The Man She Knew

Maleah eased the picture from its new hiding place. I dare you to find it at the bottom of my underwear drawer, Eliot! She returned the picture to the drawer. If Eliot snooped and found it, no doubt he’d retaliate in his typical tough cop way: “If you’d thrown it out, like I told you to, there’d be no need to worry about snagged panties or bloodied knuckles.”

She’d tried. Several times. Once, she got as far as placing it atop an empty cereal box in the kitchen trash can before rescuing it. Of all the memorabilia, why did this photo hold such significance?

Knock it off, idiot. Memories like that were the reason Eliot didn’t trust her.

She kicked off her heels, hung up the little black dress, and slipped into her PJ’s. Hair piled loose atop her head, Maleah scrubbed lipstick, mascara, and eye shadow from her face, loaded her toothbrush, and leaned into the mirror. “If you could see me now, Kent O’Malley,” she mumbled.

“You’re the sexiest woman on feet,” he’d whispered into her ear.

“Just because I’m blonde,” she’d whispered back, “doesn’t mean I’ll fall for a tired old line like that.”

“Oh? What line would you fall for, then?”

He’d chosen that moment to spin her around. And that’s when she saw Ian, all alone at the edge of the dance floor, looking as stunned and confused as she felt. Somehow, she managed to follow Kent’s lead while they danced, praying all the while that he wouldn’t turn her again, because she wanted—needed—to see more of Ian.

She’d often wondered how much he’d changed after ten years in prison, and now she knew. Poets might describe him as ruggedly handsome, and Maleah had to agree. The close-cropped beard and silver strands threading through nearly-black hair gave him the distinguished look of a college professor, but the muscles bulging from his formerly reed-thin frame were anything but professorial. The biggest difference, Maleah decided, were the worry lines, etched between still-dark brows. That, and a sad, almost pleading look in those oh-so-serious eyes. Go to him, was the crazy, unbelievable thought that popped into her head. If Kent hadn’t stopped dancing, hadn’t said, “You’re white as a bedsheet. What’s wrong?” would she have done it?

She checked her calendar on her phone. Two back-to-back meetings, both before ten, both with the parents of severely autistic kids, followed by a volunteer stint at Johns Hopkins Children’s Oncology, to paint Batman and Superman and Pokémon characters on the patients’ faces. If she didn’t get a few hours’ sleep, no telling what nonsensical things she’d say—or do.

Maybe a cup of chamomile tea would settle her nerves...

But an hour later, she was still wide awake.

Tucked under a downy comforter, she closed her eyes and pictured the teacher of the yoga class, “Breathing to Relax,” that she’d signed up for years ago.

“It’s like counting sheep,” the petite redhead had instructed. “Inhale for a count of four, exhale for a count of four—all through the nose—and repeat until you feel the tension and stress floating away.”

Even after twenty reps of four, sleep eluded her.

Angry, flustered and exhausted, she tossed the covers aside.

The power went out often enough that Maleah taught herself how to get round the century-old town house in the dark without stubbing toes or bumping into furniture. Surprisingly, it took very little time to memorize every square inch of the old house...

Sixteen steps across the velvety Persian rug put her at her dresser, where she flicked on the light and jerked open the top drawer.

Twelve stairs led her down to the first floor, and twenty-seven paces brought her into the kitchen.

This silly ceremony could just as easily have been performed upstairs in the master bathroom. But knowing what nestled at the bottom of that waste basket would have guaranteed a fitful, completely sleepless night.

Bare toes depressed the pedal that lifted the stainless trash can’s lid.

“This one’s for you, Eliot,” she said, and released Ian’s picture.

In the morning, after she’d stuffed the bag into the big bin out back, she’d find out what it felt like to be free of Ian Sylvestry, once and for all.

CHAPTER FOUR

FIRM DECISIONS MADE in the middle of a long night, Maleah discovered, didn’t always deliver positive results.

Ian’s picture shouldn’t actually go to the curb because...what if one of the garbage men cut his hand tossing it into the truck? Besides, it seemed a shame to throw away a perfectly good silver frame when an inexpensive 8x10 piece of glass would fix it up, good as new.

Maleah shrugged into her ski parka and tiptoed down the back porch stairs, taking care to avoid that squeaky third step...the one that always alerted her nosy neighbor.

