Page 50 of If All Else Sails
“What would be your dream trip?” she asks me.
“Probably something near the beach. I love being near the water. The ocean, preferably, but I’d take a lake or river.”
My ideal vacation would include lazy naps in the sun with a book in hand and a cold drink within reach. The refreshing feel of rinsing salt and sunscreen off at the end of the day, cold water a shock on my warm skin.
“Wyatt has always loved the ocean,” Susan says, her expression turning mischievous. “You two have that in common.”
“Mom,” Wyatt groans.
“Which reminds me,” Susan goes on, releasing my hand as she turns to Wyatt. “Have you worked out a solution foryourtrip?”
Wyatt’s planning a trip?
His gaze is fixed firmly on the tablecloth as he drains half his water glass.
So it’s a trip he doesn’t want to talk about, then. At least not with me around.
We’re momentarily interrupted as the waitress brings our food, and I can tell Wyatt is hoping this distraction will be enough to make his mother forget her question. She doesn’t.
“Well?” she asks the moment our waitress is out of earshot.
Wyatt sets down his fork, still chewing an enormous bite of pasta he put in his mouth,I think in hopes it would keep him from having to answer. Wiping his mouth, he slides a quick glance my way before focusing on his mother. “It’s not happening. Obviously.”
Susan tilts her head, eyes and voice soft. “Are you sure? I know there are some people you could hire to—”
Wyatt shakes his head. “Maybe next year.”
“What trip?” I ask, knowing full well I’m butting into a conversation Wyatt doesn’t want to have in front of me. Orwithme. But having his mom as a buffer doses me with a little more confidence.
His frown deepens, and he takes another bite of pasta rather than answering.
But the benefit of asking with Susan around is that if Wyatt won’t answer, his mom will.
“Wyatt was going to sail down the Intracoastal this summer. All the way to Georgia.”
I don’t really know what the Intracoastal is, though it sounds vaguely familiar. Like something I maybeshouldknow but can’t remember.
“Did you even tell Josie that you sail?” Susan asks.
Wyatt shrugs. It’s the shrug of someone who not only knows how to do something but can do it expertly. “I told her.”
“Oh, don’t be modest.” Susan turns to me with a laugh. “He’s been sailing since he was knee-high. My brother taught him. Wyatt won several youth sailing championships. Then hockey became his full-time focus and sailing became just a hobby.”
Wyatt only grunts at this, his attention fixed on what must be the most interesting plate of pasta in the world.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s some champion sailor. I know very little about him personally—his likes or dislikes, hobbies, dating life. What Idoknow is that my brother once called Wyatt a driven machine and said that anything he did,he did expertly. Whatever it took. He’d put in more hours and push himself harder than anyone else.
It’s one reason I think my brother attached himself to Wyatt early on. They were friends, yes, but my brother always had his own master plan in mind.
Because Jacob calling Wyattdrivenwas a classic pot-and-kettle situation.
“Do you sail?” I ask Susan.
She laughs. “Not even a little. I don’t know a flying jib from a flying monkey.”
I don’t even know what a jib is, so she’s ahead of me there.
“Yachting is more her speed,” Wyatt says with a small smile, and Susan shushes him like he just announced that she’s a frequent rewards member at Red Lobster.
