Karina Bliss - What the Librarian Did

About to tell Devin to take his boots off the coffee table, Rachel paused. “Sure, we’re friends,” she said. Advising Mark to be careful around the rocker would sound less hysterical if he thought it came from personal experience. “So, Devin-” she paused, trying to think of something “rock n’ roll” to say “-how’s it hanging?”

The twinkle in his eyes became more pronounced. “It’s hanging fine, thanks for asking… What are you up to?”

The blush she’d managed to hold back through his innuendo heated her cheeks. “The usual. Actually, I’m due in an acquisitions meeting so I’d better go.” She looked at her son. “Bye, Mark.”

His nod was friendly. “See ya.”

She waggled her fingers at Devin, who waggled back. “Definitely up to something,” he said.

Fortunately, he was gone when she came out of her meeting forty minutes later, but Mark was still there, poring over books. Hungrily, Rachel studied him, noting the way he chewed his lower lip when he concentrated.

The hand cupping his chin was big; his body still had some catching up to do. And he was boyishly thin, his bony shoulder blades sticking through the striped T-shirt as he bent over the table and took notes. Surely he was too young to be fending for himself…

With the discipline of years of practice, Rachel stopped torturing herself. She had to trust the people she’d chosen for him. Had to accept he wasn’t her son-but theirs.

As though sensing her scrutiny, Mark glanced up and grinned. Something had made him happy. Encouraged by his first smile, she approached him. “Devin gone?”

“Yeah, but we’re meeting later.” Obviously bursting with news, he added, “I finally talked him into showing me his guitar collection.”

“In town?”

“No, at his place on Waiheke. You been there?”

Rachel sat down. “No.” His adoptive parents weren’t here to protect him and she was. “Listen, Mark, Devin might not be the best person to hang around with. He has a history of drug and alcohol abuse…” Her voice trailed off under his look of contempt.

“Aren’t you supposed to be his friend?”

“Devin knows when I disapprove of his behavior.” That at least was true. “I just want to make the point that you’re only seventeen years old and living away from home for the first time. That makes you vulnerable-”

“Stop right there,” Mark interrupted. “Let me get this straight. I hardly know you and you’re giving me a lecture?” Shaking his head, he stood up, sweeping his books into his bag. “Who the hell do you think you are-my mother?”

“SHE’S RIGHT,” said Devin when Mark repeated the conversation. “I’m not the kind of person you should be spending time with.”

They stood on the deck of the Waiheke ferry watching the whitecaps as the boat surged against a brisk northerly toward the island that lay forty minutes off the mainland.

Their fellow passengers were a mix of commuters holding briefcases, tourists and the alternative lifestylers who’d once had the place to themselves. Now the island’s slopes were dotted with homes of the wealthy. Yet there was still a lull, a lazy charm about the place. Nearby a businessman loosened his tie, while two kids raced across the deck to the bow to point out the island to their mother.

Cool for the first time that day, Devin breathed in the salty air and felt the tension he always carried ease a little.

“You don’t sound that bothered about it,” Mark replied. Glancing sideways, Devin saw the kid’s hurt expression. Oh, great. He still didn’t quite know how Mark had talked him into inviting him over; it had something to do with Devin feeling he owed him.

A week and a half into university life his brain felt close to exploding under the weight of new information, and Mark had helped him out more than once, explaining concepts. The kid was bright, no doubt about it.

And so puppy dog enthusiastic about music. Devin remembered that kind of devotion; he still mourned its loss. Maybe that was really what this was about. He was warming himself at the fire of the kid’s idealism. “Listen, Mark. Don’t expect too much of me. You’ll only be disappointed.”

“I don’t…I mean, it’s not like…Look, I don’t have to come if you don’t want me to.”

Devin laughed. “What are you going to do, jump in and swim back?”

MARK WAS DISAPPOINTED at his first sight of Devin’s house. From watching reality TV shows on rock stars he expected some sort of mansion with white pillars, wrought-iron gates with a security keypad, a six-car garage and an entourage…definitely an entourage.

Especially since they rode from the ferry terminal to Devin’s property on a customized Harley-Davidson.

But albeit secluded-and white plaster-the place was pretty simple, a long, low-lying building with no distinctive features that Mark could see. Inside was better. Mostly white with red feature walls and white leather furniture. Art covered every wall, from big canvasses of bold swirls of color to old movie posters and some hot nudes. He recognized an Andy Warhol and wondered if it was an original.

The house perched on a cliff with dramatic glass walls toward the sea. Mark stood at the window and gazed out across the expanse of water and beyond to the far horizon. Below, several seagulls hovered in the updraft. “Wow.”

Musical instruments were scattered around the enormous open plan lounge-an antique snare drum, various types of guitars. A microphone in the corner and he spotted speakers so small they had to be state of the art. Memorabilia, but no Grammys or awards. Mark was disappointed.

Then his eyes fell on a bass guitar. “Is that the Fender Precision?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I touch it?”

Devin smiled. “You can play it.”

“No shit!” Reverently, Mark picked up the instrument, running his hands over the strings. One of rock’s most distinctive riffs had been created on this very bass. He became aware of Devin watching, and froze, embarrassed to show himself up as a meager talent.

“You want a drink?” asked Devin. “Coke, Sprite, juice?”

“A Sprite would be good.”

When Devin had disappeared down the hall, Mark turned on the amplifier and played the Rage anthem right through, thrilled to the bone. When he’d finished, Devin still hadn’t returned, so he picked up an electric guitar and started playing his own riffs. As an only child, growing up on a farm from the age of twelve, he’d often relied on his own company. That’s when he’d begun to play guitar.

He played one of his songs right through, forgetting his shyness, trailing off when he noticed Devin standing at the door holding two glasses.

“You’re good.”

Mark blushed. “Thanks,” he said diffidently.

Devin put the drinks on the table, picked up his bass guitar and said, “Play that last one again.”

Mark did, and Devin accompanied him, adding tonal qualities Mark would never have dreamed of. “I like that song,” said Devin. “Whose is it?”

“Mine.”

Devin looked up. For a long minute he didn’t say anything. “Let’s try that again,” he suggested.

Mark spent the next two hours in musical heaven. He didn’t ever want the day to end. But eventually Devin stopped and glanced at the clock. “I’m hungry. How about you?”

“Starving.”

Mark followed him into the kitchen and sat on a stool while the rocker opened his fridge and inspected the contents. “I’ve got a better idea. How about we go eat with my mom.”

DEVIN WAS WALKING THROUGH Albert Park en route to class the next morning when he glimpsed the librarian sitting by the circular fountain.

Her gaze immediately dropped to the open book in her lap, but he’d been around enough stalkers-and better ones than this-to know he was her target.