She’d never had occasion to go outside at this hour, and now understood what her grandfather meant when he said, “Dark as pitch out there!” But what had she expected? It was three in the morning. And Channel 13’s Marty Bass predicted rain. As usual, he’d been right.

Right as rain, she thought, shivering as cold drops pelted her cheeks, the backs of her hands.

Biting down on a mini flashlight, she aimed the narrow beam at the trash can, eased off its lid, and laid it handle-down in the grass—miraculously without making a sound. Good job, she thought, poking a hole in the plastic bag. Unless the frame had slid deeper into the sack during the trip out here, it should be right on top.

Without warning, the tiny yard was flooded with light. Bright, white, blinding light.

“Dumpster diving, eh?”

“Vern!” The very person she’d hoped to avoid. “You scared me half to death!”

“Better than scaring you all the way there...”

A joke? At this time of night? She liked him better when he was grumpy.

Forearm over her eyes, she squinted over the fence separating his property from hers.

“How many watts is that bulb, Vern? Ten thousand? Twenty?”

“It’s a two-fifty LED,” he said matter-of-factly. “Why bother havin’ a floodlight at all if it ain’t a-gonna, y’know, flood the place with light?”

He tightened the belt of his corduroy robe. Did he own any real clothes? she wondered.

“What’re you doin’ out here at this ungodly hour, anyway?”

She might have come up with a suitable retort...if he hadn’t continued with “Kids these days. Inconsiderate. Dumb as a box o’ rocks. Noisy... Why, in my day, young folks had respect for their neighbors. It’s them dad-blasted liberal college professors, I tell ya, fillin’ kids’ heads fulla ‘me-me-me-I’m-so-special’ bunkum all the live-long day.”

On second thought, she didn’t like Grumpy Vern better, after all.

“Well?”

She turned off the flashlight. Why waste the batteries when Vern’s porch light was more powerful than the sun?

“Well what?”

“What. Are. You. Doing. Out. Here?”

Maleah clutched the photo to her chest and replaced the trash can lid. “I threw this away by mistake,” she said, showing him the frame, “and didn’t want the trash guys to haul it away in the morning.”

“And you couldn’t wait ’til then to paw through your garbage?”

Why hadn’t she thought of that?

Because you’ve got Ian on the brain, that’s why.

She had a notion to turn right around and put the troublemaking thing right back into the trash.

“Sorry if I woke you,” she said instead.

“You didn’t. Haven’t slept a whole night through in...can’t remember when.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Don’t be. I’m used to it.”

Vern seemed in a mood to chitchat...the last thing Maleah wanted to do. There were a lot of things not to like about this night: Kent, behaving like they were a couple when he had no right to. Frosty winds. Sleety rain. Grouchy, nosy old neighbors. Eliot, for starting the whole picture debacle in the first place. And Ian Sylvestry, for looking sad and wounded earlier tonight.

She took hold of the icy screen door handle. “I’m off tomorrow afternoon.” They’d been neighbors since Maleah bought the town house, eight years ago, and doubted they’d said more than a hundred words to one another in all that time. “Why don’t you come over, say, two o’clock. I’ll make us some coffee and we can get better acquainted.”

One eye narrowed. So did his lips. “Why?”

“Because I want to prove to you that I’m not an inconsiderate, dumb as a box of rocks, noisy, educated by liberal professors kid. And I want you to prove to me that you’re not as mean and cantankerous as you seem.”

“Yeah? Well, you’d seem mean and cantankerous, too, if you caught your neighbor digging through her trash at...” He pulled back the cuff of his robe to read his watch. “...at fourteen minutes after three.”

Ought to be an interesting chat, Maleah thought, hiding a yawn behind her free hand. If he showed up.

“You like cheesecake?”

“Love the stuff.” He squinted the other eye this time. “Why?”

“I know a little bakery. Cheesecake is their specialty. I’ll pick one up after my last meeting so we can—”

“—get better acquainted.”

“Right.”

“Just so’s ya know, I don’t do coffee.” He patted his chest. “Bad for the ol’ ticker.”

But of course...

“Two o’clock,” she said. And please, wear something other than that ratty old robe.

Maleah locked up, then shook rain from her waterlogged parka. Some landed where it was supposed to...on the mudroom rug. The rest soaked her favorite flannel pajama bottoms.

Now, if she hoped to get any sleep at all before the alarm chimed at six, she’d have to change.

