Losing Penny (3 page)

From
Losing Penny and Pounds

“Auntie Mae,” Penny
sighed into the phone. “Remember, I told you, I work at home now.
It’s okay. Don’t apologize. No, it’s not like I have a deadline,
it’s just…people will get bored if I don’t write.” Trying to
explain blogging to her great-aunt was like teaching algebra to a
chicken.

Her aunt clucked, trying to sound
sympathetic, but coming across as confused. Her clucking carried a
bunch of questions that Penny had stopped trying to answer years
ago. Why write a whatchamacallit at all? Why not find and marry a
nice boy and have dozens of babies?

Penny blew out a sigh. “And I’m afraid
they’re already getting bored.” She added silently, “I know I am.”
Her gaze settled on the rows of cookbooks lining the book shelves
and the sturdy pans hanging on the rack above the stove top.

Penny’s blog had gained a following as she
had lost weight—her readers growing in almost direct proportion to
her weight-loss. Once she’d even made a graph to prove the
phenomenon, and the difference between the two grew with every
pound Penny lost. “I’ve hit a plateau, and I’m worried my readers
will get tired. I’ll lose advertising.”

Auntie Mae grunted her disinterest then
rallied, as if trying to muster support. “Are you still writing
that cookbook?”

“Of course,” Penny conceded, hopeful that the
cookbook would boost her readership. The blog’s success was like
weight loss—a few brownies could spoil the dream. Brownies had that
power. They could destroy everything. And now that Penny had so
closely tied her weight to her career, she had to be hypersensitive
to brownies. And all carbs, for that manner. And cruising?
Completely out of the question.

Penny scrolled through countless recipes,
only half listening to her aunt’s pre-cruise prattle. Once a
Paris-trained sous-chef, Penny no longer spent a chunk of her day
cooking; she now spent most of her time cataloging, photographing,
and creating recipes.

“Do you want its number?” her aunt asked.

Penny reeled her attention back to her aunt.
Another blind date? Although Penny thought of the guys her aunt
sent her way in the most objectionable way, her aunt had never
before referred to the “gentlemen” as “its.”

“It has a hot pink case and it chirps when it
rings,” her aunt continued.

So, not a blind date. What else has a number?
Calories? Realization hit. “You got a cell phone?” Penny’s voice
squeaked.

“Yes. Now that Richard and Rose are moving to
New York, he thought this would be a good idea, and he bought it
for me.”

Richard, suffering from guilt and separation
anxiety, had done his best to convince his aunt and his sister to
follow him to New York, but both refused leave Laguna Beach.

“He was very upset when you broke your foot,”
Penny said.

“Goodness. As if that was anyone’s fault but
my own.”

“Auntie, you shouldn’t be pruning trees.”

“You
have
to prune, or else all the
fruit branches will grow straight for the sky.”

“But
you
don’t have to prune. I can do
it or you can hire someone.” At seventy-one, Auntie Mae was
certainly too old to be climbing trees. “You could have laid in
your yard for days until someone found you. If not for Mr.
Gerald—”

“If you’re going to lecture me,” Aunt Mae cut
in, “I’m going to hang up. I told you I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re broken.”

“It’s just my foot. Fortunately, I’ll have
all those days at sea to heal on my transatlantic cruise.” She
giggled. “And eat. Richard should have at least waited until after
my cruise to give me the phone. Although, the texting is very, very
fun.” Aunt Mae brought the conversation back to where it had
started. “Are you sure you won’t be terribly lonely at the beach
house by yourself?”

Penny put her chin in her hand and fought
back memories of past summers. She loved it, of course, but it had
been several years since she’d last gone. Sandy toes, crashing
waves, bonfires at dusk, gulls crying, sea glass, but without Aunt
Mae or Richard and Rose it would be lonely. But she had the
deadline for her cookbook looming like a humongous frozen turkey
that refused to thaw, and getting away from her day-to-day life
would help her focus. “It’s the perfect solution.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well make sure to bring a few nice
dresses.”

“Dresses?”

“I’m just thinking you might not be as lonely
as you think.”

