A Knight in Central Park(83)

“How does the tale end?” Alexandra asked.

Sebastiano clapped Sir Joe on the shoulder and said, “’twill be up to our wandering troubadour to decide, for I had not enough time yester eve to write the ending. Here,” he said, handing Sir Joe a rolled parchment, “Improvise.”

Joe took the paper, unhappy with Sebastiano's crazy plan. “You owe me for this and twice more for this ridiculous outfit.”

Sebastiano grinned from ear to ear. “You look most handsome in those tights. I knew the costume would suit you well. Now come,” he said, pulling Alexandra’s hand, “we must join the musicians while these two wait for their introductions. The King of England is waiting.”

After Alexandra’s gray skirts disappeared through the heavy curtains, Joe prayed things would go well and that her identity would not be discovered before they found her sister.

Garrett snorted.

“What now?” Joe asked.

Garrett shrugged. “For a man who does not like her much, you certainly fret over my sister.”

“I never said I didn’t like her.”

“Then why are you going to leave her?”

“Because this isn’t where I belong. We’re from two different worlds. It could never work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have responsibilities back home. And even if I didn’t...” Joe stopped when he saw Garrett giving him the same damned look that Sebastiano had given him two days ago. The kid’s steely gaze pierced into him, curious, waiting, making him feel guilty of all things. Joe was doing all he could. Damn if he’d be made to feel guiltier than he already felt. “There are certain things people get used to in my world,” Joe told Garrett.

“What sort of things?”

“Just things. Once a man gets used to those things, it’s difficult for a man to go backwards in time and suddenly not have those things. Do you understand?”

“I see that Sebastiano was right,” Garrett said.

“Why? What did Sebastiano say?”

“He said that it was a shallow man who picked material possessions or ambition over love; a man lacking depth of character, a superficial man who sees compromise as a weakness and acceptance as fear. To a man like this...like you,” Garrett amended, “loving another unconditionally would soon yield you powerless.”

Joe eyed the boy skeptically. “How old are you?”

“Two and ten.”

“And Sebastiano told you all of that?”

Garrett nodded, a smug look upon his face.

“And you believe him?”

Again Garrett nodded.

“Well, it’s not true. I don’t have to defend myself to you or anyone else. But I’ll tell you this, kid. I’m going back to my time because that’s where I belong. It’s my home.”

The music had stopped and they both listened for a few seconds as Sebastiano began his introductions.

“I’m sorry your father left to go to war,” Joe went on hurriedly, “but I can’t stay and take his place, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“You are an ass,” Garrett said without the usual childish snort, “and you do not know anything about me. My father left because he thought himself a failure. Because we did not always have food on the table, he thought we would all begin to look at him differently. He failed to grasp that we loved him no matter how much food he brought home at the end of the day. I do not blame myself for his leaving. He had no choice. I only wish I had told him I loved him before he left to do the King’s bidding.” Garrett narrowed his eyes. “Do not presume your feet are big enough to fill someone else’s boots, for they are only as big as your heart.”

Garrett walked away, leaving Joe feeling like a jerk, a certifiable, selfish jerk. The kid was tougher than he looked, and a lot smarter, too.

Joe shook his head, hurrying to catch up to the boy after he heard Sebastiano call out, “And here he is, I well promise you this time, the wandering troubadour from Toulouse.”

Something fell to the floor, but Joe didn’t have time to glance over his shoulder to see what it was. Besides, he and Garrett were already on stage and the curtains had long since risen.

Garrett took to the stage like a bee to honey, bowing stiffly, despite his well-bandaged injury, and smiling, of all things. Joe had yet to see the boy smile, but damn if Garrett wasn’t doing it now, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling as if he’d been born to be on stage. When the clapping finally died down, Joe reached into each of his shirt pockets and came out empty handed. He’d lost the script.