Dreams of Her Own (4 page)

Chapter 5

“
Brand,” Ian growled as he climbed off his bike, not even looking to see who called. He was dirty, cold, tired, and hungry. A lethal combination.

“Ian? Geez, what crawled up your ass and died?” Caleb returned.

Ian sighed. “Nothing that a hot shower, a soft bed, and a juicy burger couldn’t cure.”

“Shouldn’t you eat
before
you go to bed? I mean, I don’t usually eat in bed, especially hamburgers.” He snickered.

“What do you want?” Ian set his helmet on the seat and walked over to the interior door.

“I’ll buy you that burger.”

“What? Jillie kick you out of the house again?” Jillie had a weekly book club where a bunch of women got together, ate desserts, drank wine, and, oh yeah, sometimes got around to discussing books.

Tossing his keys on the desk, he headed for the kitchen.

“Yeah. Shower and meet me at Sea Witch in thirty. That give you enough time to do your hair?”

“Fuck you,” he said on a laugh. “What’s the emergency?” Opening the fridge, he grabbed a bottle of water, twisted off the cap.

“I’ve got some news.”

“Christ, you’re like the town gossip.” Ian took a gulp of water, then wiped his mouth.

“Yeah. Well, you’ll like this bit of gossip.”

Half an hour later, Ian strode into their favorite watering hole and spotted Caleb already at a booth, a beer in his hand.

“Another Sorachi Ace,” Caleb called to the bartender.

“You know I don’t drink,” Ian said has he slid into the booth.

“Not for you.” Caleb lifted the bottle he had and drained it.

After ordering his usual, the Sea Witch burger and a root beer, Ian stretched out his legs and directed his attention to Caleb.

“Oh, sure, so now you want to know my news,” Caleb said.

“I want my burger, but in the meantime . . .”

Caleb leaned forward conspiratorially. “You remember my buddy Jon, works for the Landmarks Preservation Commission? He said a permit came in to renovate the old Yardley Mansion, one of the few remaining Gilded Age mansions. The new owners want to turn it into a
chichi
inn.

“Okay . . . and this is news, how?”

“Boy, are you grumpy when you’re hungry,” Caleb said. “This is news because the owners are going to be soliciting RFPs from companies on the very extensive renovations they require . . . renovations that, because of the building’s landmark status, will need to conform to the historical style of the era.”

His hunger forgotten, Ian sat forward, then cringed. Another RFP. He’d done dozens of RFPs in the last few years. Check that–Ruby had done dozens of RFPs. He had one in the hopper already for a job that, if he got the bid, would take his business international. But the Yardley job sounded intriguing.

Could he do it? Ian wondered. “When?”

“Jon thinks the RFP will be posted on their website this week or so. Once posted, they’ll expect the responses in about a month, so probably after New Year’s, I’d say.”

Cutting it close to the other job. “And you’re interested?”

“Damn right I’m interested, but I can’t do this without a general contractor, one with expertise in historical renovations. That’s where you come in.”

“I made the first cut on that renovation in England, Hawkins Hall.”

“Dude! Congratulations!” Caleb lifted his bottle in a toast.

Ian met it with his root beer mug before taking a swig.

“If you get the England job, when would you start?”

“In the spring.”

A new waitress delivered their burgers, flashing a come hither look at Ian, which clearly didn’t go unnoticed by Caleb, because as soon as she walked away, he said, “She wants you, man. You should go for it.”

Ian snorted, then picked up his burger and took an enormous bite. His stomach practically rolled over in pleasure.

“How long has it been since, you know?” Caleb lifted his eyebrows.

“Since what?” Ian asked around a mouthful of juicy red meat.

“You know.” Caleb made a crude motion with his hands.

“What are you, like twelve? None of your damn business,” Ian returned.

“Too long,” Caleb said with a nod, then took a pull from his beer.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ian stuck a fry in his mouth, eyeing his friend.

Caleb shrugged. “If you’d gotten some recently you wouldn’t be so pissy.”

“Asshole.”

“That jealousy talking ‘cuz I’m getting it on a regular basis?” he asked with a grin, setting his beer back on the table.