This horrible, never-ending night was Ian’s fault. One hundred and ten percent.

And if she ever saw him again, that’s exactly what she’d say.

* * *

OVER CHEESECAKE AND DECAF, even Vern asked to tag along with Maleah to help serve breakfast at Our Daily Bread. “Must be something a grumpy old geezer can do.” He was amazingly good with on-the-spectrum kids.

Moments after introducing him to the rest of the volunteers, Berta, who managed the place, tossed him an apron and put him to work scouring pots and washing dishes.

Maleah delivered another huge tray, piled high with dirty dishes. “I forgot to warn you, this is where she starts all the newbies. She says if they can handle this back-breaking chore, they’re in it for the right reasons. Sorry...”

“The woman is right, so there’s nothin’ to be sorry for. What’s up with that, anyways? Did your folks knock you around when you were a kid?”

“Of course not. I was raised in the least dysfunctional family you’ll ever meet.”

“Good reason to quit apologizing, then. Don’t want people thinkin’ less of them, do you?”

Odd, she thought, because Ian had been the first person to ask why she said sorry so often.

“Mashed potatoes to serve up,” she said, leaving the steamy kitchen.

She’d no sooner plopped a scoop into a partitioned tray when the gray-bearded gent on the other side of the counter said, “This is my cousin, Ian. He’s a little shy, or he’d tell you himself...he thinks you’re real pretty.”

Maleah thanked the cousins for the compliment and ladled a double serving of gravy onto each tray.

Yet another Ian reference. Yesterday, a little leukemia patient asked Maleah to paint a wolf on her brother Ian’s cheek. And on the way home from Hopkins, the guy who gave her change for a twenty at the Harbor Tunnel toll booth wore a name tag that said Ian. How was she supposed to stop thinking about him if the universe insisted on throwing reminders in her lap?

During the drive back to Ellicott City, Vern talked nonstop about how fulfilling it was, working at the soup kitchen.

“I have a car, y’know. Ain’t been driven in a year, maybe more. Gonna have it serviced, so’s I can go downtown more than once a week.”

“That’s good of you.”

“Nah. I have my problems—who doesn’t?—but I’m better off than a lot of people. Seems only right to give a little, after all the taking I’ve done in my lifetime.”

He’d said much the same thing in her kitchen, but she hadn’t pressed for details. If he wanted to tell her about his past, he’d do it with no prompting from her. She pulled into her driveway as Vern said, “You know what I think?”

Already she knew him well enough to realize he’d tell her, no matter how she answered.

“I think you’ve got man troubles. Big ones that go way back.” She couldn’t very well deny it, now could she?

“You wanna talk about it? I’m told I’m a pretty good listener.”

“Thanks, but maybe some other time. I have a bunch of chores waiting for me inside. And then I have to go back to the office.”

“Crazy workaholic. What’s so important it can’t wait ’til Monday morning?”

“The Washburne-Albert Institute is about to launch its annual month-long winter fund-raiser.”

“I’ve heard about that. ‘Kids First,’ right?”

“Yup. Maybe you’ll have time to go to the craft fair or the antiques auction.”

“Maybe...”

“And if you have a lady friend you’d like to impress, I might be able to wrangle a couple of tickets to our good old-fashioned Baltimore bull roast, or even the grand finale...the black tie dinner.”

“Black tie? No way I’m rentin’ a monkey suit to eat rubber chicken.”

Not overly enthused.

“You’re a Ravens fan, right? And wasn’t that an Orioles banner I saw on your front porch last season?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So a couple guys from each team—and a coach or two—have said they’ll participate in the autograph session. We signed a couple of top ten recording artists and half a dozen or so movie stars, too.”

Vern shook his head. “My, my, my. You’re a walking, talking sandwich board, aren’t you? I hope they’re paying you extra for this off-duty PR.”

Laughing, Maleah got out of the car. “I enjoyed working with you today, Vern. It’s been a real pleasure seeing the jovial, generous side of you.”

He slammed the Jeep’s passenger door and knocked on its red roof.

“Feel like talkin’ about that man trouble today?”

Was the universe conspiring against her?

“Back in high school, I had a boyfriend. He got involved with some rough characters, and one night, they robbed the convenience store on Route 40. One of the guys had a gun. Loaded. And used it on the clerk. The two that robbed the store and the one who shot the clerk got fifteen years for armed robbery, aggravated assault and attempted murder. Would have been longer if they hadn’t been minors.”

