Karina Bliss - What the Librarian Did

She cried out, and the sound took him over the edge. In that timeless moment of release he loved her.

He remembered that as they lay together afterward, catching their breath and staring at the ceiling, Rachel obviously as shocked as he was by the intensity of the experience.

He was faintly embarrassed, unwilling to believe it was possible that someone who’d never considered sex as anything other than fun had been temporarily caught in the emotions of a lovesick teenager.

Rachel rolled toward him with a serious expression and he panicked. If she talked about feelings…

“I think,” she said carefully, “you might have one vice left.”

In his relief, Devin laughed.

SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE SLEPT with him.

Pretending to be hungry, Rachel took another bite of her roast lamb sandwich, then forced it down with a swig of iced tea. Devin sat beside her on the garden bench in the tiny paved courtyard of her backyard, devouring his second sandwich.

His long legs were sprawled out in front of him; one arm was slung casually around her shoulders, and in the early summer evening his black T-shirt was a sun trap she wanted to snuggle into. Instead she sat on her side of the bench, nursing her grievance.

The man had grossly misrepresented himself as a player when he was…well, Rachel didn’t know what he was. But far from feeling light-hearted and rejuvenated, she was disorientated and vulnerable.

It had taken everything she had to come up with a flippant comment after they’d had sex, when inside she’d felt like a nervy sixteen-year-old wanting reassurance that this meant something to him. She hadn’t expected to care, but he’d made her care and he had no right to.

His lazy charm and her own prejudices had lulled her into seeing him as emotionally harmless, and then he’d gone and nuked her when she wasn’t looking. Bastard. Giving up on her sandwich, Rachel ripped off pieces and tossed them to the sparrows.

“You’re not throwing hand grenades, Heartbreaker.”

She picked up the jug of iced tea. “Another?”

“Thanks.” He held out his glass. “I never did get around to asking your advice about Mark.”

The mention of her son was a welcome diversion. “Break it to him gently,” she said, refilling the glass, “but between you and me, he has as much chance of dating Trixie as you do of attending Sunday service.”

“Maybe God’s already answered my prayers.” There was a meditative quality in Devin’s voice that made her skin prickle. She fumbled and tea and ice cubes skidded across the flagstones.

“Careful.” Taking the jug from her, Devin put it back on the ground. “Getting his heart broken by an older woman might be good for Mark’s songwriting. Look at what Rod Stewart achieved after meeting Maggie May.”

“Mark’s too young to start having sex,” said Rachel sharply. “If I thought for one minute Trixie was interested-” She stopped, because she was overreacting and Devin’s eyebrows were raised. “Of course, it’s none of my business.” Though she didn’t want it, she picked up her iced tea and took a sip, grimacing at how sweet it was.

“You care about teenagers,” he said. “That’s why I want your advice. Anyway, Trixie isn’t the concern.”

“So if it’s not Trixie…” And Rachel knew from talking to Mark that it wasn’t school. She clutched Devin’s arm. “Oh, God, he’s sick, isn’t he?”

He laughed. “Did you see how much Anna Pavlova he ate? No, he’s not sick. He recently found out he’s adopted, and he wants to find his birth mother.”

For a moment Rachel couldn’t breathe, then happiness swept over her, a joy so great she couldn’t speak. She tightened her grip.

“I want you to talk him out of it,” said Devin.

“Why?” The word erupted from her. She flung his arm off and stood up. “Don’t you understand how wonderful that is?”

“He hates her,” said Devin, and her iridescent rainbow-colored bubble burst.

Rachel walked to a rosebush, where she started pulling at dead flowers. “He hates her,” she repeated slowly.

“For giving him up,” said Devin. “He’s looking for a confrontation, not reconciliation, and that’s not good for him. Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves to do that?”

She gazed down at the shriveled rose petals in her hand, the color of dried blood, and the tiny pinlike thorns embedded in the pads of her fingers. “Probably.”

“Let me see.” Mechanically, she went to him, holding out her hand like a child. “For God’s sake, Rachel, it’s full of thorns.” He started pulling them out with long, skillful fingers.

She swallowed hard. “What if she had a good reason for giving him up?”

“We don’t know that-we don’t even know if she’s willing to see him.” Pinpricks of blood welled where he’d removed the tiny thorns, shiny beads of bright red. “He’s doing it behind his adoptive parents’ backs, following his own crazy trail like some vigilante, seeing his mother in every woman’s face. He’s even got me jumpy.”

Pulling the last prickles out of her thumb, he shifted his attention to the few still in her palm. “You want to hear something funny? For a few minutes today I even thought you might be a candidate.”

Her insides lurched. “That is funny,” she managed to say.

Devin lifted her hand higher and examined it closely. “I think that’s all of them.”

A teardrop splashed onto her open palm, then another. Rachel couldn’t hold them back. For long seconds, they watched the tears trickle along the heart line, then Devin lifted his head, his expression one of shock.

“Or not funny,” she said.

“MY PARENTS WANTED ME to keep the baby.”

Devin watched as Rachel’s hands fluttered like wounded birds before she linked them in a viselike grip. Holding herself together.

“Everyone said how wonderful Mom and Dad were through the whole pregnancy, that it was so like them to turn the other cheek.” Her voice was slightly winded, as though she needed more oxygen than her lungs could produce. “I became a pariah when I insisted on adoption.”

“Rachel,” he said helplessly. She was in agony and he didn’t know how to help her. And after her first crying jag, when she’d let him hold her, she’d pulled away. He’d already made such a mess of this he didn’t want to force the issue.

It had grown dark in the intervening hour. They’d moved inside and he’d made her hot tea, piling in the sugar. Now they were in the family room, Devin on the couch and Rachel standing in front of the mantel. Her tea sat untouched.

“What about the father…did the boy deny paternity?”

“Oh, no.” She gave him a tight little smile. “He and his parents offered to pay for the abortion. And made it clear that keeping the baby made it solely my responsibility.”

Devin said softly, “But your parents were supportive?”

“We ended up parting ways over it.”

At seventeen? And he’d assumed her upbringing was sheltered. “Did you have anybody on your side?”

“A good social worker.” Restlessly, Rachel moved things around on the mantel-two gilded candlesticks, an antique clock, a small bowl of potpourri. “So, don’t you want to ask me why I gave up my baby?”

There was a brittle quality in her voice.

“No.” Devin waited until she looked at him. “I already know your reason was a good one.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Thank you,” she whispered.

From the couch, Devin held out a hand. “Come here.”

She shook her head, returned to straightening the mantel ornaments. “I’m okay.”

“I’m sure when Mark finds out-”

Her head jerked up. “Promise me you won’t say anything.”