“I understand.”
She huffs, peering down at her nephew, who stretches out on my floor. Nanners follows suit, stretching with him. “And now she’s spending the weekend with him.” Her jaw flexes. “They’re here. In Tesoro. And?—”
I lift my brows, most likely willing to help her however she needs. “You want to spy on her?”
“No,” she snaps, and Wyatt flinches. “Not spy,” she whispers. “I wouldn’t spy on her. But if she needed me, it would take me an hour to get to her.”
“Forty minutes.” We aren’t all that far apart.
“Still, if it takes me forty minutes to get to her, I might be too late. If something happened.” She sighs. “I’d never forgive myself.”
I study this woman, knowing my vovó would very much approve. “And yet,” I say, remembering how hard it was for Vovó when I came to the United States. She couldn’t come with me. My scholarship did not include her room and board. She had to stay in our village. I keep my tone tender. “You cannot be with her at all times.”
“Maybe not?—”
“Or him,” I say, nodding to Wyatt.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
I snicker. Maggie McCrae is a feisty one.
“What?” she says.
“Are you sure you aren’t his mother? You have all the growl of a mama bear. And I’d guess the bite as well.”
She breathes out a sigh and settles herself into the cushions of my couch. “I get a little protective. But believe me, I don’t get to call myself his mom.”
“Maybe not. But I think you’re still his parent. Aren’t you?” It’s a personal question, one that she doesn’t need to answer. The truth is written all over her face.
Maggie licks her lips and adjusts in her seat. “I’m perfectly content calling myself his favorite auntie.”
I study her through a squint. I don’t completely believe her, but I play along. “He’s lucky to have you.”
“I make mistakes all the time—Lindy, too. But Wyatt.” She shakes her head, her eyes turning glassy. “He doesn’t deserve anything but the best. He’s the sweetest boy ever.”
“He is a good kid. I haven’t been around a lot of kids. But I’m partial to yours.”
Her lips twitch, and the right side perks upward in a half smile. “Me, too.”
“Yes, but you’re biased.” I refrain from winking—I don’t think Maggie likes winking. “So, you came not to spy, but to be close by.”
“Yeah. And, I guess…” Maggie looks at me. Her eyes don’t wander or skirt mine this time. She peers right through me. “I guess I needed a distraction.”
“So, you’re here, in my house, to distract yourself.”
She swallows. “Maybe.”
“I am completely fine with that,” I say. I rest my arm over the back of the couch, inching myself a little closer to her. “You’re a lovely person, Margaret McCrae.”
She scoops a lock of hair behind her right ear, her nose wrinkling. “Margaret?”
“It’s your name.”
“I’m very muchjustMaggie. Margaret is a grandmother who drinks tea and plays Scrabble.”
“Maybe. But I’m quite fond of grandmothers.” I edge a millimeter closer to her. Another three inches and her thigh might brush mine. “I was raised by an angel grandmother.”
“An angel? Now who’s biased?”
