Losing Penny (4 page)

From
Hans and the Sunstone

Drake looked at the
unknown number.
Disaster. Char gave Rose the blender. You were
right—we should give them a more personal gift.

Curious, Drake let the guy behind him place
his order at the bar. For the first time that night, a smile tugged
at Drake’s lips.

Personal…like intimate?
He texted
back.

Do you think it’s too late for the quilt
idea?
Came the reply.

Drake looked across the room at Melinda. Her
dress matched the color of the Rhododendrons, but it clashed with
her hair. Redheads shouldn’t wear pink.

Personal—a nose hair trimmer is
personal,
he responded.

He laughed when the unknown caller sent back
a question mark.

How about a coupon for a Brazilian body
wax?
He typed next.

Several minutes went by and Drake found
himself smiling at the bartender while he waited for his drink and
the response to his text. His phone buzzed.

Do you have time to make the quilt? It
really was a lovely idea. I’m sorry I didn’t think so when you
suggested it, but it just seemed like it would be more from you
than from me.

Drake set down his drink at the closest table
so he could text.
I have time.

Wonderful,
came the response.
How
about if I purchase all the materials and come by tomorrow and help
you piece it?

Perfect,
Drake typed.
Let’s make a
cat quilt.

The response was almost immediate.
Cat
quilt?

You know, fabric with pictures of cats.
Maybe even a few squares of faux fur.

His phone went still, silent, and dark. Drake
laid it on the table, keeping his eye on it while he sipped his
drink.

Richard doesn’t like cats.

But this isn’t just about Richard.

I’m pretty sure Rose isn’t into cats
either.

Drake sat down at the table, took a long
drink and typed.
Really? I always buy them kitty things when I
travel and I gave them matching Hello Kitty T-shirts for
Christmas.

Silence. And then,
I was with you at
Christmas. You gave them tickets to the ballet.

Ah, well. The gig was up. Drake drained his
drink, pushed away from the table, and wondered how soon he could
go home.

You should always have a healthy kitchen free
of temptations. If you happen to be in close quarters with someone
who insists on stashing trash, give them their own cupboard or
drawer in the fridge. Always use a cuss word when referring to this
cupboard or refrigerator drawer. I generally don’t advocate
cussing, but in this instance it’s highly recommended. If swearing
isn’t your style, you might consider the terms “poopy pantry” or
“caca cupboard.”

From
Losing Penny and Pounds

Penny returned on
shaking legs to her seat at the table. She folded her hands and set
them in her lap to keep them still then focused her attention on
Rose.

Her future sister-in-law looked so happy with
her flushed cheeks, glittering eyes, and bright smile. Before his
engagement, Penny took every little problem and hiccough in her
life to Richard and he would solve it. Not only was he her big
brother, but he was also the smartest person she knew. But there
were, of course, some problems she just couldn’t share with
Richard, and this was one of them. Not that he couldn’t figure out
a solution, but because she didn’t want him to worry about anything
or anyone but Rose and the fast-approaching wedding.

And she knew he would over react.

Kayla caught Penny’s eye, and the laughter in
Kayla’s expression died. Leaning over, she put her hand on Penny’s
arm and whispered, “Are you okay?”

Penny nodded.

Kayla pinned her with a stare and said,
“Liar.”

Penny tried to smile and shrugged.

“Was it the Lurk?” Kayla whispered.

Penny nodded.

“Oh my gosh!” Kayla sat up straight.

Penny shushed her.

“He’s here?”

Penny shook her head and motioned for Kayla
to get close enough to whisper in her ear. “I just had a weird text
conversation.” She thought for a second and then reconsidered. “But
you know, it can’t be him.” The more she thought about it, the more
she knew she had to be wrong. After all, she sent the first text.
It must have been a random wrong number. She lifted her finger at
Kayla, telling her to wait and to hold on to her panic. “Maybe I
dialed wrong. I thought I was texting my aunt, but it was clearly
someone else,” Penny said.

“Your aunt texts?” Kayla asked. “She doesn’t
have Internet or cable TV, but she texts?”

