Her Lover's Legacy

It was Gloria’s turn to cock her head and stare. “You have a habit of doing that.”

“A habit of doing what?”

“Running away.” Gloria leaned back and folded her arms. “You haven’t noticed?” She smirked. “When things get a little hot, you always seem to need to run out…for air.”

Malcolm leaned back and mimicked her pose. “Is that right?”

“It makes me wonder if you have what it takes to…”

Brows sloped unevenly, he asked, “Have what it takes to do what?”

“Nothing,” she said blithely. “Forget I said anything.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Obviously, you have something you want to say, as well.”

Their waiter, Quon, a tall, lanky Asian with an obvious aversion to smiling, arrived and Gloria breathed a sigh of relief.

“Ah, Ms. Kingsley. Nice to see you here again,” he said, setting two empty plastic cups before them and then filling them with a pitcher of iced water. “Are you ready to order?”

“Yes,” Gloria said.

“No,” Malcolm countered, and then added, “Could you please give us a few more minutes?”

Gloria’s brows stretched high. Maybe she wasn’t off the hook just yet.

“As you wish, sir,” Quon said, sliding away from their table.

“You’ve never struck me as someone who liked to play games,” Malcolm said, the moment they were alone. “But I’m starting to feel like an unprotected king in the center of a chess game.”

Gloria shrugged her shoulder and tried her best to look as innocent as possible. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” He laughed. “You tell me to come help pack my father’s office, assuring me it will only take a couple of hours when you and I both know it would be, at minimum, an all-nighter. Then of course there is this dinner—”

“Well. You make it sound like I held a gun to your head. Is being alone with me so terrible?” she snapped. “Maybe I just wanted…to talk. Share stories about how great a man your father was or how much he meant to me and the other staffers. I was a fan of your father’s long before I started working for him. He was a powerful speaker and he campaigned for health-care reform long before the number of uninsured reached crisis numbers. I was thrilled when Senator Cayman recommended me to Harmon. I just…” After a few seconds with struggling for the right words, she clamped her mouth shut, but her lips continued to tremble and tears burned the backs of her eyes.

Gloria drew a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

At the first sight of tears shimmering in Gloria’s eyes, Malcolm felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. Obviously, the woman was still grieving, and here he was…

He sighed. “Look. So far it seems I’ve spent half the night apologizing to you for my behavior. Why don’t we just…start over?”

She glanced at him and wiped a tear before it broke free from the mesh of her eyelashes.

“For real,” he assured her. “This time, I’ll be on my best behavior.” He placed his hand over his heart. “I promise.”

Finally, Gloria smiled and nodded.

Their waiter returned. “Have you two made your decisions?”

“Hmm.” Malcolm grabbed his menu and quickly perused the items. “What’s good here?”

“You should really try the Hunan chicken with black mushrooms,” Gloria suggested. “It was your father’s…I mean…” Her words trailed off.

Malcolm offered her a small smile. “I know what you mean. And you know what?” He handed the menu over to the waiter. “I think that’s exactly what I’ll have.”

She returned the smile and surprised him by ordering the Mongolian barbecue beef. She might be a small woman but she had a healthy appetite. He liked that.

“Very good selection,” Quon intoned, his lips still a flat line as he scurried off toward the kitchen.

Being alone with Gloria—with anyone, really—was the very thing Malcolm had tried to avoid since the news of his father’s death.

He wasn’t ready to be the shoulder to cry on. How could he deal with other people’s grief when he didn’t know how to deal with his own? However, the longer he stayed in Gloria’s presence, the more he was able to see through her thin veneer. She wanted what everyone wanted—for him to open up.

And maybe—just maybe—he wanted that, too.

As he witnessed her struggle, a small part of him caved. “I loved my father,” Malcolm said suddenly.

Gloria lifted her shimmering gaze.

“I don’t want you to think I stopped loving him,” he added softly, and then cleared his throat. “I still love him. It’s just that our relationship in the past couple of years was…complicated.”

“Most are.”

“Oh?” He arched his brow. “I’ve never heard you talk about your family.”

