What the Librarian Did (3 page)

He gave her the Devin Freedman glower, the one that
Holy Roller
magazine had described as the definitive bad rocker look. Being his mother she simply waited. “No, but then I don’t expect to.”

“You know I’m on the mend now, darling, so if you want to go back to L.A.—”

“I don’t,” he lied. “Got anything to eat?”

“There’s a batch of scones cooling on the counter.”

He burned his fingers snatching a couple, but feeding him distracted his mother from the subject of his future.

Five years earlier, when he’d quit rehab for the second time, she had told him she wouldn’t spend her life watching him self-destruct, and had moved back to her native New Zealand. It had been a last-ditch effort to snap him into reality. Devin had felt nothing but relief, then added insult to injury by minimizing contact. It hadn’t stopped Katherine from being the first person at his hospital bed.

Now she needed him to take care of her. Whatever she said.

His older brother, still living stateside, couldn’t be relied on. A keen sense of the ridiculous had kept Devin’s ego in check over the last crazy seventeen years, but the planet wasn’t big enough for Zander’s, who still blamed Devin for the breakup of the band.

The truth was Devin had held Rage together for a lot more years than its flamboyant lead singer deserved.

So if it turned out Zander had been screwing him over…well, Devin didn’t think he could put even his mother’s peace of mind before his need for justice.

“H
E LOOKS LIKE HE NEEDS
a friend,” Rachel said to Trixie two days later. She’d noticed the teenager yesterday during library orientation. Now, as then, he walked around with his shoulders slightly hunched, blond fringe falling over his eyes and a scowl on his young face that did nothing to hide his apprehension. She remembered what it was to be young, alone and terrified. “Maybe I should go talk to him.”

“Oh, hell, you’re not starting a new collection of waifs and strays already, are you?” Trixie complained as she sorted a pile of books for reshelving. “We’re not even a week into the first term.”

Rachel stood up from her computer. “You were a waif and stray once, remember?” Trixie had been a scholarship kid who’d practically lived at the library in winter because she couldn’t afford to heat her flat. Rachel had given her a part-time job, which turned full-time when she’d graduated last year.

“Which is why I’m protecting you now,” Trixie reasoned. “You’re useless at setting boundaries.”

“Tell me about it. I keep getting bossed around by my junior.”

The boy reached for a book on one of the shelves and
the backpack slipped off his scrawny shoulder, spilling books and pens. A red apple rolled across the carpet. Rachel started forward.

Trixie caught her by the arm. “Leave some time for yourself this year. Especially now that you’re single again.”

Rachel freed herself, but the teenager had already fastened his backpack and was slouching out the door. She turned to Trixie. “Don’t do that again,” she said quietly.

Under her pale makeup, Trixie reddened. “I was only trying to look out for you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need a babysitter.” She needed that reminder occasionally.

Ducking her head, her assistant nodded. Was there anything more pathetic than a sheepish Goth?

“You’re a good friend,” she added, “but, kid, I’m bruised not broken.” Trixie had no idea what Rachel could survive. “Anyway, Paul rang and apologized this morning.”

Trixie’s head jerked up and her kohl-lined eyes narrowed. “I hope you told him where to stick it.”

“Mmm.” She’d been tempted, but being in the wrong was punishment enough for Paul. Rachel knew how that felt.

“And you reckon you don’t need looking after?” Disgusted, Trixie picked up a stack of books and headed for aisle three. “At least date guys who can handle their drink.” She pointed one black-painted nail. “Someone like him.”

Beyond Trixie’s finger, Rachel saw Devin Freedman scanning titles in the business section. Instinctively, she sucked in her lips to minimize their natural pout at the very moment he chose to glance over. Amusement warmed his eyes and she froze.

Instead of politely looking away, he folded his arms and grinned, waiting to see what she’d do. Mortified, she
turned her back on him and blew out a puff of irritation. Dreadful man.

When she’d recovered her composure, she turned back to find him standing right in front of the counter. “Hi, Heartbreaker,” he said casually. “How’d it go with Romeo the other day?”

Rachel frowned. “It’s not a subject I want to discuss with you. And please don’t call me that.”

“You’re still pissed about the comment I made about your mouth,” he guessed. “I did mean it as a compliment.”

She snorted. “That I have a mouth like a hooker? Still, it’s better than a sewer, I suppose.”

“Actually, I was thinking stripper,” he replied lazily. “But I love the outraged dignity. Put me in my place again.”

“I’m a librarian, not a proctologist,” she said sweetly, and he chuckled.

