Page 46 of If All Else Sails
“Okay, so don’t mention my Southside roots and put on my good pearl earrings—check and check. But if me being here makes things more complicated for whatever reason, I’m happy to leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, feeling far too happy at his words.
He’s not exactly saying he wants me to stay, I remind myself.
Also, I don’t need to be scrambling for Wyatt’s scraps. It’s stupid. And I never felt this way before, so I’m not sure why I suddenlyalmostcare what he thinks about me and whether his mom will like me.
It takes all of five minutes for me to understand Wyatt calling his mother a high-society steamroller. She sweeps into the cottage in a cloud of expensive-smelling perfume, perfectly coiffed blond hair, and rib-fracturing hugs for us both.
I wasn’t expecting the embrace but especially not the force of it, which squeezes an awkward squeak out of me. She doesn’t fully release me but holds me at arm’s length, her eyes warm as she studies me as though we’re long-lost friends.
“I’m so thrilled tofinallymeet you,” she says, clearly laying the Southern charm on thick to match her accent.
People who haven’t spent much time in the various regions may not realize how many Southern accents there are—from twangy to lilting to the crisp and sophisticated Southern belonging to Mrs. Jacobs. It’s what I think of as the aristocratic Southern accent, which is both melodic and posh. Like her words have been coated in a very rare and very expensive warm honey.
I’m not sure how Wyatt escaped without it when his mother’sis so strong. I don’t have much of an accent, but then, neither do my parents.
“It’s lovely to meet you too, Mrs. Jacobs.” I don’t clarify her use of the wordfinally, though I’m sure she didn’t know I existed until whatever Wyatt told her on the phone this morning.
“Oh, you must call me Susan,” she says, waving a hand and nearly blinding me with not one but several diamonds. “I am so grateful you’re here taking care of my Wyatt. Heaven knows he won’t take care of himself.”
She’s got that right. But I don’t agree out loud. It feels oddly disloyal. Wyatt’s usually hard-to-read expression is pure gratefulness when I meet his gaze.
I also suspect from her cavalier comment that Mrs. Jacobs has no idea how bad things were just yesterday. I try to imagine her reaction to the overflowing garbage bags I took out yesterday morning or Wyatt’s feverish state. And let’s not forget my fluid-filled body. I’m intensely grateful all of that has subsided.
“Your brother is simply wonderful,” Mrs. Jacobs—Susan— says. “I offered to adopt him, but he said he couldn’t go by the name Jacob Jacobs.”
That—and he’s not exactly an orphan. More like the king of our family. But it’s on brand that Jacob would have other families clamoring to draw him in. The man could charm a snake charmer.
I’m about to say something regarding my brother when I notice Susan has gone quiet. Her mouth is a tightly closed line as her eyes scan the room. It’s then that I think about the significance of this house to her.
Though Wyatt didn’t say which side of the family his uncle was from, based on her reaction to being here, I’m guessing Tom was Susan’s brother. It’s hard to reconcile the idea of someone so polished being close with someone who calledthe murder cottage home. But as I know from personal experience, siblings can be completely different but still be close.
“Mom,” Wyatt says quietly, and he manages to balance on one crutch while putting an arm around her waist.
The tightness eases from her face, softening as she looks up at him, nodding once, then a few more times until the gesture seems to move fromI’m okaytoNo, really—I’ve got this.
It’s far too intimate a moment for me to be witnessing, and I must shift as I consider sneaking out of the room because the floor betrays me, giving a loud groan.Tattletale.
Wyatt’s eyes meet mine as his mother slips from his embrace.
“You simplyhave tojoin us for lunch at the yacht club,” Susan says, her exuberance returning full force.
Wyatt’s face behind her shoulders is clearly communicating what looks like ano, you simply donothave to join usvibe.
Which only makes me more amenable to the idea. Something about giving Wyatt a hard time gives me a wicked dopamine high.
Also, his mom is kind of awesome. Her attention might be intense, but it makes me feel special. I find myself surprisingly eager to be steamrolled.
“I’d love to,” I tell her, ignoring Wyatt’s deep sigh.
I’m grateful I had time to shower and change before she arrived, though I’m not sure my black pants and top are yacht club material. Susan clearly thinks I look just fine. While I was putting away groceries, Wyatt changed from athletic shorts into khaki pants, a belt, and a button-down shirt. All of which emphasize his athlete’s build. Normal thighs don’t stretch the bounds of common decency in a pair of khakis.
“You made your mom sound scary,” I whisper to Wyatt as I lock up the cottage. His mother is already in her Jaguar, checking her perfect makeup in the visor mirror. “I like her.”
Wyatt only snorts a response as he folds himself into the back seat.
