“Must have been nice growing up in a large family,” Tyler said a little wistfully.
He thought of the crowding, the lack of privacy, the tempers that flared, the piles of laundry always waiting to be done. But then he remembered his mother’s satisfied smile when they all sat down to dinner and the casual hugs from his sisters and the reassuring notion that he was surrounded by people who cared. “Yeah, it was good.”
One of these days he’d have to decide what to do with the house, but right now, with the memories soaking into him, he could understand why Helen was having a hard time of it.
“Show me your bedroom. The one you were using not long ago.”
He ushered her into the bedroom, not sure what she expected to see.
“Wow!” Tyler exclaimed. She gazed at the walls covered with all the memorabilia his mother had collected. Certificates, prizes, degrees, newspaper and magazine articles—all had been carefully framed and hung on the wall, forming a mosaic above the desk. “This is so amazing. I’m guessing your mother did all this. She must have been so proud of you.”
He tried to see it through her eyes, but all he saw was a monument to his abilities, his potential, and his secret failure. He dropped into the swivel chair in front of the desk.
“She was immensely proud, but you know what? She never got my writing, never understood what my stories were about, and she always assumed it was because she wasn’t smart enough. Oh, she never said anything to me, but I suspected it, and all this”—he gestured to the wall in front of him—“this tribute to my supposed talent just sticks in my craw every time I see it.”
She studied him for a while, digesting his confession. “And that’s why you had to get away? You couldn’t write here anymore?”
“Exactly.” Pressing his elbows onto the armrests, he bowed his head. “In fact, I don’t think I can write anymore, anywhere. I’m thinking of giving up, doing something different, maybe teaching.”
“What?” She looked aghast. “You can’t stop writing.”
“I have already, in case you hadn’t noticed. Why else is your yard looking so great?”
She stood there, a slow flush rising in her cheeks. Then she lifted one foot and kicked at his chair, sending him spinning backward. “Hey,” he protested.
“I’ve never heard such bullshit,” she fumed, advancing on him. “You hit a little speed bump and you’re ready to chuck in the towel?”
He scowled back at her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I may not know anything about writing, but I sure as hell know about giving up. Writing is your job. You’ve just had a week off from your job. That’s great. But now it’s time to get back in the saddle.”
He felt his temper shooting out of control. “Chucking in the towel, getting back in the saddle. How many more clichés are you going to throw at me?”
“As many as it takes to get through to you. Luke, you’re better than this. I know it, and your mother knew it.”
He shut his eyes briefly. “You don’t play fair.” Opening his eyes, he saw her rubbing her arms, her face strained with worry, and all his ire disappeared. She is upset for me, he realized with a start of surprise. “Sweetheart, I don’t think I can write another damned Kingsley Jeffers book. I just freeze up at the thought of him.”
A strange, brooding expression came over her face before she moved closer and slid down onto his lap. His brain froze, but his body knew what to do, his hands immediately settling onto her hips.
“Then write something else,” she said softly.
Belatedly the cogs of his brain creaked over. “What?”
She shrugged. “Anything. Just write whatever comes to your head. It doesn’t have to be good, doesn’t even have to make sense. It just has to get you back into the habit of writing.”
She was describing free writing. She couldn’t have known he’d done plenty of free writing in the past. But not recently. Why? Probably because he’d shifted so far from the roots of his writing, he’d forgotten the basics. He moved a hand to Tyler’s thigh, enjoying the feel of her firm flesh. She was the perfect weight and size for his lap, and illicit desires were already coursing through his bloodstream.
“You make a lot of sense,” he said.
“Of course I do.”
Up close he could see her pupils dilating and knew she was enjoying him squeezing her thigh just as much as he was.
“I’ll start first thing tomorrow morning.” He slipped his other hand beneath the edge of her silky top, seeking out the smoothness of her skin. She drew a quick intake of air and started to rise, but he held her firmly in place. “Not so fast. You can’t sit yourself in a guy’s lap and not expect a reaction.”
“Um, I just wanted to get through to you. About your writing. I didn’t mean anything else.”
“The hell you did.” He continued to stroke her midriff, aware of his wavering self-control. After weeks of titillation without satisfaction, his libido was tinder dry and ready to burst into flame. But he was in his mother’s house, and maybe it wasn’t exactly appropriate to get frisky here.
“Don’t,” she said with a groan. “We’re in your mother’s house, for goodness sakes.”
So she agreed with him. Sighing, he withdrew his hand from her top and lifted her regretfully off him. “You’d try the patience of a saint,” he muttered.
She merely smiled as she moved over to the bookcase near his single bed. Bending down, she flicked through the books, twisting her head to read the titles. He sat back to admire her shapely, denim-clad legs. They were so captivating, he barely noticed her pull out a familiar oxblood-red hardcover book, which fell open at a particular page when she had it in her hands.
“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree” she slowly recited.
He tensed, but she continued reading the poem. After the first stanza, she glanced up at him. “You look constipated. Am I reading it all wrong?”
“No, your reading is fine.” He forced himself to stop frowning. “It’s just I didn’t realize that particular book was there.”
“I’m not surprised. You have hundreds of books in this room.”
But that particular book, together with the others his father had left him, he’d long ago stowed away in a suitcase under his bed, not wanting his mother to see them. With a start, he realized she must have found them and put them in the bookcase. She must have known where the books came from, probably guessed how much they meant to him, and unpacked them for him. His heart clenched hard with a pain more bitter than any he’d experienced six months ago. The room grew blurry. Then he felt Tyler touching him, putting something into his hands. When his vision cleared, he saw he was holding the book of poems.
“You should take this back with you,” Tyler said. “For inspiration.”
His fingers curled round the familiar edges of the book. Maybe she was right. But did he want to be reminded of his dad? And besides, carrying this book around with him would only weigh him down.
“Thanks,” he said. “But I think this one belongs here.” He rose to his feet and placed the book back on the shelf.
They walked back to Helen’s house, Luke ambling as slowly as possible. The sun warmed his back, and Tyler strolled by his side, humming quietly to herself. He liked having her all to himself; he could have walked another hour with her, but too soon they turned the corner onto Helen’s street. Parked at the curb outside her house was a car that hadn’t been there before. A navy-blue, oldish Mercedes that made Luke suddenly cold.
“Damn,” he muttered, turning to Tyler. “That’s my dad’s car. Come on, we’d better hurry before blood gets spilled.”
With Tyler trotting behind him, Luke dashed into the house. From the living room came the sound of raised voices. He hurried in and stopped short as everyone’s heads swiveled toward him. Only the adults were present, thank God. The children were all out back. Looking variously angry and upset, his sisters and brothers-in-law were gathered together on one side of the room. On the other side stood his father, once again dressed in a spotless, outdated suit, but this time his expression was agitated and his hair was awry.
“Luke!” Helen darted forward and grasped his forearm with icy-cold fingers. “Look who waltzed in here just a minute ago. Can you believe the insufferable cheek of the man?”
His sister was so white her blusher stood out in stark red patches on her cheeks. The man who’d caused her paleness looked no better himself.
Luke put an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “Maybe you should sit down.” He glanced around the room. Tyler stood in the doorway, her gaze fixed on him. “We should all sit down.”
“No! I’m not going anywhere near him.”
“Helen, please—”
“He’s scum. He’s nothing to me.” She aimed her enraged glare at the old man opposite her. “You hear that? You’re nothing to me.”
Luke’s father wobbled slightly but stood his ground.
“Why did you come here?” Luke barked at him, furious that his father had ruined Helen’s party.