Loralee was standing in the kitchen wrapping the quartered watermelon slices in plastic wrap when the doors swung open. Owen’s feet were bare, and he wore a long-sleeved swim shirt with an SPF of fifty along with a bathing suit with characters from The LEGO Movie. He looked about as comfortable as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers. “Dr. Heyward called and said he’s on his way.”
With a sidelong glance, Loralee took out a twenty-dollar bill from her apron pocket and slid it across the counter. She hated resorting to bribery, but she’d already tried going the honest route, and Gibbes had had no better luck in convincing Merritt what was best for her than Loralee had. “We went over this enough last night that you know what to do. Just don’t take no for an answer.”
Owen gazed down solemnly at the bill. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll save this toward my college education.”
Loralee sighed. His father’s side of the family hailed from New England, after all. “Or you could just blow it on LEGOs and candy. It’s up to you.”
Owen stared at her as if she’d stopped speaking English.
Without looking at Owen, she asked, “And Maris is coming, too?”
She imagined Owen’s shoulders slumping.
“Yes. Dr. Heyward said he’d be happy to bring her. I don’t know why you made me invite her.”
Loralee held back a sigh. “To begin with, she’s your first friend in Beaufort, and she’ll be able to introduce you to more children your age so you’ll know people at school. She’s a darling little girl. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss.”
His fingertips tugged at the bottom of his swimsuit. It was too short, even though she’d bought it at the beginning of summer. She wasn’t ready for him to get taller, but she would swear on a stack of Bibles that she wasn’t making him wear too-small clothes on purpose. And it wasn’t because she’d loved his baby years, when it had been just her and Robert and Owen. They’d been so happy, the days full of wonderful memories. Would it be such a bad thing if she was holding on to them in any way she could?
“That’s the problem,” Owen said in a small voice she hadn’t heard in a long time.
“What do you mean?” she asked, opening the picnic basket and carefully placing the watermelon inside on top of ice packs. She’d read in Parenting magazine that sometimes the best way to have a conversation with your children was to be busy doing something else so you didn’t have to make eye contact. Her own mama had held her by the ponytail and spoken to her almost nose-to-nose to get her points across, and that had seemed to work pretty well. But this was a new era, and she figured Parenting knew best.
Still tugging at his bathing suit, he said, “It’s a problem because she’s pretty, and fun, and smart.” He paused, studying the plastic-wrapped plate of Loralee’s homemade chocolate-and-peanut-butter-chip cookies. “When she finds out how not cool I am, she won’t want to be my friend. I figure if I stay away from her all summer, by the time school starts she’ll think I’m an enigma, which is a lot better than her knowing I’m a loser.”
Loralee studied her son for a long moment, wondering how he knew the word enigma and if it was even a word a ten-year-old should be using. Or loser for that matter. Especially a ten-year-old boy who was painfully shy and desperate for friends. She threw the dish towel down on the counter. Screw Parenting. Getting down on her knees, she took Owen by the shoulders. “You are not a loser. Just because some other boys decided to call you that does not make it true. You are smart and funny and interesting. And I bet that once Maris gets to know you, all the other boys won’t seem half as cool. Besides, smart girls like smart boys.” He didn’t look completely convinced, but she thought she’d at least given him something to think about.
She stood slowly, keeping her hands on his shoulders as support.
“Why doesn’t Merritt want to come with us?”
Loralee took the glasses from his nose and cleaned them on the hem of her blouse before replacing them. “Because she’s afraid of the water.”
His eyes scrunched behind his glasses. “But I thought you said we should respect other people’s fears.”
She turned back to the counter and began slathering bread with mayonnaise, wrinkling her nose at the smell of it, at the turning of her empty stomach. “I did. And we should. It’s just that some people need a little push in the right direction. Some people use their fears as a wall, an excuse for not moving forward. It’s not on purpose—just human nature, I guess. Usually I let people figure this out on their own, but Merritt’s a little slower than most.”