Don’t they both deserve a second chance?

Fourteen years ago, one reckless act cost Ian Sylvestry everything, including the girl he planned to marry. Since then, he has fought hard to turn his life around. Returning to his Baltimore town after serving a prison term was the first step. Winning back Maleah Turner’s trust is a far more daunting challenge. From their first sparks-flying reunion, it’s obvious they still have powerful feelings for each other. In fact, they might be even stronger together now. But if their second chance is going to work, Maleah has to believe that Ian is a changed man. She really wants to believe...but she simply isn’t convinced.

“So...you were...you were dreaming? About me?”

A remark like that from the old Maleah might indicate that she felt flattered. But the new Maleah had changed a lot, and Ian couldn’t get a read on what she meant now.

“I guess you could say that.”

A tiny smile lifted the corner of her mouth. “Don’t know if I’ve ever been the star of a guy’s dream before.”

She’d stood center stage in hundreds of dreams during his years at Lincoln. What would she say if he admitted that now?

Only one way to find out...

“It probably won’t surprise you to hear that I thought of you a lot while I was...away.”

Her smile disappeared. Maleah began to fidget, another telltale sign she felt uncomfortable. He searched his mind for a topic to divert the conversation.

A two-note chime interrupted them.

Saved by the bell.

Dear Reader,

Once upon a time, my Psych 101 professor taught a lesson I’ve never forgotten.

“The class clown cracked a joke, and his fellow students laughed like crazy. When he repeated it, fewer laughed. He told the joke again, and no one laughed.” He paused, then said, “If the same joke stops being funny when we hear it more than once, what makes us think anything good will come of dredging up past hurts over and over?”

We all have a past. But what if our mistakes still shame us to the core?

As a teen, Ian Sylvestry found himself incarcerated after his reaction to his mother’s abandonment sent the dominoes toppling. Upon his release, it took time to convince others that he’d turned his life around, but Ian succeeded—or thought he had—until a chance meeting with the girl he’d left behind.

Confronted with the man he has become, can Maleah Turner forgive the irresponsible behavior that took him from her?

Why is it so hard, I wonder, to cope with the sins of our past? Perhaps we need to make this our life motto: “The future is stardust, because you can dream it; the present is clay, because you can mold it; but the past is stone, because you can never change it.”

Be sure to look for the next book in my By Way of the Lighthouse miniseries. And if you enjoyed The Man She Knew, write me c/o Facebook, Twitter or www.loreelough.com!

Wishing you nothing but happy memories,

Loree

The Man She Knew

Loree Lough

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LOREE LOUGH once sang for her supper. Her favorite memories of days on the road are the hours spent singing to soldiers recovering in VA hospitals. Now and then she polishes up her Yamaha guitar to croon a tune or two, but mostly she writes. With more than one hundred books in print (eighteen bearing the Harlequin logo), Loree’s work has earned industry accolades, movie options and four- and five-star reviews, but what she treasures most are her Readers’ Choice awards.

Loree and her real-life hero split their time between Baltimore’s suburbs and the Allegheny Mountains, where she continues to perfect her “identify the critter tracks” skills. A writer who believes in giving back, see the Giving Back page of loreelough.com for details. She loves hearing from her readers and answers every letter. You can connect with her on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.

This novel is dedicated to my family, whose love and support make writing—even on the tough days—so much easier. I love and appreciate all of you!

Acknowledgments

Heartfelt thanks to those who so willingly shared hours of time, expertise and experiences to assure accuracy and authenticity in this story: Attorney Dee Lawrence (former writing student turned successful author in her own right!) for her savvy legal advice; Linda O’Dell (Letters for the Lord prison ministry) for providing details about incoming and outgoing mail in federal penitentiaries; Marty* and George*, reformed convicts who explained prison life and the hardships and prejudice so often faced upon release; Lance*, prison guard who shed light on ex-cons’ struggles to avoid recidivism; Suzanne*, whose long-standing relationship with a convict helped me better understand the dynamics of supporting a man convicted of a felony.

(NOTE: * denotes names have been changed at the request of these helpful individuals.)

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“MALEAH, YOU WANT to explain this?”

She placed the bowl of mashed potatoes on the dining room table. “Explain wh—”

When she saw what her brother held in his big hands, the words froze in her throat.

“Tell me you’re not still mooning over this low-life criminal!”

“Mooning.” She forced a laugh. “You’re picking up old-people talk from Grampa.”

“You can’t distract me.”

She’d made two mistakes: thinking the buffet’s silverware drawer was a good place to hide the photograph, and saying yes when Eliot offered to set the table.

“It’s no big deal.” Maleah shrugged. And there it was... Eliot’s I’m a decorated cop and I can tell when someone is lying look.

Maleah shoved a serving spoon into the potatoes. She and Eliot had gone round and round on this subject too many times to count, and she’d lost every round.

“Only one explanation makes sense. You’ve stayed in touch with him, even though the whole family asked you not to, haven’t you?”

“First of all, no one asked anything.” Their relentless demands had been the primary reason she’d traded the comfort of her childhood room for a noisy, crowded dorm room at the University of Maryland. “How any times do I have to tell you I haven’t had any contact with him in...” Years had passed since she’d scrawled Leave me alone! Please! across Ian’s final letter. “Why won’t you believe me?”

He dropped the picture into the drawer and closed it, hard. “Maybe because that creep turned you into an OCD control freak. You can’t sleep with dishes in the sink. And name me one other person who alphabetizes the contents of her pantry and spice rack? Or color-codes and hangs stuff in her closet in order by length.”

Maleah didn’t bother to explain it was because she’d learned how much one mistake could alter a person’s life—and the lives of everyone close to them.

