The Man She Knew

by Loree Lough

  “Thought I’d have to bang a ladle on the spaghetti pot to rouse you.” She folded the paper and hopped down from her stool. “Hungry? Pancake batter is ready to go. And I bought a package of your favorite sausage links.”

  The pain meds had all but obliterated his appetite, but she seemed eager to do things for him. Besides, if he didn’t eat, recovery would take twice as long.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Sit down before you fall down, nephew. You can watch the news while I get breakfast on.”

  Nodding, he inched toward the recliner and, setting the walker to its left, slowly lowered himself onto the leather cushion.

  Gladys delivered a steaming mug of black coffee. “So how was it,” she said, placing the newspaper beside it, “sleeping in your own bed for the first time in over a week?”

  “Real nice. Quiet. And I sure as heck didn’t miss being shaken awake every half hour so those nurses could check my vitals...”

  His aunt crossed to the window wall and pulled back the gauzy curtains.

  “Is that...is that snow?” he asked.

  “Started falling last night around eleven.”

  Baltimore had seen its share of mid-winter snowfalls, but they’d rarely lasted very long. Evidence of this one would likely disappear in a few hours, too. Not that it mattered if it decided to hang around; he had nowhere to go. The surgeon made it clear that Ian was to stay put, eliminating any chance that he might fall on his way downstairs to the bistro. A visiting nurse would stop by daily to give him a once-over and supervise five minutes’ worth of laps around the apartment. Seven to ten days of that, and the doctor would give the go-ahead for physical therapy, three times a week, working his way up from ten-minute sessions to hour-long workouts. Ian wasn’t looking forward to any of it.

  “Guess you’re glad you didn’t take my furniture arranging advice, aren’t you?” Gladys said, flipping a big flapjack.

  Ian thought of the way she’d insisted the fireplace ought to be the focal point, not the water view. But it wasn’t like her to so easily admit a mistake, so he let it slide.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “At work.” She winked. “I only know one person who can afford to sleep half the morning away, then loll around in a lounge chair.”

  “I ought to order some kind of thank you gift to show my appreciation.” Cash rested his chin on Ian’s knee. “Dad took real good care of this boy,” he continued, scratching behind the dog’s ears. Ian planned to get something for Gladys, too. It would have meant three, maybe four additional days at Hopkins if she hadn’t volunteered to move in here and keep a watchful eye on him.

  “I prefer gift cards, myself,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.

  She carried a big tray into the living room and rested it on the recliner’s arms, then unceremoniously stuffed one of the bistro’s linen napkins into the collar of his sweatshirt. It reminded him of the time his car was in the shop, and Maleah offered to drive him to work.

  On the way, they’d stopped for burgers and fries and, as usual, he’d smothered his with ketchup. “Your boss will pitch a fit if you walk into the computer store with red stains on that white work shirt,” she’d said, gently tucking a paper napkin into his collar. A sweet and simple gesture, motivated by sweet young love...

  “Need anything else?” Gladys asked.

  And without even thinking, Ian said, “Just Maleah.”

  His aunt studied his face for a moment. “More sausage, another pancake, even buttered toast,” she said, shaking her head. “I can deliver any of that. But Maleah?” Grabbing the remote, she turned on the TV.

  Subtle, he thought as the weather channel appeared on the screen, but not even news of an oncoming blizzard had the power to keep his mind off Maleah. He hadn’t seen her since the night of the gala...when a house literally fell on him. He’d only been away on SAR business for two days, and she’d called to see if he was all right...

  He bit into a sausage link, washed it down with a gulp of coffee.

  “Did she call?”

  “Yeah, day after the accident. Said she heard about it on the news.”

  “Did she say if she might stop by?”

  Gladys frowned. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

  In other words, no.

  “Your nurse will be here in half an hour, so eat up.”

