Loree Lough - The Man She Knew

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?”