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 Ian.
Almost.
Maleah carried the laptop to his side of the counter, and as her fingers flew over the keyboard, she began a flurry of rapid-fire talking. Better to have him think she was the same silly chatterbox she’d been at eighteen than risk Ian finding out that despite it all, she wanted what was best for him. And unless she’d misread his penetrating eye contact, raspy-soft voice, and sad smile, he felt the same way,
Ian made a few suggestions about placement of the Washburne logo, highlighting the names of the stars who’d be present at the gala, and adding a color photos of the headliners. One by one, Maleah incorporated them all.
“It’s a great start,” she said, saving the file.
“And to think it only took us half an hour.”
Maleah closed the laptop. “Well, it isn’t like I haven’t done this before.”
“Couple dozen times, according to Stan.”
She returned the computer to its slot in her bag as he added, “I have a few friends in the media who can help publicize the event. I can make some calls, if you like.”
“Friends, as in TV and newspaper reporters?”
“Yeah.”
He rattled off a few names, and Maleah recognized each. In the past, all but one had ignored her voice mail and email messages.
“That’ll be a big help,” she admitted. “How do you know those people, if you don’t mind my asking.”
He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Helped Tom Scottson with a documentary about kids in prison he did a few years back. One thing led to another. Before I knew it, I was the go-to guy for a couple of similar TV series he filmed here in Baltimore.” He shrugged again. “The directors and a couple of the producers still call every now and then.”
So, Maleah thought, he’d committed a felony and served time for it, and instead of being shunned, the media had turned him into a silent hero of sorts? She didn’t know how to feel about that.
“Guess I’d better go,” she said, zipping up the big bag.
“Right. Four o’clock always comes earlier than I think it will when I set the alarm.”
“That’s early.”
“Earlier I get to the farmer’s market, less likely things will be picked over.”
“You do that yourself? I thought that was the chef’s job.”
“Sometimes. But Dan’s wife just had a baby—what a set of lungs that kid has—so Lee and the rest of us are picking up the slack for a few weeks.” Ian grinned. “Just until he adjusts to his new no-sleep schedule.”
Had his association with TV types taught him when and how to polish up his I’m a changed man veneer? Or was this the new Ian?
“Very nice.”
“Dan’s good people. We’re happy to do it.”
Maleah reached for her jacket, but Ian beat her to it.
“Where’d you park?” he asked, helping her into it.
“In the lot across the street.”
As he led the way to the side door, Ian said, “You want to call Stan in the morning, or should I?”
“If it’s up to me, I say we let him call us. I don’t appreciate being pushed around like that.”
He smiled. “You’ll let me know what he says?”
“What makes you think he’ll call me? My dad and Stan aren’t best friends.”
Unlocking the door from the inside, he stepped onto the sea-blue porch. “Okay, if I hear from him, I’ll let you know.” He pointed to the narrow lot on the other side of Thames Street.
“Which is yours?”
“The silver SUV, right next to that gigantic motorcycle.”
“That’s Harriet the Harley. Bought her years ago, when she was hardly more than a bucket of rusty bolts.”