Leave it to Max (Lori's Classic Love Stories Volume 1) (4 page)

They reached Max’s house. Surrounded by a
gated garden and constructed of Savannah gray bricks, it was
located on a quiet, residential square. Garrett stopped dead on the
walk. He knew this place.

The door slammed open, and a woman rushed
out. Garrett knew her, too.

He dropped Max’s hand like a red-hot
poker.

* * *

Livy had only discovered Max was missing a
moment before Rosie called upstairs, “Here comes that boy with a
new friend.”

Snatching her robe, she shoved her arms into
the trailing sleeves as she ran barefoot down the stairs, then
burst out the front door.

And froze at the sight of Max’s new pal. How
could a dream come true if you were having a nightmare?

But this wasn’t a dream, or any nightmare.
The pavement was night-cold against Livy’s feet; the just born sun
warmed her hair. She was awake, and she was more frightened than
she’d ever been in her life.

Her son smiled with angelic innocence as he
chatted with the devil. Yesterday and today converged in one man’s
face. J. J. Garrett had returned, and she wasn’t anywhere near
ready.

Their eyes met. J.J. dropped her son’s hand
as if he’d accidentally picked up a dead snake.

No, that wasn’t right.

He dropped
their
son’s hand.

Livy’s lie loomed big enough to burst, and
rain truth down upon them all.

The instant Max cried, “Mom!” Garrett
knew.

No, that wasn’t true. He’d felt déjà vu as
soon as he’d seen the house where Max lived. His busy brain was
already counting backward, and when Livy ran out, all the pieces
clicked home. Garrett suddenly understood why Max seemed so
familiar. He looked exactly as Garrett had at that age—blond hair,
scarred-up knees, dark dreamy eyes.

The strangest similarity was Max’s belief in
the unbelievable, his physical fearlessness in the face of fearsome
imaginings. Garrett, or rather James, Jr., had always lived life
full-speed ahead, regardless of the knocks that were certain to
come his way.

Thankfully, Max did not notice the two adults
frozen, staring on the walk. He hurried to Livy and threw his arms
around her waist. She ran her hand over his hair, gentle and sure,
a caress she’d given him a thousand times before.

And that made Garrett mad.

He opened his mouth, though he had no idea
what he meant to say, and Livy went white. He thought she might
pass out right on the sidewalk, so he snapped his mouth shut and
took a step forward.

She glared at him before glancing down at
Max. “Where have you been? I was just about to call the
police.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again.” She took his arm and marched
him toward the house. “And again and again and again, until you
learn to be where you’re supposed to be, when you’re supposed to be
there. Take a bath and get ready for school.”

Max tugged free of his mother. “But, Mom, I
brought home—”

“Garrett Stark,” he interrupted.

Livy’s deep blue eyes widened. “You cha—” She
broke off, tilted her head. “The horror writer?”

“Yes. Although your son seems to think I’m a
vampire.”

“What?” She frowned at Max. “Baby, we talked
about all that. Santa, the Easter Bunny, mummies and vampires—none
of those things is real.”

She’d told his son there was no Santa Claus?
Who was this woman? Certainly not the Livy he’d once adored with
all his foolish, young heart.

Max hung his head, nodded, then gave Garrett
an imploring, sideways glance.

“What makes you so sure?” Garrett
demanded.

Max’s slow, warm smile was worth the icy
stare he received from Livy.

“Excuse me?”

“What makes you so sure that none of those
things is real?”

“Come now, Mr. Stark, even
you
know
there’s a line between fantasy and reality.”

The sneer in her words did not appear on her
face, but Garrett remembered every nuance of that voice. He’d
listened to the mellow southern tones often enough in the dark—
both in fantasy and reality.

“Even me?” he repeated. She loathed him, and
he couldn’t figure out why. From where Garrett stood,
he
was
the injured party. “I’ll tell you what I know. If you believe in
something strongly enough, it becomes real to you. And what
is
real, anyway?”

She gave him a withering glare, as if he were
too dumb to live. “What you can see and feel and touch. Right here,
right now. Belief has nothing to do with it. And I’ll thank you to
keep your rich fantasy life to yourself. Do not entice my son into
dreaming impossible dreams.”

