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

by Lori Handeland

  His eyes darkened. He stepped away, and with his mouth still wet from hers, he took her heart and stomped on it all over again.

  “Fine, Counselor, I’ll see you in court.”

  The slam of the front door reverberated through the wall at her back as she slid into a boneless heap on the floor.

  I’ll see you in court.

  Livy gave a watery, hysterical little laugh. She liked that line a whole lot better when she said it.

  Chapter 4

  Garrett didn’t slow down until he’d power-walked all the way back to River Street. He was not a man given to bursts of temper, slamming of doors or even the raising of his voice. From his father he’d learned men in their family did not show emotion of any kind. Not anger, not sadness and certainly not love.

  Why should he be surprised that the only woman who’d ever coaxed him beyond his inbred reserve toward softer emotions would also be the one to break the taut rein he kept on any hint of temper? Not to say he didn’t get angry; he just didn’t show it. Prime candidate for an ulcer was Garrett, as Andrew always warned him. Andrew should talk.

  Garrett’s mind a jumble, he thought crazy things. The craziest of all was that he should turn right around, return to the house where he’d first kissed Livy and kiss her again.

  If he didn’t play this right, he would lose any hope of getting near Max again in this lifetime. He needed a plan. Plans, though, were not his strong suit; Garrett liked to go with the flow. But if he had to, he could come up with one. Maybe.

  Garrett hurried past the Hyatt Regency Hotel. Some said the tall, concrete structure didn’t fit with the quaint, restored nineteenth-century buildings in the river area, but the tourists liked it, as evidenced by the constant stream of them spilling from the back door of the hotel and onto River Street.

  Past the Hyatt, Garrett walked into one of the numerous restaurants. He glanced at his watch and growled. Eight-thirty in the morning. Far too early for a nightcap. His pending ulcer didn’t warrant alcohol or coffee. But milk only made him think of his son.

  And when he thought of Max, things got all jumbled again. Need and love, longing and hope—they were all mixed up with Livy and always had been. But now they were mixed up with Max, too. Both for J. J. Garrett—a boy who’d known love but once— and Garrett Stark—a man who could only write of it.

  Though it was early, a bartender stood behind the bar, preparing for the day. When she lifted an eyebrow his way, Garrett ordered sweet tea, a southern confection he’d always missed whenever he wasn’t in the South, and ignored her long look and sultry smile. For reasons unfathomable to Garrett, women found his distracted silences compelling and his gothic demeanor intriguing.

  This was convenient when the loneliness overtook him, usually between books, because when he was in the midst of a story his mind was so full of imaginary people, he had no time for real ones. That truth would have ended every relationship he’d ever begun, if his habit of moving on at the first whisper of a new idea hadn’t ended it first. He never lied to anyone. He never promised anything but the moment. He couldn’t promise more, because he didn’t know how.

  Was it fair to fight for his son? Could he promise Max more than that moment? Could he love the boy the way he deserved to be loved? What if he tried and failed? Garrett was very good at failing.

  The bartender returned. “You haven’t touched your tea. Anything wrong?”

  “Not with the tea.”

  “Aw, that sounds serious. Can I help?” She put her elbows on the bar and leaned over.

  Garrett got an extraordinary view of her breasts. They were extraordinary breasts.

  In any other town he’d have considered the offer. Be real. A day ago he’d have taken the offer. Anything to avoid thinking about the book that wasn’t. But today he’d become a father. This morning he’d touched and kissed Livy. Be it better or worse, nothing would ever be the same again.

  Though he might never be the parent he hoped to be, he could try. If he could get Livy to let him see Max. He’d threatened court. Dare he go that far? Was there another option before things got nasty?

  Garrett considered the helpful bartender. “If I had a custody problem, who would be the best person to talk to about it?”

  “Custody?” The bartender straightened and glanced at his left hand. “You’re married?”

  Garrett ignored the question, standing to reach for his wallet. He tossed some money next to his untouched tea and started for the door. He’d find out what he needed to know. He always did. Being a writer had honed his research skills.

