“Your mama was just lucky she got y’all fed and bathed.”
“I just love how you say mama and y’all. Hallelujah, I love the South. Especially southern men.” Her green eyes went dreamy and brought to mind images of lazy kitties and sultry Savannah nights.
“Kim, could you focus for a minute?”
She did.
“Max broke his arm. I’m at my wits’ end.”
And not about that, her conscience added. About his father—a man you think is dead. A man my mother thinks is dead. A man Max thinks is dead.
That was the thing about lies; they multiplied, until a person forgot what was real and what wasn’t. Kind of like magic.
“You’ve got to let him climb trees and jump off things and be a boy.” Kim wiggled her fingers and spoke in an exaggerated Transylvanian accent. “Out in the dark where the children of the night howl.”
The accent made Livy remember how Max had met J.J. in the first place. He wanted to be undead. She really had to have another talk with him. No matter how many times they discussed fantasy and reality, Max just didn’t seem to get it.
“You’re as bad as Max. Girls don’t break bones? Or stay out after dark? I wish I had one of those.”
“I remember sneaking out after dark.” Kim lifted her eyebrows. “But that was in high school.”
“He’s only eight. The world is full of—”
“Psycho nutcases. I know. Still, Livy, you’ve gotta cut him some slack or he’ll never grow up—”
“Normal?”
“At all. Maybe you should check into one of those Big Brother programs. For boys who don’t have dads.”
“I know what a Big Brother program is,” Livy snapped.
Kim, always astute, looked at Livy closely. “What’s the matter with you today?”
“Nothing.” There went those multiplying lies again. “Don’t you have someone to call and harass?”
“Always.” But Kim didn’t leave; she just kept staring at Livy with those too-intelligent eyes.
Livy stared back. How long was she going to be able to keep this mess to herself?
However long it took. All she had to do was hold J.J. off until he grew bored and left. That shouldn’t be too hard. Leaving was what he did best.
Kim cleared her throat.
“Was there something else?” Livy asked.
“I had a call from a potential client.”
“Other than our pig farmer? It’s been a busy day.”
“The guy just wanted some initial advice—it may not come to court. Another client recommended us. Remember Claudio from the Irish pub on the river?” When Livy’s expression went blank, Kim explained further. “He never knew about his kid, then when he found out he had to prove he was the father before he could sue for visitation.”
A chill touched Livy’s neck. “Goose on my grave,” she muttered.
Kim was too caught up in her story to listen to Livy’s mutters. Besides, Livy muttered a lot.
“This guy’s case is a lot like Claudio’s. I told him he should get a copy of the birth certificate, see if he’s listed as the father. If not, he’d need to get a blood test, consider a DNA test. But to get those, he’d probably need a court order if the mother was being difficult. Sounded like she was. Once he has proof of parentage, the mother would really have no choice.”
“No choice,” Livy echoed.
“Funny thing, though. When I told him your name, he hung up. I figured he’d want to get started on the court order right away.”
Livy froze. That goose was dancing all over the entire family plot.
“What was his name?” she asked, though she already knew.
“Garrett Stark. I know that name, but I can’t remember why. Who is he?”
Livy didn’t bother to answer before she ran out the door.
Chapter 5
Garrett figured the un-book could wait until tomorrow to be unwritten. It wasn’t every day a man discovered he had a son.
Talk about the fickle finger of fate. He still couldn’t believe he’d called Livy’s office for advice. What kind of name for a firm was Savannah Family Law? Other law firms were called Smith, Smith and Jones, or some variation. Didn’t high-powered attorneys live to see their names on the stationery? Apparently not Livy Frasier.
Instead of writing, Garrett spent the morning thinking, something he’d been doing a lot of lately. The fact that Livy would rather say Garrett was dead than have him be a father to his son made him feel worthless, useless, a failure. Just like old times.
And just like old times, the urge to run prodded at him. He could go somewhere new and start the book over. A different town could make him forget the shape of Max’s face. A few hundred miles and he might forget the scent of Livy’s hair.
She wouldn’t care. She’d made it perfectly clear that he was an intrusion and she wanted him gone. But this time he wasn’t running. He didn’t care what Livy wanted. Garrett needed to know Max. From what he’d seen and heard that morning, Max needed to know him, too.
Livy loved her son. That was obvious. But she had no idea how to cultivate the boy’s magic. In trying to keep him safe, she’d end up crushing his spark, making him like every other boy—and Max was different. Garrett knew, because he was different, too.
What was he going to do? Garrett couldn’t very well announce to Max that he was his dad and Livy was a liar, and then cart the kid off for a painless and simple blood test. Livy would have Garrett in jail faster than he could say, “I want a lawyer.”
He’d be within his rights, which would eventually come out anyhow, along with the truth. But did he want to start his relationship with his son the way his own father’s relationship had been with him—one of “you do what I say and to hell with your feelings or anyone else’s”?
Garrett didn’t have to answer that question, even for himself.