“So I like things neat and tidy. Last I checked, it isn’t against the law.”

He aimed his pointer finger at the ceiling, preparing to add to his big brother tirade, but she cut him off.

“Eliot, let’s not spoil Grampa’s birthday dinner, all right?”

“What. Ever.”

An hour later, her mom suggested getting the dinner dishes cleaned up while the rest of the Turners relaxed in front of the evening news.

“And then we’ll have coffee and cake while Grampa opens his presents!”

Maleah’s tension heightened; if she left the room, Eliot would invite a repeat of the for-your-own-good lectures they’d been delivering since that horrible day.

“Let’s leave them.” Facing her younger brother, she said, “Joe, will you get the TV trays out of the front hall closet while I—”

“Maleah, honey,” her mother interrupted, “those mashed potatoes will harden like cement if you don’t rinse the plates soon.”

“I’ll soak them overnight and load the dishwasher in the morning.”

She’d tackle the job just as soon as her family left, but her mom didn’t need to know that.

Joe returned with two TV trays under each arm. “Where do you want these, sis?”

“You can put them right back where you found them,” her mother said. “We’ll have cake and ice cream at the table, like civilized people.”

He began setting up the trays. “Mom, this is Maleah’s house.”

Their mother’s lips formed a thin line. “Fine. Do whatever you please.”

“Happy birthday to me,” Grampa sang off key.

“Sorry, Grampa,” Maleah said, grinning. “I’ll get the cake.”

She’d barely had time to turn toward the kitchen when her father said, “Eliot says you have something to tell us?”

Traitor.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Maleah sat on the sofa arm beside Joe. “Got a promotion and a pay raise day before yesterday.” The perfect cover-up.

Her dad beamed. “That’s wonderful, sweetheart. New title, too?”

“Assistant Vice President for the School of Autism Services at Washburne-Albert Institute.”

“Whew. That’s a mouthful!” Joe elbowed her ribs. “Raised-print business cards and the whole nine yards?”

“And a private office—with a window—and my name in gold letters on the door.”

“That’s my girl,” Grampa said. “A chip off the ol’ block.”

“Don’t be silly, Frank. You’re a retired policeman. Our granddaughter is a psychologist.”

“Hey. I used plenty of psychology on the job, Teresa. At home, too, every time you tried to talk me into getting a safer job.”

His wife rolled her eyes. Her dad took a sip of his iced tea. “I’m proud of you, kiddo. Real proud.”

“Ditto that,” Frank said. “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s light the candles on my cake and celebrate two great occasions with one big puff.”

While Eliot poked candles into the cake, Maleah placed napkins, dessert plates, forks and a book of matches on a big wooden serving tray.

“Grab the ice cream, will you?”

“Nice try out there,” he said, opening the freezer door, “but you can’t keep me quiet forever.”

She’d had about enough of his superior attitude. Maleah faced him head-on.

“Look. I know you mean well. And I appreciate that you think you’re protecting me from my once-fickle self. But trust me. I don’t need your protection. Besides, there’s a time and place for everything, and this is Grampa’s night.”

His mouth formed a thin, grim line as he lit the candles. Then he picked up the tray, and marched into the living room singing “Happy Birthday.” The others joined in, and although her heart wasn’t in it, so did Maleah.

Eliot didn’t say much—and neither did Maleah—as they devoured cake and ice cream. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice the tension between them. Or, if they did, had decided to keep the observation to themselves.

“You guys are great,” Grampa said after unwrapping his last present. “But y’all went to way too much trouble and spent way too much. Especially you, Maleah.”

He’d been dropping hints since last Christmas about wanting an e-reader, so Maleah had ordered one and downloaded half a dozen books onto it.

She patted his bony knee. Would he ever gain back all the weight he’d lost during his chemo treatments?

“It was no trouble at all.”

“Speaking of trouble,” Eliot said, “there’s something important we need to discuss as a family.”

Maleah’s mouth went dry. “Eliot. Please. Don’t...”

He held up a hand. “They have a right to know. It affects them, too.”

Mom’s eyes widened and her husband’s brow furrowed.

“What affects us?” they asked together.

“Quit beating around the bush, boy.” Grampa scooted to the edge of the sofa cushion.

Eliot used his chin as a pointer. “Li’l miss party maker over there is still sweet on that felon.”

Maleah’s cheeks went hot and her heart beat double-time. Which of them would be the first to take her to task for holding on to that photograph? Her father, if she had to guess.

Her mom said, “Maleah, what on earth is he talking about?”

She glared at Eliot.

“It’s nothing, really. He found an old picture hidden away in a drawer, and as usual, jumped to conclusions and decided it means I’m still involved with Ian.” Maleah threw back her shoulders. “I’m not, and that’s the truth. But you know Eliot...”

“True or not,” her grandfather said, “you have to admit that boy is trouble. Even after all these years, the mere mention of his name is enough to get everybody’s bloomers in a knot. Told you he was no good.”

“But would you listen?” Eliot put in. “No-o-o. You hung in there like a suckerfish, right up until the sheriff’s deputies dragged him away.”

Those final moments in the courthouse were as vivid now as it had been that dreary morning: Ian, looking like a terrified boy as one guard slammed the prison van’s side door and another put the vehicle into gear. He’d raised a hand to wave goodbye, but the chain connecting handcuffs to leg irons stopped him. Tears had filled his eyes, and unable to watch, she’d closed her own. By the time she opened them again, the driver had already made the first turn onto Lombard Street and started the hour-long trip to Lincoln Correctional of Central Maryland.