  Oh, he’d eat, all right. Eat and exercise, and do his level best to get a decent night’s sleep from here on out. He might be down for the count, but he wasn’t out, at least not yet. Once he’d recovered, he’d go to her, healed and whole, and tell her to quit behaving like a spoiled brat and get over herself.

  No doubt she’d give him a piece of her mind, and maybe then, he’d finally get over her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE DAY DRAGGED, mostly because Maleah couldn’t concentrate on anything but the fact that Ian had nearly been killed while volunteering to save others. She’d nearly dropped the hot curling iron when the morning news anchor stated Ian’s name in the intro to the story about the deadly house collapse. He’d saved an elderly woman at great risk to himself.

  She glanced at her briefcase, where she’d stuffed the letters between her laptop and wallet.

  “You will not read them,” she muttered, slapping the steering wheel.

  Maybe a big green plant, delivered to his house, would serve much the same purpose...

  Indecision had never been a problem for her, so why couldn’t she make up her mind about anything related to Ian Sylvestry!

  Quarter-sized snowflakes continued to fall. Thankfully, the forecasters had been right, predicting the ground was too warm for it to accumulate. It made for dicey driving, though, as commuters jockeyed for position on I-95.

  When at last she arrived home, Maleah hung her coat and keys on hooks in the front hall and headed straight for the kitchen. Her rumbling stomach demanded some attention. A can of soup and a sandwich should quiet things down. She’d seen Casablanca in the TV guide’s list. A glance at the clock confirmed she had just enough time. With the flame turned low under her smallest pot, she headed upstairs to change into sweats.

  The letters, still hidden deep in the briefcase, came to mind. How odd that Ian had tied them up with the now off-white satin ribbon attached to the corsage he’d pinned to the wispy shoulder of her pale pink gown. Wide-eyed and smiling, he’d looked so handsome in his rented white tux. Far more handsome than any other boy at the junior prom.

  If she was honest, Maleah had to admit that he’d grown into a man who’d earned the respect and admiration of others. If only her family could accept how much he’d changed.

  Hypocrite, she thought. If you had the courage of a flea, you’d set them straight. And sparing them the so-called bad news because Grampa had cancer wouldn’t play into it at all.

  The image of Ian, bruised, battered and bandaged, flashed in her mind. She blinked away the tears that stung her eyes. Things always looked worse in a person’s imagination than in real life. Sending a plant sounded better and better...on the off-chance her picture was more real than fantasy.

  Downstairs, she looked up the florist’s number and gave them a call. She settled on the Southwest Garden green plant arrangement.

  The cactus and succulents in a blue-gray ceramic bowl wouldn’t require much attention, so it might last through his recovery period.

  “Let’s add a couple of Mylar balloons,” Maleah said, “and a box of truffles.” Hopefully, his doctor hadn’t listed chocolate as something to avoid.

  “And the card?”

  Maleah didn’t even have to think about it. “How about ‘While you rest and recover, I’ll be thinking of you, and praying you’ll be back on your feet soon. Fondly, Maleah.’”

  “Nice,” the woman said. “I might save that, in case a futu
re customer has no idea what to write.” She collected Maleah’s credit card information and Ian’s name and address, and promised the gifts would arrive by noon the following day.

  That got her out of the in-person visit, but what would she do when he called to say thank you?

  Maleah tuned into the movie and sat, soup and sandwich balanced on a tray on her lap. She’d missed the first ten minutes, thanks to the phone call. But having seen the beginning half a dozen times, she could recite the dialog by heart.

  Nearly two hours later, she sat dry-eyed and confused. Always before, the ending left her teary-eyed. Why not this time? she wondered, putting her supper dishes into the dishwasher.

  Afraid she might be tempted to read those letters, Maleah locked up, turned out the lights, and headed upstairs, intent on going straight to bed. But a sudden thought interrupted her as she reached for her favorite pajamas. The photo of Ian that she’d rescued from the trash... She picked it up and looked into those big, dark, smiling eyes. Would they be bruised and swollen, she wondered, after his ordeal? Should she call to find out? Perhaps stop by to see for herself? You can pretend you’re just making sure the plant arrived...