After a considering glance at the bottle of Poe’s best friend atop his kitchen counter, Garrett carried a book out on the porch, instead. Drinking didn’t help, anyway; he’d best nip the habit in the bud.
But a Bud would taste so good right now.
“No more,” he said aloud. “You’re a father.”
Garrett remembered his father sitting on the porch, sipping a martini after work, J.J. hovering nearby, waiting for a look, a word, a minute.
Don’t bother me, Junior. I need to unwind.
As far as Garrett could tell, his father had been wound so tightly nothing would ever have unwound him.
A movement on the sidewalk caught his eye and he stood to get a better view. Livy turned in to his yard and stalked up his walk. Furious, she muttered unintelligibly as she came up the steps, and she didn’t see him watching her from the shadow of the eaves.
She was so pretty, even wearing that grave-dirt shade of burial suit. But the flame-red silk beneath the suit made him hope that the Livy he’d known lay sleeping beneath the woman she’d become. His Livy had always worn bright colors against her pale, pale skin.
The memory of that skin beneath the moon, beneath him, made Garrett shift, and the movement brought her attention from the front door to him. Heat flared in her eyes, but not the kind of heat he remembered, not the kind he’d always ached for when the cold loneliness overtook him.
He expected her to scream, throw something, maybe kick him in the shins. Instead, she spoke low and clear. “You’ve got nerve calling my office for help.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Don’t do it again. And stay away from my son.”
“Or?”
Her lips tightened. She said nothing.
“You can’t keep me away from him—”
“If I call the police and say you’re bothering him, who do you think they’ll believe?”
“You.” He shrugged. “Until I tell them the truth and then prove it.”
“Shit,” she said, but there was no heat in the word, only a touch of desperation.
“You’re scared.”
“That’s okay. I’m scared, too.”
“You were never scared of anything.”
He shook his head. “It only seemed that way. But you… You were the most fearless person I’d ever known.”
She backed up a step, narrowing her eyes, and he stopped advancing as he waited for her to flee or fight. The tense readiness of her stance made him think she wanted to kick him now, but she didn’t.
“Things change when you have a child. You can’t be the same person anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s suddenly someone more important than anything or anyone, especially yourself.”
“That doesn’t explain why you had to become a lawyer and turn stiff as a board.”
She glared at him. “I became a lawyer to feed us.”
“I can feed you now.”
“I don’t need you. Max doesn’t need you.”
No one ever needed Garrett. If he died tomorrow, would anyone give a damn past the funeral?
Except for Andrew, because of the loss of that oh-so-special book.
Garrett had thought he’d been living the perfect life. But now he wasn’t so sure.
“Maybe you should ask Max if he needs me.’’
“Why? He’s been doing fine without you.”
“Has he?”
Though it didn’t seem possible, she went even stiffer. Her back and neck must hurt something awful every night.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Better tread lightly here. “Every kid deserves a dad.”
“Even kids whose dads don’t deserve them?”
Garrett’s insecurities returned. He’d learned over the years that most writers functioned with an odd sort of schizophrenia—arrogant enough to believe they could write, yet vulnerable enough to possess the emotions to do it in the first place.
Since this morning, Garrett’s schizophrenia had begun to slop over into his life as well as his work. One minute he knew he was the best thing for Max, and in the space of an instant and a single wrinkled nose from Livy, he was certain he’d be the worst possible influence on his son.
“I’d like a chance. I won’t hurt him.”
He was treated to her “too dumb to live” glare, which he was starting to believe she reserved especially for him. “Where have I heard that before?”
A single sentence and one night in the garden might have been only yesterday, so clear was the voice of his past: I won’t hurt you, Livy. I swear. I’d cut off my arm before I’d hurt you. Give me a chance. Let me touch you. Let me…
He could say he’d been twenty and foolishly stupid. Seduced by the sight of her atop the grass, the drift of the flowers against her hair, the scent of her skin all around him and the taste of her mouth on his. But the truth didn’t make what he’d done forgivable.
Garrett licked dry lips and discovered he could taste her still. Maybe that was why he’d been drinking since he’d come back to Savannah. With whiskey in his mouth he no longer tasted Livy and burned for her.
How could he explain that he’d left so he wouldn’t hurt her? That he’d known in his heart he would never be good enough to stay.
For months after, his entire body had ached with loneliness and a desperate desire to return. The only way he’d survived was to write until the blinding fury of need dimmed. He’d put everything he’d felt for her, all that he’d feared and believed, everything he’d left behind, into that first book.
He’d done it for her. But she’d never believe him.
“Did you ever try to find me?”
“No.” She crossed her arms.
“Why not?”
“I lived on the road for seventeen years. My father was exactly like you. Drift and wander, pick up a job here, sleep over there. You told me your name—something easily changed, as you’ve proven. But you never told me where you were from, or anything about your past. There would have been no finding you, J.J., even if I’d wanted to try.”
Uncertainty swamped him. “Why didn’t you want to try?”
“You left me, of your own free will. Why would I drag you back where you didn’t want to be, so you could leave Max, too?”
