Grant replied.
He scraped his hand through his cropped black hair, eventually admitting, “I need to move out. I need to find my own place. It’s just … I don’t know, for some reason it’s hard to go through with it.”
Sophie sighed. She knew exactly what he meant. “Maybe because getting your own place would signify starting a new life after prison? Maybe that’s why it’s hard to bite the bullet?”
He seemed jarred by her comment. Her profound psychological insight always caught him off guard. He also kept forgetting she had a first-hand understanding of re-entering life after prison. She was probably scared as well, wondering if she could make it on the outside. Prison had ripped away their fledgling twenty-something sense of self-confidence.
“Maybe. Maybe I don’t feel ready to start over,” he finally replied. “Maybe I don’t know if I can. That, and I’ve never really lived alone. I always had roommates in college, and I bunked with my buddy Simkins in the Navy. And then,” he ducked his head, “I lived with a cellmate for two years.”
She instinctively clasped both his hands in hers, her soft skin cradling and comforting his fidgeting hands. “It’s okay, Grant. There will be no more cellies for either of us. We’re not going back. And after the total lack of privacy in prison, you deserve your own place.”
He glanced at their enjoined hands and then into her piercing gaze. “We both have lots of memories we’d like to forget.” After a pause, he continued. “I want to move forward. I do. I want to start over, whatever the hell that might bring.” He swallowed hard. “I, um, I wouldn’t mind, um …”
His voice was halting, trembling, before he muttered, “Damn!” He dropped her hands and angrily jammed his into his pockets.
“Grant?” she ventured tentatively.
After a long exhalation, he reluctantly returned her gaze.
“You know you can talk to me, right?”
He immediately nodded but still had trouble getting words out, feeling flooded with anxious energy. “I was going to tell you … I was going to tell you, um, that I wouldn’t mind … if you … well, if you moved in with me someday.” He looked terrified to have uttered this, and quickly backtracked. “You must think I’m pathetic—”
She inhaled sharply, interrupting him. “Oh, I’m so glad you said that! I was thinking that too, but I didn’t know if it was appropriate to say something, and it was kind of tense between us when we were talking about getting you an apartment. I’ve only known you really for one week, and it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to suddenly move in together since I’m trying to be less impulsive—”
His laughter stopped her nervous jabber midstream. With reddening cheeks and a bright smile that matched his, she calmly amended, “Yes, I would love to live with you someday, Grant. But right now my psychologist would kill me if I moved in with you after only knowing you for such a short time.”
He nodded. He wasn’t ready either, but the possibility of cohabitating in the future made him ebullient. Then his grin quickly faded. “Your psychologist wouldn’t be the only one upset. Officer Stone would go ballistic too.”
“Probably,” she agreed.
He abruptly appeared withdrawn again as Sophie studied him curiously. “Grant, it was so sweet of you to think about living together. Why did you hesitate in asking me that? What made you stop?”
Looking down, he sighed. “It was something Officer Stone said.”
“Jerry? What did he say?”
“He told me I better not hurt you.”
“What? Why would you hurt me?”
“I would never hurt you, Sophie, I promise. It’s just … I’ve been mixed up with some bad people in my life, and I would never want you to be anywhere near them. They’re dangerous.”
He looked into her warm brown eyes as she tried to understand his vague warnings. Feeling exposed, as if she could read his mind, Grant clenched his teeth. “You’re an angel, Sophie, and they’re—well, they’re not angels.”
“I’m not an angel, Grant,” she insisted. “I’m a felon. I was in prison, just like you. And I’m trying to figure out why Jerry didn’t tell me I better not hurt you. Because we’re in the same boat, sailor.”
Her response was a salve to his guilty conscience, and as he exhaled, he felt tension drain from his muscles. Then he felt a shred of indignation. “Wait a minute. Jerry found out we’re together, but he only yelled at me about it? He didn’t warn you not to hurt me? What’s up with that?”
She shrugged innocently and then smirked. “I guess Jerry likes me better than you. He thinks I’m more trustworthy.”
Sophie began sauntering away.
“That is so unfair!” Grant called after her. “You have him wrapped around your finger—what, because you’re a woman? Because you cried in his office?”
