The Man She Knew

She was right about one thing: Maleah had known him better than anyone. But she was wrong about the rest of it.

“I love you for defending me, and I realize hearing the truth is tough, but I knew what the guys were planning, and went along with it, anyway. What happened afterward is on me, one hundred percent.”

Gladys cringed. “Boy. When you tell it like it is, you don’t fool around, do you?”

Ian answered with a one-shouldered shrug.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love you, too, nephew. And I’m proud of you. It couldn’t have been easy, overcoming the stigma of having served time. But you did it without complaint, without shirking your responsibility in it. If I’d been blessed with a son, I’d want him to be exactly like you.”

She’d said it before, and Ian believed every word.

His aunt pointed at the wall behind him. “Is that new?”

He swiveled the chair. “Sort of. I finished it about a month ago.”

“It’s gorgeous, but then, so are all of your paintings. I love the colors of the sky. And you really captured the grandeur of the Constellation.” She sighed. “It’s so unfair...”

“What is?”

“That you sucked up all the artistic talent in this family.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. I can’t even sew on a button, but you’ve designed your own clothes for years. And need I remind you that big-deal cooking show asked permission to use your recipes?”

“Two. Two recipes. And sewing is just a matter of manipulating the machine’s needle.”

Gladys glanced around his office. “Just look at this place. I’m sure people are impressed when they sit here to discuss booking the banquet room. No wonder there’s a waiting list.”

“Dan and Lee earned the credit for that. Their menus are what draw people in, and keep them coming back.”

“Now who isn’t giving himself enough credit! I ran this place for twenty years before you, so I know what it takes. It’s because of your leadership that the bistro runs like a well-tuned machine.”

“Keep it up and I’ll start blushing like a schoolgirl. How will that look when I check on tonight’s holiday party?”

“All right. I know you’re uncomfortable with compliments. But I just have to say...you saved my wrinkly old butt and my pride, too.”

He’d agreed to accept her gift of ownership, provided she accepted a cut of the profits. “Why, just yesterday,” she continued, “one of my sorority sisters said she and her family celebrated her anniversary here. You wouldn’t believe how she went on and on about the ambiance, the food, the service. And she isn’t the only one! Putting you in charge was the smartest business decision I ever made.” Laughing, she added, “I’m making more money now than I did when I ran the place!”

He was about to thank her for sharing that with him when Terri stepped into the doorway.

“Sorry to interrupt, but a gentleman asked to see you. He’s with the holiday party.”

Ian shoved back from his desk as Gladys got to her feet.

“How’s that boy of yours?” she asked, falling into step beside Terri.

“He’s fine. Made a rocket—and launched it—yesterday.”

“Amazing.” Terri handed him a pink While You Were Out slip.

“Brady called a little while ago. Said there’s no hurry.”

His father lived in the apartment beside his, right upstairs. So why the phone call? He scanned the note and tucked it into his shirt pocket, hoping it wasn’t one of those days.

“You think he’s in one of his moods?” Gladys asked.

“Nah. Probably just didn’t feel like putting on shoes and coming downstairs.”

Gladys wasn’t buying it. In truth, Ian didn’t believe it, either. When tempted to drink—which happened every six months or so—his dad turned to Ian for some straight talk. So now Ian had a decision to make: meet with the would-be customer, or head upstairs to check on his dad...and risk losing a future booking.

He slid a business card from his pocket and scribbled his cell number on the back.

“See if the guy can give me a few minutes,” he said, handing it to Terri. “And if he can’t, ask him to call me in the morning.”

She faced Gladys. “Good to see you, Mrs. Turner.”

“You, too. Give that kid of yours a big hug for me.”

Once the hostess was out of earshot, Gladys said, “You’re going upstairs, aren’t you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You always have a choice.”

After the life he’d lived, didn’t he know it!

“Why don’t I go up, see if there’s anything I can do for him?”

Ian started to protest when she tacked on, “No sense losing a booking just because your dad needs another pep talk.”

“Can I trust you to go easy on him?”

She did her best to look offended.

“Seriously, Gladys...”

“All right. I’ll put on my kid gloves. By the time I’m through with him, he’ll be so sick of TLC he’ll wish he hadn’t left that message.”

With that, she began climbing the stairs, stopping halfway to the top.