Considering it from her angle, she had a point. Why would she believe he’d stay for the son when he hadn’t for the mother?
Garrett tried a different tack. “Maybe we should leave our past out of this.”
“I don’t see how, since the past is Max.” Her sigh was long and as full of exhaustion as her eyes now that the heat had burned off. “Why are you here? Why don’t you leave? It’s what you do best.”
“Not anymore.”
Her withering look revealed how little his words meant, and he couldn’t blame her. But he wasn’t going to give up. “Don’t make me go to court. You’ll lose and you know it.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” she shouted, and the anguish in her voice bounced off the cool shadowed porch and into the bright autumn sunlight. Two tiny old ladies paused amid their afternoon constitutional and glared at Garrett from the sidewalk.
“Ladies.” He inclined his head.
They sniffed—as only elderly southern ladies could, making him feel as if his knuckles had been rapped without them ever touching him—then straightened backs stiffer than Livy’s and hurried on.
Garrett was trying to get the hang of being a gentleman. But there seemed to be nuances to it that a border Yankee like himself couldn’t quite fathom.
In the silence that followed, Garrett heard a tiny hitch in Livy’s breath that was almost a sob—would have been a sob for any other woman.
He inched forward, encouraged when she didn’t move away. He wanted to touch her so badly his hands hurt. Or maybe they hurt because he was fisting them too tightly in an attempt to keep himself from touching her. Because if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop.
Gentling his voice, Garrett spoke just above a whisper. “I want to see Max. I want to know him. Why is that so hard to believe?”
“You didn’t want me, why do you want him?”
‘‘I did want you. Too much. You consumed me, Livy.”
“Stop!” She raised her hand, palm out in front of her face. “I don’t want to hear this. We’re talking about Max.”
“Are we?”
She didn’t answer. Garrett hadn’t really expected her to.
“You can’t love him. You barely know him.”
“You’re telling me you didn’t love him the minute you looked into his eyes?”
“I’m his mother.”
“And I’m his father. He’s you and he’s me—equally.”
“I carried him. I bore him. I cried every time he hurt himself. I sweated each time I thought I might lose him.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I’d been here then. But I’m here now. He’s us, Livy.” Garrett could no longer stop himself. He grabbed her by the arms and dragged her close. Even when she struggled, even when she finally did kick him in the shins, he didn’t let go. Instead, he gave her a tiny shake so she’d listen. “Can’t you remember what we were like? The magic we made. The magic is Max.”
“Shut up!” Her voice shook with anger and pain. Her body fairly vibrated beneath his hands. He’d finally pushed her too far, though he wasn’t sure how. “Magic isn’t real.”
“Oh, how could I forget? No Santa, no bunny, no tooth fairy.” He let her go, mad now himself. “I’m not going to let you raise my son to doubt magic. To doubt all the beauty there is in being a child. He’s a kid. He deserves make-believe. Hell, I deserve it, and you could certainly use some.”
“Grow up, J.J.”
“If being grown up means losing sight of what shines in this world, everything that’s a mystery, a maybe or a might, I’ll pass. We made Max. You and I. Don’t tell me that wasn’t
magic, because I refuse to believe you.”
“And I refuse to let you see my son. If you love him as you say, you’ll leave him alone. If you ever cared for me at all, you’ll go away.”
“No.”
Her lip trembled. He stepped forward, hand outstretched, but she flinched from his touch and fled down the steps.
“Don’t take this to court. Savannah might be bigger than most small towns, but at heart it’s smaller than small. Bring this out, J.J., and you’ll only hurt Max.”
She turned away, just as his father always had when he’d expected J.J. to fall into line without question. Annoyance rose sharp and bitter. “Don’t call me J.J.,” he said to her back.
She didn’t even turn around. “Don’t call me at all.” Livy marched away.
Everything about her confused Garrett. He’d once known her intimately, understood her completely. With Livy he’d never felt lacking. At least, until she’d told him she loved him and he’d been unable to say the same.
Back then he’d believed he could not love. Love was for other men. Men who knew how to love back.
But from the moment he’d seen his son, Garrett had known there was something special about Max. There’d been an instant connection, a recognition deeper than he’d ever felt before—perhaps that magic both he and Max believed in so deeply.
In Garrett’s life, in his work, he’d come to the conclusion that magic was something that happened when you were looking the other way. No explanation, no rules, you couldn’t make it be. Magic just was.
So even if Garrett failed, and he probably would, he had to take a chance; he had to find out.
Because maybe love was like that, too.
*
Livy’s eyes burned, but she blinked fast and hard, refusing to let any tears fall. She’d learned long ago that tears did no one any good. Not that she still didn’t indulge on occasion, usually courtesy of Max. But right now she felt like a good crying jag, courtesy of J.J.
“Oh, pardon me. Garrett.”
Maybe if she refused to think of him as J.J., the boy she’d loved, but only Garrett, the man he’d become, she would no longer feel so raw.
Leave it to Max (Lori's Classic Love Stories Volume 1) Page 6