Ian shoved back from his desk as Gladys got to her feet.
“How’s that boy of yours?” she asked, falling into step beside Terri.
“He’s fine. Made a rocket—and launched it—yesterday.”
“Amazing.” Terri handed him a pink While You Were Out slip.
“Brady called a little while ago. Said there’s no hurry.”
His father lived in the apartment beside his, right upstairs. So why the phone call? He scanned the note and tucked it into his shirt pocket, hoping it wasn’t one of those days.
“You think he’s in one of his moods?” Gladys asked.
“Nah. Probably just didn’t feel like putting on shoes and coming downstairs.”
Gladys wasn’t buying it. In truth, Ian didn’t believe it, either. When tempted to drink—which happened every six months or so—his dad turned to Ian for some straight talk. So now Ian had a decision to make: meet with the would-be customer, or head upstairs to check on his dad...and risk losing a future booking.
He slid a business card from his pocket and scribbled his cell number on the back.
“See if the guy can give me a few minutes,” he said, handing it to Terri. “And if he can’t, ask him to call me in the morning.”
She faced Gladys. “Good to see you, Mrs. Turner.”
“You, too. Give that kid of yours a big hug for me.”
Once the hostess was out of earshot, Gladys said, “You’re going upstairs, aren’t you?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice.”
After the life he’d lived, didn’t he know it!
“Why don’t I go up, see if there’s anything I can do for him?”
Ian started to protest when she tacked on, “No sense losing a booking just because your dad needs another pep talk.”
“Can I trust you to go easy on him?”
She did her best to look offended.
“Seriously, Gladys...”
“All right. I’ll put on my kid gloves. By the time I’m through with him, he’ll be so sick of TLC he’ll wish he hadn’t left that message.”
With that, she began climbing the stairs, stopping halfway to the top.
“Answer a question for me, nephew.”
“If I can.”
“Who has a holiday party before Thanksgiving?”
Ian shrugged. “A busy rich guy who’s going to surprise his wife with a world cruise planned for Christmas?”
“Oh, to have a husband like that,” she said, and continued up the stairs.
Grinning, Ian made his way to the banquet room. He had to give it to his staff. The place looked great. Linen tablecloths glowed bright white under hundreds of tiny 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