This guy had a thicker hide than an armadillo, and momentarily, Rachel envied him. She might have accepted Paul’s apology, but it would take a long time to forget being called cold and unfeeling. She had too many feelings; that’s why she protected herself. Maybe she should be grateful for any compliment, however insulting. At least Devin meant no harm.

“Look.” She adopted a conciliatory tone because one of them had to be a grown-up. “I
was
annoyed the other day by your comment, but I shouldn’t have shut the door on you. That must have been hurtful and I’m sorry.”

“You think you hurt…” This time he laughed out loud. “You’re really quite sweet under that Miss Marple exterior, aren’t you?”

She realized he was referring to today’s vintage outfit—a high-waisted black skirt paired with a white ruffle-front
blouse, herring net tights and pewter ribbon-tie patent shoes. The man had just delivered another backhanded compliment.

Almost, almost she was amused. But Rachel’s ego was still too battered. She eyed his designer stubble and rumpled roan hair. Today the boots were black and the faded jeans set off by a black leather belt, complete with a big, ornate silver buckle, that sat low on his narrow hips. “At least I don’t look like a cowboy after a week on the trail. Even Trigger made more effort.”

His eyes narrowed appreciatively. But before he could answer, a shocked male voice said, “Rachel!” Looking left, she saw several of the university’s top staff. The vice chancellor flanked by her two deputies…one of whom was Rachel’s boss. “Why are you insulting Mr. Freedman?”

In that split second she comprehended that if the vice chancellor was in attendance, Devin was donating money—lots of it. “He’s…” she began, then stopped.
Arrogant and cheeky, that’s why
, didn’t seem like a good enough reason.

Devin decided to help her out. “Oh, Rach and I are old friends.” He could read every emotion that crossed her expressive face. The smart retort she had to bite back, the irritation at being beholden to him, a begrudging gratitude. “That’s why I suggested meeting in the library.” He twinkled at her. “She creates such a congenial atmosphere.”

She twinkled back. “So exactly how much cash are you giving us,
mate?
” Oh, she was sharp, this one. Still, Devin’s appreciation was tinged with annoyance. He liked to keep his philanthropy private.

The vice chancellor looked surprised. “I thought we were all keeping this a dark secret?”

Devin’s gaze pinned Rachel. “We are.”

Her chin rose. “Now that’s not a tone to take with an old friend.”

He’d never been great with authority and it amused him that she wasn’t, either—unless it was hers. On an impulse Devin leaned over and planted a light kiss on her compressed lips. “Well, see you later…old
friend.
”

He could almost feel the daggers thudding into his back as he steered the vice chancellor and his deputies toward the cluster of red leather armchairs out of view.

He’d discovered this space two days ago before Paul had disturbed the peace. Each corner of the library was glassed-in with floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, towering silver birches swayed in Auckland’s constant wind, their leaves dappling light and shade across the utilitarian carpet. Sparrows peppered the branches and their noisy chirruping gave Devin an illusion of companionship.

He wanted solitude, yet when he got it, his thoughts became bleak. Too often lately he’d found himself in his mother’s cottage, which only made her worry about him. And that was intolerable.

The vice chancellor introduced himself as Professor Joseph Stannaway. Like his companions, he wore a suit, his short gray hair neatly marshaled to one side, and his strong face unlined…probably because he wore an expression of permanent solemnity. “As I said to your representative,” he began as they took seats, “we wanted to thank you personally for your generous donation.”

“Really, there’s no need—”

“And to try again,” the chancellor interrupted with a smile, “to persuade you into an official ceremony. It would garner a lot of media attention, which could only be good
for the university’s profile. Perhaps the bank could produce one of those large checks…what do you say?”

Playfulness didn’t sit well on the man—he seemed too educated for it. It must be hard, Devin thought dispassionately, to devote your career to higher learning and then have to be grateful to someone who’d made a fortune writing lyrics like “Take me, baby, before I scream, you’re the booty in my American dream.”

“I’m sorry.” Devin deliberately shunned all publicity. Sticking his head up over the trenches for the paparazzi to take another shot at? Never again.

The delegation spent the next twenty minutes trying to change Devin’s mind with flattery, which only irritated him, chiefly because in the past it might have worked. Maybe that’s why he got so much enjoyment from Rachel’s barbed observations—they were novel. Of course, the kiss would really stir her up; a sensible man would regret it.

He grinned as Stannaway droned on. Not, unfortunately, one of Devin’s attributes.

R
ACHEL WAS REHEARSING
her rebuke to Devin the next day when the boy she’d noticed came up to her station.

“What can I do for you?” Her smile must have had an edge because he eyed her warily as he shoved back his hair.