Joe squeezed her hand. “It’s okay, sis. I believe you.” He faced the family to add, “So she saved one lousy photograph. Big deal. It doesn’t mean she’ll do anything stupid. We’re supposed to be her support system, for cryin’ out loud. If an institution like Washburne-Albert can put their faith in her, why can’t we?”

She might have hugged him if her grandmother hadn’t said, “Joe’s right. Maleah is a smart girl. She knows what life would be like with...” She wrinkled her nose. “...with a man like that.”

“Then why is she still single?”

“Same reason as you, maybe?”

Grampa laughed and Eliot said, “Shut up, Joe.”

“Person can’t earn college degrees and work her way up the corporate ladder if her mind is on guys and dating and whatnot...”

“Joe’s right again,” their grandfather said. “There’s no denying our girl has worked hard to get where she is.” He turned toward Maleah. “Tell your newly-confirmed bachelor brother that there isn’t anything going on between you and that ex-con.”

She raised her right hand. “There isn’t anything going on between me and that ex-con.” Neither Eliot nor her father seemed satisfied.

“Okay, but just to clarify...when was the last time you were in contact with him?”

Joe heaved a frustrated sigh. “Aw, Dad. Really?”

“I know you feel like we’re picking on her, son, but Eliot is right. We need to get to the bottom of this, for her own good.”

Her younger brother had earned more department commendations than Eliot and their father combined, yet had somehow managed not to turn hard-hearted and suspicious, especially of those closest to him.

“It’s okay, Joe,” she said. “I brought this on myself by not getting rid of that picture years ago. I don’t want you putting your neck on the chopping block to defend me.” She looked her father square in the eye. “There’s nothing to get to the bottom of, Dad. I was still living at home after Ian’s sentencing, so you know as well as I do that I returned his letters, unopened. All of them. And after I wrote ‘leave me alone’ across the back of that last envelope, you mailed it. And the letters stopped coming.”

Her grandmother was stuffing her husband’s gifts into a plastic bag. “It’s late. We should all be getting home.”

Her actions and tone reminded the family that she’d always detested family discord, and one by one, they stood and made their way into the foyer. Amid a flurry of uncomfortable hugs, they complimented Maleah’s dinner and thanked her for having them over.

Her mom hesitated. “You sure you don’t want help with the dishes, honey?”

“Thanks, Mom, but I’ll be fine.”

Arm in arm, her grandparents led the way to the semicircular drive.

“Looks like snow,” Frank said, pulling up his collar.

Maleah wished for summer temperatures, so Gramps could enjoy balmy breezes without needing to bundle up. The cancer that had nearly killed him refused to loosen its grip. But at least the family had remission to be thankful for.

Maleah stood on her bungalow’s covered porch, shoulders hunched into the wind as the family started up their cars, waving as they drove away. She loved them dearly, even at their annoying worst. Sometimes, though, it was difficult trying to protect them from bad news—like Ian’s return from prison years ago—to ensure nothing would upset them.

After bolting the door, she leaned against it and exhaled a relieved breath.

Reminding herself that self-pity never got anyone anywhere, she walked purposefully into the living room. There, Maleah collected cake plates and flatware, and after loading them into the dishwasher, started clearing the dining room table. Halfway through the job, she noticed the corner of the photograph protruding from the buffet’s silverware drawer.

She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had mentioned Ian or her involvement with him. Now thanks to Eliot’s mistrustful nature, the entire family would start watching her every move...again.

“Thanks a bunch, big brother, for opening Pandora’s box.”

A rush of memories rained down on her as she removed the picture...

When he’d called that night, Ian’s trembling voice described how his mother and new husband were expecting a baby. Hurt, confused and angry, he’d pleaded with Maleah to meet him. “I just need to talk it out. I promise not to keep you out late.” She’d wanted to comfort him, but homework, chores and three generations of disapproving Turner cops prevented it. Her refusal fueled his fury, and he’d hung up without saying goodbye. Months passed before she saw him again, slump-shouldered and chained to the defense table like a rabid dog.

Now, staring at his likeness, Maleah wondered for the thousandth time: If she had met him that night, would Ian have made a different choice?

“Enough!” She slammed the frame onto the table. “You destroyed your life, Ian Sylvestry, not me!”

Glittering shards of glass crisscrossed his once-carefree face, and that was fine with her.

CHAPTER TWO

“HEY, BOSS, WHAT should I do with this?”

Ian inspected the document in his assistant manager’s hands. “I suppose we oughta frame it, hang it near the registration counter.”

“Si.” Sergio shifted his weight to his good leg. “Good place for patrons to see they are dining in A-plus restaurante.”

Terri, Sur les Quais’s hostess, peered over Sergio’s shoulder.

“Oh wow, Ian. That’s so fantastic! I’ll bet I can find a frame downstairs in the storeroom...”

“Think you can find a good place to hang it once it’s behind glass, too?”

“Probably...” She started for the stairs, turning to add, “But I’ll check with you before I drive a nail into the wall.”

Such a timid little thing. “No need for that. I’m sure any spot you choose will be fine.”

She gave that a moment’s thought. “Okay then, if you’re sure.”

As she hurried down the stairs, he pictured the abusive husband who’d made her afraid of her own shadow. He’d tangled with plenty of bullies at Lincoln, and quickly figured out that defending himself would only tack extra years onto his sentence. It had taken time and careful planning, but he’d found ways to end the harassment...and earn the grudging respect of fellow inmates.

