With Good Behavior (25 page)

“I can imagine,” said Roger, chomping his celery stick. “His PT sessions at Great Lakes were from hell. He liked to torture us enlisted men.”

“Looks like you could keep up with his physical training a little better now,” Grant suggested, eyeing Roger’s slowly decreasing gut.

“I’ve lost ten pounds so far,” the boss proudly announced.

“That’s great, Rog. You and the veggies are getting along much better these days.”

“Not really.” He frowned. “I still fucking hate vegetables.” He violently gnashed the celery stick. “Tasteless piece of shit. But maybe Joe wouldn’t give me so much crap if he saw me now. Now that I’m super svelte.”

Ignoring Roger’s ridiculous assessment of his fitness, Grant inquired, “Is Joe going to visit Chicago?”

“Maybe. He said he had some stuff to take care of but he might make it up here next week. He wants to be the good uncle who visits his nephew, you know?”

Grant tensed, remembering Ben’s birthday party tomorrow night. Was he going to be the good uncle who visited his nephew? He’d been wrestling with the decision for days.

He took a few steps toward the stern and glanced at the deck, noticing Sophie wiping down the benches with a wet cloth. She was leaning over a bench, which caused her black miniskirt to hike up on her creamy thigh. Grant felt aroused just looking at her.

“… the new place?”

Grant turned around, confused. “What’d you say, sir?”

Eyeing Sophie in Grant’s line of vision, Rog exhaled derisively. “You are so fucking pussy-whipped, Madsen. Christ! I was asking how it was going in your new apartment!”

“Oh.” Grant grinned. “Sorry. It’s good. How’s, um, how’s it going at your place?”

“Much better now that I don’t have fucking employees throwing books on the floor, waking me up in the middle of the night!” After a few moments Roger added, “Hey, you want to grab a bite to eat?”

“Oh, um, well Sophie and I are going out later, but it would be fine if you wanted to join—”

“Forget about it,” Roger quickly interjected. “I’ll pass on being the third wheel.”

“It’s fine, Rog, really.”

“No thanks.”

They awkwardly busied themselves with various clean-up tasks in the bridge before Grant tentatively asked, “I take it you didn’t live with your wife before you got married?”

Roger looked up from his kneeling position by a storage cabinet. “Nah. Nobody did that back then. Didn’t want to ‘live in sin.’ But maybe that would have been a good idea, sort of like a test drive of the marriage. Maybe then I wouldn’t be paying fifteen-hundred bucks a month in alimony.”

“Whoa,” Grant grimaced. “Sounds like things ended badly?”

“Women are the motherfucking devil spawn!”

“C’mon, Rog, don’t hold back. Tell us how you really feel.”

But Roger was in no joking mood. “She cheated on me, Madsen. The bitch cheated on me.”

Grant’s face fell. No wonder Roger always seemed suspicious of women in general and Sophie in particular. “Sorry to hear that, sir.” There was a moment of silence before Grant asked, “But if she had an affair, how come you have to pay alimony?”

“Excellent question. I got royally fucked over by the courts.” Roger seemed pained. “I gotta go,” he muttered. “Do yourself a favor, Madsen. Never get married. And never trust women.”

With that advice, Roger exited the bridge and hustled down the stairs, leaving Grant leaning against the console, staggered by the weight of his boss’ warnings.

He glanced down at Sophie again. She was almost finished wiping down the benches. She’d seemed distant when she arrived for work that morning, but he was starting to notice a pattern of her appearing tired and standoffish following her therapy sessions. He could definitely imagine how rough it would be to discuss family and feelings for an hour straight. Hopefully they could reconnect over dinner tonight.

He was bursting with excitement about something he’d done for her, and he hoped he wouldn’t spill the beans before the surprise materialized. Grinning to himself, Grant removed the key from the ship engine and jauntily descended the stairs.

