Leave it to Max (Lori's Classic Love Stories Volume 1) (5 page)

Once Daddy died, Rosie had brought Livy home
to live with her own mother, a woman who had a hard time
remembering her name, let alone her granddaughter’s. Rosie had
visited once in a while, never staying longer than a week, being
gone sometimes as much as six months. At seventeen, Livy became the
responsible person of the house. At first she had no idea how, but
as the years went by, she learned the lesson well. Perhaps too
well.

Every time she tried to loosen up, as her
mother said she should, Livy would see that body rocketing toward
the earth, view another picture of a child abused or lost, remember
again the man she loved leaving her forever. Then she’d clutch Max
closer and hold him tighter than ever before.

Final splashing noises and the swirling belch
of the drain broke into Livy’s thoughts. She peeked again and found
Max drying himself off. His cast appeared fine, dry and all in one
piece. Modem medicine was amazing. Lucky for Max.

“I’ll check on breakfast,” she said. ‘‘Get
dressed and come down.”

“’Kay.”

Livy took the back steps to the kitchen. Her
mother had already skipped off to parts unknown, which solved
Livy’s problem of getting rid of her before J.J. returned. Rosie
wasn’t the kind of grandma who hung about watching television and
knitting socks. Unfortunately, many of the times that Rosie
disappeared without a word, Livy ended up bailing her out of
jail.

Rosie liked to organize peaceful protests for
every lost cause she could find. Goblins, hawks or cobblestones,
Indian burial grounds, geese or tumbledown pirate’s cave—it didn’t
matter. If there was a person, place or thing that needed
defending, Rosie would be there.

On the up side, her causes kept her busy. On
the downside, one woman’s peace was a police officer’s nightmare.
The law enforcement community had discovered the only way to shut
up Rosie was to lock up Rosie.

At least Livy had gained a friend out of her
mother’s proclivity for arrest. Detective Gabriel Klein—Gabe to his
friends, Klein to his co-workers—was someone in between to Livy.
New in Savannah, yet native to Georgia, he had been of help to her
with a few long-term, criminal cases.

His usual fare as a detective was serious
infractions, and not Rosie’s type of nonsense, which was usually
left to the officers on patrol. But because he and Livy were
friendly, Klein looked out for Rosie whenever she turned up in
jail. He’d also started to look out for Livy and Max, even though
she hadn’t asked him to. From what she’d heard around Savannah,
Klein liked to look after people. It was what he did best.

Max thundered down the steps. How one child
could sound like ten on the steps Livy had never figured out, but
Max managed.

He sat at the table, and she placed a plate
of waffles in front of him. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Thank Rosie.”

“Thanks, Rosie,” he called.

“She’s not here.”

“That’s okay. She said she can hear me even
if she’s not around.”

“You know sometimes Gramma says things that
aren’t exactly so.”

“Don’t call her Gramma.”

“There you go. She
is
a gramma. Not
calling her one doesn’t make it not so.”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind callin’ her Rosie.
I love her.”

Max and Rosie had taken one look at each
other and fallen instantly in love. No matter how much her mother
annoyed Livy, she could never split up her and Max. Never.

Livy left Max shoveling his breakfast as if
protecting it from ravenous wolves. The boy ate like a truck
driver, yet resembled an escapee from Andersonville Prison.

She ran upstairs and into the bathroom, where
she hung up his towel, then shut every drawer and door that Max had
opened.

Rosie understood this odd habit and it never
irritated
her
to have to constantly shut every cover on
every crevice after Max had been through a room. When Livy asked
her mother what Max could possibly think lived beneath the bathroom
sink, Rosie had said, “Maybe Max doesn’t even know, but better safe
than sorry.”

What were you supposed to say to logic like
that?

Sometimes Livy felt as much an outsider
living with her mother and son as she’d felt when she’d first been
left in Savannah. Back then she hadn’t known how to behave, how to
make friends, whom to trust. Then there’d been one magic summer
with one magic man...and she’d learned that in truth she could
trust no one but herself.

