The Man She Knew
“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.”