“When have you ever been around?” she asked.

“I guess that’s a good point,” Malcolm said with a tilt of his head. “Are you close to your father?”

Gloria’s eyes lowered to the table while she gave a firm shake of her head.

Malcolm wondered how it was possible she could judge him when she apparently had issues with her own father. Yet, he bit back the comment.

As if she’d heard his private thoughts, she responded, “Trust me. My father wasn’t half the man Harmon Braddock was. He was a drunk and an abuser. The happiest day in my life was when he walked right out of it.”

Stunned, Malcolm remained silent. Finally, he slowly nodded in understanding, but he was more curious than ever. During their quiet spells, Malcolm couldn’t help but reflect over his childhood once again, zeroing in on the number of Little League and college games his father did make time for, and the number of father-and-son camping events he and Ty enjoyed despite their father’s busy schedule. Harmon Braddock had a way of making his sons feel ten feet tall, always bragging to anyone who’d stand still long enough to listen.

The truth of the matter was that Malcolm had had a wonderful childhood.

That annoying stinging in the back of Malcolm’s eyes returned as well as the mountainous lump clogging his windpipe, but thank God, Quon returned, rescuing him from his emotions with their dinner orders.

“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter asked, setting their plates before them.

After they assured him they had everything they needed, Quon, once again, slipped away from the table.

For a time they ate in silence before Malcolm blurted, “I keep thinking that at any moment I’m going to wake up and find out that the past week has just been a dream.” He stared into his plate. “A nightmare, really.”

Gloria said nothing.

“It’s true what they say,” he said. “Regret has a way of killing you softly. There were so many times I wanted to call.”

She reached across the table and covered his hand. The warmth of her touch traveled up the length of his arm.

“Don’t beat yourself up. I know the disagreement between you two spiraled out of control, but the love remained. That much was evident.”

“But did he know?” Malcolm questioned.

“Of course he did.” Gloria nodded. “And you know something else? He was extremely proud of you—your intelligence, convictions and even your passion.” She squeezed his hand tighter. “He was proud of all his children, and if you don’t mind me saying so, he had every right to be.”

Her encouraging words were just the balm Malcolm needed. He only prayed they were the truth. After all, every child wants their parents to be proud of them.

Gloria chuckled and drew Malcolm out of his melancholy.

“What’s so funny?” His lips curled, ready to join in on the joke.

“You probably don’t know this,” she said. “But once upon a time, your father tried to hook us up together.”

His laughter came easily at that revelation. “You’re joking.”

“Hilarious, isn’t it?” She shook her head and released his hand. “The first few months I started working for him, he wouldn’t stop telling me how much of a fine catch you were and how a woman would be crazy not to cast her net in your direction.” She chuckled. “He actually said ‘cast her net.’ He shoved so many dinner invitations my way, I ran out of excuses to why I couldn’t come.”

Malcolm choked on his food.

“Are you all right?” she asked when it started to sound like he was trying to hack up a lung.

He bobbed his head, reached for his iced water.

She watched him through growing concern until he finally held up a finger and said, “I’m okay.”

“What happened? Went down the wrong pipe?”

“Something like that.” He cleared his throat and favored her with a smile. “You mean all those times you showed up at my parents’ house for Sunday dinner and holiday meals were because my dad was trying to play Cupid?”

She returned his smile. “After we met at that one fund-raiser, I told him not to bother. We mixed as well as oil and water.”

“Now, who is the oil in this scenario?”

Gloria waved a finger, letting him know she wasn’t going to allow him to bait her into an argument. “The point is that we’re completely wrong for each other,” she stressed.

Malcolm hadn’t intended to, but he frowned. What was it about him that she found rejection-able? He straightened his chair and averted his gaze.

“Not that I don’t find you attractive,” she rushed to say as she sensed his bruised ego. “I do.”

He glanced up.

“I mean—any woman would. It’s just, um, personality-wise, we don’t mesh.”

“Because you don’t like men with intelligence, convictions and—what was it—passion?”

“Right.” She blinked. “Wait. I mean—”

Malcolm’s head rocked back while his chest rumbled with laughter. “Please. Please. Let’s quit before you really hurt my feelings.”

