Page 50 of Spin Control

As I open the back door, children sound the intruder alarm by screaming their heads off. I suppose I should have messaged Elizabeth to let her know that I’m here.

“Wes!” Todd cries, coming over while Jane reassures the kids that I’m not here to take anyone hostage. “You made it!”

“I did,” I say. “Thank you again for the invitation.”

“Of course,” he says, slapping me on the back as if we’re old friends rather than two people who have barely met. “We’re glad to have you. Kids! Come meet Wes!”

Suddenly, there are three children standing in a line in front of me, from tallest to shortest. The tallest says, “I’m Emma!” followed by “I’m Eleanor!” and then “I’m Edmund!” I wait, wondering if they’re going to break into song, like some contemporary version of the von Trapps. When they don’t, I say, “And I’m Wes. It’s nice to meet you all.”

“Are those for my mommy?” Emma asks, pointing to the flowers I’m holding.

“They are.”

“They’re gorgeous,” Jane says, coming forward and taking the bright summer bouquet. “And there’s a vase! How thoughtful.”

“Really, the florist is the visionary. She sized me up, pointed to the shelf, and said rentals don’t always have vases.”

Jane and Todd laugh easily, and I search for Elizabeth. She’s standing now, but hanging back from everyone else. I’m so used to her quietly commanding every space she’s in that it’s strange to see her on the sidelines. It doesn’t feel right. I don’t like it.

I head her way and offer her the thin, oblong tote bag. “This is for you, Jacobs. I figured you’d need it.”

She pulls out the bottle of rosé. “Château d’Esclans. Fancy.”

“Only the best for you,” I say, keeping my tone light. But I really did ask for the best bottle of rosé the store had.

“Aunt Lizzy!” Eleanor calls. “What’d you get?”

Suddenly, dots connect in my mind. “Emma. Eleanor. Edmund,” I say, before looking at their mother. “Jane.” I turn back to the woman beside me. “Elizabeth. That can’t be a coincidence.”

A pretty blush colors Elizabeth’s cheeks and Jane laughs delightedly. “I never thought a race car driver would be familiar with Jane Austen.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “They are when their mother is the world’s leading Austen scholar.”

“I didn’t know that,” Elizabeth says, peering at me curiously.

“And here I was thinking you’d done so much research on me,” I tease. “Didn’t you figure it out just from my middle name?”

Elizabeth frowns. “All I know is that it starts with an F.”

“I find it hard to believe you haven’t filed a Freedom of Information Act request for my birth certificate.”

Todd and Jane both laugh, and Elizabeth’s cheeks flush an even deeper pink. In a low voice, she says, “Honestly, I figured your parents were extremely prescient and named you Wesley Fucking Grant.”

I bark out a laugh. “They probably should have.”

“What’s funny?” Emma asks, distressed she’s not in on the joke.

“Emma,” Jane says to her daughter. “Do you remember the name of the woman who wrote the book you’re named after?”

“Of course,” Emma says primly. “Her name is Jane, like you.”

“That’s right,” Jane says. “Her full name is Jane Austen. And our new friend Wes just realized that most of us here are named after characters that Jane Austen wrote.”

“Oh,” Emma says. “That’s not funny.”

We all, of course, laugh at that, confusing the serious little girl further.

“Please tell me your middle name is Frank,” Elizabeth says, still on this. “There’s no way it’s Frederick. Andrew would have made you and Freddie do some social media thing if it were.”