T
he next day, Sophie’s mind was on overdrive as she walked home after the last evening cruise. She’d asked Grant where he wanted to go for dinner, which had become their routine, and was summarily dismissed. Now their conversation played over and over as she walked …

“I got plans,” he’d brusquely informed her while stacking chairs on the deck.

“Oh,” she replied, and an awkward silence descended. “What kind of plans?”

“I’d rather not get into it, Sophie.”

She sighed. She’d been determined to take Hunter’s advice and truly get to know Grant before rushing to trust him, but recently her questions had smacked up against a brick wall. Deciding to be direct, she spoke in a clipped tone. “I was hoping the evasiveness you showed at dinner last night would be gone by today.”

“Well, it’s not like I know everything about you either,” he snapped.

Arching one eyebrow, she called his bluff. “What do you want to know? You can ask me anything.”

He exhaled loudly. “Look, I’m not trying to be evasive, it’s just … I have to go somewhere tonight, and I don’t want to go, but I feel like I have to go. And there will be some people there that I’m not looking forward to seeing again.”

“So then take me with you,” she offered, entwining her fingers with his. “At least you’ll have one friendly face on your side.”

“No, I don’t want you to go,” he said forcefully, pulling his hand free. Seeing her wounded look, he backpedaled, “Sophie, you remember those bad people I told you about? They’ll be there. It won’t be safe for you.”

She felt a flash of fear. “Then you shouldn’t go, either, if it’s not safe. Don’t go, Grant, please.”

Looking into her eyes, he was touched by her protectiveness.

She noticed him hesitate and continued, “You won’t be in violation of your parole if you go there, will you?”

“No.” Actually, he hadn’t thought about his parolee status. “It … should be fine. I have to go, Sophie. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Grant leaned in for a chaste peck on the lips, then hustled off the ship. Sophie was left staring at his quickly departing figure, wondering what the hell he was hiding.

* * *

“Hey, I’m home!” Sophie called to the empty hallway, pocketing her key as she entered the apartment.

She heard a muffled “In the bedroom!” and followed the sound of Kirsten’s voice to find her kneeling, partially swallowed by the closet. Bare feet and legs stuck out from under a skirt, then Kirsten emerged from the dark depths, holding two different sandals.

“Okay.” Kirsten smiled, hauling her tall body to a standing position, then precariously bending at the waist while balancing on one foot to slide on each sandal. “Which shoe looks better?”

Sophie eyed her stylish black shirt and denim skirt, tilting her head to one side as she evaluated a black wedge on Kirsten’s left foot and a turquoise open-toed shoe on her right. “Definitely the black.”

Kirsten exhaled nervously. “I thought so too. I’m so glad you’re out, um, that you’re back, to help me avoid fashion disasters.”

“What are you getting all dressed up for?”

Bashfully Kirsten admitted, “I have a blind date.”

“Eeeee! With who?” Sophie squealed. “Tell me!”

“My supervisor knows this guy from the suburbs, and she’s setting me up with him.”

“That’s wonderful! What do you know about him?”

“Well, he’s supposedly like six-five, and I like tall guys. And he’s a fertilizer technician.”

Sophie scrunched up her eyebrows. “What’s that?”

Kirsten giggled. “I have no idea, but I guess I’ll find out!” She looked at her watch and her eyes widened. “Oh, I gotta go or I’ll be late.” She quickly dumped her wallet, keys, and lipstick into a handbag. “I was feeling like a loser since you go out like every night with Grant, so I figured I’d give this dating thing a try myself. Wait a minute—why aren’t you out with Grant now?”

“Because he blew me off,” Sophie replied indignantly.

“What?” Kirsten halted. “Am I going to have to kick McSailor’s ass?”

Now Sophie giggled. 
That
 was a funny visual.

“Relax, Laila Ali. I don’t know. He’s so hot and cold—I can’t figure him out.” She met Kirsten’s blue eyes. “But let’s talk about it later. This is your night. You gotta go meet your hot date!”