  “Hey, wait.” The bartender followed him the length of the bar. She smiled, friendly this time instead of a come-on, so Garrett smiled back. “One of the cooks had a problem like that. Hold on.”

  She stepped into the kitchen, and a moment later reappeared with a large, bald man who reminded Garrett of Mr. Clean without the earring.

  “Claudio, this guy needs advice on a custody problem.”

  “Talk to Kim Luchetti. She and her partner are the best team in town. Savannah Family Law.” He waved vaguely in the direction of town. “They’re in the book. Tell Kim, Claudio sent you. She’ll take care of everything.”

  “Thanks.” Garrett checked his watch. Why, he had no idea. It wasn’t as though he had a clock to punch. Or an idea to write into a book.

  He rubbed his forehead, craving a cigarette for the first time in five years. Alcohol, cigarettes, caffeine. If his Muse hadn’t already fled, she’d be running for her life right about now.

  Though he hated to consult an attorney, hated the fact that his first response had been to threaten legal action, just like dear old dad, what could it hurt to call and find out his options?

  He needed a plan. This seemed like a good one. Once Garrett knew where he stood, he’d phone Livy; they’d discuss the situation like adults. Everything would be fine.

  Why didn’t he believe that?

  *

  Livy’s case went sour quicker than milk beneath the noonday sun. No surprise there. She could think of nothing but J. J. Garrett now Garrett Stark, who’d returned to haunt her life.

  To be honest, her case had gone badly through no fault of hers. Yet she couldn’t help but feel on her walk back from court that if her mind had been a little sharper, if she hadn’t been hungover from a combination of fear, lack of sleep and shock, then she might not have stood there gaping when the new information was revealed, and maybe she could have salvaged something.

  Despite her mother’s view of lawyers, Livy did help people, and she had increased her family law practice to the point that she could turn away cases she did not believe in.

  Livy loved the law. The law was cut-and-dried. The law made sense. It gave a semblance of control in a world gone out of control. Still, sometimes life just sucked. And today was one of those times.

  “Another day, another psycho nutcase.”

  Livy glanced up from her notes on Bernadette v. Bernadette to find Kim Luchetti lounging in the doorway. Kim was a paralegal, but in their small office she handled the phones, filing, research and case interviews, which was how she met the psycho nutcases first.

  At times Livy felt the two of them were Batman and Robin, the caped law crusaders, fighting for truth, justice and the American Way. Unfortunately, the American Way wasn’t all it used to be.

  America had been founded on the backs of folks who couldn’t quite fit in anywhere else on the earth—outcasts, criminals, people who were very hard to get along with. If they hadn’t been, America would have eaten those early settlers alive. As a result, the American Way had become a modem version of “get what you want no matter the cost, or hire a lawyer to get it for you.”

  “Which psycho nutcase are we talking about?” Livy asked, only momentarily concerned that there was more than one in her caseload.

  “Our latest and greatest.” Kim kicked off her four-inch spike heels and sprawled in a chair, heedless of her short, mauve skirt. She could have been a f
ashion model except fate, or a just God, had created her less than five feet tall. She compensated with heels and short skirts, which made her legs look long.

  Livy really should hate her, but Kim was a fantastic paralegal and an even better friend. Too bad she was a Yankee. But nobody was perfect.

  “Listen to this.” As Kim rubbed her hands together, her French manicure caught the fluorescent light and shot off sparks bright enough to blind a gnat. “Guy hauls ass for ten miles with the cops chasing him, sirens blaring, lights flashing. He stops only because he hits a patch of oil and skids into a pig farm. When he gets out of the car at the cops’ request, beer cans tumble out willy-nilly—”

  “I don’t take cases like that. The guy’s an idiot and obviously DUI.”

  Kim giggled. Only Kim could giggle and make the sound appealing. Was it her height that allowed the giggle, or her bearing and self-confidence that made even a giggle seem so Kim?

