about snagged panties or bloodied knuckles.”
She’d tried. Several times. Once, she got as far as placing it atop an empty cereal box in the kitchen trash can before rescuing it. Of all the memorabilia, why did this photo hold such significance?
Knock it off, idiot. Memories like that were the reason Eliot didn’t trust her.
She kicked off her heels, hung up the little black dress, and slipped into her PJ’s. Hair piled loose atop her head, Maleah scrubbed lipstick, mascara, and eye shadow from her face, loaded her toothbrush, and leaned into the mirror. “If you could see me now, Kent O’Malley,” she mumbled.
“You’re the sexiest woman on feet,” he’d whispered into her ear.
“Just because I’m blonde,” she’d whispered back, “doesn’t mean I’ll fall for a tired old line like that.”
“Oh? What line would you fall for, then?”
He’d chosen that moment to spin her around. And that’s when she saw Ian, all alone at the edge of the dance floor, looking as stunned and confused as she felt. Somehow, she managed to follow Kent’s lead while they danced, praying all the while that he wouldn’t turn her again, because she wanted—needed—to see more of Ian.
She’d often wondered how much he’d changed after ten years in prison, and now she knew. Poets might describe him as ruggedly handsome, and Maleah had to agree. The close-cropped beard and silver strands threading through nearly-black hair gave him the distinguished look of a college professor, but the muscles bulging from his formerly reed-thin frame were anything but professorial. The biggest difference, Maleah decided, were the worry lines, etched between still-dark brows. That, and a sad, almost pleading look in those oh-so-serious eyes. Go to him, was the crazy, unbelievable thought that popped into her head. If Kent hadn’t stopped dancing, hadn’t said, “You’re white as a bedsheet. What’s wrong?” would she have done it?
She checked her calendar on her phone. Two back-to-back meetings, both before ten, both with the parents of severely autistic kids, followed by a volunteer stint at Johns Hopkins Children’s Oncology, to paint Batman and Superman and Pokémon characters on the patients’ faces. If she didn’t get a few hours’ sleep, no telling what nonsensical things she’d say—or do.
Maybe a cup of chamomile tea would settle her nerves...
But an hour later, she was still wide awake.
Tucked under a downy comforter, she closed her eyes and pictured the teacher of the yoga class, “Breathing to Relax,” that she’d signed up for years ago.
“It’s like counting sheep,” the petite redhead had instructed. “Inhale for a count of four, exhale for a count of four—all through the nose—and repeat until you feel the tension and stress floating away.”
Even after twenty reps of four, sleep eluded her.
Angry, flustered and exhausted, she tossed the covers aside.
The power went out often enough that Maleah taught herself how to get round the century-old town house in the dark without stubbing toes or bumping into furniture. Surprisingly, it took very little time to memorize every square inch of the old house...
Sixteen steps across the velvety Persian rug put her at her dresser, where she flicked on the light and jerked open the top drawer.
Twelve stairs led her down to the first floor, and twenty-seven paces brought her into the kitchen.
This silly ceremony could just as easily have been performed upstairs in the master bathroom. But knowing what nestled at the bottom of that waste basket would have guaranteed a fitful, completely sleepless night.
Bare toes depressed the pedal that lifted the stainless trash can’s lid.
“This one’s for you, Eliot,” she said, and released Ian’s picture.
In the morning, after she’d stuffed the bag into the big bin out back, she’d find out what it felt like to be free of Ian Sylvestry, once and for all.
FIRM DECISIONS MADE in the middle of a long night, Maleah discovered, didn’t always deliver positive results.
Ian’s picture shouldn’t actually go to the curb because...what if one of the garbage men cut his hand tossing it into the truck? Besides, it seemed a shame to throw away a perfectly good silver frame when an inexpensive 8x10 piece of glass would fix it up, good as new.
Maleah shrugged into her ski parka and tiptoed down the back porch stairs, taking care to avoid that squeaky third step...the one that always alerted her nosy neighbor.
She’d never had occasion to go outside at this hour, and now understood what her grandfather meant when he said, “Dark as pitch out there!” But what had she expected? It was three in the morning. And Channel 13’s Marty Bass predicted rain. As usual, he’d been right.
Right as rain, she thought, shivering as cold drops pelted her cheeks, the backs of her hands.
Biting down on a mini flashlight, she aimed the narrow beam at the trash can, eased off its lid, and laid it handle-down in the grass—miraculously without making a sound. Good job, she thought, poking a hole in the plastic bag. Unless the frame had slid deeper into the sack during the trip out here, it should be right on top.
Without warning, the tiny yard was flooded with light. Bright, white, blinding light.
“Dumpster diving, eh?”
“Vern!” The very person she’d hoped to avoid. “You scared me half to death!”
“Better than scaring you all the way there...”
A joke? At this time of night? She liked him better when he was grumpy.
Forearm over her eyes, she squinted over the fence separating his property from hers.
“How many watts is that bulb, Vern? Ten thousand? Twenty?”
“It’s a two-fifty LED,” he said matter-of-factly. “Why bother havin’ a floodlight at all if it ain’t a-gonna, y’know, flood the place with light?”
He tightened the belt of his corduroy robe. Did he own any real clothes? she wondered.
“What’re you doin’ out here at this ungodly hour, anyway?”
She might have come up with a suitable retort...if he hadn’t continued with “Kids these days. Inconsiderate. Dumb as a box o’ rocks. Noisy... Why, in my day, young folks had respect for their neighbors. It’s them dad-blasted liberal college professors, I tell ya, fillin’ kids’ heads fulla ‘me-me-me-I’m-so-special’ bunkum all the live-long day.”
On second thought, she didn’t like Grumpy Vern better, after all.
“Well?”
She turned off the flashlight. Why waste the batteries when Vern’s porch light was more powerful than the sun?
“Well
