The Reture of Luke McGuire

by Justine Davis

  That was such a cogent assessment mat Luke couldn't counter it, wasn't sure he wanted to. David lifted his gaze, his eyes, so much like his father's, deeply troubled.

  "I can't take it much longer, Luke," he said, sounding much older than his fifteen years. "Everything's falling apart since Dad died. He was what kept her from being really bad, but now she's worse than ever, almost like she was right before you left."

  Luke expelled an audible breath. "Is it all her, Davie? Or is she worried about you, what you're doing these days, those new friends?"

  "She just doesn't like them."

  "Who does?"

  "Huh?"

  "Besides you, who does like them?"

  David looked puzzled. "I don't know. Why?"

  "Just curious."

  Silence reigned for a few minutes, and Luke let it, hoping the boy might be pondering that. But it seemed a lost cause when, after downing the last of his soda, David merely looked at him and said, "I like your earring. Wish I could get one, but Mom'd never let me get pierced, not even just an ear."

  Luke fingered the small gold paddle that dangled from his left lobe. "This is about as far as I go. I'm a wuss about needles."

  "You?" David said, clearly disbelieving. "You're not a wuss about anything."

  "Oh, yeah, I am. I'm no hero, bro." He glanced at his watch. "It's nearly eleven. Aren't you supposed to be some­where?"

  David swore, crudely. "Stupid drawing lesson. Like a teacher's gonna make me be able to draw when I can't."

  "Pretty bad, huh?"

  "I suck," was the succinct answer. "And I hate all this stuff, drawing, piano, what a waste of a summer."

  "Could be worse."

  "Yeah? How?"

  "I don't know. Ballroom dancing? Accordion lessons?"

  David laughed and for a moment was the boy Luke re­membered. Luke smiled as he stood up. "Go. Don't get me in any more trouble for making you late."

  David got up, too, but hesitated, then said simply, "She knows."

  "She does?"

  "Old lady Clancy called her."

  "Figures."

  "I don't think she's figured out yet that... you're here be­cause I asked you."

  "Take my advice, don't let her," Luke told him. "Tell her I got... nostalgic."

  David nodded slowly. "She said this morning that after my summer class I have to sit through her stupid lecture, waiting so she can drive me home. Like I can't walk or ride my bike eight blocks." He gave Luke a sideways glance. "I think she just doesn't want me to see you, so she's keep­ing me too busy. But I'll dodge her somehow. I can't be in any more trouble with her than I already am."

  Luke considered that. "I think you probably can be," he said frankly. But then he grinned at his brother. "But I can't. Maybe we'll just have to make it my fault."

  David brightened considerably at that, then took off run­ning toward the community center where summer classes were held. Luke thought about how his mother had never bothered with those for him. He'd told himself he was glad to have his summers free, to have a mother who didn't care where he went or what he did as long as he didn't cause her any problems.

  He sat there, staring out at the water, at the picturesque cove that had such appeal for people from all over but had never been anything to him except a place to hide in a crowd. He'd always enjoyed watching the surf, had been drawn to the water, but something had seemed missing to him. He'd kept coming back, because it was so close, but the sea and sand and surf just missed reaching that deep, hidden place in him.

  He wondered if David had such a place, a place he kept buried and safe, afraid he would never find what it was in the world that made his soul answer.

  He wondered if their mother would smother that place in him before the boy ever had a chance to even look.

  * * *

  Amelia tried to contain her nervousness, but she was afraid she wasn't doing a very good job. She tried to give them the benefit of the doubt, but her idealism couldn't quite stretch to the idea that these new friends of David's were here to pick up some summer reading.

  Especially given the way they strolled around the store not looking at any of the books, but just her. Especially given the way the one in the cargo pants with all the pockets flipped that knife around. A butterfly knife, the kind where the handle flipped closed around the blade, then reopened with a flick of the wrist, becoming deadly once more. She'd read about them when researching martial arts before decid­ing on kickboxing.

  Open and closed, he flicked it back and forth, with the appearance of idle habit and a smoothness that spoke of long experience. And if she confronted him, she was sure he would smile innocently and tell her it was just that, a habit, that it didn't mean anything, and why was she so nervous?

  She gathered her nerve and tried to think. God, she hated being such a coward. The boy was back near the children's section now, while the others were at various places, almost as if taking up stations. Almost as if they had a plan...

  She glanced at the phone. She could pretend to be making a call and dial 911 instead. But they really hadn't done any­thing yet, although she was sure waving that knife around was against some kind of law. But it wasn't like he'd threat­ened her or anything, she told herself; it was only because she was so spineless that it seemed threatening.

  Besides, they were David's friends, even if she didn't care for them, and he might never speak to her again if she called the police on them.

  The one with the knife turned and headed back, nipping that blade as if it were a part of him. It struck her then that perhaps she should try to treat these boys like she did all kids who came into her store. She could find the courage to simply do that, surely?

  She drew a deep breath. She picked up the cordless tele­phone, thinking she would pretend to be calling a customer about a book if she had to, just so she wouldn't seem so alone. She walked out from behind the counter, trying not to look at the boy who had taken up a position there. She glanced at the boy with the knife. Braced herself. And spoke.