And the Turners called me a thug. Unlike his parents, Ian believed in marriage, in sticking it out when times got tough. But in his opinion, Terri and her boy would have been better off if Steve had fulfilled his numerous threats of leaving. He’d done nothing to hide his disappointment at having a special needs son, not even from Avery. Despite it all, Avery seemed as determined to overcome the limitations of his disorder as his mother was to keep him enrolled at the Washburne-Avery Institute. A lot to admire in those two—the mother in particular, who was partially deaf. If only Terri believed in herself as much as Ian did.

Alone in his office, Ian took a knee and rotated the dial on the safe, and as he slid the big checkbook from the bottom shelf, an envelope fluttered to the floor. He recognized it instantly as the last letter he’d sent Maleah from Lincoln. Oh, he’d written others after that one came back. Dozens. A hundred, maybe.

But he hadn’t mailed them.

He picked the letter up and, without reading the message scrawled across the envelope’s back, buried it under last year’s tax return, the titles to his pickup and Harley and his release papers.

“You in there, Ian?”

“C’mon in, Aunt Gladys.”

He sat behind his desk and folded both hands on the checkbook.

“I can’t believe you’re still doing things the old-fashioned way. Surely you know how much time you’d save, banking online.”

“I served time with guys who could hack an account like that.” He snapped his fingers. “I don’t trust the internet. Last thing we need now that we’re in the black is identity theft.”

“That’s what firewalls are for, silly man. Why, I’ve been doing my banking online for years, and I haven’t had a smidge of trouble.”

He owed Gladys a lot. Everything, in fact. Gratitude inspired him to devise ways to divert her when she got into one of her “I know best” moods.

Striking a Zen pose, he said, “I enjoy doing things the old-fashioned way. It calms me.”

Gladys sat back and tilted her head.

“What.”

“You look...weird.”

She’d earned the right to nag him about his beard and earring, or his insistence on writing checks instead of banking online, and he’d endure it. She’d earned that much, and more.

“I’ll shave soon. Promise.”

“No, that isn’t what I mean. You look...sadder than usual.”

“Than usual?” He laughed. “You make it sound like I walk around wearing a big mopey frown on all day, every day.”

“You have a charming, handsome smile, but your mouth rarely sends the ‘happy’ message to those big brown eyes. It’s that bratty girl’s fault. If she hadn’t been so afraid to buck her family...” Gladys pursed her lips. “She knew you better than anyone. Should have known you didn’t deserve ten years for driving a car. Should have known you weren’t in on the planning of that robbery, too.”

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.

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?”

“Curious as I am to see the inside of that presidential-looking SUV of yours, I rode my Harley,” Ian said. “I need to balance the checkbook. And I haven’t made up next week’s schedule yet.” Eyes on Maleah, he added, “The bistro is closed on Mondays. Maybe tomorrow, when you get off work?”

She didn’t want to be alone with him, not tomorrow, not ever. But Stan and the facility director had been college roommates. Rejecting his idea was the equivalent to an insult, to him and her boss.

“We don’t need a face-to-face meeting, Stan. That’s what telephones and email and text messages are for.”

Stan waved the idea away. “Later, maybe, once you’ve got things nailed down. But I didn’t get where I am by taking the easy way out during the planning phases of any project.” He looked from Maleah to Ian and back again. “Neither of you strikes me as the type to take shortcuts.”

His challenge hung in the air between them. From the look on Ian’s face, Maleah realized Stan’s pull extended beyond facilities like Washburne.

Another notice blared from the overhead speakers.

Ian winced. “You make a good point, Stan, but so does Ms. Turner. We can accomplish a lot through texts and emails.”

“Nonsense.”

His jovial demeanor turned coolly professional, as quick as the flip of a switch.

“Look. Kids. I don’t like to throw my weight around,” he said, “but when I funnel a six-figure donation into a project, I expect things will get done correctly. And leaving contrails through cyberspace is not my idea of efficient.”

Ian shifted his weight from the right foot to the left. Nodding slowly, he stared at the floor between his polished black biker boots. Hands pocketed, he lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Stan, c’mon. Be reasonable. Even you have to admit this whole in-person planning idea was kinda last minute. Give us a day to shift things around on our calendars at least. Can we get back to you?”

He met Maleah’s eyes. “Don’t mean to be presumptuous. In your position as Assistant VP of...” Grinning—but only barely—he said, “Sorry, but I forget the rest of your title.”

It stunned her to learn he knew anything about what she did for a living. Stan must have filled him in...

“Point being,” Ian continued, “you have other department heads to deal with. Autistic kids’ parents. The kids themselves. And since I don’t have that problem over at the bistro, how about if you call me when you find a hole in your calendar, we’ll discuss a convenient time to get together.”

Thanks a bunch, Stan. If she said yes, Maleah had to meet with Ian. And if she said no, Stan might get the impression she wasn’t up to the job. And it galled her that, either way, it was a win for Ian.

“Might as well get it over with.”

Instantly, she regretted her choice of words.

“That didn’t come out quite the way I intended it.” A nervous giggle punctuated her sentence. “What I meant was...it seems both Mr. Sylvestry and I have time, right now. So if you’re amenable, I’ll meet you at your restaurant in—”

The switch flipped again, and Stan’s boisterous laughter all but drowned out the drone of yet another broadcast.

“What’s with all this Mr. and Ms. Stuff? You’re going to be working together. Closely. For at least the next three weeks, minimum. Read my lips and repeat after me: Mah-lee-ah. Eee-yen.” When they didn’t respond, he grabbed their jaws and repeated his instructions.

“Okay, all right,” Ian said, taking a step back from Stan. He met Maleah’s eyes. “I’ll head over to the bistro and wait for you... Maleah.”

He’d said something eerily similar on the night he presented the little silver band...

If Stan hadn’t been there, waiting and watching, she might have suddenly remembered an important appointment.

