Leave it to Max (Lori's Classic Love Stories Volume 1) Page 2

  He’d never before had a problem with inspiration. Fresh vistas, an illusion of freedom, the reality of solitude—all fueled his creativity. He rented a new house for every new book, kept his personal belongings to a minimum and his emotional entanglements even lighter. He was living the life he’d dreamed of all those years ago and loving it—or he had been, until nine months ago.

  “When everything went to hell.”

  The sound of his own voice, unnaturally loud in the darkness, made Garrett place the tumbler of whiskey, still half finished, upon the porch railing with a thump. He suspected Poe had done a lot of talking to himself, too.

  Perhaps a brisk walk through this fair city would clear his head. Certainly couldn’t hurt.

  Fall in Savannah was a thing of beauty. The air, as warm as a midwestern summer night, smelled of the sea and the South. To a boy raised on the tang of red-dirt Missouri, the scent of Savannah could make you weep for more. Everything here moved slower, lasted longer, dug deeper. That was why he’d run all those years ago.

  Garrett turned in to the Colonial Park Cemetery, final resting place of several Georgia governors and one Button Gwinnett, signer of the Declaration of Independence—though many disputed that the body in Button’s grave was actually Button. In Savannah, things like that happened all the time. Sometimes upon exhumation and DNA testing it was discovered not only that the famous body in the grave was not famous, but that it was actually several bodies tossed in just for rascally DNA fun.

  How could a writer of horror not thrive in a place like this?

  Yeah, tell it to the Muse.

  In each city where he’d lived, Garrett became familiar with the cemeteries. For some reason they soothed him, and he often walked at dusk, dawn or any time in between through the peaceful resting places, dreaming, plotting, even conversing with those who weren’t anywhere but inside his head.

  A shuffle to his rear made Garrett slow. He angled his head and caught sight of a tiny shadow flitting between the moon-pale headstones. His friend had come back—but which one? Someone’s mommy was awfully lenient in the wandering-child department.

  Tonight Garrett didn’t mind the company. He meandered through the cemetery, shadow in tow, reading the names on the stones and making up stories to go with them, like a creative writing exercise. Not that he’d ever taken creative writing, but he’d heard about it.

  Looped about one stone was a rosary; along another some garlic; a third sported a necklace of unknown origin, perhaps voodoo by the appearance of the feathers. Over two centuries of cultural, ethnic and religious diversity at its finest.

  Garrett looked but did not touch. He respected offerings to the other side. Whatever worked. If he thought it would help him get an idea, he’d make a few offerings himself.

  As he continued to walk, alone, yet not alone, Garrett heard the teasing lilt of his Muse, and as he wandered out of the cemetery and the dark city streets, he no longer thought about his shadow companion, but instead listened to the strains of a story tumbling about in his busy brain.

  The thump followed by the muffled cry did not register in his tossing, turning sea of turmoil until much later—and by then the damage was done.

  *

  “Hello, Ms. Frasier,” the duty nurse chirped as Olivia skidded into the brightly lit foyer of her local emergency room. “Third door on the left.”

  Livy nodded, not bothering to answer. Her heart blocked her throat, anyway—just as it did each time she was called to this place.

  Everyone knew them here. As soon as Max had walked in, alone, the duty nurse had called Livy. Livy had to wonder if her number was on their speed dial by now.

  This time Max had broken something. And not a vase or a plate or a cup. This time he’d broken a bone.

  Livy was livid. Where had he been in the dark?

  Being a lawyer, Livy knew all about horrible things. Having lost Max’s father before Max was born, she had been terrified ever since that she’d lose Max, too. Her mother said she was overprotective. Of course, Mama was eccentric—a bohemian, a hippie, a free spirit, a nut—it all depended on who you were talking to at the time.

  Mama thought Max should be allowed to roam the streets freely and return at will. “You can’t keep the child in a glass case, sugar, no matter how much you might want to.”

  Glass case? Very funny. Max would break that in no time fiat.