  "Did you know your knife is a Balisong?"

  The boy looked startled; he must have thought she was too afraid to speak. She prayed he didn't know how close he was to being right.

  "You talkin' to me?"

  "Your knife. It's called a Balisong. And that move you're doing is sometimes called the ricochet."

  He looked down at the blade in his hand as if he'd never seen it before. Amelia walked past him to a book bay a couple of rows back. She hoped she could find it; she thought she'd seen it the last time she'd straightened this shelf.... And then she had it, the book on ancient weapons used in the various martial arts. She was sure this was it; it covered even the most obscure practices.

  She found it quickly, held the page with the photo out for him to see. "Isn't that beautiful? Look at the dragon design etched into the handle. This guy's collection is worth a lot of money."

  The boy's eyes flicked from the photo to the simple stain­less steel model he held, then to her face.

  "Nobody seems to be sure if they originated there, but it was in the Philippines that they were first incorporated into martial arts. That's where it got the name."

  His expression was unreadable, and she wasn't sure if she'd made things better or worse. Nor was she sure en­couraging this was a good idea, but he already had the blade, and she doubted he would give it up because she—or any­body else—said so.

  "There are several Web sites on the Internet about them. Even more photos of some really beautiful ones."

  Something like curiosity flickered in his shuttered eyes, as if she had done something unexpected.

  Suddenly he turned on his heel and walked out. Without a word, the others followed, only one of them glancing back over his shoulder at her.

  Amelia closed the book. Her hands were shaking. So were her knees. She sank down on the footstool she used for shelving books.

  She hated being afraid.

  But she was very much afraid she ha
dn't seen the last of them.

  Moments later the door opened again. God, they were back. They'd decided to come back and...who knows what. She glanced at her office, with the safety-promising lock on the door, but knew there wasn't time. She reached for the phone she'd set on the shelf. The book slipped off her knees and fell to the floor with a thud.

  "Amelia? Are you here? Are you okay?"

  The phone followed the book; it was Luke. She recog­nized his deep voice, although there was a different note in it now. A touch of anxiety, she realized with a little jolt of shock. As if he were worried.

  "Back here," she managed to say, using the shelves as a prop to stand up, until she was sure she was steady enough to do it on her own; she would hate for him to realize what a coward she was, that five young boys had managed to terrorize her without doing a thing.

  He came at a fast trot, only slowing to a walk when he saw her upright. "I saw those kids coming out from up the block," he said as he came to a stop. "I just ran into them with David a while ago, and they weren't my idea of kids with nothing on their minds but playing on a summer day."

  "One of them... had a knife." She managed to suppress a shiver; in front of this man, apparently her pride out­weighed her fear.

  "The one with all the pockets?"

  She nodded.

  "Snake, David called him."

  "How... appropriate," she said faintly.

  "Too many movies," Luke retorted.

  She smiled, hoping it wasn't as shaky as she felt. Her toe hit the book she had dropped, but before she could pick it up Luke was reaching for it. He glanced at the title, then at her, brows raised.

  "I... was trying to divert him. Showed him pictures of knives like his, only fancier ones, worth a lot."

  "You deflected a hotheaded, knife-wielding teenager with a book?"

  "I didn't know what else to do."

  "How about calling the cops?"

  The notorious Luke McGuire, suggesting she call the po­lice? "They weren't really doing anything."

  "How about waving around a weapon I'm pretty sure is illegal in this state?"

  She didn't understand this; this was hardly what she ex­pected to hear from him, this championing of law and order. "I didn't want to make things harder on David. They know he comes in here a lot."

  "Oh." He seemed to consider that. Then, handing her the book, added, "I guess I shouldn't argue with success. They left, after all."

  Amelia blinked. She hadn't thought about that. It might have been a desperate ploy on her part, but it had worked. "Yes. Yes, they did."

  "And you look like you could use a stiff drink. But since it's not even noon, how about another cup of coffee?"

  "I... yes. That sounds good. But I'll have to make fresh."

  "Don't bother. How about next door? They have some­thing you like? Can you take a break?"

  She hesitated, although the coffee bar next to the store made a latte she was fond of. Finally she gave in; she could afford a short break, and from the right table next door she could see any customers who might arrive anyway.

  Moments later she was cradling the rich drink, thankful for the warmth despite the fact that it wasn't the slightest bit cold out.

  She looked across the table at him, intending to thank him, but her breath caught in her throat. He was leaning back in his chair, out of the cover of the table's umbrella, and his hair gleamed almost blue-black in the sun. The glint of gold she'd seen that night—and had barely noticed in their first encounter—turned out to be an earring in the shape of a tiny boat paddle, although she supposed it must have some other significance she wasn't aware of; she couldn't quite picture him doing anything as mundane as rowing a boat around, or paddling a canoe. She found she liked it, although her mother had always decried the trend of men wearing ear­rings. Amelia found it rather rakishly attractive... if the man wearing it could carry it off.

  Luke could definitely carry it off.