Gloria pressed her lips together, but her eyes seemed to dance with the candlelight. “I do have a way of putting my foot in my mouth, don’t I?”

Leaning over to the side, he squinted under the table and blinked. “You better be careful. Those jokers are big.”

“Ha. Ha.” She rolled her eyes. “You got me back. Can we eat now?”

“No, really. What size are those puppies—eleven, twelve?”

“Eight.” She kicked him.

“Ow.” He laughed.

“Serves you right, saying my feet are big. The real question is what size are your feet? You know what they say about the size of a man’s feet.” She leaned over and glanced under the table herself, but the laughter died on her lips.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

She sat up, her face as red as the candleholder. “We better finish eating.”

“Are you sure?” A devilish grin spread across his face before he commenced eating. This time, the silence was more comfortable while they snuck glances at each other and smiled whenever they were caught.

Maybe Gloria Kingsley wasn’t so bad after all.

Chapter 5

Malcolm arrived home at midnight.

Exhausted didn’t describe it—more like he was bone weary. His eyes were dry from looking at too much paperwork. His back ached from loading one too many tubs of law books. The last thing he wanted to do now was unload it all and carry it up to his apartment. That would have to be another project for another time. For the time being he kept everything locked in his SUV. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he’d carry everything out to the family estate.

If not, then maybe the day after.

He slipped his key into the apartment’s lock, pushed the door open and felt a sense of relief when he stepped into the apartment’s darkness. First pit stop: the kitchen. Malcolm grabbed the last beer in the fridge and made a mental note to pick up a case while he was out tomorrow. His next stop was the living room, where he tumbled onto the leather couch. He caught view of the blinking red light on his answer machine.

Twelve messages.

Even before he hit the play button, he knew who the callers were.

“Malcolm?” Shawnie’s voice filtered through the speakerphone. “Are you there? Pick up if you’re there.” After a long pause, she sighed and continued. “Well, I was just calling to check on you. No one in the family has heard from you and…well, it’s really not the time to be alone, Malcolm. We all need you. We love you.” Another long silence and then, “Call me.”

Malcolm groaned while he slid a hand over his face.

The machine beeped and played the next message.

“Malcolm?” Tyson’s steel baritone punched through the apartment’s stillness. “C’mon, man. I know you’re there. Pick up.” After a few beats of silence his brother went on, “Look, man. I know you’re going through a rough time. Things being the way they were with you and Dad and all, but give me a call. We need to talk. And if you don’t feel like talking to me the least you can do is call Mom. She’s worried about you. Hit me up on my cell when you get this message.”

The calls alternated between Shawnie and Ty. Both of their voices thickened with concern each time he didn’t answer the phone. Malcolm was instantly sorry for making everyone worry. That had not been his intention.

On the last message, Malcolm’s heart tried to squeeze its way out of his chest when his mother’s wearied voice entered the room.

“Malcolm, baby. Are you there? Baby, please pick up the phone.”

Silence.

“All right, baby. You must not be there. I was just going through some old family photo albums. You keep drifting across my mind. Baby, I’m getting a little worried about you. I haven’t heard or seen you since the funeral. Give me a call.”

At first Malcolm had no intentions of calling any of them back this late, but there was something about his mother’s voice that tugged at his soul and made him pick up the phone and punch in her number. Even as he listened to the phone ring, he chastised himself for calling so late. She was probably asleep, he reasoned, and even hoped.

“I’ll call her tomorrow,” he said, and started to hang up.

“Hello?” His mother’s soft southern twang filtered over the line. “Malcolm?”

“Hey, Mom,” he answered with an aloofness he didn’t feel. “How are you?”

“Actually, that’s the question I wanted to ask you. Are you all right, baby?”

No was what he wanted to say, but he had some sense to at least pretend he was keeping it together. “Yeah. I’m all right. How are you holding up?”

“Well…I guess I’m doing about as well as can be expected.” Her voice grew heavier with each word. “I wish you were around more, though. Why haven’t you been by?”