“And your boyfriend?”

“Ten years at Lincoln for driving the getaway car.”

“How long ago?”

“A lifetime.” She sighed. “Seems like a lifetime ago that he was released.”

“And no contact between you two since he got out?”

“Nope. None.” Until the other night. Although she wouldn’t exactly call that contact...

“Then why the big sad eyes? You’re not still sweet on the guy I hope.”

Maleah honestly couldn’t say.

“Was it altar-bound serious? Or just your typical kiddie romance?”

“Serious enough. He asked me to marry him.”

“Tough break for you, and I pity the fool.”

“Pity him? Why?”

“He chose a gang of thugs over a life with you?” Vern shook his head. “Can’t imagine havin’ to live with a mistake that big.”

Her dad, Eliot, even kindhearted Joe had said similar things. What they failed to realize was that she had to live with it, too.

“Nobody’s caught your eye since?”

“Oh, I accept a date every now and then.” But...

“But the guys aren’t him.”

If anyone had said her spotlight-blazing, opinionated old grouch of a neighbor would be the first person in her life to get it, really get it, she’d have called them crazy. Goes to show, she thought, you can’t judge a man by his robe.

They said their goodbyes in the driveway, and as he unlocked his front door, Vern looked at the sky.

“Uh-oh...better dig out the ice scraper, girlie. It’s gonna snow tonight.”

“Snow?” She looked up, too. “I hope you’re wrong. I hate driving in that stuff.”

“So do I. But mark my words. We’ll be sweepin’ white stuff off the steps come mornin’.”

He was about to step inside when Maleah stopped him with, “Hey Vern? Where are you from, originally?”

“Texas.” Laughing, he added, “What, did my pointy-toed boots give me away?”

More like your pointed turn of a phrase, she thought.

“Something like that.” She waved. “Hope I won’t see you in the morning.”

“Oh, you will. And Maleah?”

“Hmm...”

“Have your friends hook you up with some blind dates. Talk to your preacher about eligible bachelors in the parish. Ask your mother if any of her friends have unmarried sons. Sign up with one of those internet dating sites.”

“Sorry, but I’ve been there and done all of that. They were nice guys, for the most part. Just not...not my type.” Hopefully, she’d caught herself in time, and Vern hadn’t noticed that she’d nearly said just not him.

“If you’re gonna be sorry about anything, it ought to be that you’re wasting time mooning over an ex-con.”

Mooning? Really? When had it become the latest go-to word of men?

“Your teeth are chattering, you adorable moron, you. Get inside before you catch your death and let me do the same. I can’t afford to heat all of Oella, y’know.”

Once his door slammed and its bolt slid into place, Maleah went inside and changed into fleecy sweats, then brewed herself a mug of tea and carried it to the living room. Is that what she’d really been doing? Comparing all her dates with Ian?

You’re a shrink, girl; shouldn’t you know?

CHAPTER FIVE

AT THE FIRST planning meeting for the gala, Maleah saw Ian’s name on the volunteers’ list.

Could this be Eliot’s idea of a sick joke? Was he trying to catch her in the act of searching the facility for her first love?

More likely it was a name-related coincidence. Not that his name was like Joe Green or Tom Smith, but... She’d worked for Washburne in one capacity or another for years, and not once had Ian appeared at any Kids First events.

Maleah carried the clipboard to the sign-in table. “Hi, Darcy,” she said, reading the young woman’s stick-on name tag. “I wonder if you can help me with something...”

The girl smiled up at her. “I’ll try.”

Maleah pointed at Ian’s name on the list. “I’ve never worked with this guy before. What do you know about him?”

Nodding, Darcy said, “Oh, yeah. He’s Terri Hudson’s boss.” She handed the clipboard back to Maleah. “Ms. Hudson’s son goes to school here. You’ve probably seen her around, working with the hearing impaired kids. She has a hearing impairment herself.” She blushed slightly when she added, “Mr. Sylvestry is a sweetie. When Avery—that’s Terri’s son—needs a dad substitute, Mr. Sylvestry fills in.”

She didn’t know what to do, now that Darcy had confirmed that Mr. Sylvestry was indeed Ian.

“Now that you mention it, I do know her.” They’d had a few brief interactions at Washburne, and a slightly longer exchange on the night the woman hostessed Kent’s holiday party. “A very pleasant, efficient lady.”

