Losing Penny

by Kristy Tate

  Hands caught her as she fell. She smelled beer and sweat as she was lifted off the ground and pressed against a broad chest. Penny kicked and cried out.

  The man had a deep baritone laugh. “Aye me, miss, what fine morsel are ye?”

  “I am not a morsel!” Penny threw her hands behind her in an attempt to pull his hair or gouge his eyes. “I am not food!”

  He chuckled in response, kicked his knee between her flailing legs, and held her vice-like with one arm while his other hand ripped the front of her bodice and fumbled at the ties on her blouse. Penny screamed louder and bucked her head back, making contact with his chin.

  Something flew past them and landed in the tall grass with a thud.

  Penny’s captor released her and she landed on the ground, face first, and kissed dirt. Spitting, she lunged for her stick and scrambled to her feet. A rock torpedoed past her head and she woke with a jolt.

  It was just a dream.

  Penny sat up, and after a quick glance around her silent bedroom, she laid back against her pillow, breathing heavily, trying to slow her beating heart. Morning birds sang outside, a yellow sun hovered on the eastern horizon, and trees danced in a warm wind.

  In the next room Phoebe stirred. She was probably packing. Footsteps padded across the hall and Penny propped herself on her elbow.

  “Hey,” Phoebe said, standing in the doorway with a mug in her hand. “Who sent the flowers?”

  “Flowers?” Penny sat up and brushed the curls from her eyes and face. Her dream came back to her and she dismissed the pinprick sensation of being watched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Phoebe raised her eyebrows and took a long, slow sip from her mug. “Come on, don’t hold out on me. Who’s your admirer?”

  Penny shook her head, trying to rid it from the cotton fuzz that had parked behind her eyes. “I don’t have admirers.”

  “Well, you do now.”

  Penny swung her feet from the bed and landed on the floor with a thud. “They must be for you.”

  “Your name is on the card.” Phoebe glanced over shoulder into the next room. “When did they get here? You must have signed for them.”

  Penny shuffled to her closet and scrounged through her laundry pile in search of a robe. Finding it beneath her workout clothes, she wrinkled her nose as she slipped into the soft and somewhat smelly flannel. She followed Phoebe into the tiny living room. The morning light shone through the window, landed on the dining room table, and sparkled on the cut crystal vase holding a giant bouquet of pink, yellow, and orange Gerbera daisies. Penny’s heart loved them—they were her favorite flowers—but she couldn’t fathom who sent them.

  Phoebe handed her the card. “See, you have an admirer.” Her name and a heart were drawn in red.

  “No,” Penny contended.

  Phoebe scowled. “Maybe they’re from Richard.”

  “My brother?” Penny’s voice rose to a squeak of disbelief.

  “Oh yeah, you’re right.” Phoebe sat down at the table and stared at the flowers. “Well, if I didn’t sign for them, and you didn’t sign for them, how did they get in here?”

  Penny sat down across from Phoebe and put her chin in her hand. Biting her lip, she considered the daisies. She wanted to love them because they were beautiful and happy, but they sort of scared her.

  “Auntie Mae!” Penny slapped her palm down on the table.

  A look of relief washed over Phoebe’s face. “Of course.”

  “But what if they’re not from her?”

  “They have to be, right? Do you know anyone else with a key?”

  Phoebe shook her head. “We should change the locks anyway. It’s creepy to think of someone coming in while we sleep.”

  The locksmith came an hour later.

  Chapter 4

  The hag sat on the other side of fire, her eyes matching the color and spark of the flames. She pointed her long, bony finger at him and laughed, not in pleasure or glee, but disdain. Despite her age and feeble health, Hans knew he was in her power.

  From Hans and the Sunstone

  All around him people shuffled luggage and umbrellas in the lobby of the Strand Hotel, but Drake sat on the silk sofa as if trapped on a deserted island with no one but this old woman of another time and place for company. Her eyes ran over him as if he was a piece of fruit and she was inspecting him for beestings and bruising. But her look wasn’t hostile, it was probing. He felt as if she could see inside of him.

  She was just a little old lady, or more specifically, a little old lady with a broken foot, so his escape would be easy if he could muster the courage. Drake shifted in the Queen Anne chair and crossed his legs then his arms while Miss Mae peered at him from the other side of the coffee table. The conversation about her beach house had started sane enough, but then it was as if a light bulb of an idea blinked inside her head. For a moment Drake had worried that the old thing had suffered a stroke. And since that moment of mouth-gaping followed by an evil grin, things had gone from strange to bizarre. Drake sighed and wondered what Miss Mae would do if he just pocketed the keys and walked away.

  “So, you’ve never been married?” She fingered her pearl necklace while studying him.

  “No,” he lied, hating himself for it. But really, who could call a three-week fling a marriage? The state of New York, but no one else in a sane state of mind.

  “No children?” she asked.

  “Or pets,” Drake offered.

  “I like pets.” Her tone said Drake had given the wrong answer.

  “I’m fastidiously clean,” Drake said, hoping to recoup from the no pets faux pas.

  Miss Mae frowned and settled into her chair. “Well, I guess that might work.” She considered him through slanted eyes, making Drake feel like a side of beef. “And you look like you could use more than one good meal.”

  A skinny side of beef.

  Drake couldn’t imagine what this was all about. He’d already signed the rental agreement. All he needed was the keys and address.

  “Let me tell you a story,” she said. “A priest and a physics professor were arguing Darwinism verses creationism. The professor says, ‘Our ancestors crawled from the sea, starting as embryos who progressed to amphibians and to primates.’

  ‘I think not,’ the priest says.” She leaned back in her chair, her steady gaze on his face and delivered the punch line, “And, poof! The priest disappeared.”

  It took only a second, but then Drake barked out a laugh. He couldn’t help it. The old thing knew Descartes, I think therefore I am…or not.

  Miss Mae smiled, obviously pleased.

  Finally, he’d answered a question—maybe the most important one—correctly.

  Bending over, she brought her velvet purse to the table and pulled out a set of keys. “Here you are, my dear. I hope you have a lovely summer.”

  “Thank you,” Drake said. “And I hope you enjoy your cruise.”

  “I plan to.” Her eyes twinkled, as if she had another joke to share. “Let me give you my number, just in case anything goes awry. And if you don’t mind, I’d like yours as well.”

  Chapter 5

  When dieting, you need to practice handing out kind comebacks and retorts for those who try to lure you or belittle your dieting attempts. Don’t be surprised when this happens, because it will. You might be tempted to refer to these people by the same slurs you assign doughnuts and Ding Dongs, but don’t do that. Be nice, even when others aren’t as kind.

  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. W
hy 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.

  Chapter 6

  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.

  Chapter 7

  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.