She sounded so certain there was no magic to
be had in this world, which was so different from the Livy he
remembered, Garrett wasn’t sure what to say. As if there was
anything
to
say in this situation.

“Max, take a bath like I told you. Rosie’s
already making breakfast.”

“’Kay. Bye, Mr. Stark.”

Garrett swallowed the lump in his throat as
Max disappeared. His own son had called him “mister.” Garrett was
getting madder by the minute.

“What’s going on here, Livy?”

She put her finger to her lips. “We’ll have
to discuss this later. I need to get Max off to school and be in
court by nine.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No, but my client is.”

“Y-you’re an attorney.” He couldn’t stop the
horror from seeping into his voice. To him, attorneys were all like
his father—and the way Livy was acting, James, Sr. would just love
her.

“You sound like my mother.” Her words weren’t
a compliment, either.

Garrett stepped closer. She smelled exactly
the same—like river dreams and night hopes—navy blue, cool spice.
His head spun as the memories came hard, fast, furious—from both
the best and the worst time of his life.

She looked the same, too. Hair the shade of
ocean sand and eyes like midnight on the water. He’d always loved
her eyes, so dark, yet blue. Garrett had been captivated by the way
they loomed large in her fine-boned face. In times past she’d been
tall and slim, on the verge of gangly. From the cinched waist of
her robe, these days she was slimmer still.

He noted other changes—the shadows beneath
her eyes; the lines above her lips; the cut of her hair, shorter
and more austere than the long and easy braid she’d once favored.
The strands of gray in that hair—few, but apparent—made him wonder
how hard her life had been since he’d left Savannah.

Garrett lowered his voice. “How did this
happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You know very well how it happened,
J.J.”

“I’m Garrett now.”

“And that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Call me later, and we’ll set up
a meeting.”

“Forget later. What time does Max go to
school?”

“Seven-thirty.”

“Fine, I’ll be back at 7:35.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Make time. I’m not waiting all day to talk
about this. It’s now or at 7:35.”

Her narrow glare appeared out of place on a
woman who’d once glared rarely. How could the eyes he’d imagined so
often they’d become a part of him, a comfort in times of trouble,
now seem the eyes of a stranger?

Livy must have sensed his determination
because she made an impatient sound and threw up her hands. “Don’t
be late. I need to be in court at nine.” She turned her back on him
as if he were nothing to her.

As a child he’d heard the same words, been
faced with a similar back...

Daddy, play ball with me.

I can’t, Junior. I need to be in court at
nine.

Garrett shook his head to make the voices go
away. But Livy’s words still hung in the air. How had the
high-spirited, generous, life-loving girl turned into this mouthy,
angry, sharp-eyed...lawyer?

“What happened to you?” he murmured.

She stopped with her hand on the doorknob.
“You
happened to me,” she said, then disappeared inside.

* * *

Livy closed the door and leaned her head
against the cool, wood panel. Her face was hot. Her eyes burned.
Her throat ached with the tears she would not release. How dared he
come back here and ingratiate himself with her son?

Her
son! Not his. J.J.—make that
Garrett—had run away and never looked back. He had not wanted her
love. He did not deserve the wonder of Max.

“What am I going to do?” she whispered.

“Do about what?”

At the sound of her mother’s voice, Livy let
out a squeak and jumped away from the door.

Rosie came out of the kitchen wearing her
usual attire—brightly colored, flowing skirt that ended just above
an ankle tattoo of a hummingbird, and a T-shirt imprinted with one
of her slogans:
I Can Only Please One Person A Day. Today Is Not
Your Day. Tomorrow Doesn’t Look Any Better.

Livy wanted one of those shirts.
Unfortunately, no one in her world would take it seriously. In her
world, she was supposed to please everyone all the time.

“Max,” Livy blurted. “I don’t know what to do
about Max.”

“I told you he’d turn up eventually.” Rosie
wiped her hands on a dishtowel, then tossed it over her shoulder
with a nonchalant movement typical of Rosie.