“Yes, she is.”

Maleah tucked the clipboard under her arm. “Thanks, Darcy. Need anything? Water? Soft drink?”

“I’m good, but thanks.”

Maleah walked away wondering if Terri knew about Ian’s background. Surely not, or she wouldn’t allow her special needs son to spend so much time alone with him.

What do you care? It’s none of your business.

Fortunately, in her capacity as Assistant PR director of the banquet, Maleah could delegate any tasks or activities that might require her to work with him directly...or reject him as a volunteer.

A deep booming voice interrupted her thoughts. “Maleah! Just the person I was looking for.”

Stan Howard, generous donor to Washburne and personal friend of the director, said, “There’s somebody here I’d like you to meet.”

His ear-piercing whistle turned every head within her line of sight. The blast must have alerted his intended target, because he smiled and waved. Maleah, too short to see over others’ heads, waited for Stan’s “someone” to appear.

“Don’t look so nervous. You’re gonna love this guy. Everybody does. He’s real easygoing, and no matter how menial the task, he gives it his all.”

“Haven’t met a Washburne volunteer that I didn’t like.” Yet...

He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Fair warning...at first he appears a little rough around the edges, and you might hear some rumors, but trust me, not a one of ’em is true.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Spent a few years in the slammer. Poor guy served his time and cleaned up his act. He deserves a break. But you know how judgmental people can be.” He pointed. “Speak of the devil... Ian, hey, good to see you, buddy! This is the li’l beauty I was telling you about. You’ll answer to her while you’re working on the gala.” Stan smiled at Maleah. “Maleah Turner, meet Ian Sylvestry.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

She gave his extended hand a quick shake-and-release. “Likewise.”

“So where do we start, boss?”

“I’m not sure yet. Let me talk with a few of the event chairs and see what they need help with.” She focused on Stan. “You have his contact information?”

“Well yeah.” Stan gave her a sidelong glance. “But so do you.” He looked at Ian. “It’s on your registration form. Right?”

He answered with a nod, then tacked on, “It’s a requirement of anyone volunteering to work with—or around—kids.”

“And you passed the background test?”

“And I passed the background test.”

His voice, last time she’d heard it, had been shaky and almost timid. Not so anymore. Given the opportunity, he could easily find work recording voice-over commercials or substitute for a radio DJ instead of Avery Hudson’s stand-in dad. His “I’m meeting you for the first time” act was flawless, too, a talent no doubt honed at Lincoln. A slight shiver zipped up her spine: What else had he learned there?

Stan gave Ian’s shoulder a brotherly squeeze. “This place is a madhouse.” He drew Ian and Maleah closer in a three-way hug. “So here’s what you two are going to do...” The only thing separating them was Stan’s ponderous belly. That, and years of artificial indifference. Ian’s dark eyes bored into hers, exactly the way he had when they were younger—and in love.

Quiet laughter rumbled from Stan’s chest. “You’re going to leave here, right now, for someplace quiet. So you can discuss how best to put Ian to use. He’s a talented artist, and knows his way around a kitchen, too.”

He leaned forward to glance at his wristwatch, and in the process, moved Maleah closer still to Ian.

“What time does your place close on Sunday nights?”

Ian’s voice was guarded when he said, “Six.”

“Why so early?”

“Most of my employees are married, with kids. Tomorrow is a school day.”

So Ian hadn’t been a guest at the bistro on the night of Kent’s party? He owned it?

Stan winked at Maleah. “See there? Didn’t I tell you he was a good guy?”

He didn’t give her a chance to respond. Instead, Stan released her, then Ian.

“Here’s an idea... I’ll have my driver take you over there. You can take a look at his paintings, maybe even get a bite of his famous cheesecake.” He gestured, bringing their attention to the crowd. “Lord knows you can’t make plans here.”

“Plans?” Maleah echoed.

He looked at her as if she’d grown a second nose.

“Finding out which of your volunteers is best suited to do what needs doing, of course.” He chuckled. “You’re pullin’ my leg, aren’t you?” And looking at Ian, Stan added, “This gal has pulled off some of the best functions I’ve ever attended.”

He frowned as an announcement crackled through the overhead speakers.

“See what I mean? You can’t make any good decisions with all this going on. So how about it? Can I have my driver run you over there?”