“I have a few things to finish up in my office, and then I’ll be right over.”

“See? Now was that so hard?” Stan smirked. “Do I know how to make things happen, or do I know how to make things happen!”

If only she could hold him accountable if things went sideways—and they probably would—and she ended up firing Ian?

CHAPTER SIX

“IT’S A LOVELY old building,” Maleah said, leaning into the deck rail. “And the view, well, it’s priceless.”

He’d half expected her to berate him for agreeing with Stan. And for every awful thing that might have happened to her since the guards carted him off that day. During the drive from the Institute to the bistro, he’d made up his mind to take it on the chin. She had a right to vent some frustration. God knows he’d done his share during his ten years at Lincoln. Her polite behavior seemed too good to be true...

He nodded toward the Constellation. “Ever done a tour of her?”

“I’m embarrassed to admit it, but no.”

She smiled. Not the big loving smile that he’d seen in his dreams. But close enough.

Considering.

“It’s on my bucket list, though. Along with the Science Center. The National Aquarium. Poe’s house, and Babe Ruth’s, too. The B&O Railroad Museum...” She faced the water again. “Not sure why it seems like I never have time for things like that. I have friends—married with kids—who’ve seen all of Charm City’s sights.”

Married. With kids. If he hadn’t screwed up, she’d be married with kids. His kids. Eyes shut tight, Ian lowered his head, hoping what he’d done to her wasn’t the reason she’d remained single.

From the corner of his eye, he could see her, watching as a sailboat floated silently by, its navigation lights reflected by the dark Inner Harbor waters. If not for the motorcycle, roaring by on Thames Street below, she could have heard the quiet clank of rigging lines hitting the mast, too.

Arms crossed and shoulders hunched, Maleah shivered.

“Let’s go inside,” he said. “I’ll make us some coffee and we can get our Stan talk out of the way.”

Nodding, she followed him. A lifetime ago, she would have reached for his hand, given it a loving squeeze as they walked down the wide-planked hall. Lord, how he missed things like that. Missed her. It hadn’t been easy, picking up the Sunday Sun and reading about her involvement in one fund-raiser or another, or turning on the evening news and seeing her respond to reporters’ questions about improvements to Washburne. It hurt like crazy, knowing she was literally minutes from him, yet completely out of his reach. That seemed fair punishment for what he’d put her through, but he didn’t have to like it.

She’d stopped to admire sketches of the building as it had looked a century ago, and photographs of the changes it had undergone through the decades. Hands pocketed, he stood beside her.

“Looks like the former owners took great pains to preserve the historical integrity of the place.”

“It was a mess when my aunt bought the place.” He pointed to the collage of snapshots, showing each phase of construction. “She has a good eye.”

She stepped up to a more recent collection of pictures. “Who’s responsible for these?”

“I am.”

Even looking apprehensive, she was gorgeous. If he’d known how hard it would be, standing this close to her, Ian never would have suggested a one-on-one meeting. Not even for Stan, his dad’s boss.

“Feel free to wander around while I get the coffee started.”

Yet again she followed, this time to the kitchen.

“Wow. Nice setup.” She turned slowly, taking in polished stainless appliances, countertops, and shelving lined with pots, pans and kettles that shone under the fluorescent lights. “I know a few people who own restaurants who’d turn green with envy if they saw this place.”

Pleasant as all this small talk sounded, Ian tensed, wondering when the proverbial other boot would drop. He hid the uneasiness by stepping into the cooler.

“How many chefs do you have?” she called out.

“Two, right now.” Ian emerged carrying two slices of cheesecake. “Of all the things I used to do around here,” he said, kicking the big door shut, “I miss that most.”

She pulled out a stainless stool and sat down. “So you still like to cook, huh?”

No fewer than a dozen times, he’d made good old-fashioned country breakfasts for her, his dad and Gladys. As he filled two big white mugs with coffee, Ian wondered if she could still pack away meals like a linebacker...

He slid a mug across the counter and grabbed forks and napkins from bins near the industrial dishwasher. “It’s decaf, so...”

“Good.” She flapped a napkin across her knees and picked up a fork. “So there are a few things I have to say,” Maleah began.

Ian braced himself and waited for that other boot to drop.

Maleah said, “I get the impression you and Stan go way back...”

“He was my dad’s college roommate. Bought the company where Dad works. And since it’s cheaper to ship things in and out, here on the coast, Stan made Baltimore his corporate headquarters.” He paused. “I get the feeling you have some history with him, too.”

“Not as far back as your association with him. Stan is Washburne’s biggest donor, so like it or not—and for the most part, I do not—I’m expected to defer to his whims.”

“Bummer.”

“Make no mistake, Ian. I’m in charge of the Kids First events. Put me on the spot that way again, and I’ll have a new assistant like that. And you’ll just have to find a new way to help your hostess and her little boy.”

Who’d told her about Terri and Avery? he wondered.

“I, ah, I didn’t mean to step on your toes. It’s just...when Stan issued that Do It My Way order, I tried to find a solution that would appease everybody, equally.”

“Uh-huh.” Chin up and shoulders back, she used her fork as a pointer. “But for future reference, I’ve been on my own for a long time. I don’t need or want a hero.”

She’d always been spunky, but not like this. “Message received.”

He took a bite of cheesecake, and so did she.

“Which chef came up with this recipe?”

“Gladys. She taught me everything I know about running a restaurant.”

“I always enjoyed spending time with her.” After taking a sip of coffee, she asked, “Did she visit often when you were...”

Eyes closed and blushing, she waved a hand in front of her face. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“Nah. It’s only natural that you have questions. Ask me anything. Really.”