“Answer a question for me, nephew.”

“If I can.”

“Who has a holiday party before Thanksgiving?”

Ian shrugged. “A busy rich guy who’s going to surprise his wife with a world cruise planned for Christmas?”

“Oh, to have a husband like that,” she said, and continued up the stairs.

Grinning, Ian made his way to the banquet room. He had to give it to his staff. The place looked great. Linen tablecloths glowed bright white under hundreds of tiny lights covering the ceiling, and the napkins matched each poinsettia centerpiece. The DJ leaned over his equipment to take a request, and soon, Toni Braxton’s version of “The Christmas Song” drew guests to the parquet dance floor.

Ian scanned the crowd. Should’ve asked Terri which guy wanted to see me.

“Mr. Sylvestry?”

He shook the man’s extended hand. “Ian. Please.”

“Luther. Luther Sanders,” he said, pumping Ian’s arm. “Real nice room you’ve got here. Perfect for my son’s bar mitzvah next March...if you have an opening.”

“I’ll need to look at the book, but if memory serves, that won’t be a problem.”

“The boy is big into basketball, so the wife and I were thinking maybe a March Madness theme?”

His wife called to him and he patted his pocket. “Your hostess gave me your card. Okay if I call tomorrow to set up an appointment?”

“I’m in the office by eight.”

“Good. Good.”

Again, his wife called his name. “Be right there, dear.” Lowering his voice, he put his back to her. “Tell me...are you married?”

“No.”

He studied Ian’s face. “But you’re thinking about it?”

“No...”

“The little woman is right. I give far too much credence to my people reading skills. And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find out what she needs...this time. Great party,” he said, walking toward his wife. Ian wondered what had prompted the are you married question.

Another partygoer led his lady onto the dance floor. The woman bore a slight resemblance to Maleah, from her long glossy blond hair, to the way she moved, to a waist so slender that her partner’s fingertips nearly met when he wrapped his hands around it.

Her stiff-backed posture told him she wasn’t comfortable. Just a date, Ian decided, not a committed relationship. So why not tell the dude to knock it off?

The question reminded him of how, a few weeks earlier, his dad pointed at a couple of teenagers necking near the mall’s food court: “Disrespectful Roman idiot,” he’d complained.

“No way he’s Italian,” Ian had said. “Swedish or Danish maybe...”

“Just look at those ham hocks, roamin’ all over the poor girl.” Grinning, he’d faced Ian and winked. “Roman? Roamin’? Get it now, Einstein?”

They’d had a good laugh over it, but Ian found no humor in what was going on under the twinkle lights tonight. He’d seen plenty of couples on his dance floor, so why couldn’t he take his eyes off this one?

It hit him like a slap...

After thumbing through her copies of Baltimore Magazine, Gladys passed every dog-eared issue to Ian. This month’s cover featured Roman, feet propped on a massive mahogany desk, with a caption that read, MEET KENT O’MALLEY, CHARM CITY’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR.

He’d scanned the article just long enough to learn that O’Malley had parlayed a small inheritance and an interest in finance into the largest investment firm in the Mid-Atlantic region.

Well, how’s that working out for you, he thought as Kent led his date nearer the DJ and turned around.

Heart pounding, Ian swallowed. Hard.

He hadn’t seen her in what, thirteen, fourteen years? From where he stood, it didn’t appear she’d aged a day. More than before, he wondered why she didn’t whack Roman a good one, tell him to keep his mitts to himself. Wondered why, despite every fiber in him bellowing Get the heck out of here, before she spots you! his shoes seemed nailed to the hardwood. She stood twenty feet away, if that. Back when things were good between them, she’d called him Spider, an affectionate reminder to slow down as they walked “...because your legs are twice as long as mine!” If he could unglue his feet, he could reach her in half a dozen steps.

And then what? Tap her on the shoulder, say something brilliant like “Hey there, fancy meeting you here” while she reared back to whack him a good one?

Ian stood behind a support post, hoping to watch without being seen. Like the song lyrics said, she looked beautiful.

Thirteen years was a long time. Maybe she’d changed in other ways, and these days, wealthy successful guys were her preference. As opposed to ex-cons who rob convenience stores...

But who was he—the guy whose immature tantrum on that night sent him straight to a jail cell—to question who she did or didn’t like?