  Livy slammed her palm against the door to room number three. Max sat atop the exam table—small and wan and scared. He damn straight ought to be.

  His hair had bleached in the summer sun and the bright lights made it shine white. Livy had never been able to figure out where the amazing blond hair had come from. Her own was light brown, nothing special at all. His father’s hair had been black as the wings of a raven. The only hints of the man in Max was the deep, dark shade of his eyes—and a wandering soul.

  The doctor—Smith, she recalled—gave Livy a smile meant to comfort. Such niceties never worked on her, so he got down to business.

  “There is a fracture. Almost didn’t see it because of the growth plates at this age, but that’s what we’ve got a radiologist for. Max will be fine. Nothing a shiny new cast and some Tylenol won’t cure.”

  She growled at his happy face, and the good Dr. Smith wisely left the room. ‘‘Spill it,” Livy snapped.

  Max stared at the ice bag on his forearm, then swallowed. “I was hangin’ with Sammy.”

  ‘‘Where?”

  “Out near his house.”

  “When you say ‘hanging,’ what does that mean?” She had visions of him swinging upside down on gnarly tree limbs, ripping open arteries in his thigh, landing on his head, falling into a coma—

  “I don’t know. Doin’ stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Livy sounded as if she were in court, but she couldn’t help herself. Questions were her business. Panic was her life.

  “Kid stuff. Guy stuff. Stuff. You know?”

  Livy hadn’t a clue, and she was starting to get a headache. “Well, next time you feel the need to do ‘guy stuff,’ could you be done by dark?”

  “Maybe.”

  Grinding her teeth really didn’t help a headache, Livy discovered. She sat next to Max on the exam table. “How did this happen?”

  “I tripped.”

  “Really? I’d never have guessed. Where were you when you tripped?”

  Max flicked a glance at her from beneath his overgrown bangs. No matter how many times she took him to the barber, his hair was always long. No matter how many times she cut his nails, they always resembled those of the Wicked Witch.

  Livy resisted the urge to brush the bangs from his face. Resisted, because if she lost the anger, she’d start to cry. Call her sensitive, but when she got a call from the emergency room as she was frantically dialing anyone who’d ever known her son and asking where he was in the dark of the night… Well, that kind of stuff preyed on a mother’s mind.

  “I cut through the cemetery. And I fell.”

  “Aw, Max. I told you about cemeteries. How they’re dark, and there’re all those stones hidden in the grass, just waiting for boys to fall over them. See what happened?”

  “It’s funny, but every time you tell me what’s going to happen, it always does.”

  Max was an accident-prone, self-fulfilling prophecy.

  “Yeah, call me psychic. Wait.” She put her hand to her head. “I’m getting another flash of the future.” She dropped her hand. “You’re grounded, buddy.”

  “But, Mom—”

  “Grounded. Two weeks.” Hooking an arm around his thin shoulders, she pulled him close. The sweet scent of his hair soothed her panic. He was here and he was whole—albeit cracked. All things considered, they’d gotten off lucky.

  Again.

  Chapter 2

  Max was no dummy. He knew better than to ask his mom about vampires.

  The first time she’d caught him watching a black-and-white horror movie, she’d come home the
next day with a stack of books about Hollywood makeup and special effects. She’d explained movies and how they weren’t real—just like all the other fun things, such as Santa and the Easter bunny and the fairy lady who collected teeth. Although Max thought that last one was nearly as scary as a mummy chasin’ you through a cave.

  Max always listened when his mom got to explainin’ because it made her feel better—and she worried a lot. But there was more to this world than what you could see. Especially in a place like Savannah, where the trees whispered, the river laughed and ghosts walked.

  He made up for the loss of Santa by believing in darker things than that merry old elf. In Max’s world bad stuff happened a lot—usually when he was trying like mad to keep it from sliding downhill and falling on top of him.

  So after his mom brought him home and tucked him in, Max snuck from his room and went directly to his expert on all things weird.

  “Rosie? Can a vampire really live forever?”