Penny frowned at the computer screen at the
thought of dresses, but then noticed the time. “I have to go,
Auntie. I’m meeting Kayla for lunch.”

Penny said her goodbyes and grabbed an apple
on her way to the bathroom. She peeled off her clothes and dropped
them on the floor. She could do that now that Phoebe had left for
her world tour. Living alone had its perks, like leaving her things
out whenever and where ever, but it also had its drawbacks. Like
loneliness. Penny told herself that the beach house couldn’t
possibly be any lonelier than her apartment.

She usually loved talking to her aunt, and
she knew she’d miss her brother and Rose when they moved to New
York, but for the moment she enjoyed her newfound freedom. Sure,
the apartment looked and felt a little empty without Phoebe and all
her jazz, but Penny liked putting something down and knowing it
would be there when she wanted it. She liked leaving her towels on
the floor. She liked singing out loud, and she belted out the
chorus to “Viva la Vida” on her way to the shower.

But the song caught in her throat in the
hall. Steam from the shower that she hadn’t turned on seeped under
the door. Reaching out with shaking fingers, she pushed the door
and it swung open silently. The warm, moist air rolled out and hit
her like a punch to the gut. She’d been sitting only a few feet
away at the kitchen table. She hadn’t heard the water running, but
she hadn’t been listening for it either—she’d been listening to her
aunt and Coldplay. Everything was exactly where and as she’d left
it…except for a heart drawn on the foggy mirror.

Penny stared at her own pale reflection as
water dripped down the glass like tears.

Your paths will intertwine, she told him. It
doesn’t matter which road you take, you are her destiny just as
surely as she is yours. Should you sail, you will wash up on her
shores. Should you ride, you will fall into her valley. There will
be no escape. And no desire to do so.

From
Hans and the Sunstone

Drake watched
Melinda from across the wide patio. She stood in a cluster of
business men dressed in suits and ties—her peers, colleagues, and
possible employees. Drake ran a finger around his stiff collar and
wondered what he was doing there.

He knew what he was
supposed
to be
doing, and his gaze shifted to Don Marx, Melinda’s father. Drake
had been brought to the party to chat up the gear-head, but at the
moment that particular head was clearly engaged by one of Drake’s
American Lit students, Chelsea something. Until this moment Drake
had considered Chelsea a solid B student, but each moment she
flirted with gear-head Marx, her grade slipped.

Drake felt a territorial touch on his
shoulder and caught Melinda’s sent. He wondered if he were really
here to discreetly converse with the Don, or if he had he been
purchased by Melinda. If the later, how much could he charge as an
escort?

“Having fun?” Melinda leaned in and brushed
against him.

Drake fiddled with the wine flute and his
eyes flitted around the party. A live band, balloons, flowers and
candles: it looked more like a wedding than a midweek get-together.
“Of course,” Drake said, hoping his smile hid his lie.

Melinda slipped into the chair next to him
and laid her hand on his arm. Drake stared at her ring-heavy
fingers and wondered why he didn’t want her touching him. She was
attractive in a panther sort of way. She knew what she wanted and
she wasn’t afraid to chase it. She wanted Drake. And she had him in
her claws.

“Have you had a chance to talk with Daddy?”
She looked him in the eye.

Drake cleared his throat. “He looks
preoccupied.”

Melinda followed his gaze and laughed. “If we
have to wait for the girls to leave, we’ll never talk to him.” She
leaned closer, her lips grazed Drake’s ear. Her breath felt warm
and moist on his neck, and his skin crawled in response. “My dad,
the Romeo, likes to collect Juliets.”

Drake nodded at Chelsea who had her arm
wrapped around Don’s thick waist. “I know that Juliet. She’s a
decent student.”

“But what is she studding?” Melinda’s laugh
trilled. “Ew, horrible Freudian slip. I meant studying… studding
isn’t even a word.”

Drake sat back in his chair, away from
Melinda and her perfume. “It is a word. Although, I’m sure not the
word you intended.”

Melinda stopped laughing, and her lips formed
a tight line.

