Driftwood Lane (Nantucket #4)(31)

“The list was posted for participants to see the dress rehearsal order today. I heard some kids being cruel to Max at recess. I handled the situation, and the other boys are being appropriately disciplined, but I’m worried about Max.”

Meridith closed her eyes, aching for the boy. “Thank you for letting me know and for handling the situation.”

“Max was noticeably upset through the afternoon, and when I removed the list from the wall, I saw he’d marked out his and Eva’s names. In fact, he scribbled through the names so hard it left a hole in the paper.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I tried to talk to him after school, but there wasn’t much time before he had to catch the bus. I just wanted you to know.”

Meridith thanked her, then hung up. She felt so bad for the little guy. So helpless. All those books she’d read had nothing about this sort of thing. How was she supposed to know what to do?

“Everything okay?” Jake’s voice cut into her thoughts.

The screech of brakes announced the bus’s arrival.

“Fine.” Or would be. Eventually.

When the children scrambled through the door, she caught sight of Max’s mottled face and red eyes. All the books had recommended helping children express their feelings, so maybe she could start there.

After she greeted them, she asked Max to follow her into the dining room while Noelle and Ben disappeared upstairs.

Max plopped into a chair, the weight of his body sagging downward. Someone had written on his pale arm in ink, though she couldn’t read it upside down.

“Max, Mrs. Wilcox called and told me what happened today.”

His eyes flashed at her. “Toby and Travis are stupid morons.” He crossed his arms.

She’d expected sorrow, not anger. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He looked down at the table. “No.”

Okay, now what? The books said children need affection when they’re grieving. Not her strong suit.

She set her hand on his tense arm. “I’m sorry about the talent show.” Did the words sound as awkward as they felt? She was no good at this touchy-feely stuff.

Max blinked rapidly. Maybe she’d said the wrong thing. Maybe she was making it worse. But she was doing what the books recommended.

She tried again. “Were you looking forward to it?”

Max sniffed, then nodded his head. In the next room she could hear the squawk of the flue opening.

“How did you learn to ballroom dance? That’s quite an accomplishment for a boy your age.”

“My mom taught me.” He glanced at her. The anger had faded from his eyes. “I’m pretty good.”

“I’m not surprised.” She liked the way he’d perked up. It was good to see his confidence emerging. Too bad he couldn’t showcase his talent for tomorrow’s audience. She was certain it would be beneficial.

“Is there anything else you could do for the show? What other talents do you have?”

Max shrugged. “Nothing, really.” His feet shuffled under the table. “’Cept being a goalie and building boat models, but I can’t do those for a talent show.”

“Is there some other kind of dance you could do?”

“It’s too late to come up with a new dance. The show’s tomorrow. Besides, it’s for a parent and their child.” His eyes pulled down at the corners, and he ducked his head.

“I wish I could help, but I don’t know how to ballroom dance. I guess it wouldn’t be the same without your mom anyway.”

His head lifted. Hope sparkled in his eyes. “You could learn.”

“Oh, I—I think it would take longer than a day, Max.” Meridith laughed uneasily. “Especially for me.”

His head and shoulders seemed to sink. “I guess you’re right. I only know how to lead, and I don’t know how to teach it.”

“I know how.” Jake appeared in the doorway, filling it with his broad shoulders and tall frame. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

“He could teach you!” Max’s eyes widened. He looked back and forth between Jake and Meridith.

“Oh,” Meridith said, “We couldn’t ask—”

“I’m offering,” Jake said. “I can be here bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Max’s dimple hollowed his cheek.

“No, I—you don’t understand, the show’s tomorrow night, and I’m a bad dancer.”

Jake leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms. “You said you wanted to help.”

“Well, I do, but I don’t see how—you know how to ballroom dance?” The notion suddenly struck her as unlikely.

“I can do more than swing a hammer.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“So you’ll do it?” Max bounced on the chair.

She hadn’t seen him this excited since she’d arrived. She looked at Jake. At his wide shoulders, thick arms, sturdy calloused hands. She remembered the look in his eyes just minutes ago and imagined herself trapped in the confines of his embrace for as long as it took her to learn the dance. Which would be about, oh, a few years.

“And why would you do this?” It wasn’t as if he owed her anything. Unless he was punching the time clock on the lessons.