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.
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
