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
