“Well, the research is part of a longitudinal study that’s still going on—Anita is running it—so all the results aren’t in yet. But we found the most common counseling issue discussed by female prisoners was men.” She smiled wryly, thinking of the man implicated in her own imprisonment. “Which makes sense because most of these women went to prison for assault against husbands, boyfriends, fathers—trying to fight back against the men who abused them.”
“Wait a minute—most female prisoners go to prison because they’re trying to defend themselves?”
“A lot of them, yes.” He looked disgusted, and she added, “But these women are not saints. Some are in there for hurting or killing their own children. Women are locked away for all kinds of crimes—drunk driving, drugs, prostitution, murder, robbery—but many of them have histories of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. And a lot of those histories involve men.”
Grant absorbed her words. “And the depression? Did counseling help the prisoners decrease their depression?”
Sophie shrugged. “Statistically, yes, but clinically it didn’t mean much. The women started the study with such intense depression that even though their scores decreased over six months, they were still quite depressed.”
The announcer’s voice boomed over the sound system, and the first White Sox batter stepped up to the plate. His announcement was met with mostly boos in the Cubs-dominated crowd.
Sophie frowned. “Sorry to take us to such a dark place.”
“I’m the one who asked,” Grant said with a smile. “You tried to warn me.”
She smiled as well as they turned their attention to the game.
Seeking a lighter topic, he asked, “Who made you a Sox fan?”
“My dad.”
Her soft, terse reply told him he had not succeeded in lightening the mood. “Oh.”
“I think he wanted a son,” she said sadly. “My mom had four miscarriages before me. Anyway, my dad would drag me to Sox games when I was little, but eventually I learned to love the game. Pretty soon I wanted to go more than he did, but then he started his company and got too busy for baseball.”
“Well, I’m never too busy for baseball,” Grant said, stretching out his lanky body comfortably. “Except when I have to work for weeks on end. Thank God for Rog giving us some days off.”
A hot dog vendor meandered down the aisle, already sweating in the hot sun. She was a petite little thing carrying a deep metal tray, and both Grant and Sophie were surprised by her volume when she belted out, “Hot dogs! Five dollars!”
As the ponytailed vendor paused at the row across from them, Sophie leaned into Grant and whispered, “That could be me. When I couldn’t find a job, Jerry told me to sell hot dogs at Cubs games.”
Grant raised his eyebrows in shock and muttered, “The horror.”
Sophie giggled, scoffing, “As if I’d work at Wrigley Field, the enemy’s lair!”
The vendor continued down the aisle and Grant proudly said, “Working on an architectural cruise is far superior to hawking hot dogs. Although I bet you’d get great tips here too.”
Still grinning, Sophie mused, “I wonder if guys ask her if her buns are warm?”
Grant snickered.
“How would you like your sausage, sir?”
His mouth dropped open. “You’re right—you are certainly no angel. And I like it, you felon.” His mind desperately whirred. “I wonder if she has some ketchup. Put a squirt of that here!”
Sophie laughed.
The hot dog vendor now headed back up the aisle. Suddenly Grant turned to Sophie in mock surprise. “You fit that whole thing in your mouth?”
She looked stunned for a moment, then cackled with delight. “Grant Madsen! You are a naughty boy!” She punched him in the arm and was rewarded with a mischievous shrug of his shoulders.
Three hours later, the game was over and Grant and Sophie were hoarse from cheering. Their Sox had narrowly defeated the Cubs, six to five.
As they headed up the aisle, Sophie commented, “It looks like Carlos Quentin is headed for an All-Star berth.”
Grant could not help but smile proudly at Sophie’s baseball knowledge.
“And what about my little All-Star?” he grinned, wrapping his arm around her sexy bare shoulders. “Would she like some dinner?”
“Wow. A new apartment, a baseball hat, a game, and dinner, all in one day? Aren’t you Mr. Big Spender?”
“Well, a womanly touch is priceless,” he countered, squeezing her shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll take you to my favorite restaurant.”
20. Mideast Feast
Their stomachs growling, Grant and Sophie were grateful to be seated immediately at The Chic Sheik. They’d removed their baseball caps, but Sophie still wondered aloud if they were dressed too casually for a restaurant with the word chic in its name. Grant assured her they were fine for the early evening hour.
“Have you ever had Mediterranean food before?” he asked, guiding Sophie to the table with a hand on the small of her back.
“I don’t think so.”
“Marat will be your server this evening,” their host announced as he handed them menus. He smiled and left the table.
“Are you up for trying something new, then?” Grant asked.
“Of course, Grant. As long as you give me some suggestions on what to order.”
He nodded. “I can order for you, if you like?”
Sophie considered his offer, her fiercely independent and mistrustful streak battling the swooning part of her that wanted to dive into those bottomless blue eyes, allowing him to take care of her completely. Then a sense of calm overtook her.
“That would be lovely.”
“Are you a vegetarian, or do you have any food allergies?”
Astounded again by his considerate nature, she shook her head.
“Um, I’m not going to order a drink, but would you like one?”
“No tequila shooters?” she grinned, noticing that his face turned slightly green at the mention. “I’m still a little warm from the game. It was pretty hot out there, so a drink doesn’t sound very good to me right now either.”
Grant nodded gratefully, and his smooth velvet voice adeptly gave their orders to Marat when he sidled up to the table.
“Very good, sir.” The Turkish waiter nodded his approval. “I’ll be right out with your tea and appetizer.”
Once they were alone again, Sophie inquired, “How did you come to like this type of cuisine, Grant?”
“I was stationed on an aircraft carrier in the Persian Gulf. Whenever we visited ports, the food was amazing.”
“Oh, right. So how long were you in the Navy?”
“I was in ROTC for four years in college, and then on active duty, um, for six years.” He chewed his bottom lip. “Until I was twenty-eight.”
“What did you like about the military?”
Grant paused. “Initially I wanted to be in the Navy because of my Uncle Joe. I idolized him and wanted to be just like him.” With a pang of guilt he considered his admiration for Captain Lockhart as well, but kept those thoughts private. “Luckily, once I was in, I loved it—the order, the precision, the bonding with my fellow sailors, but most of all, I liked fighting for the good guys. I believed in what we were doing, fighting the good fight.”