hands around like a Shakespearean actor. God, somebody, anybody, please, save him from overly dramatic females.
“If Kitty had cried or acted out in some way, I could have comforted her,” she said, “or we could have talked about her feelings.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“It would if you had a heart,” Ms. Walsh grumbled under her breath.
“Excuse me, I didn’t hear that.” Of course he had heard the remark, but he wanted to see if she had the nerve to repeat it.
Exasperation entered her voice, faint but still detectable. “It wasn’t important.”
Obviously it was important to her, but he didn’t intend to prolong this conversation one instant longer than necessary. He probably wouldn’t understand the mumbo-jumbo, pop-psychology-ridden explanation she would throw at him, anyway. “I still don’t see the problem. What, exactly, did Kitty say?”
“She didn’t say anything. She just turned away, crumpled up her Mother’s Day gift and dropped it into the trash can.” Ms. Walsh sighed. “I’ve never seen a child look so miserable and resigned. Please, Mr. Granger, believe me when I tell you that Kitty needs professional help.”
Jack wanted to yell, but forced himself to speak softly. At least he knew that emotions belonged under wraps, not cluttering up an important conversation. “Don’t start that therapy nonsense again.” He thumped his forefinger on the desk for emphasis. “I’ve told you before, we tried it after her mother died, and it only made things worse for Kitty.”
“In what way?”
“In every way.” He cast his mind back to the months following Gina’s funeral. Night after night, his daughter had cried herself to sleep, only to awaken in the wee hours, screaming with nightmares. Nothing he’d tried had comforted her, and he’d never felt more helpless, more useless in his life. “It just didn’t work.”
“That doesn’t mean it won’t now,” she said. “Maybe Kitty was too young then or the counselor’s personality didn’t click with hers. If she needs help—”
Finding it difficult not to leap to his feet and pace, Jack interrupted. “She doesn’t. All she needs is more time.”
“It’s been two years since her mother’s death. If Kitty was going to recover on her own, don’t you think she would have shown more progress by now?”
“It takes as long as it takes. There’s no set timetable for grieving.” God knows, it had taken him a long time even to begin to accept Gina’s death. It wasn’t any surprise to him that it would take Kitty longer.
Ms. Walsh inhaled deeply, and Jack suspected she was counting to ten. Seeing her rein in her emotions certainly was a switch, as was the calm, well-modulated tone she used next. Had someone been coaching her? Perhaps Ms. Walsh had gone to irritation-management classes.
“Of course, there isn’t,” she said, “but sometimes people need a little help with this kind of an adjustment. The social worker here does wonderful work with grieving children. I could get Kitty in to see her early next week.”
“No.”
She blinked, then shot him a startled glance as if she couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to add a sentence of justification she could refute. Too bad. Creating and tolerating uncomfortable silences was part of his job.
“That won’t do, Mr. Granger.” Her voice gained volume with every word. “It won’t do at all. Whatever is going on with Kitty, it’s draining the sparkle and life right out of her, and it’s taking a serious toll on her schoolwork.”
Jack smiled inwardly. Whoever got angry first always lost the argument. “I’m beginning to think that maybe you don’t know as much about children as you think you do, Ms. Walsh. I’ve done everything you’ve suggested—”
She cut him off with an impatient chop of one hand. “I know you’ve tried, but it’s simply not enough. As it stands now, I can’t promote Kitty to second grade unless she develops some concentration and catches up. She’s too far behind the other children.”
“What?” Dammit, even he had a limit to the amount of aggravation he could take at one sitting. Pushing back his chair, he stood again, straightening to his full height. “You’ve never said that before and the school year’s almost over. Why did you wait so long?”
Ms. Walsh rose and tipped her head way back to meet his gaze. The top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulder, but if his height advantage bothered her, he couldn’t detect it.
“Like you, I’ve been hoping Kitty would come around,” she said. “She’s an extremely bright little girl, but she spends most of the day staring off into space and refusing to participate in class activities with the other children. She’s not retaining what she does manage to learn from one day to the next, and she needs to stay on task until she finishes her assignments.”
“You are not going to hold her back,” Jack insisted. “I’ll go to the principal, the superintendent of public instruction, or the president of the school board if I have to, but you will not hold her back.”
The look she gave him could have melted granite. “Go right ahead,” she said, mimicking his posture and his soft, deadly tone. “They’ll tell you that first grade is absolutely vital to her future academic success.”
“Give me a break. She’s only six years old.” He propped his hands on his hips. “What’s so important about the first grade that it can ruin the rest of her school career?”
“Oh, nothing much. First grade is only where they learn to read. And do simple arithmetic and a whole lot of other things that Kitty isn’t getting.”
Ms. Walsh waved one hand in front of her body as if to encompass the entire room. “It may not seem like much to you, but for the next eleven years everything she studies will build on what she’s supposed to learn here. If she doesn’t conquer the basics now, she’ll struggle through every class she ever takes. Is that what you want for her?”
For a long, excruciating moment, he remained silent, feeling ashamed of himself for taking a cheap shot at a woman who, even though she annoyed the devil out of him, obviously cared a great deal about his daughter. “Of course I don’t want that.”
Jack felt a knot of fire in the center of his chest. He stepped away from the visitor’s chair, wanting to leave and regroup before he said something he’d regret. “I’ll have to take this under advisement.” He pushed back his cuff and glanced at his watch. “I need to be home in fifteen minutes. I’ll let you know what I decide.”
“Hold it right there!” She scrambled out from behind her desk as if she had some notion of blocking his path. “We’re not finished. I need a better answer than that.”
“I said,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’ll get back to you.”
She narrowed her eyes and stuck out her chin. “When?”
“Will next week be soon enough for you?” He turned and started for the doorway.
“No, it will not.” She hurried after him. “None of this is