Maleah sighed. “I honestly wouldn’t know where to begin.”

He didn’t like seeing her uncomfortable. Liked it even less that he, alone, had made her feel that way.

“Kind of a convoluted story, my ending up owner of Sur les Quais. Gladys banked every dollar I earned in lockup, so when I got out, I had a tidy nest egg waiting for me. She insisted that I move into the furnished apartment upstairs,” he said, thumb aimed at the ceiling. “When I’d racked up a couple dozen ‘Thanks, but we don’t hire ex-cons’ rejections, she put me to work here, washing dishes, mopping up, scrubbing bathrooms... Couple years later, on my birthday, she made me the manager. Then one year, on her birthday, she retired, and handed over the deed.”

“I’m not surprised. She always struck me as a bighearted lady.”

“A year ago, I’d paid her back, in full and with interest.” Ian didn’t know why it was so important for her to know that. “To answer your earlier question, no, she didn’t visit me at Lincoln. Neither did my dad. Because I told them not to.”

“Wow. A scary place like that, all alone at your age? That couldn’t have been easy.”

“Would’ve been harder, seeing their reaction to the place. So I kept my head down and my nose clean, so I could get out sooner, rather than later.”

“Does it bother you? Talking about it, I mean?”

He’d always been open and honest about his stint at Lincoln, mostly in the hope of preventing others from making the same reckless gaffes. Discussing it with Gladys and his dad hadn’t posed a challenge, and when his staff at the restaurant good-naturedly ribbed him about his “time in the pen,” he’d laughed right along with them. But sitting here, not two feet from the only woman he’d ever truly loved? Not easy. Not easy at all.

“Let’s just say certain things are easier to talk about than others.”

Her eyebrows rose, a telltale sign that he’d piqued her curiosity. Didn’t he owe her better than to force her to drag it out of him?

“It was noisy, for one thing. I doubt there were five minutes when the place was quiet. Walking on eggshells, not knowing when a look or a word or even a gesture might set somebody off was kinda crazy-making. The lack of privacy took a while to get used to.”

Chin resting on a fist, Maleah shook her head. “Those things,” she said, pointing at the rough-looking tattoos on his forearms. “Did you do them yourself?”

Ian inspected the rough, faded gray-blue letters that spelled GOOD LIFE. “My penmanship lacks style, even on paper.” Linking his fingers, he said, “Yeah, I did them myself.”

“What materials did you use?”

“Burnt match heads, crushed and mixed with ink from a broken Sharpie, and the innards of a blue ballpoint pen, mixed up in a toothpaste cap...rubbed into scratches.”

“Open cuts?”

“You, better than just about anyone, know I never was the sharpest tack in the box.”

“But...did they get infected?”

They had. To the point of getting him out of laundry duty for two solid weeks.

“Nah, not really.”

“Were things really so bad that you felt it necessary to resort to...to self-mutilation?”

He forced a laugh. “Didn’t do it because conditions were bad.”

“Then why, Ian?”

If a couple of innocuous inscriptions could inspire a frown like that, how would she react to the garish markings fellow inmates inflicted during his first weeks at Lincoln? Lucky for him, she’d never see those.

“Maybe we should get to work. I’m guessing Stan will expect a report first thing in the morning.”

* * *

“YOU’RE RIGHT.” MALEAH SHOVED the half-eaten cheesecake aside and, picking up her gigantic purse, withdrew a small laptop. “I think we should start by designing a flyer,” she began, firing it up. “Something that, if we don’t go overboard with phrasing, can double as a press release or a mailer.”

“Good idea.”

She felt bad, asking about his days in the penitentiary. Prison movies and the stories her grandfather, dad and brothers told about how miserable life in prison was had almost inspired sympathy toward Ian.

Almost.

Maleah carried the laptop to his side of the counter, and as her fingers flew over the keyboard, she began a flurry of rapid-fire talking. Better to have him think she was the same silly chatterbox she’d been at eighteen than risk Ian finding out that despite it all, she wanted what was best for him. And unless she’d misread his penetrating eye contact, raspy-soft voice, and sad smile, he felt the same way,

Ian made a few suggestions about placement of the Washburne logo, highlighting the names of the stars who’d be present at the gala, and adding a color photos of the headliners. One by one, Maleah incorporated them all.

“It’s a great start,” she said, saving the file.

“And to think it only took us half an hour.”

Maleah closed the laptop. “Well, it isn’t like I haven’t done this before.”

“Couple dozen times, according to Stan.”

She returned the computer to its slot in her bag as he added, “I have a few friends in the media who can help publicize the event. I can make some calls, if you like.”

“Friends, as in TV and newspaper reporters?”

“Yeah.”

He rattled off a few names, and Maleah recognized each. In the past, all but one had ignored her voice mail and email messages.

“That’ll be a big help,” she admitted. “How do you know those people, if you don’t mind my asking.”

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Helped Tom Scottson with a documentary about kids in prison he did a few years back. One thing led to another. Before I knew it, I was the go-to guy for a couple of similar TV series he filmed here in Baltimore.” He shrugged again. “The directors and a couple of the producers still call every now and then.”

So, Maleah thought, he’d committed a felony and served time for it, and instead of being shunned, the media had turned him into a silent hero of sorts? She didn’t know how to feel about that.

“Guess I’d better go,” she said, zipping up the big bag.

“Right. Four o’clock always comes earlier than I think it will when I set the alarm.”

“That’s early.”

“Earlier I get to the farmer’s market, less likely things will be picked over.”

“You do that yourself? I thought that was the chef’s job.”

