Romancing The Teacher

Marcus was a short, stocky man with the nervous habit of massaging his chest, moved restlessly around a room. The man knit his thoughts together in a slow, plodding fashion until they emerged into a complete, meticulously constructed whole. He claimed his nervous habit helped him think. Graying at the temples, his mouth lost in a perpetual frown, it was sometimes hard for people to believe that he was only a year older than Ian.

Having Ian for a friend, he claimed, had aged him.

They’d known each other for close to twenty years, since Ian was eleven, and Marcus liked to think of himself as Ian’s one true friend, even though, any so-called in-depth article would claim that Ian Malone—otherwise known as B. D. Brendan, the bestselling author of fifteen science-fiction novels—had a squadron of friends.

Hangers-on were all they were and Ian knew it. His dark good looks, bad-boy reputation and razor-sharp wit lured people, especially women, by the legions. Ian attracted crowds wherever he went. But within his dark, somber soul, Ian Malone was very much alone. Deliberately so.

His friend, Marcus knew, was punishing himself. Punishing himself for something he’d had no control over, no hand in planning. Fate had spared him while taking his parents and his older sister in a devastating earthquake two decades ago. And he never forgave himself for surviving, never stopped asking why he wound up being the one to live while they had died.

Knowing all that, there were still times when Marcus wanted to take the much taller Ian by the shoulders and shake him until he came around. This afternoon was one of those times.

He’d been unceremoniously woken out of a deep sleep at five this morning. Ian, calling from the city jail. He’d been on the case since six.

Ignoring Ian’s reply, he went on to make his point. “I had to pull a lot of strings, but I think I’ve managed to keep this out of the newspapers.”

He was talking to the back of Ian’s head and it annoyed him. Worried about Ian, he’d snapped at his wife as he hurried out of the house and had skipped breakfast entirely. Neither of which put him in a very good mood.

Receiving no response, no sign that he’d even been heard, Marcus raised his voice. “And I think I can get the standard sentence commuted.” Even first-time offenses for DUIs were strict. The courts had made it known that this wasn’t something to be viewed lightly. Licenses were immediately suspended, stiff fines and penalties imposed. Not to mention the threat of jail time. “Ian, are you even listening to me?” he asked impatiently.

Ian had heard every word. He remained exactly where he was, staring out the window. “Do you know what yesterday was, Marc?”

Marcus sighed and moved his hand over the everwidening expanse of his head. Up until four years ago, his hair was as black and as thick as Ian’s. But then nature decided to take back what it had so generously given and now there was only a fringe around his ears to mark where his hair had once been.

“The day you wrecked your Porsche?” Marcus guessed wearily.

“No.” Ian paused, as if it physically hurt to utter the words. “It was the twenty-first anniversary.”

Marcus stiffened.

“I forgot,” Marcus admitted, his voice small, apologetic. Had he remembered, and knowing what his friend could be capable of, he would have spent the day with Ian.

Ian exhaled. The small huff of warm breath clouded the window pane. “I didn’t.”

Crossing to him, Marcus placed his hand on Ian’s shoulder. Despite his girth, Marcus was a gentle man and compassion was his hallmark. His wife referred to him as a giant teddy bear. He was the only one, outside of Ian’s grandparents, who knew the story. Even so, Marcus always suspected that there was more to it, that Ian had kept back a piece of his grief to torture himself with.

“Ian,” Marcus began softly, “you have to let it go sometime. Don’t you think that twenty-one years is long enough to wear a hair shirt?”

There was an anger raging within him, but Ian kept it tightly wrapped. Marcus didn’t deserve to be lashed out at. He meant well and only tried to help. But Marcus didn’t understand what it was like. What it meant to be buried alive, to have the people you loved dead all around you.

Ian moved his shoulder so that Marcus was forced to drop his hand. As he did, he could feel Ian’s smoky-blue eyes boring into him.

“No,” Ian replied. The word was uttered softly, but there was no missing the underlying passion beneath the word.

Marcus suppressed a sigh. Returning to his end of the table, he slowly ran his hands over the sides of the expensive briefcase Ian had given him when he’d passed his bar exam. At the time, Ian had scarcely been able to afford to pay rent on his rundown studio apartment. But by hocking the gold watch his grandfather had given him, Ian had gotten the money together to buy him the camel-colored leather briefcase. Whenever he lost his temper with Ian, Marcus always looked at the briefcase.