  When in doubt, her grandfather liked to say, it was best to sleep on things. So she put the picture back where she’d found it, brushed her teeth and climbed under the covers.

  But sleep wouldn’t come. She blamed it on the awful news about Ian. His photograph and the tiny bale of envelopes, secured by a satin ribbon.

  Maybe if she moved the letters, she could put them out of her mind...

  Downstairs, she clicked on the light beside her overstuffed flowery chair and unsnapped her briefcase. For a moment, Maleah stared at the envelope on top: her parents’ address perfectly centered. In the upper left corner, his name, prisoner ID number, and Lincoln’s address. Atop it all, her angry command, printed in bold black letters: RETURN TO SENDER.

  She didn’t know what compelled her to do it, but Maleah slid it from the stack and turned it over. Still securely closed, even after all this time, she noted. It didn’t take much effort to break the seal...

  Now what?

  Well, she’d come this far...

  Maleah slid the letter from its envelope and, tucking her legs under her, read the first line.

  “My sweet Leah...”

  He said very little about life at Lincoln, save to explain the courses he’d signed up for. English Lit. Psychology. Trigonometry. Physics. “Too much paperwork,” he’d written, “but it beats reading the beat-up novels on the library cart.”

  In letter after letter, Ian described volunteer projects, such as tutoring inmates in English, science and math. Most of the high school dropouts, he explained, were just happy for the excuse to spend a few hours a day outside their cells. Others, though, planned to take the GED test when they got out. “Makes me feel better about myself, knowing they have a chance at landing a decent job after they leave this miserable place.”

  The line stood out, because it had been the first time he’d admitted just how unpleasant life at Lincoln had been.

  The last letter touched her most deeply, because in it, Ian talked about the SAR courses, working with a variety of dog breeds to prepare them for search and rescue missions. She could tell how enthusiastic he was by the size and slant of his handwriting. “First thing I’m doing when I get out,” he’d written, “is signing up with one of those teams.” He’d punctuated the sentence with a clumsy smiley face, followed by “Make that the second thing. First thing I’m gonna do is wrap you in the biggest hug you ever had.”

  As she restacked the letters, tears filled her eyes. If she’d given him half a chance... Water under the bridge. She’d hold on to the letters until Ian recovered. In the meantime, they’d remain in her briefcase—no chance Eliot would find them there, since he didn’t know the code to unlock it.

  Back in her room, she huddled into the covers while images painted by his letters flitted through her head. All this time, she’d told herself that he’d ruined her for other men, even though everything learned in psychology classes said otherwise. Feeling sorry for herself provided the perfect excuse to stay angry with Ian...and avoid commitments, even with the many standup guys her friends and family had introduced her to.

  They said that a woman like her, with a big, caring, unselfish heart, shouldn’t spend her life alone. If any of that was true, why hadn’t she considered what Ian’s life had been like? For the first time in many years, Maleah cried herself to sleep.

  * * *

  THE EFFORT OF making his way from the bedroom to the living room left Ian shaky and out of breath. Oh, how he hated feeling so weak and helpless!

  Gladys peered over her reading glasses and shoved her phone aside. “Don’t know how people read articles online,” she said. “The font is so small!”

  Ian eased into his recliner. “You can enlarge it, y’know.”

  “Give me a good old-fashioned, inky fingers newspaper any day.”

  “Wasn’t the paper delivered today?”

  “I’m sure it was. I just haven’t had a chance to run downstairs and pick it up yet.”

  “Thought Dad usually did that.”

  Gladys shrugged. “He’d already left for work when I got up.”

  “What’s up with that? He hates that job.”

  Another shrug. “Special project, or so he says.”

  “Whew.” He raised the chair’s footrest. “I was beginning to think he was avoiding me.”

