The Boy from the Woods(11)

But experts also claim that early development is hugely important, that something like ninety percent of a child’s brain develops by the age of five. But think about Wilde by that age. Imagine the stimulation, the experiences, the exposure, if as a small child he really did have to take care of himself, feed himself, shelter himself, comfort himself, defend himself.

What would that do to intensify a brain’s development?

Wilde stepped into the headlights so she could see him. He smiled at her. He was a beautiful man with his dark sun-kissed complexion, his build of coiled muscles, his forearms looking like high-tension wires straining against the rolled-up flannel shirt, the faded jeans, the scuffed hiking boots, the long hair.

The very long hair of light brown.

Like the strand she’d found on the pillow.

Hester dove right in: “What’s up with you and Laila?”

He said nothing.

“Don’t deny it.”

“I didn’t.”

“So?”

“She has needs,” Wilde said.

“Seriously?” Hester said. “‘She has needs’? So you’re being—what, Wilde?—a Good Samaritan?”

He took a step toward her. “Hester?”

“What?”

“She can’t love again.”

Just when she thought that she couldn’t hurt any more, his words detonated another explosive device in her heart.

“Maybe one day she can,” Wilde said. “But right now, she still misses David too much.”

Hester looked at him, feeling whatever had been building inside her—anger, hurt, stupidity, longing—deflate.

“I’m safe for her,” Wilde said.

“Nothing’s changed for you?”

“Nothing,” he said.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. At first, everyone thought that they’d find the boy’s real identify fast. So Wilde—an obvious nickname that stuck—had stayed with the Crimsteins. Eventually, Child Services placed him with the Brewers, a beloved foster family who also lived in Westville. He started school. He excelled in pretty much everything he tried. But Wilde was always an outcast. He loved his foster family the best he could—the Brewers even officially adopted him—but in the end, he could only live alone. Other than his friendship with David, Wilde couldn’t really connect to anyone, especially adults. Take whatever abandonment issues any normal person might have and raise them to the tenth power.

There had been women in his life, lots of them, but they couldn’t last.

“Is that why you’re here?” Wilde asked. “To ask about Laila?”

“In part.”

“And the other part?”

“Your godson.”

That got his attention. “What about him?”

“Matthew asked me to help find a friend of his.”

“Who?”

“A girl named Naomi Pine.”

“Why did he ask you?”

“I don’t know. But I think Matthew might be in trouble.”

Wilde started toward the car. “Tim still driving you?”

“Yes.”

“I was about to hike over to the house. Give me a lift and tell me about it on the way.”

*



In the backseat, Hester said to Wilde, “So this is a fling?”

“Laila could never be a fling. You know that.”

Hester did know. “So you spend the whole night?”

“No. Never.”

So, she thought, he really was the same. “And Laila is okay with that?”

Wilde replied by asking a question of his own: “How did you figure it out?”

“About you and Laila?”

“Yes.”

“The house was too tidy.”

Wilde didn’t respond.

“You’re a neat freak,” she said. That was a polite understatement. Hester didn’t understand official diagnoses or any of that, but Wilde had what a layman might consider obsessive-compulsive disorder. “And Laila is anything but.”

“Ah.”

“And then I found a long brown hair on David’s pillow.”

“It isn’t David’s pillow.”

“I know.”

“You snooped in her bedroom?”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just weird. You get that, right?”

Wilde nodded. “I get it.”

“I want Laila happy. I want you happy.”

She wanted to add that David would want that too, but she couldn’t. Probably sensing her discomfort, Wilde changed topics.

“So tell me what’s up with Matthew,” Wilde said.

She filled him in on the Naomi Pine issue. He watched her with those piercing blue eyes with the gold flakes. He barely moved as she spoke. Some had nicknamed him—probably still nicknamed him—Tarzan, and the moniker fit almost too well, as though Wilde were playing into that role, what with the build and the dark skin and the long hair.

When she finished, Wilde said, “Did you tell Laila about this?”

She shook her head. “Matthew asked me not to.”

“Yet you told me.”