“I was wondering if you had any lists of all the university staff…you know, like everybody, not just the lecturers. And their ages.”

“Not here. You might be able to access some information through the registrar, but there’s possibly some privacy issues around their release.”

His face fell. “Oh.”

“What’s the name? Maybe I know the person and can save you the trouble.”

“Um, she’s an old friend of my parents. I was just hoping I’d…recognize something when I saw the list.”

Poor kid, he really was desperate for a friend if he was hunting down such tenuous connections. “Where are you from?” Rachel asked kindly. She was supposed to be leaving on her morning break but this was more important.

“A farm outside Cambridge.”

“Really? I grew up in Hamilton.” They were only twenty minutes apart. “Small world. First time living away from home?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“It’s hard initially, but you’ll find your feet soon. A lot of the first years are in the same boat, all scared—”

The teen glowered. “I’m not scared.”

Damn, wrong word
. If Devin hadn’t rattled her, she wouldn’t have chosen it.

“I see you’ve got a book there…would you like me to check it out for you? It will save you joining the queue at the front desk.”

It was a peace offering for hurting his pride, and he took it. “Yeah, thanks.” He handed over the book along with his library card.

Which didn’t work. “They do this sometimes at the beginning of term,” she said. “Let me just check that all your details are filled in….” The screen came up. “Mark…nice name. Okay, one of the library’s ID codes is missing.”

Glancing at his address, she noticed he wasn’t living in residence, which was a shame; he’d make more friends that way. She nodded at the guitar case by his feet. “You
know, the university has a lot of music clubs you might be interested in.”

“I’m not really a club-joining kind of guy.”

About to reply, Rachel caught sight of his birth date and her breath hitched.
June 29, 1992
.

“Something wrong?”

“No.” Her fingers were suddenly clumsy on the keyboard as she reminded herself of the facts. On average, there were sixty-four thousand births a year in New Zealand. Which meant around one hundred and seventy-seven people—eighty-eight boys—shared her son’s birthday. But she had to ask. “So what do your parents do?”

Mark frowned. “You need that for the form?”

“No, it’s processing.”

“Mom’s a teacher.” Rachel’s pulse kicked up a notch. “And Dad’s a farmer.”

Not a policeman.
As always, the disappointment was crushing enough to make Rachel feel sick. Her fingers were damp on the keyboard; she wiped them on her skirt, chiding herself for an overactive imagination. She gave the teenager his card.

“Here you go. All sorted now.”

Mark shoved it back in his jeans. “He used to be a cop,” he added, and the smile froze on her face.

Someone who knew how to keep her baby safe,
she’d thought when short-listing the applicants with her social worker.

“Are you okay?” Mark asked.

“Fine.” Her heart was beating so hard he must be able to hear it. Rachel loosened the top button of her shirt, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. There was only one way to know.

“You have something in your hair,” she said abruptly, reaching out a trembling hand.

“Yeah?” He started flicking his fingers through the blond strands, “What is it?”

“A…an insect…let me.”

Obediently, he leaned forward, and she brushed the hair away from his right ear. “Turn your head a little.”

Just at the hairline behind his ear, she saw it. A birthmark the size of her thumbnail. Rachel gasped and he broke away, raking both hands through his hair. “What! Did you get it?”

She stared at him, unable to speak. Tall like his father, with his fairer hair. His eyes—shock jolted through her—were the same color as hers, but the shape was Steve’s. “It’s okay,” she croaked, pretending to flick something away. “It was a moth.”

“A moth.” Shaking his head, Mark picked up his guitar case. “Jeez, the way you were going on I thought it had to be a paper wasp at least.”

No, don’t leave
. “You’ve heard of bookworms, haven’t you? Lethal to libraries.” Rachel memorized his features. “The term also applies to certain moth larvae. From the family
oecophoridae
.” Outwardly she smiled and talked; inwardly she splintered into tiny little pieces. “Of the order…now what was it?”
My son, my baby. You grew up
. “Starts with
L.
”

Mark shifted from one foot to the other.

“Lepidoptera,” she said brightly. “Of the order Lepidoptera.” The tiny bundle treasured in her memory, gone forever. But her son—her grown son—was here, and the reality of him shredded her with love and pain and need.

“Wow,” he said politely, stepping back from the counter. “That’s really interesting.”

“Wait!”

“Yeah?” He was impatient to get away from the crazy woman, and how could she blame him? With all her heart she wanted to say,
I’m your mother.

But she couldn’t.

Two years earlier, she’d written a letter to the adoptive parents through the agency.
If he ever wants to meet his birth mother, please give him my details
.