“Back to this RFP—”

“Nice deflection,” Caleb said with a smirk.

“Shut it. So, you’re thinking I respond to the RFP, and include Five Boroughs Electrical on the deal as one of the subs.”

“Of course.”

Ian chewed his burger, washing it down with the root beer. It’d be great working with his friend on this project. If he got the job, he’d have to hire the skilled labor to do it. And subs. Lots of subs. He already had some of the best tradesmen—and women—in New York he worked with on a regular basis.
Getting the cart before the horse, Brand.

Ian sat back, his hunger finally sated. “All right. Let’s see what they’re looking for. I don’t plan on responding to an RFP if I don’t think I can do the job.”

“You can do it,” Caleb said with enthusiasm.

If only he had Caleb’s confidence. He had no doubt he could do the renovation, even with all the other jobs he had in the queue. Completing the RFP? Well, he’d leave that up to Ruby.

Friday evening, Millie hurried up the
sidewalk to her apartment building, tugging her coat around her as a particularly icy blast threatened to rip it off her.

“Hey, Mousey Millie, got a hot date tonight?” a teenager called from behind her, followed by the guffaws of the other boys with him.

“Yeah, with a vibrator,” another one replied, as the others laughed even louder.

Heat flared up her neck and into her face.
Ignore them and keep walking.
She put her head down, the familiar taunts an unwelcome reminder of her painful middle and high school years. “Thugs,” she muttered, then began reciting Descartes’ rule of signs to herself
.
The number of positive real roots of a polynomial is bounded by the number of changes of sign in its coefficients
.

One of them must have said something else because the group’s laughter followed her all the way to the building.

Just as she opened the door, her neighbor, Chelsea, breezed past her wearing leggings, sky-high boots, and a barely-there halter top.

“Hi, Millie!” Chelsea said in her breathy voice.

“You do know it’s winter, right?” Millie asked, confused by her neighbor’s skimpy attire.

“It’s okay, my date is waiting with his car.”

Millie glanced out to the street and saw a small, shiny car waiting at the curb. “Have fun,” Millie muttered.

Chelsea received a few catcalls from the same group of thugs, which elicited a flirtatious giggle. “Thanks, boys!” She sashayed down the sidewalk. “Don’t wait up,” she added with another titter.

Millie rolled her eyes and stepped into the foyer, stopping to check her mail. Friday evening and Crazy Chelsea had yet another date.

The thugs were right about one thing.
She
didn’t have a hot date. Or even a cold one.

Climbing the stairs to her third floor apartment Millie planned out her evening. A microwave dinner and some in-depth research. She unloaded the stack of library books she’d picked up that afternoon. Anticipating Number Two on her list, one of the books in the pile was
The Joy of Sex
.

The key to reaching goals was preparation. The book would also come in handy for her novel’s sex scenes, which she’d been putting off. Despite the extensive research, she’d found it difficult to write realistically about an act she’d never experienced. Of course she knew the mechanics—insert Tab A into Slot B—as well as the biochemistry, but she couldn’t write the emotion or the physical response with any authenticity. She could always fall back on her extensive vocabulary, but would it ring true?

Her phone rang before she could even remove her coat. “Hello?”

“Millicent. We’ve done it!” Her mother’s voice was uncharacteristically excited. The fact that her mother had even called her came as a surprise. Most of the time she wondered if her parents even remembered her existence.

“Done what?”

“Done what? Millicent, what have your father and I spent our careers trying to prove? Found definitive evidence that the unsigned manuscript is in fact, Hardy’s.” For as long as she could remember, her parents, college professors specializing in Victorian literature, had been doggedly engaged in proving that a particular unpublished manuscript they’d unearthed in an archive—in the New York Public Library, of all places—had actually been written by Thomas Hardy of
Jude the Obscure
fame.

“That’s great.” Millie couldn’t work up the enthusiasm she should feel for her parents’ life’s work. They’d paid her very little attention when she was growing up, not out of disdain; they simply forgot about her, they were so focused on their scholarly pursuits. So how could she be anything but indifferent?