“The womanly touch can be magical.”
“Whatever,” he scoffed, matching her stride for stride as they continued down the street.
“You’ll see,” she promised. “When we find you some god-awful bachelor pad, I’ll make it look presentable by adding my womanly touch.”
His eyes danced. “No flowery crap in my bachelor pad, Taylor.”
“Well, we’re not going with a cheesy nautical theme, I can tell you that much. You spend enough time as it is on the water.”
“Fair enough. All right, let’s check out some apartments.”
As they continued walking, he suggestively inquired, “What were you saying about your womanly touch?”
“You mean this?” she coyly asked, wrapping her arm around his back and drawing his body close to hers. As he lifted his long arm and draped it across her shoulders, she leaned her head into his chest, inhaling the fresh scent of sandalwood.
* * *
They tentatively entered enemy territory: Wrigley Field, the Chicago Cubs’ home park. En route, Grant had purchased them both White Sox ball caps to celebrate their miraculous find of an immediately available furnished apartment, as well as show their allegiance to the 2006 World Champion White Sox. It was too hot for Grant to wear his fated jacket.
“Do you think we’ll run into our PO?” Sophie asked.
“I doubt it. I bet he’s working this afternoon, probably embarrassing poor parolees by surprising them at their job.”
Sophie grinned.
Grant adeptly navigated them to their section, and they took in the beauty of the park’s ivy-covered brick walls as they stepped down the concrete aisle, making their way to their seats.
“How did you get these tickets?” she marveled, gaping at their prime location behind the third-base dugout.
“One of Uncle Joe’s buddies,” he replied. “Inter-divisional play is the only time it’s good to be friends with a Cubs fan.”
Settling into her blue metal seat, she asked, “So, is your Uncle Joe the one who got you into the Sox?”
“Yep.”
“Joe seems like he’s really important to you.”
“He is,” Grant confirmed. “He’s been the best father I could ask for. He taught me a lot—he’s been a wonderful mentor.”
Grant noticed the Cubs jogging to their positions on the field. The game would begin soon. Deflecting the attention from himself, he asked, “Who is your mentor?”
His question caught her off guard, and she thought about her response carefully. “I’d have to say my graduate advisor, Anita Green.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s this totally smart psychology professor at DePaul. She began teaching there right when I started as a grad student. I was trying to find an advisor to do research with since the professor who recruited me had left for a
nother school, and she agreed to take me on. We made a great team.”
“What kind of research did you do?”
Sophie eyed him suspiciously. “Do you really want to hear about this?”
“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. This egghead research stuff could be boring.” Noticing his rapt attention, she continued. “You’re not going to believe this, but my dissertation was actually on prisoner rehabilitation—whether or not counseling in prison helped female prisoners adjust to life when they got out.”
“Whoa! What a coincidence, huh?”
“You’re telling me. I had actually been to Downer’s Grove Women’s Prison in grad school to interview inmates and prison psychologists. When I rolled in there last year as an inmate myself, I recognized some of the people I had interviewed three years ago.” She looked straight ahead, the bill of her baseball cap partially hiding her face. “It was mortifying.”
Grant sighed. “So, what did you find? Did counseling help?”
“Well, the research is part of a longitudinal study that’s still going on—Anita is running it—so all the results aren’t in yet. But we found the most common counseling issue discussed by female prisoners was men.” She smiled wryly, thinking of the man implicated in her own imprisonment. “Which makes sense because most of these women went to prison for assault against husbands, boyfriends, fathers—trying to fight back against the men who abused them.”
“Wait a minute—most female prisoners go to prison because they’re trying to defend themselves?”
“A lot of them, yes.” He looked disgusted, and she added, “But these women are not saints. Some are in there for hurting or killing their own children. Women are locked away for all kinds of crimes—drunk driving, drugs, prostitution, murder, robbery—but many of them have histories of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. And a lot of those histories involve men.”
Grant absorbed her words. “And the depression? Did counseling help the prisoners decrease their depression?”
Sophie shrugged. “Statistically, yes, but clinically it didn’t mean much. The women started the study with such intense depression that even though their scores decreased over six months, they were still quite depressed.”
With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 19