Penny laughed and relaxed her shoulders.
After a few deep breaths, the tension in her spine melted a
fraction. A wrong number. Not the Lurk.

Kayla sent Rose a quick look. “Are you going
to tell Richard?”

“The police said the less people who know the
better.” Penny shook her head. “Besides, you know how Richard is.
He’d cancel their honeymoon, or make me go with them.”

“Your plan is almost as crazy.”

Penny wrapped her arms around Kayla and held
her close. “It’s going to be great!”

“There are so many people who would love to
have you stay.”

Penny interrupted her. “And I’d be putting
them all in danger. No, the beach house is a good plan.”

“Is it isolated? Somehow I imagine it in the
wilds of Washington, far from civilization.”

“It’s outside a tiny town. They have
electricity, running water and everything.”

“Everything?” Kayla raised her eyebrows.

“Maybe not everything, but everything I need,
and more importantly, the one thing I don’t need.”

“You really think that the Lurk is going to
buy that you’re traveling the world?”

“I’m hoping that the Lurk and everyone I
know, except you, Phoebe, and Aunt Mae, will think I’m traveling
the world.”

The women around the table burst into
whistles and laughter as Rose lifted a negligee from a tiny pink
gift bag that looked like a collection of feathers. Penny wondered
how much weight she would have to lose to look good in
feathers.

“I still don’t get it.” Kayla frowned at her
dessert. “Why not just go with Phoebe? Why go to the edge of
nowhere and create an elaborate charade?”

Penny bit into her salad to stall. She knew
exactly why she didn’t want to travel. Her weight loss and exercise
routines were too new and too fragile to subject to months of
sleeping in weird places, dealing with different time zones, eating
foreign things, and not having time to work out. But Penny knew if
she told Kayla her reasons, Kayla would lecture her. Penny smiled
and said, “I love the beach house. It’s the perfect place to write
the cookbook. Besides, with Phoebe’s photos and the magic of online
media, all of my followers, including the Lurk, will think I’m
abroad.”

Hans woke to find himself tied to a bed. “I
am Hans the Mighty!” he roared. “Am I a thrall to be captured in
your snare? No. I rule with blood and terror. The people of the
villages lining the great eastern coast shake in fear at the sight
of my mighty sails.”

A soft voice answered, “Perhaps before your
bloody reign begins, you would like your garments.”

From
Hans and the Sunstone

Drake followed
Melinda into the beach house, suitcases in his hands and duffle
bags beneath his arms. He stopped in the doorway. He liked the
weathered wood floors and the large picture windows overlooking the
Sound. He saw himself relaxing on the white denim, slip-covered
sofa and chairs, and in the big rocking chair next to the stone
fireplace. Drake sucked in his breath when he noticed a large oil
painting of seascape dominating one wall.

Melinda saw him staring at the painting. “An
original Charlotte Rhyme.”

“I knew her,” he said, turning away to look
out at the clouds gathering over the Sound.

“Supposedly she was completely insane,”
Melinda said, coming to stand behind him. Despite the heavy clouds
and mean wind, Melinda wore cutoff jeans and a tight T-shirt.
Whatever message she was trying to send, Drake wasn’t interested in
reading it.

“She didn’t like me,” Drake said, his throat
tight.

“Well, then that settles it. She must have
been crazy.” When Melinda took a suitcase from Drake’s hand, her
fingers brushed his, and a small trill of warning tingled up his
arm. “Do you want these in the bedroom?”

Drake tried to swallow. “Is there just
one?”

“No, there are two upstairs and one down,
although the one downstairs is more of an enclosed porch with a
twin-sized bed.”

Drake thought of following Melinda’s tight
shorts up the stairs to the bedrooms and said, “I’ll stay down
here.”

“Really?”