“We’re drafting our paper on it now for submission to the
English Literary Journal
, so we won’t be able to meet you for dinner tomorrow night. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No. No, of course not.” She was surprised her mother even remembered their monthly dinner date, having spent many an evening alone in a diner or restaurant because her parents had forgotten.

“We’ll reschedule soon. Your father’s calling me, so I have to run. Thank you for sharing our news.”

Did she have a choice? “Sure. Talk to you soon.” But her mother was already gone.

Chapter 6

Monday evening Ian carried two bags of groceries into the Sunset Park apartment building. Ringing the bell, he shifted his burden then reached inside his pocket for the key.

“Ruby,” he called as he entered.

“Ian? Is that you?”

“Yes.”
Who else would it be?

“Come on in. I’m just watching reruns of
Murder, She Wrote
.”

Ian strode into the kitchen to set down the bags, then walked into the living room that hadn’t changed since he’d first set eyes on it back in sixth grade.

Ruby sat up from her recliner appearing frailer than she had last week. It broke his heart. Yet she refused to let him take her to the doctor.

“Come. Sit. Tell me about your day.” She muted the TV.

Before she’d retired ten years earlier, Ruby had been the head librarian at the Sunset Park Branch Public Library. The library had served as a haven for Ian when he was growing up, keeping him off the streets. And just as important, out of the house and away from his stepfather’s version of discipline—his fists.

He leaned down, pressed his lips to the papery skin of her cheek. “I brought food. You should eat.”

“In a minute.”

Here lately her usually robust appetite had been off. “If I tell you about my day, do you promise to eat some soup and a grilled cheese?”

“We’ll see.”

Ian sighed, dropped to the sofa next to the recliner, and proceeded to describe his day. Nothing exciting, but she listened with rapt attention.

She and her late husband, Curtis, never had children. Her one regret, she’d once told him.

He’d apprenticed with her husband, learning the ropes of construction, renovation, and historical preservation. Curtis taught him everything he knows. In fact, he owed his life to Curtis and Ruby. Without his and Ruby’s kindness and direction, he’d likely be on the street, in prison. Or worse, dead.

Curtis had given him a job when his stepfather kicked him out of the house at seventeen. And Ruby had given him a home until he could support himself.

After he’d stumbled into the library with a shiner and a busted lip, Ruby had introduced him to her husband, who’d taught Ian self-defense. Hard work on the construction sites had added bulk to Ian’s scrawny frame. Before long, Ian could stand up to anyone stupid enough to get in his way. Including his stepfather, which was the reason the asshole eventually kicked him out of the house. He didn’t like his prey fighting back.

Ian hadn’t started the fight, but he hadn’t walked away from it either.

When Curtis died, Ian had been surprised to learn that he’d purchased a second life insurance policy, naming Ian as the beneficiary. ‘Use this money to start your business,’ he’d said in a letter Ruby had given him after the funeral. Ian had been blown away that a man who was not his father would take out an insurance policy just for him. But that was Curtis.

He ended his story with the RFP.

“You’ll get it.” Ruby nodded. “Don’t let the old fears take hold. Remember, divide it into bite-size pieces so it’s not so overwhelming.” She paused, her eyes a little misty. “Curtis would be so proud of you.” She held his gaze, and Ian tried to swallow around the grapefruit-sized lump in his throat. That anyone would be proud of him seemed . . . impossible. He’d been lucky to get through high school, even with Ruby’s help.

“Speaking of RFPs”—Ruby pointed to a neat stack of paper on the coffee table—“the one for the Irving house in Westchester is ready.”

Washington Irving’s house, Sunnyside, needed some preservation work. Easy enough job, to Ian’s mind.

Thanks to Ruby’s writing skills, he’d garnered numerous jobs over the years. Taking her frail hand in his, a twinge of guilt swept through him. Clearly, she’d grown feeble over the last few months. He shouldn’t be asking her to do what amounted to hours and pages of work. Perhaps it was time to look at alternatives.

“Now, how about that soup?” Ian finally asked, slapping his thighs with his hands.

“You’re a good boy.” Ruby unmuted the TV and went back to her show.