  She flicked her long tail of black hair past her shoulder, then peered at him over the rim of her reading glasses. Rosie’s hair was pretty, even with the strip of white at her temple that looked just like Lily Munster’s.

  Mom always said any woman over forty should cut her hair. To which Rosie would reply, “You can cut my hair off my cold, dead carcass.”

  Sometimes Rosie was pretty funny.

  She set down Heaven Is For Real, then patted the bed, inviting Max to join her. Rosie was like that. When Max had a question, she put everything aside to hear it.

  “What brought up vampires?”

  He shrugged, not wanting to admit that he thought they had one in Savannah. Until he was sure, he wasn’t tellin’ any grown-ups, not even Rosie.

  Max took his time joining her on the quilt she’d sewn from Mom’s old dresses and Max’s baby clothes. Some days they took the quilt outside, and while they sat in the sun, Rosie would tell him stories about the places his mom had visited while wearing each dress, or the cute things Max had done when wearing every little outfit.

  Rosie pulled Max close to her side. She patted his cast, murmured, “Nice,” and that was all she said about that. With his mom, he’d probably never hear the end of it.

  Max snuggled up to Rosie and took a great big sniff. She always smelled like cookies, even when she hadn’t made any. And her arms were strong, even though the side he rested against was softer than soft. But best of all, her lap was always empty and her ears were always open to a little boy who needed someone to talk to. Max figured Rosie was the best gramma in the entire universe, even if she didn’t let him call her that.

  “Max?” she prompted.

  He tried to think of the best way to lie without really lyin’. His mom, being a lawyer and all, was big on the truth.

  “I was just reading.” True enough, he was always reading. “And the books said vampires live forever, and they can heal anything—cuts and bullet holes and all sorts of gory stuff.”

  “I think they have a hard time healing a stake through the heart, or decapitation, or a silver bullet.”

  “That’s a werewolf.”

  “Really?”

  Max nodded.

  “All right. Forget that last one. But basically, yes, I think vampires are on the indestructible list. Know any?”

  “Nope.” He spoke too fast, ’cause Rosie’s eyes narrowed. She might be an easygoing fruitcake, but she wasn’t dumb either.

  “Your mother might worry too much, but that’s because she sees a lot of bad things happen. There’s a whole lot of crazy goin’ on out there, and it could splash over onto us. If somebody’s bothering you, sugar, you should tell me.”

  “Nobody’s bothering me.” Since that was true, he had no trouble making Rosie believe him.

  “And this vampire thing?”

  “I thought I’d write a story.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Her face became one big smile. She loved his stories, always praising his imagination and creativity long and loud. “And you’ll draw pictures, too? You always do them so well.”

  He shrugged, at once embarrassed and thrilled. “I better get back to bed. You know—”

  “—how Mom is,” she finished.

  A quick kiss, a loving pat, and Max left Rosie with her book. He had a hard time falling asleep because his arm ached, so it seemed as if he’d only been out a second when his mom crept into his room.

  Usually Max slept hard and didn’t wake up for much. But with his arm feelin’ funny, sleep wasn’t staying with him tonight. Even though he was awake, he kept his eyes closed and stayed real still, because if his mom was creepin’, she didn’t want him to wake up.

  She’d told him once that she came into his room and watched him sleep whenever she was sad or scared. That must be after he did somethin’ bad. Max figured breakin’ a bone was the baddest thing of all.

  She stood next to his bed and stared at him, which was kind of creepy, except this was his mom. Moms always did weird things and called them love.

  “Ah, baby,” she whispered, and Max heard the tears in her voice. She touched his cheek, and he liked that. Moms also touched you just right when you needed it the most.

  Max drifted in a hazy place between asleep and awake. His mom was near and the dark was nearly gone. Lying here like this was almost as good as when she let him sleep in her bed, which didn’t happen much anymore ’cause he kicked like a mean old mule.

  “I keep seeing you hitting your head in that graveyard and not your arm. Max, you break my heart.”

