“Nine.” He caught his forehead in a palm, colored pencil jutting skyward. “I shouldn’t have told you that. You’re a stranger.”
Sam sensed the slightest edge of levity in that statement. So the kid wasn’t entirely made of stone.
“I am a stranger, but I promise I only want to see you smile. Then I’ll leave. How ‘bout this one?” He wielded a SpongeBob SquarePants DVD.
Barely flicking his attention to the DVD, Maxwell said, “Cartoons are for kids.”
“You’re a kid.”
“I am not.” Maxwell sighed again, and Sam felt the weighty exhalation in his chest.
This boy was the furthest thing from a happy, carefree kid. Watching Maxwell keep a stiff upper lip made Sam’s heartache, and stirred up bittersweet memories he’d hoped to avoid during what should have been an in-and-out mission.
“I am a kid,” Maxwell suddenly corrected, tapping the colored pencil against his chin, “but I’m smarter than most. And if I don’t finish my homework, I’ll be less smart than required if I’m ever going to become a brain surgeon.”
Sam whistled. “That’s an awesome aspiration. And somehow, without even knowing you, I predict it’ll happen. But still. All work and no play…” Sam tugged out a movie. “How ‘bout this one? The Brave Little Toaster. Yeah? It’s a classic. I love this story!”
Maxwell wedged his cheek into his palm with what seemed to be bored disinterest. “How can a toaster be brave? It’s an inanimate object. That makes no sense.”
Stunned how easily the kid could knock the wind from his sails, Sam lowered the DVD to his side. “You really don’t watch a lot of cartoons, do you, buddy?”
The kid quirked a brow.
Sam tried again. “The toaster’s friends are a blanket, a radio and a vacuum cleaner. After waking one morning to find the house empty—because their owners went on vacation—they go on a quest to find their missing master.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, I’m—no.” Never let it be said Sam Jones gave up the good fight. He opened the case and popped the disk into the player beneath the television. “Part of being smart is using your imagination. How else could a toaster, or a big yellow sponge, have a really big adventure?”
“I do use my imagination. Look at this graph I’ve drawn to designate the various lobes of the brain. The pink one is the cerebellum. That part fascinates me because it controls motor skills. Don’t you think the colors I’ve chosen are imaginative?”
“Yep, they are. And very precise. You’ve got mad coloring skills, Maxwell. Bet you’ll get an A on that one. But I still haven’t seen you smile. Give me five minutes with the toaster, and I know you’ll want to watch the whole thing.”
Maxwell slouched against the thick pillow and crossed his arms high on his chest. He glared at Sam. Sam matched the glare, but with a lot less vehemence. He was prepared to leave if Maxwell insisted. He had no right to be bugging some random kid with homework to do, and he’d probably catch hell when the parents showed up.
His brother had used the same pouty stare on him many a time to win an argument. Such tactics had always worked, too, ending up in a treat from the Dairy Queen or a round of Scrabble. Or both. “Both” had always been best.
With a defeated sigh, the boy nodded. He didn’t smile, but Sam felt the same triumph he had a year earlier when he’d finally gotten Jeff to lift his head from the hospital pillow and talk to him—one last time.
“Five minutes,” Maxwell said. “I’m setting the timer on my watch.”
“Deal. But you’d better turn down the alarm, because you don’t want it interrupting your enjoyment of this awesome movie.”
* * *
Rachel McHenry smiled at the nurse she passed on her way to Maxwell’s room. The staff here at the hospital was kind and supportive, but when it came down to it, customer service still didn’t change the fact that her son had been through a harrowing experience. Only yesterday afternoon he’d gotten the worst stomach pains, and she’d had to rush him to the E.R. Half an hour later, he’d been prepped for surgery.
She hated the lack of control she had felt, standing back and watching as Maxwell was wheeled away. At that moment she’d been utterly incapable of making things right for him. But it was a parent’s job to keep a stiff upper lip and smile through it all, which she had done.
