Losing Penny

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Losing Penny Page 14

by Kristy Tate


  Watching his mom with Don Marx turned Drake’s stomach. Mia leaned forward, cocked her head, and listened to Don’s bragging with an expression Wolfgang wore when Drake fried bacon. The conversation was as greasy as bacon, but not as crisp. He wanted to kick his mom. He considered phoning his dad, hiding the phone beneath the table, and letting his dad get an earful of this senior citizen flirting.

  “Oh, Don!” Mia’s laugh sounded like yipping poodles.

  “Then on the eighth hole these mallards wandered in.” Don stabbed a shrimp with his fork and pointed it at Mia. “What can you do? I yelled ‘fore,’ but the ducks acted like they owned the place…which was especially annoying since I own the place!”

  “Oh, Daddy! Tell Drake about those creatures on your yacht.”

  Drake looked up from his salad. “Sea creatures?” he asked, only slightly curious.

  Don puffed out his chest. “Right after I got the Mystic Marx, I couldn’t figure out why all the boats moored in the harbor were covered with large nets, but I found out the next morning when I got up to find two enormous sea lions parked on my deck.”

  Drake politely smiled and went back to thinking about sea serpents.

  “Sea lions can sink boats.” Don pointed his salad fork at Drake’s chest. “And they’re noisier than an all-night frat party.”

  “Goodness,” Mia breathed. “What did you do?”

  “Tried throwing some money at the situation,” Don said, tucking into his food.

  Drake stopped thinking about sea serpents and smiled at a mental image of Don throwing twenties at sea lions.

  Don swallowed a slug of wine and touched his napkin to his lips. “Hired these guys they call shooers.”

  Melinda placed her hand on Drake’s thigh and Drake looked at it, wondering if he could hire a shooer. Melinda squeezed his thigh and Drake realized he needed a wedding ring. If he got a ring—not just one for himself, but also one for Penny—no. This is ridiculous, he told himself. He needed to tell Melinda his interest in her was purely professional. He needed to write the biography and get out of the beach house and out of Rose Arbor.

  But that meant leaving Penny. He wasn’t ready to go; he wasn’t ready to leave Penny. Not yet.

  “What did the shooers do?” Mia asked. She leaned in with her chin propped up in her hands.

  Drake decided to tell Melinda that he had all the information he needed on Don so that he could stop playing Don’s companion and just focus on the writing. He would tell her that he needed time to write, which was true.

  “Eighteen of them, weighing in from 200 to 800 pounds each.” Marx speared another shrimp.

  Drake realized that he had missed some of the conversation. He couldn’t imagine any shooer weighing 800 pounds.

  “All piled on to a thirty-seven-foot sailboat, like a marine mammal rugby team, sinking the boat within minutes,” Don continued.

  To stop his own sinking feeling, Drake imagined himself writing on the back porch while Penny cooked in the kitchen, humming and stirring something delicious. Drake frowned at his salad. Everything Penny made tasted better than anything cooked by anyone else. How did she do that?

  “Chain link fences—the animals bite right through them. Metal spikes are nothing but playthings to these guys.” Don shook his head.

  How could he stay at the beach house with Penny and keep Melinda’s hands off his thighs? He had to win Penny over, and he had almost been successful until his mother showed up. Drake scowled at his mom, but she wouldn’t look at him. Don Marx had her full attention.

  “It sounds like they leave a palpable trail of wanton destruction,” his mom said.

  A palpable trail of wanton destruction? Who talks like that? But Drake knew—the mother of a literature professor. The flirty mother of literature professor. He had to call his dad. Someone had to stop Mia before she embarrassed all of them.

  “Nine years ago the city of Seattle attached an anchor to an underwater Fiberglas killer whale called Fake Willy to try and scare the sea lions away. It didn't work,” Don went on. “When it comes to sea lions and humans fighting over turf, the sea lions have the upper flipper.”

  “Oh Daddy, no one has an upper flipper over you!” Melinda said.

  Drake pushed away from the table and Melinda’s hand fell to her side. “Excuse me,” Drake said, no longer able to stomach the Don Marx appreciation luncheon. He threw down his napkin and walked away.

  Chapter 31

  Whether you are being dishonest with yourself or with others, you are negatively affecting your health.

  From Losing Penny and Pounds

  While she cooked, Penny eavesdropped on Andrea and Trevor. It had occurred to her that she could help Andrea in more ways than one, but she was beginning to think that cooking skills out-sizzled her match-making skills. She peeked at Andrea and Trevor through the window. They sat on the back porch, a growing pile of cornhusks between them.

  “I don’t get it,” Andrea said in a low voice.

  “Get what? Why I’m shucking corn?” Trevor asked, pulling off strings of silk one slivery strand at a time. At his speed they’d have corn salsa in about a month.

  “No,” Andrea cast her eyes toward the kitchen to see if Penny was within earshot. Penny ducked her head and pretended to be absorbed in the Roma tomatoes on the cutting board. She hummed along with Jack Johnson who was wailing from her computer. Apparently satisfied, Andrea continued. “Maggie’s married, but not to you.”

  Trevor nodded and picked up another ear of corn.

  “Then why are you always together?”

  “She’s gorgeous,” Trevor said, “smart, funny, and getting divorced.”

  Penny’s stomach did a little flip at the word gorgeous.

  Trevor hadn’t even taken a breath. “And she’s an awesome cook. Why wouldn’t I hang around?”

  “Where’s her husband? Doesn’t he mind?”

  Trevor shrugged. “Penny doesn’t mind and I don’t mind—why should I care what’s going on his head? Besides, my sister has him spinning in her orbit.”