“Sometimes. But Dan’s wife just had a baby—what a set of lungs that kid has—so Lee and the rest of us are picking up the slack for a few weeks.” Ian grinned. “Just until he adjusts to his new no-sleep schedule.”

Had his association with TV types taught him when and how to polish up his I’m a changed man veneer? Or was this the new Ian?

“Very nice.”

“Dan’s good people. We’re happy to do it.”

Maleah reached for her jacket, but Ian beat her to it.

“Where’d you park?” he asked, helping her into it.

“In the lot across the street.”

As he led the way to the side door, Ian said, “You want to call Stan in the morning, or should I?”

“If it’s up to me, I say we let him call us. I don’t appreciate being pushed around like that.”

He smiled. “You’ll let me know what he says?”

“What makes you think he’ll call me? My dad and Stan aren’t best friends.”

Unlocking the door from the inside, he stepped onto the sea-blue porch. “Okay, if I hear from him, I’ll let you know.” He pointed to the narrow lot on the other side of Thames Street.

“Which is yours?”

“The silver SUV, right next to that gigantic motorcycle.”

“That’s Harriet the Harley. Bought her years ago, when she was hardly more than a bucket of rusty bolts.”

“How many trips does it take to get produce here on that thing?”

Laughing, Ian took her elbow and escorted her across the street. “I use the black pickup beside Harriet for that.”

She unlocked her car and eased the briefcase onto the passenger seat, and as she slid in behind the wheel, he leaned on the driver’s door.

“Sorry if my Lincoln stories upset you.”

“Upset me? Why would they upset me? You’re the one who served time, not me.”

Had he stepped back because of her curt tone, or the smug expression that no doubt accompanied it? You’ve become a cold, heartless woman.

“You never were one to beat around the bush, were you?”

“It’s a confusing waste of time, and unnecessarily hard on the shrubbery.”

One side of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “It’s been good, seeing you. Even better knowing you don’t hate my guts.”

She’d tried hating him, but the good times they’d shared made it impossible. “Harboring ill feelings...another waste of time.”

Oh, aren’t you the philosopher tonight!

“Uh-huh,” he said. And after a moment, “So...once we get Stan’s approval, we’ll have those flyers printed up?”

“We’re not waiting for his approval. He insisted that we meet and make some plans, and we did far more than that. I’ll print the flyer and email you a copy. Once you’ve made contact with your reporter pals, let me know, so we can work out a good time for interviews and whatnot.”

He leaned a forearm on the car’s roof. “I’ll have them get in touch with you.”

“With me? But you’re their go-to guy...”

“Why would they want to feature this ugly ol’ mug when they could film your pretty face?”

Grateful for the darkness that hid her blush, Maleah buckled her seat belt.

“Good work tonight,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

He took the hint and stood back. “How long will it take you to get home from here?”

“Now? Half an hour.”

Ian nodded as she shut the door.

“Good. Drive safely now, hear?”

Maleah aimed the SUV toward South Caroline. With any luck, the traffic lights would be on her side and she really would be home in thirty minutes.

If it took longer, she wouldn’t complain. She’d always done her best thinking behind the wheel, and the meeting with Ian had given her a lot to think about. How to explain to her family that she’d work with “that bum Ian Sylvestry” until the night of the gala, for starters. And how he’d parlayed life as an ex-con into respectable relationships with the media...something she’d hadn’t accomplished in her years with Washburne. At least, not to the degree Ian had.

On the other hand, she hadn’t yet seen proof that he could arrange the interviews. For all she knew, the promise was all part of a well-rehearsed act. If so, would Stan place the blame where it belonged? Because one thing Maleah didn’t need at this point in the gala’s schedule was another reason to resent him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE CHRISTMAS TREES of the World display that opened the Kids First event was one of the best Ian had ever seen. Hundreds of them, all shapes, sizes and colors, adorned with ornaments depicting the traditions of each represented country. His assignment? Make sure the lights stayed lit and the decorations stayed in place.

“Too bad they’re fake,” said a deep voice.

Turning, Ian looked into the eyes of Maleah’s older brother.

“Eliot. Long time no see.”

“Ten years, plus what, another fifteen?”

Ian chose to ignore the sarcasm. “Give or take.”

He gave Ian a quick once-over. “You’re rougher around the edges than I remember, but you didn’t age near as much as I thought you would.”

Ian saw two boys, perhaps six and eight, hovering nearby.

“Your kids?”

“Yeah, poor poor Dad,” said the taller of the two, “it’s his weekend with us. We’re doing stupid stuff until he can drop us off.”

If Ian had ever seen a man look more hurt or embarrassed, he didn’t know when. A lot of life had happened to Eliot during Ian’s years on the inside...marriage, kids and divorce. The guy had never gone out of his way to be friendly—quite the opposite, in fact—and yet he felt bad for him.

“I read someplace,” Ian told the older boy, “that dads aren’t as good at the one-on-one stuff as moms because they’re too busy protecting their kids from the dangerous stuff in the world.” He glanced at Eliot. “Especially dads that are cops.”

The smaller kid piped up with “Dad is always, always telling us to keep our wits about us, because there are crazies around every corner.” He looked up at his father. “Can we go to Dairy Queen after this?”

“Sure, sure.” Eliot slid a ten from his wallet, handed it to his oldest son. “There’s a gift cart right there. See if you can find something your mom might like.”

In one blink of the eye, Eliot looked as grateful as someone who despised him could look.

In the next, his expression reverted to the no-nonsense tough cop Ian remembered so well.

“I don’t need any parenting help from the likes of you, Sylvestry. My boys and I get along great.”

“I’m sure you do.” Ian glanced at the kids, squinting at the price tags attached to delicate, hand-blown glass ornaments. “They look a lot like you. Seem like good kids, too.”