Only when Maxwell was taken to recovery had she made a quick trip home to lock up and grab her work files and laptop. While standing in the darkness of her living room, Rachel had finally allowed herself a good cry. Crying always made things better.
The doctor had said Maxwell was doing fine and could be released tomorrow. Rachel had been able to stay overnight because the hospital rooms featured a pull-out sofa bed for parents and family.
This morning she’d had a house closing at a mortgage office just down the street from the hospital, so had slipped out at seven-thirty. Maxwell was an early riser, and probably woke not long after she’d left. She hoped he hadn’t felt too alone without her here, but also knew her son was industrious and enjoyed mornings on his own, puttering about the house, making toast with strawberry jelly for breakfast, doing homework out on the patio, and generally starting the day quietly.
The closing had run an hour longer than she’d expected. Had she really left her son alone in the hospital? Bad mother.
Bad mother who was trying to support a family and pay medical bills, she reminded herself. She forced a smile for Maxwell’s sake. Of course, it wasn’t hard being cheerful around her son. And she had always possessed an innate cheeriness that sometimes drove even her bonkers. She wished Maxwell had inherited that particular gene. He was such a serious child. Not depressing serious, just…astute for his age.
Rachel paused outside Maxwell’s room when she heard sniffling.
“Oh, my baby.”
She had wondered how long Maxwell would be able to hold up without showing some sign of pain or defeat. He’d led an enchanted life up until now. He’d been sick only once or twice, and had never injured himself. The doctor had assured her it wasn’t uncommon for children to undergo surgery once in their lifetime, but she hadn’t wanted it for her son.
It hurt her to know he was crying. He did it rarely, and over the most incredible things, such as finding a dead butterfly in the backyard, or hearing that a friend’s dog had died. Briefly, she wondered if he’d want her to see him crying, but she couldn’t stay outside and let him suffer alone.
Surprised at the sight of the handsome man who rose from the chair beside Maxwell’s bed, Rachel immediately looked to her son, who was wiping a tear from his eye. The television was on, and that, even more than finding a stranger in Maxwell’s room, set her off.
“You’re watching a movie?” she said to her son, trying to keep the accusatory tone from her voice. She turned her frustration toward the adult in the room instead. “And who are you?”
He extended his hand but refused to shake it.
“Sam Jones,” he said. “I was delivering movies when I happened to see your son sitting alone and looking bored. Me and Maxwell found one to watch we both liked.”
“I see. I suppose Maxwell neglected to tell you he’s not allowed to watch movies without my permission?”
“Oh.” The man—Sam—raked his fingers through his sandy brown hair, which Rachel noticed looked even better when tousled, save for the flakes of what she now figured was sawdust that sprinkled the air. He was covered with the stuff. “Sorry. I didn’t know that.”
“I imagine not.” She shot Maxwell the evil eye, but wisely, he avoided looking at her. “So, Mr. Jones, do you often enter children’s rooms and entice them with movies when they should be doing their homework?”
“No, I… Don’t make it sound like that. Maxwell is a good kid. I just wanted to see him smile. Which he did.”
Sam twisted to high-five Maxwell, and her son moved to meet the man’s palm with his, but stopped when he caught Rachel’s condemning glare. Sam slid the offending palm down his sweatshirt, which was splashed with unidentifiable stuff she assumed must be related to the sawdust.
A carpenter? If she wasn’t so angry, she’d consider her luck at meeting the one person she could really use right now.
“Anyway,” Sam said, “the toaster saved the day, and the blanket got back home, along with the vacuum and the radio.”
“I…” Rachel didn’t have a clue what to say. While the man was disturbingly sexy, and certain parts of her were softening and wanting to stand there and take him in, the dedicated mother who protected her son at all costs was outraged. “I think you should leave, Mr. Jones, or I’ll have to report you to Security.”
“Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”
Sam glanced at Maxwell, and Rachel caught her son’s fading smile. The man had just wanted to see him smile?
“He’s okay, Mom,” Maxwell finally said. “Even if he does have a bad case of dandruff.”
