‘It’s lovely,’ he said, but he felt sick with jealousy.
Hannah, noticing her daughter showing off her gift, turned to her mother.
‘Do look, Mother. George sent Rita a pendant. It’s a lovely silver dove. A symbol of love, happiness and wedded bliss. Isn’t that delightful?’
‘Charming,’ enthused Mrs Megalith, hobbling over to take a better look. Antoinette followed her.
‘Sweet,’ she said. Then her scarlet lips extended into a wicked grin and she cocked her head on one side and said in a loud whisper for all the room to hear, ‘Surely the action of an unfaithful man.’
Chapter 13
Rita fled the room in tears, Max following her, leaving Hannah speechless with shock and Humphrey the colour of a ripe tomato.
‘Was it absolutely necessary to be so wounding, Antoinette?’ he said in a very quiet, steady voice. He wanted to remove the smug expression from her face with a healthy slap.
‘Oh, come on Humphrey, where’s your sense of humour?’ she retorted, sighing melodramatically.
Mrs Megalith slowly removed her glasses and looked at her younger daughter with a dark and serious expression. Antoinette felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle with uneasiness.
‘There is nothing clever about wounding someone weaker than yourself. Pick your equal before you launch into battle. Now, apologize before I lock you in the pantry with every cat and bat in this house.’
Antoinette was thoroughly humiliated. Nursing her dented pride, she strode out of the room in search of Rita. But her niece had disappeared with Max, placing as much distance between herself and her aunt as possible.
‘Here we are again,’ said Rita, seated beside Max on his bed. ‘Why is it I’m always crying on to your poor shoulder? Really, you deserve better.’
Max smiled, delighted to be given another opportunity for intimacy. ‘Antoinette is a bully. Bullies are cowards. They prey on those weaker than themselves.’
‘No, I’m the coward. I should have retaliated like Eddie.’
‘You’re not Eddie. You’re lovely just the way you are.’ Max lowered his eyes bashfully. Rita put her hand on his knee.
‘That’s so sweet,’ she said in a soft voice. She hesitated a moment then swallowed hard. ‘Tell me something, Max. You’re a man.’ Max straightened up, pleased that she considered him a man, not a boy. ‘Do you think I’ve made a mistake letting George go away again without me?’
Max loved her too much to jeopardize their blossoming friendship by telling her the truth. That yes, she had made a terrible decision. That he believed, and hoped, that George would never come back.
‘You have done a very brave thing. A coward wouldn’t be so bold.’ He took her hand in his. ‘Trust him. Loving someone is all about trusting.’
‘I do trust him,’ she replied quickly, ashamed that she had voiced doubts. ‘I miss him, that’s all.’
Max longed to kiss her. He had imagined countless times what it would feel like and now, sitting so close to her, he realized how easy it would be to lean over and press his mouth to her lips. She had pretty lips, pale pink and perfect like the lips of a shell. Overcome by desire and encouraged by the compassionate expression in her eyes, he inclined his head and planted a lingering kiss on her cheek. Her skin was still damp from her tears and she smelt of violets. He felt her stiffen and pulled away. Anxious that he might have ruined the tenuous balance of their friendship, he said hastily, ‘I feel you’re like a sister to me. Perhaps I can be the brother you never had.’ Rita’s face relaxed into a smile and she bit her bottom lip shyly.
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘I’ve always wanted a brother.’
There was a long pause, during which Max felt the mortification of having so nearly declared himself singe his cheeks with shame. Rita cast her eyes about her until her gaze settled on a faded green book that sat on the small table by his bed. It was smaller than a hand and almost threadbare, its pages coming away from the binding.
‘What an enchanting book,’ she commented, relieved to change the subject.
He leaned over and picked it up. ‘It belonged to my mother. It’s a book of poetry.’
‘May I have a look?’
‘It’s in German. A collection of her favourite poets.’
He handed it to her, wanting to add that the poems about love he now knew by heart. She opened it with care and ran her fingers over the yellowed paper that was thick and coarse like parchment. Rita wondered whether he could feel his mother reaching out to him through the pages and hear her voice, perhaps, whispering softly across the years to comfort him when he missed her. It was an unbearably romantic thought. She lifted her eyes and rested them on Max’s sensitive face.