  “Don’t read more into it than what’s there. You know as well as I do that brother of mine will do anything to avoid adversity.” She made her way to the fridge. “Hungry? I’m in the mood for poached eggs on toast.”

  “Sounds good.”

  His cell phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID screen and tossed it back onto the side table. Evidently, Maleah had no plans to check in with him.

  “Feeling better this morning?”

  He stretched out in his recliner. “Better than yesterday.”

  “That scowl says otherwise. You didn’t take your pain meds, did you?”

  “I don’t like the way they make me feel, all dizzy and sleepy.” That’s why he’d decided to take the pills only at bedtime. A good decision, since in addition to curbing achiness, they guaranteed deep, dreamless sleep. At least so far.

  “Don’t look so disappointed, nephew. She might reach out, eventually.”

  He might have responded with yeah, right or fat chance...but he was tired. Tired of wondering and waiting. Tired of putting his life on hold for maybes and mights. Tired of never knowing where he stood with Maleah—who played Pollyanna one minute, then Ice Queen the next.

  He’d never asked much from life. Just what every guy his age wanted. A wife, a house with a yard that his kids and Cash could run around in. And he might have it, too, if he hadn’t turned a blind eye to every woman who’d seemed even remotely interested. It had been stupid to think that someday, after he’d made something of himself he could show her all he’d accomplished as proof of how sorry he was and how much he’d changed.

  And he’d done it all for what? To hear her wonder aloud if he might rob a children’s charity?

  Ian blamed the surly attitude on lack of sleep, sore bones, feeling out of control over...everything. Soon after his release, he’d learned to let “can’t trust an ex-con” insults roll off his back by employing the old “Don’t let others’ opinions distort reality” quote. If it worked then, it’d work now.

  “Stop beating yourself up, Ian. If she doesn’t come around, well, it’s just proof she isn’t good enough for you.”

  Weird. And all this time I thought it was the other way round.

  Cash whimpered and looked up at him.

  “What’s the matter, buddy? Did Auntie Gladys forget to feed you this mornin
g?”

  “I fed your precious boy,” Gladys said. “Took him out for a potty break and gave him a treat, too. In all fairness, Brady did what he could to cheer Cash up, but I guess there’s just no replacing the irreplaceable Ian Sylvestry.”

  Whether or not he’d earned it, Ian believed he had the full support of Gladys and his dad, the bistro employees and fellow SAR volunteers, the people he’d worked with on Washburne projects. He glanced at Cash and grinned. And the undying devotion of my faithful sidekick.

  Why wasn’t that enough? Why did he want so badly to add Maleah to that list? “He isn’t accustomed to seeing you this way,” Gladys continued, cracking eggs into boiling water.

  “Don’t know what would become of him if anything happened to you...”

  The hint wasn’t lost on Ian. He reached down and petted the dog’s head. “Love you, too, buddy. Don’t worry. I’m gonna be fine.”

  She dropped four slices of bread into the toaster. “When you’re on your feet again, first thing you should do is take him for a walk to Henderson’s Wharf. He loves sniffing the air down on the docks.”

  Six city blocks, minimum. Ian shook his head as Gladys buttered the toast.

  “I dunno.” He watched her plate the toast. “Could be a good long while before I’m ready for that.”

  “Are you kidding?” she asked, spooning an egg onto each slice. “Took you nearly ten minutes to get from the bedroom to the chair yesterday. Today, you did it in half the time. Keep up with those exercises, and you’ll be back to normal in no time.”

  Palming his fork, Ian smiled up at her as she put his breakfast in front of him. “Thanks, Gladys. You’re the best. And I really mean that.”

  “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that. Now eat up. Few things yuckier than cold eggs.”

  He could think of one thing yuckier than that.

  Life without Maleah.

  * * *

  SOON AFTER GLADYS collected his tray, Ian dozed off. If not for the repeated peal of the doorbell, he might have saved the old guy and himself, too...at least in the dream...