Now the man who had taught her the hardest
lesson of her life was back.

Livy cut off those treacherous thoughts and
got dressed. For court she always wore a skirt, heels and a jacket.
Today she added a bright-red camisole to give the illusion of
power.

She stuck out her tongue at the mirror. She
looked scared to death, and she loathed suits. Unfortunately, all
the big lawyer boys wore them.

Livy returned to the kitchen just as Max
tripped over the rag rug and dumped his dishes into the sink with a
crash. “You okay?”

The intensity of the glare she received for
being such a
mom
was tempered somewhat by his milk mustache.
Livy resisted the urge to wipe it off. With the white foam on his
lip, Max looked like her baby again. Then he asked a typical Max
question that reminded her he was no longer any kind of baby.

“Mr. Stark said if you believe in something
it’s true. Is that right?”

‘‘What do you think?”

His chin went up; his eyes turned defiant “I
thought that maybe it couldn’t hurt to try. Maybe if I believe in
something it
would
be true. Like magic.”

‘‘Magic isn’t any more real than Santa, Max.
I wish it were.”

His chin drooped toward his chest.
Guilt,
guilt, guilt.
The word beat in time to the pulse of pain in
Livy’s head.

Once, Livy had believed in magic, but
believing hadn’t made the magic real. She’d learned never to
believe in anything she couldn’t see and hear and touch.

Livy gave in to the urge to pull Max against
her and listen to his heart beat sure and steady; she touched his
impossibly soft cheek.

Max was all the magic she needed. No matter
who was back in town.

* * *

Garrett walked to River Street, bought coffee
he didn’t need or want, then sat on a bench and watched the
Savannah River. Boats flowed by, tourists chattered, the city awoke
around him, and Garrett still stared at the water.

I have a son.

He could not seem to get his mind around that
fact. Maybe because his son was eight years old—a walking, talking,
laughing, falling
person.
Most fathers got to start with a
baby and work up. Not him. For a bonus, his son thought he was
dead
.

Garrett dumped out his coffee untasted. His
heart already pumped too hard and too fast from anger, fear and
uncertainty. He didn’t need a caffeine jump start.

Why hadn’t Livy told him? Had she even tried
to find him? Most important why did she hate him?

He wasn’t blameless. He
had
run away.
He’d also been a child, at least when dealing with emotions.
Because he’d never known love until Livy.

Garrett’s mother had taken off when he was a
baby. He didn’t have a single memory of her. Perhaps he
should
feel abandoned. Counselors and teachers had told him
that often enough. But how could he feel left when he felt little
to nothing at all?

He might have wondered on occasion why she’d
gone. Had it been to get away from him? But Garrett had lived with
his father, and somehow he’d doubted his mother had run from a
baby.

James, Sr., a no-nonsense, high-profile,
corporate attorney, had wanted a son to follow in his footsteps.
He’d gotten J.J., instead.

The man had not known what to do with a child
who walked around in a cloud of imagination, tripped over his own
feet, ran into doors and talked about people who did not
exist—except try like hell to change him.

Garrett had waited until he was eighteen to
run. But a lifetime of being told he was useless and worthless,
that dreams were only dreams and his would never amount to
anything, had made Garrett uncertain of what was the truth.

When Livy had told him she loved him, Garrett
had run again, knowing he did not deserve a gift as precious as
that. And in running he’d made all his father’s predictions come
true.

The breeze off the river whispered
autumn—summer dying, winter coming. The scent of sultry heat fading
toward sharp, cool ice, but beneath it all, the tangy whiff of
burning leaves and the prophesy of withering daylight.

The rumble of cars over the cobblestone
street at Garrett’s back made him remember walking along this very
river, taking her hand, wishing things he’d never dared hope for
and dreaming more than he’d ever dared to dream.

Touching her skin in the moonlight, gently,
reverently, knowing she was the most beautiful being on this earth.
Pulling her close, smelling her hair, breathing her name,
understanding he held everything in his arms. And knowing in his
heart he deserved none of it, but wanting her nevertheless. She had
given him strength, made him believe in himself and shared every
bit of herself.