In the kitchen, Ian opened the can of tomato soup, and poured it into a pot on the stove. Then he buttered two slices of bread, sprinkled them with dried Italian herbs, and placed two slices of provolone between them.

Ian heard Ruby shout at the TV, “It was the snooty maître d, you twit!”

He chuckled, shaking his head. She might be physically frail, but her mind was sharp as ever. He popped the sandwich onto the heated griddle, and since Ruby was more likely to eat if he ate with her, made another one for himself.

With Ruby’s help and encouragement, Ian had discovered a love of learning he’d never thought possible, spending hours in the library studying philosophy, history, art, and architecture after Ruby showed him the audiobooks that were available free to anyone with a library card. Up until that point, he’d just assumed he was the moron his stepfather had often called him.

He’d discovered classical music when Ruby had played Beethoven’s “Ninth Symphony” for him one day. He’d never heard anything so beautiful in his life.

At home he’d be more likely to hear the loud bangs and explosions of action movies, to-the-death video games, and real life action on the streets. Or hear his stepfather yelling and cursing, mostly about him. And at him.

So classical music provided yet another welcome escape.

He placed two bowls of soup on the kitchen table and called for Ruby. He’d had many a meal at this table with her and Curtis. Sometimes the only decent meal he’d had all day. Not because his mother didn’t cook, but because he didn’t want to go home.

Ruby shuffled into the kitchen. “Smells good.”

“Ian’s special tomato soup and grilled cheese.”

She patted his cheek then slid up a chair. It warmed Ian’s soul when she picked up her spoon without any urging from him and began to eat.

Ian took a bite of his sandwich. “I’ll take a look at that leaky faucet after dinner.”

“And then we can watch
Miss Marple
.”

Ian mentally cringed. “You got it.”

Ian had struggled in school from kindergarten thr
ough the sixth grade. By the time he’d hit fourth grade, the school had labeled him both a troublemaker and learning deficient.

His stepfather, Hank, wasn’t surprised. His performance in school only confirmed what he already knew—that Ian was stupid. Not that Hank was a rocket scientist. Still, he had no qualms with throwing stones.

After some boys in his school called him a moron, Ian had stood up for himself by punching one of them in the stomach, even if he hadn’t stood a snowball’s chance in hell of winning. This grew into an all-out brawl, with Ian getting the worst of it. He’d managed to get away and had ducked into the first building he came to, the Sunset Park Public Library.

His lip split and his right eye already swelling, he glanced around for the bathroom where he could clean up a little before going home.

Already a target for his stepfather’s cruel jokes, when he came home looking like he’d lost a fight, he’d never hear the end of it from his stepfather or his asshole stepbrother, Clint. Knowing Hank, he’d likely be disciplined for getting in the fight. Any excuse to use the belt. Or his fist.

He turned a corner and ran right into an old woman. At least she’d seemed old to him at the time. Glasses framed her face and brown hair salted with gray was pulled back into a tidy ponytail. She took one look at him and gasped.

“Son, who did this to you?” she asked as she took his chin in her hand.

He snatched out of her grasp. “No one.” Fisting his hands in frustration, he turned to the bathroom door.

“Stop right there, young man. Where do you think you’re going?”

“Bathroom,” he replied, his chin jutting forward in defiance.

“That’s the ladies’ room.”

Ian looked up at the door in front of him and felt the heat of shame rise to his face. He scanned the hallway for another door that could be the men’s room.

“The men’s room is down there.” The woman pointed down a hall.

Ian didn’t say anything, just walked in the direction she indicated. Closeting himself in the men’s room, he dropped his backpack on the floor before splashing cold water on his face, wincing as it stung the cut on his lip and beneath his eye. His eye already bruised, he knew there’d be no hiding it from Hank. Maybe he could just sleep here tonight. And every night after.

Wetting a paper towel, he pressed it to his face, and slid down the wall, contemplating what he should do. He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew someone was shaking him.

“Son, wake up. You can’t stay here.”

He opened his left eye, the right eye now swollen shut, to see the woman he’d run into earlier stooped in front of him.

“Do you have somewhere to go?”