Lady Luck must have decided to smile upon him, because so far, Maleah hadn’t noticed him, while he tried his best to emulate a potted plant. He’d slink out of the hall, let Terri know that if she or the staff needed him, he’d be upstairs, checking on his dad. In all these years, he hadn’t seen her anywhere except in his dreams. What could it hurt to take one last glance?

It could hurt a lot, he discovered as her gaze locked onto his.

For an instant, Maleah looked puzzled, and he could almost read her thoughts: That isn’t Ian Sylvestry, is it? Confusion changed to mild interest as her gaze traveled the length of him, taking stock of the small gold hoop in his left earlobe, tattoos, his ponytailed, gray-at-the temples hair.

Something told him that if he didn’t walk away, right now, he’d have to add revulsion to the flurry of emotions that had flickered across her pretty face.

CHAPTER THREE

THE SCENT OF fresh-brewed coffee greeted Ian. He’d grown accustomed to finding his father or aunt making themselves at home in his apartment. It didn’t usually bother him, but on nights like this, he just wanted to be alone.

Brady held up his mug. “Care for a cup?”

“Thanks, but I’d better not. I’ll have enough trouble falling asleep.”

His dad’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? Something went wrong at the bistro?”

Ian dropped onto the seat of a ladderbacked chair. “If only.” He scanned the room. Gladys had been after him to update the space, but the homey, old-and-stable look reminded him of happier days, spent in his maternal grandparents’ kitchen, where rising bread dough and fresh-baked pies welcomed family, friends and country-born neighbors.

“So where’s Gladys?”

Brady shrugged. “How should I know. She was in here not ten minutes ago, lecturing me, reminding me that with all I have to be thankful for, I have no right to behave like a moody teenager.” He nodded toward the hallway. “Wish I could say she went home, but she’s probably in the head.”

Nearly thirty years since Brady’s honorable discharge, and he still used Navy terms to refer to things like the bathroom.

“So what’s eating you, son?”

“Aw, it’s nothing I can’t handle.” Eventually...

“Lay it on me, so I’ll have something to think about besides my own pathetic life.”

They’d been down this road before, and Ian wasn’t in the mood to cover the same ground yet again. His dad had a good job. A safe place to live. Food on the table and clothes on his back. And a family that loved him. Would it ever dawn on him that when Ruth left him, she’d left her only son, too?

Her self-centered move drove her husband to cheap whiskey and her only son toward a bunch of wild hoodlums that made him feel like part of a family again. Those first few years in lockup, he’d found plenty of reasons to lay everything rotten in his life at her feet. Additional years—and a lot of maturity—led him to the conclusion that he, alone, was responsible for the state of his life. Seemed to Ian his dad could benefit from the same attitude adjustment.

Brady lifted the mug to his lips. “So...?”

Ian leaned back and, arms crossed over his chest, said, “So I saw her tonight.”

The mug hit the table with a clunk.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much how I felt.”

“Jeez, son. I... I don’t know what to say.”

Of course he didn’t. Good advice—advice of any kind for that matter—wasn’t in Brady’s parenting manual. At least it hadn’t been since Ruth ran off with the professor.

“Man.” Brady ran a fingertip around the rim of his mug. “That had to be tough.”

“Yeah. Tough.” Particularly that last moment, when those huge blue eyes traveled from the top of his head to the toes of his boots and back again.

“So how did you two leave things?”

“Leave things?”

Brady shifted in the chair, clearly uncomfortable playing Good Dad.

“Was she civil, at least?”

“We didn’t speak. And that’s fine with me.”

“What’s that old saying? ‘You sucker your friends and I’ll sucker mine, but let’s not sucker each other.’”

“If that’s an old saying, why haven’t I heard it before?”

Grinning, Brady gave Ian’s bicep a friendly punch. “Maybe because you’re just a young whippersnapper.”

Brady had exceeded his fatherly concern limit. Ian could put responsibility for Brady’s me-me-me mind-set on Ruth’s shoulders, but common sense told him that, hard as it was to admit, his dad had always been this way; put to the test by his wife’s betrayal, he’d simply shown his true colors. As a teenager, the role reversal thing caused resentment that revealed itself in dour expressions and whispered complaints. But Lincoln had taught him that it didn’t pay to waste time wishing for the impossible, and he’d taught himself to accept things—and people—at face value.