  He was dressed today in jeans and a T-shirt with the logo of what seemed to be an outdoor equipment company. But the simple clothing did little to lessen his impact, and she realized the black leather had only emphasized what was already there. No matter what he wore, this man would never look quite... tame.

  He was staring down Main Street, and she was thankful that he'd left off the concealing sunglasses, so she could see where he was looking. And so that she could quickly avert her gaze when he turned his attention back to her.

  "David says you moved here when your folks bought the store," he said conversationally. It seemed odd to her, sort of anticlimactic after the high drama she'd imbued the last few minutes with, to have a normal conversation. It took her a moment to gather her wits and answer.

  "Yes, My father was a university professor. He retired to write a book and ended up owning a bookstore instead." She smiled. "Which, not coincidentally, was what my mother had always wanted."

  "So she pushed him into it?"

  Amelia laughed. "No. Neither one of my parents ever pushed the other one to do anything. They never had to. All either one had to do was say they wanted something, and the other one would move mountains to make it happen. They were crazy about each other."

  Luke didn't react for a minute, and Amelia realized he was absorbing what she'd said as if he had to translate it into a language he understood.

  "That must have been... nice," he said at last, but she could see he was floundering, unable to relate this to any­thing he understood. And Amelia felt a sudden, sharp tug of sympathy for him, that something so basic and normal and necessary to her was so foreign to him.

  "It was," she said softly. "And sometimes I forget how special and rare."

  "Was?"

  "My mother died four years ago. My father was lost with­out her, and within six months he was gone, too."

  "I'm sorry," he said, and there was no floundering this time; he might not know what it was like to live with such love, but he understood grief. "That must have been tough, losing them both like that."

  "I loved them dearly, but they would have wanted to be together. And they'd had very good lives." She took a sip of her latte. "They were a bit too protective, I suppose. I was pretty sheltered. But I think that comes with being the only child of older parents."

  "So you were a late arrival?"

  "Sort of. They adopted me when they were in their forties and realized they weren't going to be able to have a biolog­ical child."

  He blinked, setting down his own cup of simple black coffee. "You were adopted?"

  She nodded. "But they were the best parents I could ever have had. The always made me feel special. Chosen. I can't imagine a biological child feeling any more loved than I was."

  "You were lucky." His voice was a little tight.

  "Yes, I was. Whoever my birth mother was, she did the best thing for me she could ever have done."

  "Gave you to parents who could love you."

  "Yes."

  There was no denying the taut emotion in his words. It struck her suddenly that she had indeed been lucky, luckier than some children who stayed with their natural parents. She wondered if Luke had ever wished his mother had given him up, given him a chance at loving parents. And then she wondered how could he not; it would almost have to be better than living with a mother who, to judge by her speeches, blamed his existence for ruining her life.

  "I think," she said softly, "I was even luckier than I realized."

  He looked at her for a long, silent moment. He didn't pretend not to understand what she meant. "My mother had her reasons."

  "But none of them were your fault."

  His eyes narrowed. "Just how much do you know?"

  She wished she hadn't said it; the way he was looking at her, it was all she could do not to dodge his gaze. "I've heard your mother speak about the disaster teenage preg­nancy can make of a life. I've seen you both, close enough to guess at ages. And—" she took a breath before finishing "—I can do math."

  He sat
back. His mouth twisted up at one comer, and the opposite dark brow rose. "Clever girl."

  She bit her lip; she knew she should have kept quiet. She'd meant to express compassion and had only antago­nized him.

  "I only meant that... she's wrong to blame you. It's not like you had a choice."

  "When I'd been away long enough, I realized she prob­ably didn't have much choice, either."

  "But she could have given you up to someone—" She stopped as he lifted a hand.

  "She couldn't. Her mother wouldn't allow it."

  "Your grandmother?"

  He laughed. "Not if you asked her. She died when I was thirteen, and she never once acknowledged I was connected to her in any way. I wasn't her grandson, I was her daughter's punishment."

  There hadn't been a trace of anger, self-pity, or even re­gret in his tone. He had clearly dealt with all this long ago. But it made Amelia shiver. "My God. How did you stand it?"

  "I didn't. Not very well, anyway. I went a little crazy. But then, you know that."

  She shook her head. "I don't know why you didn't bum the entire town to the ground."

  He stared at her for a moment, then gave a sharp shake of his head. "What I don't know," he said, sounding sur­prised and more than a little rueful, "is why I told you all that."

  He drained his coffee, got up and tossed his cup in the recycle bin left out for the purpose. The conversation, it seemed, was over. She got to her feet, a little surprised that she was fairly steady; being with Luke was, in its own way, as unsettling as her encounter with David's friends.

  When he walked her back to the store, she was surprised to see half an hour had passed; it had seemed only minutes. Then he turned to face her and put his hands on her shoul­ders as he looked at her seriously.

  "Are you all right now? You were pretty shaky."

  So he'd seen, Amelia thought with a smothered sigh. She should have known he would. She supposed fear like hers wasn't easily hidden. "I'm fine."

  "Next time Snake comes in waving that knife, call the police."

  Something about the proprietary way he said it stayed with her long after he'd gone. It warmed her, in a strange, unfamiliar way.