Ian struggled to stand but didn’t answer.

“Here, let me help you.” The woman took his arm and hauled him to his feet. “You’re going to want to have that eye looked at. Can I call your mom?”

“No.”

“Then come with me.”

Great. Just what he needed. She was probably going to call the cops. Or worse, family services. He yanked his arm out of her grasp, picked up his backpack and headed out the door.

“Young man, stop.”

He can’t say why he did, but he obeyed.

“I have a first-aid kit in my office. I can at least put something on that cut before you go home.”

Ian turned. “You’re not calling the cops?”

“Why would I do that?” She lifted her brow. “Unless you have something you’d like to confess.”

“No.”

“All right, then.”

The woman introduced herself as Ruby Sinclair, head librarian, and asked his name. After dabbing on some ointment and covering the cut below his eye with a Band-Aid, she gave him a cup of hot chocolate and some cookies she had in her desk drawer.

It was the nicest thing anyone had done for him in a long time. Before she met and married Hank, his mother would have kissed away his pain. After marrying Hank, she kept her distance and let him handle everything, while alcohol became her preferred form of escape from a marriage she clearly regretted.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what happened?” Mrs. Sinclair asked.

Ian gazed into her kind, warm eyes and felt his own fill with tears. Ashamed, he buried his face in the crook of his arm.

“Nothing wrong with crying, son. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” She put her arm around his shoulders and gathered him to her, rocking him like a little baby. This made him cry harder. He should be a man. He should refuse her coddling, as Hank called it. But, God, how he’d missed the warmth of a hug. The compassion in the gesture. The motherliness of the touch.

Her kindness that day had affected him so deeply that every chance he got, he’d detour to the Sunset Park Public Library to see the woman who would not only uncover his dyslexia, but would teach him coping mechanisms and strategies that would open up a world of learning. And whose influence would change his life. For the better.

“Caleb? Ian. I’m going after the RFP,” Ian said into his phone as he paced aroun
d his desk at home.

“Awesome! Anything I can do just let me know.”

“First, you can meet me at the Mansion for the first walk through. Wednesday, two o’clock.”

“I’ll be there, man. Glad you decided to give it a go.”

“See you Wednesday. Tell Jillie
hi
for me.”

After his conversation with Ruby, and remembering the phrase tattooed across his stomach, he’d made up his mind to go for it.

Ruby would help, as she always did.

“How’s my god-granddaughter?” Gloria asked Darcy as soon as she stepped into the foy
er, her glass-in-a-blender voice harsh on the ears. Forty years of smoking did that to a person.

“Or god-grand
son
,” Darcy replied. “Fine and dandy.” Darcy took Gloria’s hand and placed it on her belly. “He, or she, is happy to see you.”

Gloria’s craggy face softened and her sharp eyes became dreamy, then she harrumphed. “Tell me again why you don’t want to know what you’re having?”

“Josh and I want it to be a surprise.” Darcy made a circular motion over her belly, as if soothing the child.

Millie observed the exchange as she took Gloria’s coat and hung it in the closet.

“How’s Ian coming along?” Gloria asked, looking up the stairs where the whine of a saw commenced.

“It’s going great,” Darcy replied. “I can’t thank you enough for your gift. It’s beyond generous.”

“Pfft. What are godmothers for?” Gloria tucked her cashmere gloves into the cavernous tote bag she always carried.

“And Ian is wonderful,” Darcy continued.

“He did some work in my townhome a few years ago. I wouldn’t let anyone else do it. And he’s not bad on the eyes either, aye, Millie?”

Millie felt Gloria’s eyes on her and she glanced up in confusion. “I hadn’t noticed,” she muttered.

Gloria snorted. “Girlie, you’d have to be dead not to notice.”

“Millie thinks Ian is a thug,” Darcy divulged.

Heat rose in Millie’s cheeks. “He’s just . . .”

“All man, is what he is. And he’s great with his hands. I bet he knows his way around a woman’s body. Could probably teach her a thing or two. Great inspiration for a romantic hero, too. And did you see the size of his feet?” Gloria waggled her thin brows.