“Whippersnapper,” Ian echoed. “You’re not old enough for language like that.”

Gladys breezed into the room. “Who’s a whippersnapper?” she asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“This boy of mine. I recited an old adage, and he’d never heard of it.”

She joined her brother and her nephew at the table. “What old adage?”

Brady got to his feet, stretched and yawned, then said, “I’m beat. See you two in the morning.”

Gladys sized up the situation in two seconds flat: “So the kid laid something on you that you couldn’t handle, and you’re off to escape to dreamland, are you?”

Ian had developed a talent for sizing things up, too, and unless he was mistaken, his dad was about to retaliate. He’d been on the receiving end of the man’s sharp tongue often enough to know that Brady didn’t play fair. Only the good Lord knew what awful thing from her past he’d dredge up to even the score...if Ian didn’t intervene.

“Hey auntie...who you callin’ kid?”

In one blink, he got a taste of the glare she’d aimed at his dad. In the next, her expression softened.

Gladys clutched her throat and wrinkled her nose. “Auntie?” she repeated. “Auntie? Real funny, nephew, but fair warning—Call me that again and...” She leaned closer and patted his forearm. “...and I’ll wait until the bistro is filled to capacity to give you a big juicy kiss, right on the lips, and call you sweetheart!”

She’d do it, too! “Fat lotta good that’ll do ya,” he said, snickering, “when everybody knows I’m nobody’s sweetheart.”

Brother and sister exchanged a questioning glance.

Brady shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.”

“Yeah, well, he’s your son.”

“Yeah, well, you played a bigger role in raising him than I did.”

“Only because you’re such a—”

Ian made a big production of shoving back from the table. Grabbing a mug from the drain board, he filled it to the rim and said, “Knock it off, you two, or I’ll send you both to bed with no supper.”

Gladys’s left eyebrow rose. “Sweetheart,” she said, accentuating each syllable, “it’s nearly one in the morning.”

“And I had supper at six.”

“Way past your bedtime, then,” he told them. “Don’t forget to say your prayers...”

He’d just provided his dad with the perfect opportunity to leave the room—and the conversation. How many seconds before he took advantage of it?

“Alarm’s set for five. Think I’ll turn in.”

Half a second later, the door slammed behind him and Gladys said, “All right. Out with it. What’s eating you?”

She’d keep at him until he told her something, so Ian said, “Same old stuff.”

“Baloney.”

“Come again?”

“Here’s an old adage you’ll recognize. ‘You can’t fool an old fool.’ Now spit it out, buster, or I’ll go next door and get my guitar...”

Ian reared back as if she’d smacked him and feigned terror. Hands up, he said, “I’ll talk!”

Folding his hands on the table, he shared the true story of an incident that had taken place years ago when, after recognizing the prison tattoo on his forearm, a fast food clerk refused to serve him. A humiliating experience, since everyone in the restaurant stopped what they were doing to see how Ian would react.

“They expected a fight,” he told Gladys, “but they left disappointed.”

“Good for you. After all these years of walking the straight and narrow, you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone.”

Almost word for word what he’d told himself as he left the place...without so much as a French fry.

She folded her hands, too. “First of all, how’d that self-righteous fool know it was a prison tat, unless he’d served time, too?”

Leave it to Gladys to find the needle in the haystack.

“And second of all?”

“You’re a good man, and I couldn’t love you more if you were my own son.”

Wrapping her hands with his, Ian said, “Don’t make me start into another rendition of ‘you saved my sorry hide’ tale.”

“Tale? Hmpf. It’s one hundred percent true. Why would I mind hearing it again?” Their companionable laughter blended, producing a warm smile on his aunt’s face. A smile that quickly diminished as she withdrew her hands.

“You aren’t all down in the mouth because some wiseacre burger pusher gave you a hard time...”

“Well, silly me,” he kidded, “thinking I could fool you.”

“’Bout time you wised up. For the last time, out with it.”

What did he have to lose?

“I saw Maleah tonight.”

“Oh my. Oh wow. Holy smokes.” Gladys sipped her coffee. “Good grief,” she said, wincing. “Who taught that father of yours how to brew a pot?”

“Ruth.”

“Still can’t bring yourself to call her Mom, can you.”

