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“Reagan Ford Wellbridge!” Mother’s cheeks turned red. “I thought you were dating Mary-Lillian McLeroy.”
“That ended weeks ago.” Reagan waved a casual hand. “And even if it hadn’t, I’m a man with eyes in my head. Hot is hot.”
I held back a snort. Our mother assumed Reagan was straight, but in reality, my brother was a bit of a try-sexual—as in, he’dtryto sleep with just about anyone but never stuck with anyone for long.
“I beg your pardon!” Mother’s blush deepened to a near-purple color. “My son will not beanysort of sexual about Thatcher Pennington, thank you very much. Not atmybreakfast table. Thatcher’s a friend of your father’s, for heaven’s sake.”
“Not really,” my father interjected without moving his paper. “He’s a good fifteen years younger than me. Smart man, though. Waited to divorce Heather until after she inherited her own money from her grandfather, so there’s no chance of her getting spousal support. Not that she would’ve gotten much anyway, what with the ironclad prenup they signed.”
I shook my head in disgust. I knew better than anyone that not every marriage was a love story. My own parents’ relationship had begun more like a business deal, with my father agreeing to marry a woman seven years his senior in order to get her name, money, and social clout to further his political ambitions. And, to give them credit, they’d not only managed to make it work, but they were really devoted to one another, in their own way. But I couldn’t imagine a life like that for myself.
Hearing them talk about it made me even more grateful that I’d left town before I’d started to view this as normal.
“In any case,” Mother went on, undeterred. “We need to take pity on poor Brantleigh. He’s known Heather his whole life—”
“Five years,” Reagan corrected. “Maybe six.”
“—and she’s been like a mother figure to him—”
“Only in the most Kardashian sort of way.”
“—so naturally, I offered to host Brantleigh for the rest of the summer so he’d have someone his own age to spend time with—”
Reagan sobered up for the first time all morning. “You what? Oh, god, please no. You said they were coming for theweekend—”
I shoved a croissant in my mouth to stop myself from laughing.
“—and he’ll also give Jonathan an appropriate young man to settle his romantic affections on!”
I aspirated my croissant. “No,” I managed to choke out with the last of my air. “Not happening. Do not matchmake for me.”
“We’ll see,” she said airily, spearing a tiny sliver of cantaloupe. “These things blossom and take on a life of their own!”
Not if I stomped them dead and salted the fields.
“Brantleigh’s going to be so impressed to see you win the softball game, too, Jonathan. You and Reagan both.” My mother patted her hair and sniffed.
“Not me,” Reagan said firmly. “Last time I played, I was medevaced to Portland because Aunt Margot threw a bat and broke my clavicle.”
“Accidents happen! And everyone knows Margot has terrible aim.”
“Thank god she does since she threw the damn thing at my head.”
Mother threw her hands in the air. “Fine, then. Jonathan will lead Team Wellbridge to victory himself—”
“I’ll be too busy,” I objected, but she pretended not to hear me.
“And if the heady tang of victory in the air happens to stir up some amorous feelings between you and Brantleigh on the softball field, darling, wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
I pushed up from my seat, unable to bear it a moment longer. This whole thing was getting entirely out of hand. I needed to get the contract signed and get the fuck out of Honeybridge. Immediately.
“I’ll see you all later. Rea, feel better. Mother, best of luck to you and Henrietta.” I kissed my mother’s cheek and ignored her pout.
When I reached the front hall, Rosalia stopped me. “Mr. Jonathan. I was just about to come get you. You got a package.” She gestured to a plain wooden box about the size of a wine bottle on the front hall table.
The box had no shipping label, only a white tag that said “Jonathan Turner Wellbridge, III.”
Odd.