Eliot’s frown deepened. “I didn’t come here seeking your compliments or your approval.”

“Yeah? Then why are you here?”

“In a word, Maleah. She said over Sunday dinner that some Washburne big shot pressured her into working with you. And I’m here to say if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do your job and nothing more.”

He didn’t like Eliot’s tone. Or his ready-to-fight stance, for that matter. He tried to put himself in the man’s shoes. What red-blooded loving brother would stand idly by while his only sister dated an ex-con? Understanding the man’s behavior was one thing, but he didn’t appreciate being raked over the coals in front of paying customers and other event volunteers.

He was about to say all that when the sound of shattering glass stopped him. “Wasn’t us, Dad,” said the little guy. “It was that kid.” He pointed. “The one who’s been running around.”

“I know,” Eliot said. “Saw him out of the corner of my eye.”

“We bought Mom an angel ornament,” his older son said, holding up a small white box.

“Good. Zip up your jackets. We’re leaving.”

“Can we still go to Dairy Queen?”

“Sure. Why not?”

He faced Ian, pointed a finger and narrowed his eyes. “Remember...do your job. That’s it. Or else.”

Or else what? he wanted to ask.

“One question,” Ian said instead.

“Yeah...”

“Did Maleah put you up to this?”

“Absolutely not. She doesn’t even know we’re here. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep it that way.”

Again with the “if you know what’s good for you” garbage. To avoid regular beatings, like those he’d been subjected to that first year at Lincoln, Ian had learned to endure a certain amount of bullying. But he saw no reason to tolerate Eliot’s intimidation now, even if his intentions were more or less good. He put himself in Eliot’s path, effectively blocking his exit. “Look. Eliot. I get it. If my sister was cavorting with a known felon, I’d wig out, too. But you need to know that I have no interest in Maleah.” Too much time had passed, time that changed them. Yes, he liked her even better now, maybe, grown up, feisty and independent, than he had all those years ago, but that didn’t mean things could ever be the same. “So save your threats for somebody who doesn’t have her best interests at heart, okay?”

The boys ran up and, grinning, flanked their father. “We’re ready for ice cream!” the little guy said.

Ian watched them walk away, hand in hand, Eliot nodding and smiling as the boys chattered all the way to the main entrance. Despite the older one’s surly comment earlier, it was clear father and sons really did have a good relationship.

And for the first time since meeting Eliot, Ian envied him.

Just then, Ian spotted Maleah an aisle away, giving directions to a visitor. When she looked up, he waved. He hadn’t intended it as an invitation, but when she started moving toward him, he thought, Two birds with one stone. Find out what, if anything, she wanted him to do, and—

“I see you had a visitor.”

It surprised him to learn that she’d watched all that and hadn’t intervened. “Yeah. A real fun reunion.”

Maleah didn’t respond, and Ian decided she hadn’t heard him as she turned to straighten a crystal angel on Finland’s tree.

“Maybe next time you guys have a Turner family get-together, you can set your brother straight. Make sure he knows you’re safe from the big bad ex-con.”

She took half a step back. “No need to shout, Ian. I’m standing right here.”

“Sorry.”

“So is that what Eliot told you? That he thought you were threatening me in some way?”

“No. He’s concerned I’m trying to pick up where I left off. Pretty much told me to do my job and keep my distance...or else.”

“Or else what?”

“That’s what I wanted to know. I didn’t ask him, of course, because his kids were with him.”

She lifted her chin. Crossed both arms over her chest. Took half a step forward.

“If you’re waiting for me to apologize on his behalf, don’t. Eliot has always been protective, and under the circumstances, you can hardly blame him. I was a mess, for months, thanks to you. And he was right there, helping pick up the pieces.”

A two-by-four to the head couldn’t have hurt worse.

“I get it. In fact, I admitted to him that I get it. Doesn’t mean I like being taken to task in front of a bunch of strangers.”

She shrugged again, as if to say That’s the price you pay for participating in an armed robbery.

If that’s what she truly felt, he couldn’t blame her. That hurt, and riled him, too.

Every time the prison mailman handed him a Return to Sender envelope, his heart shrank a bit more; when Turtle poked that last one through the chipped gray bars, Ian all but gave up. Lincoln’s chaplain, having heard that he wasn’t eating or sleeping much, made an unscheduled visit to cell block D, during which the old priest said something Ian had never forgotten: “Self-pity is the most destructive of human emotions. Get involved in activities that put you last, not first.” The advice had served him well...until he saw her on the bistro’s dance floor. Since then he’d flip-flopped from wondering if what they’d once had could be revived, and wanting to protect her from him. He reminded himself how important family had always been to her. If it came down to choices between their feelings and even the most casual business relationship with him, she’d choose them.

As she should, since—as she’d pointed out—they’d been there to pick up the pieces after he went away.

“Just so we’re on the same page,” she said, standing as tall as her five-foot frame would allow, “we both know that Eliot has nothing to worry about...right?”

“Right. And neither do you. Soon as this Kids First stuff ends, you’ll probably never see me again.”

“No need to back away entirely. Washburne needs all the capable volunteers it can get. I’m sure they can find ways you can continue helping out that don’t involve working with me.”

She must have realized that her curt words rattled him, because Maleah smiled. Not the big happy grin that once lit up her entire face, but Ian preferred it to the way she’d been looking at him since Eliot left.

“Have you had a chance to see the entire exhibit yet?”

“Not yet. Too busy fixing what these curious visitors mess up. My mom used to say ‘You look with your eyes, not your fingers.’ Guess they never heard that one.”

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