The Sugar House

Crow turned up what appeared to be an alley, although it was marked with a street sign. East Lane. One side was bordered by the long, wide backyards of the large houses one street over, while the other side was a deep slope, with smaller houses and cottages hugging the hillside overlooking a wooded park.

“ Stony Run Park,” Crow said. “Named for the creek that runs through it.”

He stopped at a small dilapidated bungalow, which looked more like someone’s abandoned fishing cabin than a real house. Built into the side of the hill, it was virtually a tree house, with decks and screened porches taking up more square footage than the proper living quarters.

“Who lives here?”

“No one anymore. It’s for sale,” Crow said, taking a key from under an old milk box.

“I don’t see a sign,” Tess said.

“The real estate agent hasn’t listed it yet. He’s a friend of Tyner’s, said he’s going to put it on the market at the begi

“So Kitty has been pla

“We thought it would soften the blow if you had a place to land,” Crow said, letting her into the empty house. It had the feel of a place where no one had lived for a very long time. She liked that feel. It also had a neon sign that said “Human Hair” hung on the wall. Crow really did pay attention, she realized. He not only listened to her stated wants, he was capable of anticipating her desires as well, desires she had yet to form. She tried to find a downside to this, but failed utterly.

The house was perfect-or could be, with months of work. Walls would have to come down, the kitchen would have to be completely redone, the floors needed sanding and, given the water stains on the peeling wallpaper, a new roof was probably required as well. The window sashes were mushy from dry rot, the doors had swollen with humidity until they scraped the floor, mice droppings were thick in the corners. But all Tess could see was herself, here in the spring, surrounded by trees, living out a Swiss Family Robinson fantasy.

The moment she gave into the dream, she saw it slipping through her fingers. It hurt, wanting something this much, then realizing she could never have it.

“I can’t afford a house in this neighborhood.”

“It’s surprisingly cheap for Roland Park,” Crow said, “because it’s so small and in such bad shape.”

“No bank would give me a loan.”

“They will if you have a cosigner. And when the cosigner’s name is Dick Schiller, you’d be surprised at how easy it is to get money. He said he’d give you a personal loan at market rates, if it came to that.”

She wasn’t ready to give in, not yet. “It needs at least fifty thousand dollars’ worth of work. I don’t have that much cash, and I couldn’t do it myself.”

“I could,” her father said, stepping out of the rear bedroom. “I’m pretty handy, Tesser, in case you didn’t know.”

They eyed each other cautiously. Although they had spoken by phone after Dahlgren’s debacle, making halfhearted apologies and assuring each other there were no hard feelings, they had not seen each other since the night of the house fire. Her father was always at Spike’s place, working, when she stopped by the Catonsville rental that was the Monaghans’ temporary home. He was very busy, her mother assured her, and very happy. Tess had tried hard to believe both things were true.

“I thought you were away for the holidays,” she said, pushing up her sleeves so he might notice the gold watch on her left wrist. She didn’t really like it much-it felt prissy and delicate, after so many years of wearing a man’s Swiss Army wristwatch. But it told the time, it was reliable. If her father wanted to think a watch could make her more of a girly-girl, she was willing to go along with it.

“We were going to Deep Creek Lake, but Crow told me what he was up to when he stopped by the bar this week.”

“Crow was at the bar?”

“He’s a partner.” Her father smiled at her confusion. “Not a full one, just a little piece. He’s going to bring bands in on the weekends. Blues, he says, maybe jazz.”

She should have been pleased, but it u

“So what do you think, Dad? Is this a good investment for a self-employed businesswoman who can’t even get a bank loan on her own?”

“I don’t know what kind of investment it is,” her father said. “As I told you once, I was never much good at figuring out what makes money. A smart man could probably turn a house fire into an opportunity, but all I know how to do is rebuild it and move back in. For you, though-for you, I think it’s a good idea to get out and be on your own. You’re a grown-up, Tesser. You’re capable of making your own decisions.”

“Even if I make the wrong ones, sometimes?”

“Especially when you make the wrong ones.”

Esskay circled the room, a little panicky at the sight of a place with no soft furniture on which to rest. Crow had retreated to the kitchen, where he was opening and closing the cabinets, testing the old-fashioned metal latches, scratching at the decades of paint covering the woodwork. “Pine, I think,” he called out. “Maybe maple.” Patrick stood with his hands in his pockets, studying the neon sign with the sort of baffled expression he had once reserved for Crow. He didn’t understand her, not entirely, Tess realized. He never would. Parents probably never understood their children. That was okay. She didn’t understand him, either.

“I would prefer,” Pat said, his voice a little stiff, as if he expected resistance, “that I be the cosigner on the loan, if you go through with this. I know I’m not a famous billionaire, but I think my credit’s just as good.”

“No, you’re wrong about that,” Tess said, shaking her head.

“What?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s better. I’d much rather do business with you.”

They shook on it. It was a deal, after all, not a time for hugging.

Favors, Arnie Vasso had once said. Your father knows all about favors. He had meant it as an insult, a sly reference to the corners the Monaghans and Weinsteins cut here and there. Now Tess saw it for the simple truth it was: Her father understood favors. How to do them, how to accept them, how to walk away when the price was too steep. It was a lesson she wouldn’t mind learning someday.

Maybe this was the place to start.

acknowledgments

First and foremost: love and undying gratitude to John Roll, who makes everything possible. For those who believe nothing good ever came of the Maryland General Assembly, all I can say is that I met my husband on the floor of the Senate, and have never regretted it.

My colleagues at the Baltimore Sun continue to help me get things right in spite of myself. Mike James and Kate Shatzkin of the Sun wrote the articles that inspired this book. I am indebted to William F. Zorzi Jr. and Tom Waldron, who have long been my patient guides to the Maryland political scene. Tom Stuckey of the Associated Press and Rick Tap-scott of the Washington Post also contributed to this book, although they may not realize it. Thanks, too, to the editors-Eileen Canzian and Robert Benjamin, in particular-who gave me a front-row seat on the 1998 governor’s race. Joe Mathews shared his South Baltimore expertise. Peter Herma

Susie Rose arranged my first shooting lesson; any errors are the result of an inattentive pupil. I’d never have met Susie if it weren’t for Sherry Dougherty and Sandee Mahr, so a toast to the Misses Chardo

A factual note: Maryland has only forty-seven senate districts. There has never been a senator from the forty-ninth district in Maryland. There has, however, been a governor who held an AK-47 on a smirking reporter. Of course, he’s no longer governor. He’s now the state’s comptroller.