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Her bare feet patter back to us and she places a bin and some kind of squeezy thing filled with clear liquid beside the tray.
His eyebrows spring up. “Again?”
“Third time she’s done that.”
“Why?”
A pause, and she reaches a gloved hand around me with an open palm. “Towel,” she says clinically, very surgeon-like. I carefully unwrap my arm, hand it over, and immediately notice how much sorer it feels. I guess the shock is wearing off.
From the larger gash along the side of my hand, a bead of dark red blood rolls down my arm. I look away.
“Jake, can you help with the bin?” Ruby asks.
He snatches it and stands there waiting for his next instruction.
She huffs. “Put it under her hand?”
I lift my arm.
“Angle your hand over it, Scarlett.”
I do as I’m told, still trying not to look, and she steps around with the squeezy thing. I guess she’ll clean off all the glass and dirt before stitching me up.
This will be fun.
“Because she’s losing her mind to dementia, Jake,” she finally answers. The first squirt of saline is a sharp, breath-stealing kind of pain I’m unprepared for. Like razor blades mingled with ice. “But you’d know all of that if you’d visit Mother more.”
Ruby offersme some pain meds when she’s done cleaning, stitching, and bandaging me up, but I decline. Not a good idea after three mimosas.
“Just leave the towel on the table,” she instructs and heads for the stairs. I’m sure one of their butlers will clean it all up later.
“Thank you,” I call after her, studying her handiwork.
“You got it,” she replies blandly. She did it because she was made to.
When she closes the door behind her, Jake pushes the balled-up towel aside and hoists himself onto the table beside me. Silence settles between us for the longest minute. “Have you had enough of this place yet?” It was an attempt at a joke, but it falls flat.
I lift my injured hand for affect. “Just a little work hazard. No biggie.” I punctuate it with a reassuring smile, but it feels strained. I’ve definitely had my fill of this place, but I’m not going anywhere yet.
“You’re a tough one,” he admits.
I shrug. “My daddy made sure of that.”
He nods his approval.
I think of Joanna again as I study the bandage. “Your Nanna did try to warn me,” I tease. “I should have been paying attention.”
I feel his eyes on me. “She did?”
“Yeah.” I meet his baby blues. Somehow, I managed to smear blood along his jaw. “At dinner last night.”
He hitches an eyebrow. “At dinner?”
“The girl in the blue dress.”
It takes him a second. His eyes go distant. “Oh. Right.” When they make their way back to me, they’re filled with a humored kind of horror. “Crazy old Nanna is psychic.”
I can’t help it; I burst into laughter. It’s ridiculous and kind of amazing at the same time. Or it’s all just a really strange coincidence. Crazy, psychic Nanna.