  Max never tried to get hurt. Bad stuff just happened to him. The worst stuff of all was the sad in Mom’s eyes when she mopped up the blood, or bandaged the cut, or put ice on the bruises and bumps. And when she drove him home from the E.R.?

  Tears pressed behind Max’s closed eyelids. The sad in Mom’s eyes spread all over the place.

  “I keep seeing my dad, then yours. Silly. They’re both gone. Maybe it’s just the season.” She took a deep breath, then let all the air rush back out. “Maybe.”

  For a few minutes she stayed quiet, and Max considered holding her hand, letting her know he was awake, until she spoke again.

  “This was close tonight. God, I’m scared. Please don’t take Max from me. Not another one. Not again. Please. Please!”

  The wobble in his mom’s voice convinced Max that what he’d been thinkin’ about he needed to do. He’d been playin’ around too long.

  When she went back to her room, he lay there remembering all he’d seen in the cemetery. The dark man with the pale face had glided through the mist with such ease that his body seemed to disappear from here and appear over there with immortal speed. He stopped at certain headstones, peered at the names, but he never, ever touched the garlic or the crucifix-laden rosaries.

  Max might be scared, but his mom was scareder, and he knew just how to make her happy again—how to make her happy forever.

  Max got out of bed, dressed and slipped from the house.

  He had a date with a vampire.

  *

  Garrett slept for a few hours after his walk in the graveyard. He’d hoped his subconscious would grow the seed of the idea he’d first heard in the cemetery. But when he awoke there was nothing left of it.

  He gave in to the urge he’d had since coming back to Savannah and walked to the streets where he’d lived all those years ago. He even wandered by the house that held the room he’d rented way back then.

  Nothing brought inspiration, so he returned home, ran through his wake-up routine and started pounding coffee. Then he stared at his solitary page from yesterday and decided it was crap, too.

  A surreptitious scrape echoed from the rear of the house. That had sounded like the back door closing, very quietly.

  Just as quietly, Garrett put down his coffee mug and crept toward the kitchen. A shuffle, reminiscent of last night’s follower, drifted from the dining room, where he’d stored the latest gag gift from his laugh-riot agent.

  Garrett
and Andrew had a running competition for who could give the most ridiculous and annoying present. Andrew’s latest looked to be a hands-down winner because of its size and unwillingness to be offloaded on any local chapter of Goodwill.

  A horrendous creak erupted, and Garrett took the last few feet to the entryway in a fancy two-step. He was just in time to see his towheaded little buddy peering into the wooden coffin—Andrew’s gift—that Garrett had been using as a dining room accent.

  “I’m not in there.”

  The kid jumped a foot, and barely missed losing a finger as the coffin lid slammed shut. He spun about, huge dark eyes wide in a tiny, pale face. The cast on his arm brought a shadow memory to the forefront of Garrett’s mind.

  A thump. A cry. Then nothing. Damn. He’d been off in his own little world last night.

  “Did you fall in the cemetery?” he asked.

  If possible, the kid’s face went a lighter shade of gray. Garrett, unused to childlike histrionics and how to avert them, kept right on asking questions in the hope that sooner or later an answer would tumble out. “Why are you in my house?”

  “Back door was open.”

  “Which is an invitation to come right on in?”

  The child shrugged. What was it about the boy that was so familiar? Garrett had only seen him from a distance yesterday.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Max.”

  “Well, Max, what do you want?”

  The child gulped, straightened his spine and approached Garrett. The expression on his face was that of a man fated to die but unable to stop it. Why would a kid look like that?

  “I want to be like you.”

  “You know who I am?”

  Garrett took great pains to keep his face out of the media. He refused to have his picture on the jacket of a book. He did not do interviews or signings. His need for isolation in order to write made such measures necessary.

  “I won’t tell anyone. Not if you make me like you.”

  Where were this kid’s parents? Why was he out chasing Garrett through a cemetery after dark, breaking his arm, sneaking into Garrett’s house before dawn and reading Garrett’s books? They were not for children.