  She might resemble a black-haired, green-eyed, luscious-bodied Barbie, but she possessed the savvy of the street and brains worthy of a Supreme Court justice. Livy often wondered why Kim had settled for a career as a bridesmaid and not a bride—but if she hadn’t, Livy would be out the best paralegal in Georgia.

  Folks had often made the mistake of taking Kim at face value. She promptly chewed up such fools and spit them out like sunflower seeds. It really was fun to watch.

  Kim giggled a second time, bringing Livy’s attention back to the problem at hand. “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re not representing the DUI. Your client is the pig farmer.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because the pig farmer is Herbert Hoff.”

  There was little Livy could say to that revelation beyond “Great.”

  Though Livy’s specialty was family law, once she handled a family’s law, they often saw her as their utility lawyer. In other words, she got called to handle most any legal entanglement her former clients got into because they trusted her. If Livy believed she could help them, she did. Trust was a terrible thing to waste.

  “What’s Herb’s problem?”

  “Seems his prize sow got killed in the accident.”

  “And?”

  “That’s a hardship. She would have had litter upon litter…”

  “Blah-blah-blah.”

  “Pain and suffering, lost income.” Kim grinned. “God, I love this job.”

  “Well, that makes one of us.”

  Kim’s smile faded and she sat up. Livy and Kim had become friends three minutes after Kim had walked into Livy’s office for the first time. Livy had been running on empty with too much work and too little time for both the business and her son. Kim had decided Livy needed her, and that had been the end of that. The friendship was as solid as their partnership, which continually amazed them both.

  Kim, as a result of her annoying perfection in face, body and brain, had few female friends. Livy had never been comfortable with people her own age. Save one, and look where that had gotten her.

  She bit her lip and forced J.J.’s face out of her head. He’d already ruined her morning, she would not let him screw up the afternoon, too.

  “Spill it, Counselor. You got a case you don’t care for?”

  “Bernadette v Bernadette.” She jabbed a chewed-on fingernail at the file. “These people should never have gotten married, never had kids. Shouldn’t there be some kind of law?’’

  “Against fools and idiots? Yep. Unfortunately, in the great state of Georgia—and every other state I’m aware of—being a moron isn’t a crime. What’s wrong with your case?”

  “I’m representing the wife. Typical story. Husband works late a little too much. Wife goes to see him, catches him with a chickee-poo.”

  “Blah-blah-blah.”

  “She wants the house, a car, the kids, plus support and alimony.”

  Kim spread her hands. “This sounds clear-cut.”

  “Not quite. She’s having an affair with the pool boy, who’s almost as young as her eldest son. The best part is, this lovely little bombshell came out in court this morning.”

  Kim winced, which is exactly what Livy had done when she’d heard about it—from the pool boy after the husband’s lawyer had put him on the stand. She hated surprises, and two in one day was two too many.

  “After you quit grinding your teeth and swearing a blue streak in your head, then what happened?”

  Kim knew her so well. “Turns out that both of them have been behaving this way for years. The wife’s only mad now because the latest in the long line of hotties is her cousin.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Ouch isn’t the half of it.”

  Sometimes Livy took a case that looked good—wronged wife, crying children—but when the truth came out, things got ugly.

  Who was she kidding? There was no “sometimes” about it. The truth was almost always ugly. Still, she did enjoy sorting through the silt and picking out the gold. Every once in a while that gold was Justice.

  “You did your best, Livy. Why so glum?”

  “My best wasn’t good enough. I lost, Kim.”

  “Define lost.”

  “Joint custody.”

  “That doesn’t sound unreasonable under the circumstances.”

  “You’re probably right, but tell that to my client.”

  Kim raised her perfect brow. “What about Mom and the pool boy?”

  “You sound just like the opposing counsel.”

  “At least your client won’t have to worry about the father flipping out because he’s been denied visitation, so he snatches the kids and disappears.”

  Livy’s heart stuttered and she put her palm against her chest “Wh-why would you say something like that?”

