12. Just a Little Girl Talk
Just a Little Girl Talk
Josie
We pull up to the yacht club, and I’m not sure if the man Susan hands the keys to is an actual valet or just an unfortunate yacht club patron who happened to be standing out front. Either way, he is now parking her car. Or stealing it. Guess we’ll see after lunch.
Susan links her arm through mine, marching us inside. Wyatt follows, the sound of his crutches on the hardwoods a persistent thump echoing through the tastefully decorated building, which looks more like a grand old mansion than a country club.
Or maybe this is how all yacht clubs are? I wouldn’t know.
We get a table upgrade when the view wasn’t to Susan’s liking and fresh glasses when she sees a smudge on one.
Despite what otherwise might be diva-like behavior, Susan charms the staff the same way she charmed me.
She’s polite and cheerful and firm, giving compliments that feel genuine to every person from our waitress to the older couple a few tables away.
When she turns the full weight of her attention on a person, her gray eyes so similar to Wyatt’s but infused with warmth, it seems impossible not to be hungry for more. It’s an absolute art she’s perfected.
As we settle in with a basket of warm bread and pats of butter shaped like roses, I listen to Susan fuss over Wyatt and wonder why he described his relationship with his parents as complicated . Because Susan manages to drag a few small smiles out of Wyatt. Genuine ones.
Maybe Wyatt’s father is the complicated part? Or the combination of both parents along with the brother I’ve never heard of?
“So, Josie,” Susan says when she’s done fussing over Wyatt and pressing him for details on his recovery, which he only gave in vague terms. She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand and directing the full force of her weighty attention on me.
“Wyatt tells me your parents are on an RV adventure and that you and your brother take trips together too—a traveling family! I’d love to know more. ”
When, exactly, did Wyatt tell her all this? He was only on the phone for like five minutes at the store. I glance at him, but his expression gives nothing away.
I explain a little about my parents retiring, downsizing, and then spending most of the year traveling to places all over the United States in an RV. Talking about them has me missing them with a fierce yank of longing that surprises me. Maybe a little leftover emotion from shopping with Susan.
“And what about your trips with your brother?”
“It’s supposed to be an annual sibling trip.” I leave out the name we call it, which feels silly to say in a yacht club.
Her eyes sparkle. “Wyatt, did you hear that? I wish you and Peter would consider something like this!”
The quick frown Wyatt tries to hide tells me he has no desire to consider a trip with his brother. More complicated family dynamics, I wonder?
“He’s probably too busy with work,” Wyatt says, and there’s a layer of bitterness edging his voice. Susan doesn’t seem to notice. But I file it away under Mysteries to Unravel.
“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 for your trip?”
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. Or with me. 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 maybe should know 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 I do know 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 Wyatt driven was 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.
“Hush, now. I may not sail, but your uncle and I spent our weekends and summers paddling a canoe up through the creeks and marshes around Fort Eustis,” Susan says, straightening her shoulders.
Fort Eustis...Was theirs a military family?
I wonder. I can picture it suddenly—the vivacious woman in front of me as a girl.
Her hair a lighter blond, sun-bronzed skin, a baseball cap on her head and an oar in her hand.
Maybe a row of string friendship bracelets up her arm instead of pearls on her neck.
The mental image makes me ache. It also makes me like Susan all the more.
“We’d fish and bring home dinner for a week,” she adds.
Wyatt’s mouth tips up. “Who cleaned the fish, Mom?”
She points her fork at him. “Your uncle mostly. But I could have. I just didn’t like it, and he was faster with a knife.”
Her voice breaks a little at the end, and suddenly the man they both lost is as present at the table as any of us. I want to say something, but no version of I’m sorry for your loss seems like enough.
Plus, I suspect neither Wyatt nor his mother want to address it. They wear matching expressions—lips firmly pressed together, jaws tight, eyes focused on their food and only their food. I don’t know where to look, but I have a hard time keeping my gaze from Wyatt.