And cooled off.

“Look, this is your first offense, thank God—” Quitting while he was ahead, Marcus didn’t ask if there had been other times, times when his friend managed to avoid detection. What he didn’t know wouldn’t keep him up at night.

“There’s a reason for that,” Ian said.

He’d never driven under the influence before. When the need to blot out the world overwhelmed him, he’d always drowned his grief at home, alone. Away from prying eyes. Last night represented a crack in his control. And he didn’t like it.

Marcus didn’t wait for him to elaborate. “I think things can be worked out.” He wanted to suggest rehab or a psychiatrist. Neither suggestion would fly with Ian because Ian couldn’t admit to the world that there was a weakness underneath his armor. “We’ve drawn a reasonable judge. The Honorable Sally Houghton. Word is that she has a strong mothering instinct. Just straighten up, look contrite and remember to flash that thousand-watt smile of yours.” He snapped his briefcase closed again. “It appears as if your guardian angel is still looking out for you.”

Ian chuckled. He could do without guardian angels who saw fit to prolong his suffering. “Yeah.”

The word was uttered entirely without feeling.

Then, to Marcus’s overwhelming relief, Ian turned around from the window and gave him just the barest of smiles. The one Marcus knew could melt stones at fifty paces and hard-hearted female judges’ hearts at ten. And Houghton was a softy. That gave them a definite edge and more than a fighting chance. Ian had a magnetic personality when he wasn’t sparring with the ghosts from his past.

Maybe this whole incident was even to the good. Ian might finally put this behind him and get on with the business of living.

And maybe, Marcus thought as he signaled for the guard to unlock the door, while he had been in here talking to Ian, pigs had actually learned how to fly.

Chapter Two

There were times when Lisa Kittridge wondered what she was doing here. And why for the last eighteen months she continued to return to Providence Shelter, week after week, when she really didn’t have to. At least, not because of some court order, the way so many others who passed through here did.

God knew it wasn’t because time hung heavily on her hands. Absolutely every moment of her day was accounted for, what with thirty-one energetic third graders to teach and a five-year-old and a mother to care for.

Not that Susan Kittridge actually needed looking after, despite the bullet to the hip that had taken her off the police force and brought a cane into her life. Her mother was one of the most independent women Lisa knew. But every so often, Susan’s soul would dip into that black place that beckoned everyone, that place that called for surrender and apathy. During those times, Lisa was her mother’s cheering section, drawing on the endless supply of optimism that she’d somehow been blessed with.

Optimism that saw her through her own hard times.

Optimism she felt obliged to share here at the homeless shelter, to pay back a little for the personal happiness she had in her own life. Working at the shelter also accomplished something else. It made her too busy to think about Matt. Very much.

But then, there were days like today, when her cheerfulness seemed to go down several levels. She worked harder then. Longer.

Her work wasn’t excessively difficult. Not that she minded hard work. She thrived on it, her late father liked to boast. And if all that was required of her to help out here was a strong back and endless energy, then working at the shelter would have been a piece of cake.

But it wasn’t all. There was more. A great deal more.

Every so often, the hurt she found herself facing grew to such proportions that it became too much for her to endure emotionally. Looking into the faces of the children sometimes tore at her heart so badly she didn’t think she could recover, certainly not enough to come back.

But she always did.

She’d initially volunteered at Providence Shelter in order to make a difference in these people’s lives. Instead, the people she interacted with had made a difference in hers. They made her humbler. More grateful. And more determined than ever to help.

Help people such as the little girl on the cot.

Lisa had walked into the long, communal sleeping area with an armload of fresh bedding that needed to be distributed. She saw the girl immediately—there was no one else in the room and the little girl was a new face. A new, frightened face.

She was sitting on the cot, her thin arms braced on either side of her equally thin body, dangling her spindly legs as if that were her only source of entertainment, the only thing she had any command over.

As Lisa came closer, the little girl looked up suddenly, suspicion and fear leaping into her wide, gray eyes.

Oh God, no child should have to look like that, Lisa thought. Her son was around this girl’s age.