“Eek!” Kirsten shrieked. “If he’s one-fifth as cute as McSailor, I might be in business.” She waltzed out of the bedroom and was almost at the front door when she paused. “Oh!” she cried, turning back to Sophie. “I almost forgot—Anita called you.”

“Anita?”

“Yes, Anita. Anita Green, your advisor? Hellooo, don’t you remember her?”

“Of course I remember her. Why would she call?”

“I don’t know, but she gave me her number, and she wants you to call her. Tonight. I left a note for you on the counter. 
Ciao
, roomie!”

Sophie quickly picked up the note and was entirely absorbed in reading her roommate’s scrawled handwriting: something about Anita leaving town soon and wanting Sophie to call her immediately.

Anita, her graduate advisor—the woman who had once heaped compliments on her, telling her she was astute, sharp, caring, a great writer, a real team player, a budding psychologist with a bright future. Sophie’s cheeks bloomed pink with embarrassment. Why would Anita want anything to do with her now? She was a felon who had lost her license, bringing shame to her family and the entire psychology department at DePaul.

Pacing in the empty apartment, Sophie considered whether to make the call. She hadn’t talked to Anita since she’d been arrested, and she couldn’t imagine what they would discuss. 
So, what was prison like? Exactly how demeaning was it to be on the other side of the bars after we interviewed so many prisoners for our study?

Feeling a shiver of dread, Sophie set her jaw and crossed to the phone, quickly dialing the number Kirsten had left for her. She might as well get this over with.

“Hello?”

Sophie could not help but smile upon hearing the pleasing lilt of her advisor’s voice. She could just picture Anita answering the phone, her beautiful, long red hair curling over her shoulders and her deep-set blue eyes blinking earnestly, taking in everything around her with a cerebral intensity.

“Anita?” She heard her voice tremble. “It’s Sophie.”

“Oh, Sophie, it’s so good to hear your voice. How 
are
 you?”

“I’m okay.” It seemed surreal to be conversing again with the woman who had been such an integral part of her life for four years of graduate school, back when she’d been on the professional fast track, back when life made sense. “How are you?”

“Well, I wish I’d heard from you sooner, because I’m about to head out of town. I got a grant! I’m going to Spain tomorrow to consult on their prison system. They’re setting up psychological services for their women’s prisons, and they really liked our manuscript published in 
Forensic Psychology
. They want me to stay there for six months to help them get started!”

“Wow, that’s great!” Sophie was swept up by the enthusiasm in her mentor’s voice, as usual. That woman could convince her to try anything, to do anything—the sky was the limit. “I’m so happy for you, Anita.”

“Oh, just wait, my dear. You haven’t heard the half of it. I need to hire a visiting instructor to teach my fall-semester classes. We were interviewing some candidates but nobody looked promising. Then I got a phone call and the idea just came to me. I need somebody to teach my classes and, Sophie, that somebody is you! I talked it over with the department chair, and we want to hire you to be a visiting instructor.”

Sophie collapsed into a chair, sitting in stunned silence.

“Sophie?” Anita’s expectant voice filled her ear. “Did you hear me?”

“Yeah. I think so. Um, are you offering me a job?”

“Yes, precisely! We want you to teach in the psychology department.”

“But the state board took away my license, Anita.”

“I heard that, but you don’t need your license to teach, just to practice.”

Sophie took a deep breath. She remained mired in disbelief, but a tiny spark of possibility ignited inside her.

“I thought …” She gulped. “I thought I disgraced the entire psychology department when I went to prison.”

“Oh, Sophie, why would you think that? You made a mistake, that’s all. And when you tried to make up for it, you landed in a huge mess. You were one of our best and brightest grad students, and it would be impossible to mar your excellent reputation with just one mistake. But I didn’t get the chance to tell you any of this because you never contacted me! Why haven’t you called me this whole time?”

“I thought you’d be ashamed of me,” Sophie said. “You worked so hard to train me, and then I went and messed it all up.”

Anita sighed, feeling unsure what to say. Sophie had arrived at graduate school with little self-esteem, and it had taken Anita years to build up the young woman’s confidence. It appeared her stint in prison had landed her back at square one.

