She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had mentioned Ian or her involvement with him. Now thanks to Eliot’s mistrustful nature, the entire family would start watching her every move...again.
“Thanks a bunch, big brother, for opening Pandora’s box.”
A rush of memories rained down on her as she removed the picture...
When he’d called that night, Ian’s trembling voice described how his mother and new husband were expecting a baby. Hurt, confused and angry, he’d pleaded with Maleah to meet him. “I just need to talk it out. I promise not to keep you out late.” She’d wanted to comfort him, but homework, chores and three generations of disapproving Turner cops prevented it. Her refusal fueled his fury, and he’d hung up without saying goodbye. Months passed before she saw him again, slump-shouldered and chained to the defense table like a rabid dog.
Now, staring at his likeness, Maleah wondered for the thousandth time: If she had met him that night, would Ian have made a different choice?
“Enough!” She slammed the frame onto the table. “You destroyed your life, Ian Sylvestry, not me!”
Glittering shards of glass crisscrossed his once-carefree face, and that was fine with her.
“HEY, BOSS, WHAT should I do with this?”
Ian inspected the document in his assistant manager’s hands. “I suppose we oughta frame it, hang it near the registration counter.”
“Si.” Sergio shifted his weight to his good leg. “Good place for patrons to see they are dining in A-plus restaurante.”
Terri, Sur les Quais’s hostess, peered over Sergio’s shoulder.
“Oh wow, Ian. That’s so fantastic! I’ll bet I can find a frame downstairs in the storeroom...”
“Think you can find a good place to hang it once it’s behind glass, too?”
“Probably...” She started for the stairs, turning to add, “But I’ll check with you before I drive a nail into the wall.”
Such a timid little thing. “No need for that. I’m sure any spot you choose will be fine.”
She gave that a moment’s thought. “Okay then, if you’re sure.”
As she hurried down the stairs, he pictured the abusive husband who’d made her afraid of her own shadow. He’d tangled with plenty of bullies at Lincoln, and quickly figured out that defending himself would only tack extra years onto his sentence. It had taken time and careful planning, but he’d found ways to end the harassment...and earn the grudging respect of fellow inmates.
And the Turners called me a thug. Unlike his parents, Ian believed in marriage, in sticking it out when times got tough. But in his opinion, Terri and her boy would have been better off if Steve had fulfilled his numerous threats of leaving. He’d done nothing to hide his disappointment at having a special needs son, not even from Avery. Despite it all, Avery seemed as determined to overcome the limitations of his disorder as his mother was to keep him enrolled at the Washburne-Avery Institute. A lot to admire in those two—the mother in particular, who was partially deaf. If only Terri believed in herself as much as Ian did.
Alone in his office, Ian took a knee and rotated the dial on the safe, and as he slid the big checkbook from the bottom shelf, an envelope fluttered to the floor. He recognized it instantly as the last letter he’d sent Maleah from Lincoln. Oh, he’d written others after that one came back. Dozens. A hundred, maybe.
But he hadn’t mailed them.
He picked the letter up and, without reading the message scrawled across the envelope’s back, buried it under last year’s tax return, the titles to his pickup and Harley and his release papers.
“You in there, Ian?”
“C’mon in, Aunt Gladys.”
He sat behind his desk and folded both hands on the checkbook.
“I can’t believe you’re still doing things the old-fashioned way. Surely you know how much time you’d save, banking online.”
“I served time with guys who could hack an account like that.” He snapped his fingers. “I don’t trust the internet. Last thing we need now that we’re in the black is identity theft.”
“That’s what firewalls are for, silly man. Why, I’ve been doing my banking online for years, and I haven’t had a smidge of trouble.”
He owed Gladys a lot. Everything, in fact. Gratitude inspired him to devise ways to divert her when she got into one of her “I know best” moods.
Striking a Zen pose, he said, “I enjoy doing things the old-fashioned way. It calms me.”
Gladys sat back and tilted her head.
“What.”
“You look...weird.”
She’d earned the right to nag him about his beard and earring, or his insistence on writing checks instead of banking online, and he’d endure it. She’d earned that much, and more.
“I’ll shave soon. Promise.”
“No, that isn’t what I mean. You look...sadder than usual.”
“Than usual?” He laughed. “You make it sound like I walk around wearing a big mopey frown on all day, every day.”
“You have a charming, handsome smile, but your mouth rarely sends the ‘happy’ message to those big brown eyes. It’s that bratty girl’s fault. If she hadn’t been so afraid to buck her family...” Gladys pursed her lips. “She knew you better than anyone. Should have known you didn’t deserve ten years for driving a car. Should have known you weren’t in on the planning of that robbery, too.”
She was right about one thing: Maleah had known him better than anyone. But she was wrong about the rest of it.
“I love you for defending me, and I realize hearing the truth is tough, but I knew what the guys were planning, and went along with it, anyway. What happened afterward is on me, one hundred percent.”
Gladys cringed. “Boy. When you tell it like it is, you don’t fool around, do you?”
Ian answered with a one-shouldered shrug.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I love you, too, nephew. And I’m proud of you. It couldn’t have been easy, overcoming the stigma of having served time. But you did it without complaint, without shirking your responsibility in it. If I’d been blessed with a son, I’d want him to be exactly like you.”
She’d said it before, and Ian believed every word.
His aunt pointed at the wall behind him. “Is that new?”
He swiveled the chair. “Sort of. I finished it about a month ago.”
“It’s gorgeous, but then, so are all of your paintings. I love the colors of the sky. And you really captured the grandeur of the Constellation.” She sighed. “It’s so unfair...”
“What is?”
“That you sucked up all the artistic talent in this family.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit. I can’t even sew on a button, but you’ve designed your own clothes for years. And need I remind you that big-deal cooking show asked permission to use your recipes?”
“Two. Two recipes. And sewing is just a matter of