Karina Bliss - What the Librarian Did

Devin reappeared with a couple of energy drinks and tossed one can to him, before sprawling on the couch. “What’s up? And don’t say keep saying nothing. You know I haven’t got the patience for it.”

Mark hesitated, but he needed a confidant badly. He rolled the cold can against his forehead. “If I tell you, you have to keep it a secret.”

“Scout’s honor.”

He was momentarily diverted. “You were in the Scouts?”

“No, just pledging their honor.”

Mark put down the can and started toying with one of the frets on the guitar. “I thought I’d tracked down my mother yesterday-my real one. Only she wasn’t.”

Devin whistled. “You’re adopted?”

“I only found out a year ago…by accident.”

“That’s rough.” Devin swung himself to a sitting position. “Why didn’t your folks ever tell you?”

Bitterness flooded Mark, as sour as old grapes. “Because my Hamilton birth mother made it a condition of the adoption.” The letter from social welfare had been clinical. ‘Our client has changed her mind about open adoption and is only willing to proceed if you agree to secrecy…’”

“Careful of your guitar, buddy.”

Confused, Mark looked down; he was torturing one of the strings. Handing the bass to Devin, he plunked himself on the throw rug and hugged his knees. “You’re probably thinking, well, why am I looking for her then? But she shouldn’t be able to do that without giving some kind of explanation. I mean, how am I supposed to feel?”

Devin started plucking at the strings of the bass, casual notes that somehow reached in and squeezed Mark’s heart. “You tell me.”

He swallowed. “I just need to know why… I mean, I’m not expecting anything.”

“Are you looking because you want to heal something in you,” asked Devin quietly, “or because you want to hurt her?”

Mark didn’t answer. Another cascade of bittersweet chords; the vise around Mark’s chest tightened.

“Do your parents know you’re doing this?”

“They don’t even know I’ve found out I’m adopted.” He expected Devin to lecture him, but his dark head remained bent over Mark’s guitar. The notes softened, the melody became gently reflective. Mark stirred restlessly. He didn’t want to be soothed. “You don’t think I should do it, do you? Find my birth mother.”

“Would my opinion make a difference?”

“No.”

“Then why,” said Devin mildly, “are we having this conversation?” The tune evolved into an electric version of “Amazing Grace,” languid and hauntingly beautiful.

Mark suffered through the song. He had a sudden intense longing for home, for his parents, for the tranquility of his life before this terrible knowledge had changed everything.

Tears filled his eyes. He blinked hard, but one escaped to trickle slowly down his cheek. Mark froze, reluctant to wipe it away in case he drew Devin’s attention. The salty trail stung his shaving rash-he was still getting the hang of a new razor. At last the tear touched the corner of his mouth. Surreptitiously, he caught it with his tongue.

Devin’s eyes were closed, his fingers sliding over the strings. “It’s okay to have second thoughts, Mark.”

“I’m not.”

His mentor opened his eyes. “Maybe you should take another year or two before you do this.”

“I can’t,” he said impatiently. “The only thing I know about her is that she works at the university. If I wait and she leaves, then I’ll never find her.” He stood and started to pace. “And my parents won’t help me. I already know that without asking. They always do the right thing and keep their word and stuff…and, well-” he hesitated, not wanting to appear soft “-if they learn I’m looking for her, they might get hurt. Which is also why I haven’t told them I found out I’m adopted. Because I have to see her.”

Devin struggled for the right words. He had no skill base to handle emotional pain; he’d barely mastered his own. What the boy needed was a student counselor, but Mark would bristle at the suggestion and he didn’t want to alienate him.

“Devin?”

Someone who could empathize…someone with common sense and compassion. An insider who could influence Mark toward counseling. It was Sunday. Devin glanced at his watch. Lunchtime. Rachel had turned down his lunch invitation, citing her prior commitment with students.

He put down his guitar and stood. “Let’s gate-crash a party.”

RACHEL WAS HUNTING through her kitchen drawer for a carving knife when the doorbell rang. “Someone get that,” she called into the adjacent lounge, where conversation hummed over the muted strains of La Bohème.

“I’ll go,” answered Huang.

Hunched over the stove, Trixie stirred a pot of steaming gravy, her brow knotted in concentration. With her kohl-darkened eyes, swirling black skirt and Alien Sex Fiend T-shirt, all she lacked was a witch’s hat. Rachel grinned.

“If you do the ‘double, double toil and trouble’ joke again, I’m letting it burn,” Trixie warned. “How you can be so happy slaving in a hot kitchen all morning is beyond me.”

“Because bringing people together and feeding them makes me happy.” This was Rachel’s favorite day of the week, the ritual an affirmation of her dreams-family, community, tradition. If one day she could get Mark here…“I only hope we have enough meat.” She found the carving knife and surveyed the joint, steaming gently on the countertop, mentally toting numbers. Jacob, Sarah, Huang, Marama, Juan, Silei, Ming, Dale, Chris…herself, Trixie and-

Devin appeared in the kitchen doorway holding a huge bunch of red gerberas, and her heart gave a queer little lurch that she wanted to be dismay but wasn’t. He eyed the knife. “I can see flowers aren’t enough.”

“What are you doing?” she said stupidly. This morning she’d convinced herself that the man was a scenic detour down a blind alley. She needed to get back on the freeway with its speed limits and clear signs.

“I was hoping you’d have room for extras.” Over the flowers he nodded hello to Trixie. “How’s the intimidation racket?”

From the stove, Trixie said, “One hundred percent success rate.”

“She’s promised never to interfere again,” Rachel said grimly.

“I might have a job for you, Trixie,” Devin continued. “My brother.”

Rachel glared at her assistant. “On pain of death,” she reiterated.

Undeterred, Trixie waved the gravy spoon toward Devin. “Have your people talk to my people.”

“Mark, that’s you,” he said over his shoulder, and Rachel dropped the knife. It hit the floor with a clatter.

Devin strolled forward to pick it up and Mark came into view behind him, blushing as he looked at Trixie.

Delighted as she was to see him, Rachel experienced a pang of regret. Why did her son have to be so irresistibly drawn to the dark side? Then Devin straightened, holding the knife in one hand, the flowers in the other-dark, gorgeous and devastatingly sexy. Because it runs in the family.

“You look harassed.” Handing her the gerberas, Devin tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear in an intimate gesture that made Trixie and Mark exchange glances. Too many things were happening at once and Rachel seemed to have control over none of them. “Want us to go away again?”

She gathered her wits. “No, stay! Mark, it’s lovely to see you here.” Her throat tightened on a rush of emotion and she busied herself finding a vase for the flowers. “Trixie, why don’t you take him through to the lounge and introduce him to everybody? I’ll handle the gravy. And, Devin, since you’ve got the knife, would you mind slicing the meat?” She gestured in the direction of the leg of roast lamb.