“I’m not ashamed at all. I’m just happy to hear your voice again. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Sophie smiled wistfully, then asked, “Wait a minute—how did you get my number? I mean, how did you find out I’d been released?”

“Let’s see, a man named Grant, um, Grant … Madsen, yes, that’s his name. He called and asked if I knew of any job opportunities for you.”

Tears sprang to Sophie’s eyes.

Anita broke the silence. “He told me you were the smartest woman he’d ever met, and it would be a travesty if the field of psychology did not utilize your expertise. Who 
is 
he, Sophie?”

“He’s … he’s the man …” Her emotion-laden voice trailed off as she pictured his compassionate crystal-blue eyes boring into her. This was the kindest, most thoughtful gift she had ever received. Despite her earlier frustration, intense warmth filled her heart, and she realized how she really felt about him. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “He’s the man I love,” she finally managed.

“Why are you crying?” Anita inhaled sharply. “He doesn’t have anything to do with the man who put you in prison, does he?”

“Oh, no,” Sophie reassured her. “Grant has nothing to do with Logan Barberi.” She sniffed. “It’s just that nobody has ever done something so incredibly and unexpectedly nice for me.”

“Sounds like Grant means a lot to you.”

“Yes. I’m a little overwhelmed by this.”

“Well, you deserve it, Sophie. You’ve had quite a string of bad luck, and it’s time for things to start going right. Listen, I have to get back to packing. My flight is tomorrow night, but I want to meet with you before that to review some things. Can we meet in the morning? Let’s say around nine?”

“Sure,” Sophie agreed, still in shock. Then, after mentally thinking through her next day, she cried, “Oh, wait! Tomorrow is Wednesday.” She sniffed and then bit her lip. Her voice lowered to barely above a whisper. “I have to meet with my parole officer tomorrow at nine.”

“Well, how about right after that then?” Anita suggested, not fazed at all. “We need at least a few hours to get you settled with the teaching duties.”

“A few hours? Hmm … I’m supposed to be at work at eleven.”

“Really? What’s your job?”

Sophie grinned. “Serving drinks on an architectural cruise.”

“Oh, that sounds, um, nice.” Anita was not sure how to respond, and Sophie rescued her with an attempt at humor.

“I still get to use my training, though. You know what they say—bartenders are just like therapists.”

Anita laughed, and Sophie said, “I’ll call my boss and ask for a day off tomorrow.” She crossed her fingers that she’d find Roger in a good mood. Dieting had made him irritable and kind of depressed of late. “I’ll be there, Anita,” Sophie promised.

“I look forward to seeing you in my office, Sophie. Have a good night.”

“Anita?” Sophie added. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. But you should thank Grant for calling me in the first place.”

Sophie hung up and sat back with a sigh, slowly and thoughtfully running her tongue across her upper lip. Anita was thrilled to receive a grant, and Sophie was equally pleased to get 
her
 Grant. She would definitely thank him. Properly.

* * *

Logan crouched behind a line of bushes fronting a brownstone apartment building in the Gold Coast, Chicago’s wealthiest neighborhood. He knew the area well. Across the street was his Uncle Angelo’s mansion, alight with activity tonight: Ben’s sixteenth birthday bash. Expensive cars rolled to a stop as parents dropped off the teenage guests. Logan was amused as he observed the low-riding, baggy jeans of the boys and the plunging halter-top necklines of the girls. Strains of Fallout Boy or Chris Brownblasted from the house each time Ben opened the door for one of his friends.

Catching a glimpse of his son in the doorway, Logan’s jaw clenched. He should be there, celebrating this rite of passage. But as a man wanted by the police, Logan was stuck watching the festivities from afar. It crushed him that Ben didn’t seem very happy as he greeted his guests. He wore a morose expression and didn’t even crack a smile as he accepted haphazardly wrapped gifts from the arriving teens. Logan wanted to smack his son upside the head for his rudeness.