Ian shook his head. She hadn’t earned the title.

“So did Maleah see you, too.”

“She was a little busy, hanging all over her cover-model date.”

The left brow rose again.

“Kent O’Malley. Baltimore Magazine’s Bachelor of the Year?”

“Oh yeah.” Nodding, she said, “Oh my. Oh wow. Holy smokes.” Then she slapped the table, making Ian jump. “No way you can convince me she’s serious about that blowhard.”

“Wasn’t aware you and Kent were acquainted.”

“Don’t need a personal introduction to know he’s all shine, no substance. Not Maleah’s type at all.”

A lifetime ago, he’d been her type. “A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since that day in court. “I’ve changed. She has, too.”

“Not that much. I’ll bet my diamond tiara it was a work-related date and nothing more. Now tell me everything.”

“She seemed...she looked...” Ian didn’t know how to describe how she looked as she stood, entangled in O’Malley’s arms, comparing the once clean-cut boy he’d been to the scarred, tattooed ex-con he’d become. “I think it surprised her, seeing how much I’ve changed. Scared her a little, too, I think.”

“That’s natural. Man doesn’t spend ten years doing hard time without it taking a toll.” Unable to come up with a suitable response to that, Ian only nodded.

Gladys got up, put her mug in the sink, then emptied what was left of the coffee into the drain. “Promise me you’ll teach that brother of mine how to use a coffeemaker, will ya? Grounds are too expensive these days.”

She stood behind him and gently tugged his foot-long ponytail. “Oh what I wouldn’t give for a pair of scissors right now...”

“If I had a dollar for every time you told me you love my hair, I could buy that newfangled icemaker I’ve been drooling over.”

This time, she wasn’t so gentle when she jerked the ponytail. “Small talk is not your forte, Ian Sylvestry. You can try to distract me with ice makers and coffeemakers and—”

“You’re the one who took a side trip, talking about coffee.”

“You’ve got me there, too.” She kissed the top of his head. “Feel better now?”

He wouldn’t feel better until he could blot Maleah’s image from his memory.

“My advice?” she said, walking toward the hall.

Ian braced himself.

“Call her. Put all your cards on the table. Trust me, she’s not involved with Mr. Owns-the-East-Coast.”

He wouldn’t reach out, not even if O’Malley told him directly that he had no interest in Maleah. He’d already put her through enough. What if she’d been with him that day at the fast food place? No way he could live with seeing her humiliated because of her association with him.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you, now?”

“You think you hurt her, hurt her so much that she can’t forgive you for something you did when you were a stupid, naïve, impressionable boy. But let me remind you that Maleah has a big loving heart.”

It was the first nice thing she’d said about Maleah since he got out.

“She loved you, for a while anyway, and that tells me she’s not all bad.” Gladys rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. “Because in those days, you weren’t easy to love.”

One of a hundred reasons he wouldn’t call her.

“Promise me you’ll think about it,” Gladys said from the hallway. He took a moment, just long enough to let her think he’d seriously consider making that call. “G’night, Gladys. Sleep tight...”

“...and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Her all-knowing expression told him she believed he’d take her well-meaning advice.

But he wouldn’t. Ever.

* * *

A WEEK AGO, to the day, her brother had found the silver-framed photo of Ian and unearthed every memory she’d carefully and deliberately buried.

The photo itself had been taken with her metallic pink pocket camera, his second birthday gift to her that year. “Sorry it’s such a mess,” he’d said as she’d removed wrinkly, balloon-festooned paper, “I’m all thumbs.” After showing her how to use it, Maleah posed him in front of the Blue Poison-Dart Frog enclosure at the Tropical Rain Forest exhibit. (Tickets to the National Aquarium had been his first birthday gift to her.) Some girls claimed their sixteenth birthdays were the best, but for Maleah, the magic number would always be seventeen...

...because at the end of that remarkable day, Ian surprised her with a third present: a thin silver band that held what he’d called the smallest diamond on Planet Earth. “Before you put it on, you should know this isn’t one of those goofy friendship rings your girlfriends are showing off.” They needed to graduate from college, find stable employment, and save their pennies for a safe place to live, he’d recited in an oh-so-grown-up voice. Until then, the ring symbolized the promise between them: Someday, they’d become husband and wife.