Driftwood Lane (Nantucket #4)(35)

She closed her phone, then took an eternity tucking it into her purse. When she turned, her face was the bland mask usually reserved for customers. “Now. Where were we?”

Jake dribbled the ball toward Wyatt. Score was thirteen to six, and he was on the winning end. Somehow that wasn’t as gratifying as he’d expected.

The afternoon sun glared off the white concrete pad outside Wyatt’s house, and when Jake sucked in a breath, the smell of freshly cut grass filled his lungs. Little early in the season to mow, but who was he to question?

He gave his watch a quick glance. He had fifteen minutes before he had to shower. He wasn’t missing Max’s moment for anything, even if it did mean hiding at the back of the auditorium.

He had time to put up at least four or five more shots.

“So let me get this straight.” Wyatt hunched down, lowering his center of gravity as Jake approached. “This Meridith chick has custody of your niece and nephews.”

“Yep.”

“And you want custody.”

Jake faked a left and spun, then drove the ball in for a clean layup. “Yep. Fourteen.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Wyatt ran his forearm across his forehead, making his curly bangs stand out at an odd angle. He caught the ball and took it out. “And she’s engaged.”

“Yep.”

“She possibly has bipolar disorder.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you ended up in an embrace today when you were teaching her to dance.”

“Did I stutter?”

Wyatt drove the ball in, but Jake headed him off, using his height to his advantage, and forced Wyatt to back off.

“Just saying.” Wyatt dribbled the ball to the other side.

Jake followed his every move, eager for a chance to pounce. He swiped at the ball, but Wyatt swapped hands.

“You’re supposed to let a guy win on his own court, didn’t anyone tell you?”

“I pay rent.”

“Barely.”

“What do you expect for that dinky little garage apart—”

Wyatt took advantage of his distraction to drive the ball around him and put it up. Swish. Wyatt took a lap, feigning the sound of a roaring audience.

“Get a grip, dude, you’re losing bad.”

“Depends how you look at it.”

“Only so many ways to look at a fourteen-seven score.”

Wyatt shrugged, palming the ball in both hands. “Way I figure, I have a beautiful wife inside, and you’re playing footsie with your engaged, possibly mentally ill adversary.” He chucked the ball at Jake, grinning. “You do the math.”





Nineteen

There weren’t enough calming breaths in the world to settle Meridith’s attack of nerves. She and Max took their spot behind the curtain and waited for the trumpet duet to end.

“I’m scared.” Max’s hand was cold and clammy.

“Relax. You’re a great dancer, and you look very handsome.” They’d practiced the dance over and over until Meridith was sure she was going to dance in her sleep tonight. If she made it through this.

A squawk sounded from a trumpet, then a second later a note resonated and hung in the air.

It was their turn.

Max had his eyes closed, his lips moving silently. Say a prayer for me too, she thought. What if she stepped on his toes? What if she stumbled backward as she had with Jake? What if they ended up sprawled on the dusty stage floor with strains of music flowing by them?

The curtain parted, the mechanicals squeaking as the curtain whooshed open. The noises were lost in the applause for the trumpeters as the girl and her father disappeared stage right.

Mrs. Wilcox appeared at the microphone set off to the side. “And now we will enjoy the elegant ballroom dance of Maxwell Ward and his sister, Meridith.”

Meridith turned toward Max, but her eyes caught on someone deep in the darkened auditorium. It looked like . . . but it couldn’t be.

Before her eyes found him again, the spotlight switched on, bathing her and Max in a warm puddle of light.

She gave him a confident smile. Breathe, Meridith, breathe.

The music began, and they counted off six beats silently. Then together they moved in harmony through the first box step. Once they made it around twice, she began to breathe again. Her feet remembered the steps. Thank God.

Spine straight. Shoulders back. Arms rigid.

Max led her around the stage. She felt the swish of her dress against her knees. One-two-three, one-two-three. The spotlight seemed to spin in her periphery. She kept her eyes on Max, just a few inches beneath her line of vision.

His hand clutched hers, squeezing the blood from her fingers. Nerves. She remembered to smile, performing the steps carefully. She was doing it. They were doing it. Round and round they went. Just another minute or so and it would be over.

As they whirled to the right, Meridith caught sight of Noelle and Ben in the front row. She hoped they were cheering their brother on.

One-two-three, one-two three. Spine straight. Shoulders back. Arms rigid.

Max was a good leader. Not as good as Jake, not as firm, but his height made the movements less awkward. The spotlight lost them, then found them again.

A few more times around. One-two-three, one-two-three. She made eye contact with Max, a silent signal that the end was coming. One-two-three, one-two-three, and . . . the big finish and . . . done! The music ended as her skirt settled around her knees.