Five nights a week Rosie led tourists about
as she told legendary stories of the specters that resided amid the
architecture of the oldest planned city in America. She was one of
the best guides in Savannah. Maybe because she believed in the
ghosts.

Livy put her hand to her forehead and rubbed
at the ache there.

“You’re going to make yourself sick,
sugar.”

“I already am.”

“That child’s a wandering soul. Can’t help
himself. And you can’t change him, no matter how many times you
try.”

A wandering soul.
She’d heard that
before. She’d hoped to never hear it again.

A childhood full of different towns,
different faces, no friends had given Livy a permanent case of
roots—or, as her mother said, root rot. Not that she hadn’t loved
the adventures while she was having them. But once her father had
died the fun had gone out of a lot of things.

When Livy had come to Savannah she hadn’t fit
in because she hadn’t known how. Livy didn’t want that for Max. She
wanted him to have a home, to have friends, to belong.
Unfortunately, Max seemed to have more trouble fitting in than she
had—and he’d lived here all his life.

“There’s so much that could happen to a child
alone.”

“Why do you always think about all the bad
things?”

“Someone has to.”

“Do they? Why’s that?”

“If you saw what I saw, if you heard what I
heard every day, you’d be afraid, too.”

Rosie shook her head and went into the usual
litany. “To think any child of mine, any child of your father’s,
would become a perpetrator of the establishment.”

‘‘I’m a lawyer, Mama.”

“Look what those lawyers did for OJ. If I
were you I wouldn’t be bragging.”

“I practice family law. I’m helping wives and
husbands and children.” Livy threw up her hands. “Why am I
explaining this to you? You know what I do. Live with it.”

“Your father would spin in his grave.”

“If Daddy was spinning as much as you say,
he’d be out of his grave by now and walking the streets.”

“He is, sugar. He is.”

“Mama, please.”

Livy’s father had been a gifted carpenter
with a thirst for experience. He’d taken his wife and child along
on his magical mystery tour of the country, picking up jobs at will
and grabbing every adventure he could.

A skydiving, motorcycle-jumping,
snowmobile-racing maniac, he was also big and bluff, hearty and
happy...the most alive man Livy had ever known— until he died.

She trudged up the stairs to check on Max. He
might be eight and able to bathe himself, but given his proclivity
for accidents... Agile adults slipped in the tub, whacked their
heads and died every day. She didn’t plan to let her son drown
while she was arguing with her mother.

Gentle splashing drifted from the bathroom.
Livy let out the breath she hadn’t known she held. As long as Max
was splashing gently, he wasn’t drowning.

According to Rosie, Max was accident-prone
because Livy always expected him to hurt himself. Just another
pearl of guilt on her already full mother worry beads.

Lies, guilt, secrets, recriminations. Hope
your day is happy.

Maybe Livy should try her hand at T-shirt
slogans. That would be a job to make her mother proud.

She peeked into the bathroom, and in the
minor saw her son fill a plastic cup, then let the water trickle
over his head like a waterfall. He appeared so thin and pale,
sitting naked in the white porcelain tub. Love pulsed at the base
of her throat and made her eyes burn again. Max was everything to
her. Sometimes Livy felt so much for him it was frightening. She
would not let anyone hurt him—even his father.

“How’s it going in there?”

Max glanced up, caught sight of her in the
mirror and ducked beneath the edge of the tub. “Mom! I’m
nakie.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Mom!” This accompanied by his latest
expression, a rolling of the eyes. She could see him already as a
teenager, and it wasn’t pretty.

“Have you washed?”

“Yes.”

“Feet? Hair? Everything in between?”

“Uh-huh.”

“With soap?”

“Soap?” he asked, as if the concept was a new
one.

“You aren’t washed.” Livy resisted rolling
her own eyes. “Do you want help?”

“No! I can do it.”

The shyness was as new as the sarcasm. His
independence he’d had from cradle—or maybe from conception.
Sometimes she wondered if he pushed her away all the harder because
she held him too close. But she just couldn’t stop herself.

The shadow memory of her father falling,
falling, falling toward the earth pressed behind her eyelids. She
would never forget the day he’d decided to skydive in a high wind.
She didn’t understand how her mother had.