His mother recovers first. “Well,” she says brightly, as though hopping back in time before the last few minutes. “Surely, you’ll be back on your feet—no pun intended—before the summer ends and can make a trip. Even if it’s shorter and—”
“It’s fine,” Wyatt grumbles. “Excuse me.” Tossing his napkin into his chair, he grabs his crutches and makes a slow beeline to the bathrooms. Presumably.
I turn to Susan the moment he’s out of sight. I don’t even need to ask my questions. They’re clearly written all over my face.
Susan leans close and whispers conspiratorially as she grips my hand. “He won’t be gone long, so I’ll give you the abridged version.”
I don’t have time to ask, The abridged version of what? before she barrels on, still squeezing my hand like it’s the life raft keeping her afloat.
“Wyatt was very close with my brother. Big heart, bit of a hermit. You have to understand, Wyatt spent summers here, learning to sail. Doing...whatever my brother was into. Tinkering with cars, fishing, sailing. A lot like our summers growing up, I’d imagine.”
Again, I see past Susan’s designer clothes, diamond earrings, and manicured nails to a woman who grew up on an army base, catching dinner out of a creek.
All this raises more questions, though. Ones I don’t feel right asking. Questions about Wyatt’s mother and her transition from the girl she was to the wealth she wears now. Questions about why Wyatt spent his whole summers with his uncle, who, in her own words, was something of a hermit.
And a whole company of questions regarding the rest of Wyatt’s family: the brother and father who haven’t been mentioned. Not once. Silence in this case says more than words would.
I file my questions and concerns away to ponder later as Susan continues. Her eyes flick toward the doorway where Wyatt disappeared a few moments ago. The good thing about his crutches and boot is that he’s much easier to spot. And his size already makes him stand out in any room.
“Tom died a little less than a year ago. Left everything to Wyatt.” She pauses, her grip growing tighter. There is the slightest bit of moisture in her eyes before she blinks it away. “They had planned to sail down to Georgia together this summer. It’s a trip they do—or did—most summers.”
“Oh,” I say, a flood of emotions rising in my chest. I want to say more. I’m so sorry or That’s so sad , but all the phrases within easy access are too easy. Too trite. So I simply squeeze Susan’s hand.
“Wyatt decided to go by himself. And then...”
“He got injured,” I finished.
She nods and purses her lips. I’m filled with a bone-deep sympathy for her, but even more for Wyatt, whose curmudgeonliness now seems to have a very relatable reason.
He lost someone close to him. Wyatt made special plans to honor him—and it hits me right in the feels to think of Wyatt alone taking the trip he and his uncle should have taken together—then got injured, which ruined everything.
No wonder he was wallowing and not taking care of himself when I got here.
“Which is why I’m so glad you’re here,” Susan says. “I can already see the difference you’ve made in his attitude.”
I don’t bother arguing that the only difference I’ve really made is forcing him to the hospital and to take his antibiotics. Barely.
She gives a little gasp and then says, “He’s coming. This conversation never happened.”
Faking a laugh, she presses a hand to her chest and looks believably normal, like she wasn’t just whispering secrets to me. Wyatt reaches our table, balancing his crutches carefully on the empty chair and scanning my face as though for clues.
Based on the look he gives me, he found some.
“What were the two of you talking about?” he asks, eyes narrowing.
Susan winks at me. “Just a little girl talk. Isn’t that right, Josie?”
“Right,” I say, despite not knowing what girl talk with someone like Susan could possibly entail. Maybe why diamonds are a girl’s best friend and the long-term benefits of facials.
What I do know is for every question I get answered about Wyatt, five more spring up in their place, leaving me with a ravenous curiosity I wish I could satisfy without becoming more invested. But I suspect I’m already far more invested than I should be.
Especially when I find myself wondering whether Wyatt could take his sailing trip if someone went with him. Someone who was willing but maybe didn’t have much boat experience.
Someone like...me.