  Kim gave her an odd look. “Are you having a heart attack? You’re as pale as one of Rosie’s ghosts.”

  “I’m fine.” Livy forced herself to drop her hand and breathe deeply. She hadn’t thought about that. J.J. wouldn’t… •

  No, J.J. wouldn’t She had no idea what Garrett Stark might do.

  “Why do people use their kids for leverage?” she muttered.

  “Because they can.”

  The two of them sighed as one. Livy didn’t know what she’d do without Kim to talk to, Kim to understand things, Kim to keep her grounded and sane. Sometimes Livy was so grateful, she got all weepy. Usually after they hit the Merlot.

  Kim always waved off Livy’s words, saying “That’s what friends are for.”

  Livy wasn’t so sure. Since she’d only had one friend before Kim—and as Kim said, boyfriends didn’t count because once they weren’t boyfriends they were slime, but a girlfriend was a girlfriend forever, if they were any type of friend—Livy decided to believe Kim on this subject.

  “Let’s talk about happy stuff a minute. I’m in love.”

  Livy managed not to snort. Barely. “You are always in love.”

  “But this time it’s real.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  For a smart girl, Kim picked a whole lot of losers. Not that Livy was anyone to judge. Still, Kim should be able to see through the pretty-boy type. Yet she became bored with every single wonder boy within two weeks.

  “Who is it this time?” Livy asked.

  “Joshua.”

  Livy rolled her eyes. She couldn’t stop herself. Joshua sounded far too pretty already. “You need to catch a clue. Every guy you’ve dated has turned out to be a loser with a capital L.”

  “But they always look like such winners.”

  “Bingo. Looks like a winner?” Livy made the shape of an L with her thumb and forefinger. “L-o-s-e-r.”

  “You’re saying I should search for a loser and he’ll be a winner?”

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “I think I’ll pass on that Dear Livy advice, thank you. Joshua is gorgeous and tall and blond as a Viking, built like one, too. He works at the conference hotel on the river, in Reservations. He can’t be like all the rest. He must have something up
stairs to manage that.”

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Livy didn’t hold out much hope.

  From what she’d observed of relationships—and she’d had to observe quite a few in her business—people were attracted to the same type over and over again, regardless of whether that was a mistake or not. It usually took years of dogged determination, or years of therapy, to change type.

  When Livy dated, which was rarely, she chose mildly attractive, middle-aged, slightly stuffy men. No dark, dangerous, poetic strangers for her, thank you. And she’d been just fine, until a certain type had come knocking. Which only proved that dogged determination stood for little. Maybe she needed years of therapy, instead. She could start tomorrow.

  “How’s my angel baby?”

  Kim and Max were buddies. Once upon a time, Livy had worried about all the women in her son’s life, figuring that couldn’t be good. Then she’d had the brilliant idea of signing him up for Little League. With all those hardballs and swinging bats—

  She started so violently at the memory that Kim reached over and put her hand atop Livy’s. “Did he fall off the back porch again?”

  “No.” Livy frowned. “Or at least not so I could tell. He’s begun to hide minor wounds.”

  “Probably not a bad idea, considering.”

  “It is a bad idea. Do you know what kind of infection you can get if you don’t clean even a paper cut properly?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me as soon as I actually care. Now, getting back to Max—what’s he done lately?”

  “Stayed out after dark and ended up with a broken forearm.”

  “Well—” Kim shrugged “—something had to give sooner or later.”

  Livy, unable to keep still any longer, began to pace behind her desk. “How can you be so blasé? He broke a bone.”

  “I got that. Honestly, Livy, he’s a boy. My brothers broke bones every day.”

  Livy gave her a look.

  “Well, not every day. But close enough. You know what my mom would say to you? You need another baby. That’ll fix you right up. Once you’ve got two, you won’t worry overly much about one.”

  Though Kim didn’t talk about the place she hailed from—“north” was all she said—she had on occasion mentioned her five big brothers. Livy couldn’t imagine six children—the worries, the heartache, the medical bills.