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

by Lori Handeland

  “It takes years and years of practice to be like me.”

  Max’s shoulders slumped. “Really? I thought you could just, you know, do it now, and I’d be like you right away.”

  “Do what?”

  “Whatever it is vampires do.”

  Garrett was left gaping like the suicidal goldfish he’d owned once that had flipped out of its bowl and onto the carpet. “You think I’m a vampire?”

  “I’ve been watchin’ you. I know how it works. I wanna be undead. That way, whenever I get hurt, I’ll heal. And no matter what trouble I get into, I’ll never die.”

  Garrett was too intrigued to set the kid straight right away. He’d always been fascinated with people and motivations. Call it his job.

  “Why do you want those things?”

  “So my mom won’t cry anymore.”

  The answer, delivered with such innocence, gave Garrett a lump in his throat. He coughed to clear the lump, but it didn’t want to go. “Your mom cries a lot?”

  “Not when I’m lookin’. On account of she doesn’t want me to feel bad. I can’t help it if I fall down a lot.” He held up his cast for emphasis. “She’s real scared that I’m gonna fall too hard and die. My grampa fell and died. And my dad—well, he just died—I’m not sure how.”

  Garrett couldn’t keep his eyes off Max. He was starting to hear that idea again—coming out of this kid’s mouth. He’d never written a book that had a child in it. Kids believed all sorts of crazy things. When you were young, the line between reality and fantasy was thin to nonexistent, and for Garrett that line had never thickened much at all.

  “So can you make me undead?” Max pressed. “I kind of need to know right now. My mom’s gonna find out I’m not in bed, and then she just might kill me.”

  “I think I’d better meet your mom.”

  “But—but—” Max glanced toward the window, where the steamy light of dawn spread. “The sun’s comin’ up. You can’t go outside.”

  “Wanna bet?” Garrett walked through the kitchen and stepped into the morning light.

  Max flinched, as if he expected Garrett to self-combust.

  Garrett laughed. “I can go out.” He stepped inside. “I can go in.” He jumped back out. “I can go out.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “You must be a master.”

  “That’s what some of my reviews say.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Where did you get the idea that I was a vampire?”

  “You only go out at night.”

  “Because I work all day. Sometimes at night, too.” Garrett made a face. “Though not lately.”

  “When you were walkin’ in the cemetery, you looked real close but you never touched the rosaries or the garlic on the gravestones.”

  “And I never will. Those things are special and private.”

  Max still didn’t look convinced.

  “I swear I’m not a vampire. I’m a horror writer.”

  “You mean you have to go to summer school and practice?”

  For a minute Garrett stared at Max, confused. Then the light dawned. “Not a horrible writer, a horror writer. I write books about vampires. I’m not one of them.”

  Max glanced at the coffin. “Then what’s that for?”

  “The fireplace, it looks like. Let me take you home before your mom calls the cops.”

  “I know all the cops. Nearly as good as I know the nurses and the doctors at the E.R.”

  The kid was so perfect it was almost as if Garrett had invented him.

  “You really thought I was a vampire?”

  “Well…” Max appeared sheepish. “I kind of know there’s no such thing, but then again…I was hopin’ there was.”

  “I understand how that is. Lead on, Max.”

  “’Kay.” Max slipped his hand into Garrett’s, as trusting as—well—a child.

  A funny tumble started in the pit of Garrett’s stomach, which he attributed to too little sleep and too much coffee. All the way back to his house, Max chattered—about vampires and someone named Rosie, cemeteries and Sammy, zombies, voodoo and lawyers. As Max chattered, Garrett’s idea rumbled.

  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.

  Chapter 3

  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 tr
udged 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.