Page 47 of If All Else Sails
Susan Jacobs is aterribledriver. The kind where I can’t decide if it’s better to look at the road to be prepared for imminent death or close my eyes and hope for the best. Thankfully, there are no pigs in our path when she peels out of Wyatt’s driveway in a spray of oyster shells. She would have mowed them down without a thought to her undercarriage or anything else.
I spend most of the ten minutes it takes to reach Kilmarnock proper trying to discreetly hold on for dear life as she disregards speed limits completely and uses the brakes as though they’re optional tools only for sissies. Turn signals absolutely don’t exist, and she seems to consider other cars like they’re gnats— annoying and inconsequential. She passes more than one slow driver, even over double yellow lines, while I clutch at the car door.
I’m grateful when we reach Kilmarnock’s North Main Street, which necessitates a substantial slowing down. It’s impossible to speed through with the pedestrians and a tiny traffic jam of cars.
“You know what,” Susan says, suddenly jerking the car into a space reserved for accessible parking. The front right tires bump the curb while the back end of the car is very much still out in traffic. “I love this little shop. And we’ve got some time before our reservation!”
“Mom,” Wyatt warns.
“They’ve always got the cutest earrings, and I need some for a charity auction this weekend,” she continues, completely ignoring her son. “Josie, come in with me! You’ll love it.”
Somehow, I doubt that I’ll love it. Any store that carries the perfect earrings for a charity auction is probably not going to be a mainstay for me.
“You can’t park here, Mom,” Wyatt says.
She lowers her sunglasses, turning to give his boot a pointed look. “We may not have a permit, but I’d like to see any cop who’d argue we can’t use this space with your injury.”
I briefly consider telling her the police will let Wyatt do just about anything he wants because they’re total fanboys. Considering the way she acted like she’d been dying to meet me, Wyatt obviously told her about me. But there’s no way he included a description of me being shoved into a cop car. Or our joint hospital visit, which I’m also happy to keep under wraps.
“Not sure it counts if I’m not getting out of the car,” Wyatt says. “And having crutches isn’t the same as having a permit.”
She waves him off.
“I can just wait here with Wyatt,” I say, but she’s already slammed her door and hustled around the front of the car in her navy dress, which probably came straight from Saks.
“Have fun shopping,” Wyatt says, a note of something in his voice—warning? Amusement?—as Susan flings open my door and tugs me from the car with the strength of a much younger woman. Or an older woman who plays tennis five times a week. “Come, come. Just us girls! We’ll be quick.”
Before we enter the store, I turn and mouthHelpat Wyatt. He lifts his hand like Katniss Everdeen, and I swear I see the smallest smile on his face.
Then Susan and I are inside the boutique, which at first glance is clearly out of my price range. More like out of my price galaxy. She must see my look of horror when I glimpse a price tag because she takes my hand and drags me farther into the store.
“Oh, don’t pay attention to the numbers,” she says, her laughter like a little bell. I don’t have time to argue as Susan greets the younger woman who walks out from behind the counter with asmile. “Anna! So lovely to see you again! We’ll need a dressing room.”
“For earrings?” I ask.
The first thread of unease weaves through my belly. The two of them ignore me.
“I’ll get one started for you,” Anna says. “And what can I help you find today?”
Susan turns her attention toward me, and both women look me over. My unease deepens. I’m wearing black slacks and an emerald-green top that’s not a name brand but looks expensive (according to my mother). It’s the nicest outfit I packed, aside from a sundress, which felt a little too skimpy around the shoulders for brunch at the yacht club. Suddenly, I feel like I got dressed in the dark with clothing found in a donation bin.
“Let’s see,” Susan says. “You’re a size six?”
My cheeks are hot. “What? I mean, yes, but—”
“Size six,” she tells Anna. “Color, prints—nothing muted. That emerald with your hair! Gorgeous.”
Anna is already moving through the store, collecting items on velvet-padded hangers. Dresses, blouses, skirts, pants all stack up on her arm.
“Wait,” I say.
But Susan takes my hand, shaking her head with a sadtsk. “I have two boys, neither of whom have settled down. Which means no women to shop with—can you imagine! This is so fun for me. Thank you for being willing.”
She’sthankingme?
“Please,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Do this for me?”
I feel a sudden thickness in my throat and nod quickly, ducking into the dressing room. Am I about to cry because Wyatt’s mother has essentially taken me hostage for a ridiculouslyexpensive shopping spree that she’s somehow twisted into a giant favorI’mdoing forher?