Garrett had thought he was coming back to
Savannah for the book. He admitted now, he had come back for
her.

He still didn’t deserve her love. He
certainly didn’t deserve Max. But he had learned a few things over
the past nine years. People rarely got what they deserved—be it
good or bad. They quite often got what they fought for, though, and
they could earn what they believed in deeply enough.

Livy was different now. Perhaps not the woman
he’d once loved, and he had no one to blame but himself. His son,
on the other hand, was special. Garrett had seen that the second he
looked into Max’s eyes. Max was like him, only better, and Garrett
wasn’t going to allow Max to endure the childhood Garrett had
endured. He was going to nourish his son’s magic and give him
everything J. J. Garrett had longed for.

Garrett breathed the river air one more time,
felt the peace of this place he’d been awaiting. As he walked back
to Livy’s house he made a vow to himself.

He was going to become the father he’d always
wanted.

* * *

When the doorbell rang, Livy let out a
startled yelp. She wasn’t ready.

Oh, she was dressed and Max was gone and the
house was empty. But she was not ready to see the man again. Not
now, maybe never.

As she approached the door, Livy gave herself
a quick pep talk. She was stronger, smarter, older. She had
everything she needed in her life; she did not need him. J.J. could
not hurt her anymore.

She did not love him. He could not touch her
and make her do anything. He could not speak to her in that
haunting voice and make her dream impossible dreams.

She would fix this. Wasn’t she the best
family law attorney in town? If Livy Frasier couldn’t take care of
her own problems, what good was she to anyone else?

Livy opened the door and her breath stopped
in her throat, making her chest hurt. He was more beautiful now
than he’d been all those years ago. His hair just as black, but
longer, his face more defined—a man’s face now, with no trace of
the boy she’d lost everything to.

Foolish girl. What difference did it make how
he looked?

His dark gaze met hers, and she shivered
despite the rising heat of the day. The warmth of the sun became a
memory; the strength she’d talked herself into, a whisper gone on
the wind. This man had been her everything, and when she’d lost him
she had nearly lost herself.

Kisses in the moonlight, sex beneath the
stars, secret meetings, murmured promises. She’d been so young, so
unbelievably naive and stupid. But she’d never felt anything that
strong, or that magical, since.

Love that deep destroyed. The girl she’d been
then was no more. Thank God.

Tightening her fingers on the doorknob, Livy
moved back, the only welcome she could bring herself to give. As he
stepped inside, her head spun with memories of other times he’d
been here, the occasions he’d snuck up the servants’ stairs to her
room.

Since this house dated from the mid-1700s,
there were also servants’ quarters, where Rosie lived, and such
antiquities as a front parlor—where, Livy recalled, she’d shared
her first French kiss with this man on the chaise lounge. There was
even a wrought-iron gate around the garden, where once, in the
middle of a thunderstorm, he’d put his hot hands all over her icy
cold skin and—

“Shall we go into the dining room?” Her voice
polite but brittle, Livy hoped he could not tell that her palms had
gone damp and she was having a hard time remembering this was
business.

Business she could manage. The past was
beyond her control.

“I’d rather keep it informal.” Taking charge,
he strolled into the parlor and sat on the blasted chaise lounge.
When he glanced at her, she knew he remembered the same things she
did.

Her face flamed and she wanted to hide. Her
hard-won self-discipline slipped another notch. If he kept
reminding her of the past, she didn’t know how she’d make it
through the present.

Livy waited for him to speak. That was always
best in situations like these. Be patient. Wait for them to spill
the beans, tip their hand, talk too much—then pounce. She remained
standing, as far away from him as she could get without leaving the
room.

“You look...” He hesitated. “Different.”

“You could use a haircut.”

How she looked was irrelevant. Just as how he
looked—spectacular—was not going to make her dreamy-eyed any
longer. She had dreamed herself dry long ago.

Livy glanced at her watch. “Can we get down
to business?”

“I wouldn’t call Max business.”