Ah, she doesn’t like to be corrected. He
began to think of ways to annoy her. Stop it, he commanded himself.
I’m not a gigolo. I’m a writer. I have not been purchased nor have
I agreed to anything than more than to write a biography of a
successful businessman
.
But he didn’t think he could spend
another moment within her smelling distance. “Would you like
something to drink?” he asked.

Melinda looked at her half empty goblet. “I’m
good, thanks.”

Was that a double entendre? He wondered as he
made his way to the open bar. Stop being so full of yourself, he
chided himself. She’s only interested in the writing. Nothing more.
Be professional.

His phone buzzed with an incoming text.

The devil in the dark chocolate is the fat
and sugar. To gain any health benefit, those who eat a moderate
amount of flavonol-rich dark chocolate will have to balance the
calories by reducing their intake of other foods—a tricky job for
even the most ardent calorie counter. But usually worth it.

From
Losing Penny and Pounds

The most horrible
thing that could happen happened. Char gave Rose a state of the art
blender with a powerful two-peak horsepower motor capable of
propelling blades up to 240 miles per hour and chewing gravel into
powder. It was a ridiculous way to describe a blender. As if anyone
could attach two horses to the little metal blades and make them
run 240 miles for an hour. Two-peak horse power—what did that even
mean? But Penny knew what it meant—it meant that she’d have to find
Richard and Rose a bigger, better, and not already purchased
gift.

Penny sat back in her chair while Rose’s
friends wowed appreciatively at the growing pile of presents. Why
did engaged couples get to register for gifts? Why didn’t friends
and family shower gifts on the perpetually single? Wouldn’t that
make more sense? Penny hated feeling envious and wished the mounds
of wrapping paper and ribbons would swallow her whole. But since
that wasn’t going to happen, she swallowed a forkful of blue cheese
then nearly gagged as the bitter ooze clumped in the back of her
throat. She chased it down with a slug of lemon ice water.

“Are you finished, Miss?” the waiter asked,
motioning to Penny’s plate.

Penny looked at her salad. When it had
arrived it had been bigger than her head. Since then she’d eaten
the oranges off the top, pushed the cheese and bacon to the side,
picked at the almonds, and crunched on a few torn spinach leafs.
“Yes, thanks,” she said, wishing she could banish blue cheese to
hell.

“Would you like a box?”

What good is a day old salad? Produce is like
heaven’s manna: It has a defined expiration date.

“No thank you,” Penny answered, her stomach
twisting as the blender changed hands from one admirer to the next.
Char had bought the red one, but the one sitting in Penny’s closet
was black. Rose might prefer the red blender, but Penny knew
Richard would rather have black. Pushing away from the table, Penny
hurried to the restaurant’s restroom, but a hand on her arm stopped
her.

“Hi Penny,” Allen said. He eased a finger
around the collar of his chef coat and sweat dotted his forehead.
“Is everything okay?”

She opened her mouth to tell him about the
blender disaster, but then closed it and forced a smile. She
realized Allen was asking about the food. They had gone to cooking
school together, and after graduation Allen’s dad, a master chef
for the Ritz Carlton, had hired them both. It had been sweet of
Allen to offer to host Rose’s bridal shower at the Ritz.

“Everything is perfect,” she told him,
running her hand down his arm and squeezing his hand.

Relief washed over his expression and he held
on to her with his clammy palm. “I wanted it to be nice for you,”
he said, “and for Rose, of course.”

“It is more than nice,” Penny assured
him.

“I noticed you hardly ate anything…so I
wondered if you didn’t like the salad choice. The shrimp is
excellent. I had guessed you would have chosen the shrimp.”

Laughter from the bridal shower guests
drowned his words. Penny gave him an apologetic smile, motioned her
head toward the restroom, and excused herself. Allen looked sad as
she pushed through the swinging door, but she forgot about him as
she punched in Aunt Mae’s new cell number. When Mae didn’t pick up,
Penny typed out a text:
Disaster.

A night without moon and stars or a day with
dead sun. The storm pitched the ship up and down valleys of the
cascading tide. Closing his eyes against the perpetual dark, Hans
envisioned the green hills of the Norse, the stretch of the
interior plains. He longed for sleep, but the rocking ship could
not lull him.