He didn’t know he was moving into Charlotte
Rhyme territory when he’d agreed to stay at the beach house. There
were so many beach communities along the Sound that he hadn’t
thought the beach house would be all the way in Rose Arbor. Of
course, he’d heard that Blair had gone to the Caribbean with
Rawlings, so it wasn’t as if he would run into her. But he’d
already sublet his apartment, so there was no going back. At least
until the end of August. He reminded himself of the money. Not
normally driven by finances, Drake acknowledged that without Blair
cooking his food and editing his work, his expenses had risen
dramatically. Plus he needed a new transmission, or a new car,
since the transmission wasn’t the only thing that was fifteen years
old beneath the hood.

Melinda leaned against the doorjamb to the
back porch and folded her arms across her chest, making her breasts
squish together.

It was going to be a very long summer.

***

His first night at the beach house and he
couldn’t sleep. The lights from the Marx home twinkled at him
through the branches of the pines and alders. Melinda said she
didn’t live there, but her car had been parked in the drive ever
since his arrival. He had lied to her to get her to leave. He said
he was tired, but now he couldn’t sleep. He was afraid to turn on
the lights, afraid that she’d mistake his light for an invitation.
Lying down on the sofa, he tried not to look at Charlotte’s
painting. He closed his eyes, and his mind wandered back to his
last conversation with Blair.

“It’s an incredible story,” she had said,
handing him a notebook. “I tried to write it down as best as I
could, because I knew you would love it.”

“Vikings and magic manuscripts?” He didn’t
think his pain could grow—he thought that she’d hurt him as badly
as she could—but what she said next cut deep.

“You know you’re brilliant, but your problem
is your stories lack plot. There’s no spine.”

No spine
.
He’d stopped listening after
that. He had walked away, completely unaware that he still held the
notebook. He thought about burning it, the same way that Blair had
burned his collection of poetry, but later, when the hurt had
subsided, he opened the notebook.

Blair had typed out the story. He was glad he
didn’t have to read her handwriting. That would hurt.

He tried sleeping in every bedroom in the
beach house, but it wasn’t any use. The bed in the blue room had a
nasty squeak, the walls of the red room looked too much like blood,
and the wind whistling through the windows of the downstairs porch
sounded like moaning.

He thought about going home. Maybe he could
just sneak in and sleep on the couch. Sure, he’d rented it out to
his cousin for the summer, but Justin was a good guy, he probably
wouldn’t mind if Drake crashed on the sofa. But Drake knew his
problem wasn’t with a squeaky bed, or blood red walls, or whistling
windows.

It was the Vikings and the lost
manuscript.

Drake picked up a novel, Moby Dick, and
flipped it open
.
“Whenever it is a damp drizzly November in
my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin
warehouses…” Aarhg. He needed something…happy. His gaze went to his
stack of books.
Tess of the
d’Urbervilles
.
Bleak
House
.
Les Misérables
.
Dante’s Inferno
.
Heart
of Darkness
. Not. One. Uplifting. Thing. He just wanted to be
entertained. Was that so much to ask? He returned to Melville.

Drake knew by morning he would be sluggish
and stupid from lack of sleep, and he was supposed to go golfing
with Don Marx at seven. He’d probably fall asleep in the cart as
they drove over the fairways, his head nodding and bouncing like a
grounded ball.

Maybe it would rain. It generally did. A good
gully washer would keep Don Marx and his irons and putters inside.
Although a long chat with Don would certainly put Drake to sleep.
Maybe he should listen to the tapes of Don he’d been recording to
help him nod off. That would be torture. More torturous than even
Melville. Drake went to stand by the window, searching for clouds.
A smiley moon and thousands of stars twinkled at him.

He wondered if there had been stars when the
Vikings first landed on Britain’s soil. There must have stars
guiding them. They must have known something about navigation or
else they’d have been lost in the North Sea. Sinking back onto the
sofa, he tried to empty his mind. A blank canvas. An empty sheet of
crisp, white paper waiting for prose, waiting for words…waiting for
Vikings.

Find a friend, preferably one with fur and
four legs. Dogs make the best running partners. They’re not picky
about the weather or the time of day. They never offer or encourage
excuses. And if you’re not ready to go when they are, they carry
around your sneakers to remind you that they need a run…even when
you don’t think that you do.