11. High Society Steamroller #2
“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 called the 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 from I’m okay to No, 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 simply have to join 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 a no, you simply do not have to join us vibe.
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.
Susan Jacobs is a terrible driver. 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 mouth Help at 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 a smile. “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 sad tsk . “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’s thanking me?
“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 ridiculously expensive shopping spree that she’s somehow twisted into a giant favor I’m doing for her ?
Yes. Yes, I am.
It is at this point I realize I have been one hundred percent steamrolled.
I also realize that I’ve unknowingly harbored a secret hunger for a mother-daughter shopping spree.
My mother’s wardrobe is ninety-nine percent from catalogs like Talbots or Coldwater Creek.
Back-to-school—or any other—shopping consisted of her giving me a credit card and a firm limit while she read a book in the mall food court while I shopped alone.
No one to zip me up or help me out of a too-tight dress or tell me which pants were more flattering.
It’s not like my mom—or dad—neglected me.
I mean, sure, Jacob sucks up ninety percent of the attention in any room and consistently did so with our family, but my parents are great.
Fantastic. Slightly distracted and physically distant with all their RV-ing and before that, their other hobbies, but still wonderful.
Maybe it feels a little like once my brother and I were out of the nest, they set the nest on fire and moved on to another tree, but it’s not like there’s bad blood or trauma I can complain about. Sometimes I just miss my mom.
Which leaves me here, emotion climbing its way up my throat while trying on a dress I definitely can’t afford.
I just can’t remember a time I ever had either of my parents’ complete focus like this. Or the level of delight Susan seems to take in something so small and simple. Especially considering I’ve known her for all of twenty minutes.
I guess this is a dream unrealized for me too—even if it is Wyatt’s mother.
He must take after his dad.
“You okay in there?” she calls as I work up the side zipper.
“I’ve just got the first dress on. Do you...want to see it?”
“Of course I want to see it,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “What fun is it if you don’t model for us? Don’t be shy.”
Drawing in a breath and making sure my tears are tucked away, I do.
Susan wasn’t kidding about this being a quick stop. She shops like it’s a sprint—on which the fate of the world hangs. Twenty minutes later, I’ve tried on half the store and am leaving with several bags and wearing a new dress, new shoes, and a new necklace.
None of which I paid for.
I couldn’t have stopped her if I tried. And her absolute joy over the whirlwind shopping spree made me not want to.
Wyatt’s smirk tells me he knew exactly how this would go.
Like he was well aware that his mother’s master plan was not to find auction earrings after all but rather to force an almost complete makeover on me.
My hair is even twisted up into a fancy knot with a new clip.
If the store had sold cosmetics, I’m sure I’d have a whole new line of that as well.
I climb into the car first while his mother puts the bags in the trunk. “Don’t say a word,” I tell Wyatt in a quiet voice.
“Wasn’t going to.”
I raise an eyebrow and twist to peer back at him. “You weren’t going to say I told you so ?”
“Do I even need to say it?”
“Say what?” Susan asks, climbing behind the wheel again. She touches up her lipstick, a coral color that looks great against the olive skin tone she and Wyatt share. “How beautiful Josie looks? She’s stunning, Wyatt. Don’t you agree?”
Wyatt makes a noncommittal noise from the back. I want the leather seat to open up and swallow me whole.
“Thank you,” I say again. To Susan, not Wyatt, since not even his mother can drag a compliment for me out of him. Best to pretend she never asked him. “I really—”
“Nonsense,” Susan says, waving me off without hearing the rest of what I was going to say. Then she swivels in the seat, her eyes fiery as she glares at Wyatt. “Wyatt.”
“Mother.”
“ Wyatt Hamilton Jacobs .”
I bite back a smile. Even if I don’t like her forcing him to say I’m pretty when he clearly doesn’t think so, I’m her new favorite person while Wyatt’s getting called by his full name.
But the tension in the car stretches to awkward levels, and I wonder if I should get out and let Wyatt and his mom continue their silent standoff alone.
I’ve just grasped the door handle when Wyatt leans forward, catching my eye. Despite all the eye contact we’ve made in the last few days, only now do I realize his irises aren’t a solid gray. They’re mostly gray, but with navy and brown flecks, like a gray hazel. Gray zel.
They are hypnotic.
“Josie,” he says, voice low and firm.
My yes is an unsteady wobble.
“You look beautiful,” Wyatt says.
He holds my gaze for another moment before sitting back. I can’t tell if he’s being sincere or sarcastic. His voice and his expression are too even to know. But my cheeks heat and my stomach dips like I’ve just gone over the crest of a roller coaster’s biggest hill.
It’s Wyatt , I try to remind my overloaded nervous system. Just Wyatt.
But I think the fact that it’s Wyatt makes the compliment mean more .
“There.” Susan throws the car into Reverse and slams on the gas without looking, to a chorus of honks and screeching brakes. “Was that so hard?”
Yes , I almost tell her. It was probably the hardest thing he’s done this week, aside from accepting my help. Still, I find myself turning my head so he won’t be able to see my smile.
“Did you get the earrings you needed?” Wyatt asks his mother, his tone indicating he already knows the answer.
“Oh, shoot,” Susan says. “Guess I’ll have to look when I get back to Richmond.”
Or—she doesn’t need earrings at all and the whole thing was a ruse. An excuse to take me shopping.
Wyatt whispers, leaning so close to my seat that his breath is a caress on my neck, “Told you—high-society steamroller.”