Leave it to Max (Lori's Classic Love Stories Volume 1) (8 page)

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.”

Her gaze shot to his, and he saw that he was
right. So he moved closer, and he moved slowly. He had a chance to
make her see he meant no harm. If she ran now, he’d be chasing her
for a long, long time.

“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.

How could he still have the power to hurt
her? She’d gotten over him years ago, become adjusted to the fact
that she’d never see him again—except in the eyes of their son. So
why did she want to sit down on the crumbling front steps of the
nearest old house and sob?