  “I know…none of my business,” Andrea rushed in. “I’m sorry. It’s just…she’s so nice offering me cooking lessons, trying to help my café, hiring me to cater her husband’s birthday party, giving my café exposure…I just don’t know why she hangs out with you.”

  Trevor barked a short deep laugh. “Because she’s so nice and I’m not?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Andrea back peddled.

  “No, but that’s what you’re thinking.” Trevor dropped the ear of corn in the bucket, wiped his hands together, and stood. He frowned at her. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  But Penny wished he would. Being called gorgeous, funny, and talented was lovely, and it should be enough, but she shared Andrea’s questions. She couldn’t blame Andrea and Trevor for not understanding her relationship with Drake—she didn’t understand it either.

  With her thoughts elsewhere, Penny sliced her finger instead of the tomato. Softly swearing, she lurched toward the sink. The tomato juice on her hands made the cut sting, and she blinked back tears as she washed her finger.

  “Hey,” Trevor spoke softly as he came behind her. “Are you all right?”

  “Stupid, but okay,” Penny said, her voice shaky.

  Standing close, Trevor looked over her shoulder at the blood mixing with the water and swirling down the drain. “Where’s your husband’s fancy first aid kit?”

  He sounded a little contemptuous. Maybe he thought only sissies and hypochondriacs owned “fancy” first aid kits. Everything Trevor said or did seemed to set her teeth on edge. “Can you get me a paper towel or something?” Penny asked.

  Trevor stripped off a paper towel and said, “I can do better than that. I’m not going to let anyone up my first aid skills. I’m military.”

  Penny tried not to be uncomfortable by his nearness, but she felt trapped between him and kitchen counter. “I thought you flew planes.”

  �
��Even pilots have to bandage the wounded.”

  She looked at him with a smidgeon of new respect. “Did you—”

  He laughed as he took her hand in his and wrapped the paper towel around her finger. “No, never. I stayed safely stateside.” A grim expression crossed over his face. “I think my dad’s money had something to do with that, but I can’t be sure.” He swatted her butt before heading for the door. “I’ll be right back with a proper Band-Aid.”

  Penny watched him go then turned her attention back to her finger. She unwrapped the paper towel. It was nothing but a tiny knick. It looked worse than it felt, but she sat down at the table with hard thump. When Trevor took her hand and gently wrapped her finger she felt nothing. No tingle. No zip. Nothing.

  She raised her fingers to her lips. If she closed her eyes she could still feel Drake’s kiss.

  “Are you okay?” Andrea banged through the door, interrupting Penny’s memories. “You look positively white.”

  “I’m always white,” Penny said, looking up. “I blame my Scottish ancestors.”

  “Did they cut your finger?”

  “No, that was all me.” Penny sighed. “I guess you’re on cutting board duty. I’ll have to find something to stir.”

  Andrea motioned to the computer screen. A chubby Penny smiled from the screen. Andrea looked from the screen to Penny’s face without a trace of “ha-ha, gotcha” in her expression. “I didn’t think there was a whole lot of stirring in a tomato basil salad.”

  “You’re right, it’s more a layering thing, and until the bleeding stops, I need to stay away. Fresh mozzarella cheese is ugly all by itself—it doesn’t need blood to make it look even more unappetizing.”

  “Fresh mozzarella does look a little like congealed fat,” Andrea said, moving to stand beside the cutting board.

  “I guess I can stir the corn salsa,” Penny said, suddenly wishing that Andrea and Trevor would both go. She wanted to touch Drake, as an experiment, not unlike cooking. She liked mixing herbs and spices, taste testing, seeing how one reacted with another. She’d touched Trevor and nothing. She wanted to make sure that when she touched Drake there was…something. It probably wouldn’t hurt to kiss him again either…purely in the spirit of experimentation, of course.

  Andrea was talking. Penny scrambled to keep up and tried to stop thinking of kissing Drake. “I’m sorry—what did you say?”

  “How do you make corn salsa?”

  Penny slipped into her TV cooking hostess voice. “Easy peasy.”

  “But there’s no peas, right?” Andrea interrupted.

  Penny laughed and shook her head. “No peas.”

  “Good, I don’t like peas.”

  Penny took a deep breath. First squash and now peas—Penny was beginning to worry that the string of all the things Andrea didn’t like and wouldn’t eat would choke the café. Maybe foodies really were born and couldn’t be made. “Corn, black beans, tomatoes, cilantro, green onion, red onion, bell pepper, garlic, lime juice, avocado, and just a drizzle of olive oil.”

  “Olive oil? I hate olives,” Andrea said.

  Penny wasn’t surprised.

  Chapter 32

  He remembered the words of the hag. “Your paths will intertwine,” she had 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 stood in front of a florist shop, debating. His reflection in the window stared back at him. He tried to see beyond himself, but he couldn’t. He felt wounded and inept. He’d destroyed his two serious relationships—his ten-year romance with Blair and his short and disastrous marriage to Magdalena. The only problem with his relationship with Blair had been himself. He hadn’t recognized love when it had cooked his food and typed his poetry. He had been selfish, blind, critical, insensitive, and now he wondered why she’d stayed as long as she had. He had been stupid. Stupid about Blair and idiotic about Magdalena. This time he would be smart. With Penny he would be the opposite of everything he had been before.

  But despite his PhD from Yale, Drake knew he had a great capacity for stupidity, especially when it came to romance. He’d written his thesis on the writers of the Romantic period: Wordsworth, Blake, Sir Walter Scott. But now that he thought about it, even the romantics would have received poor marks in the relationship category. Not many successful writers had equally successful private lives. That was no excuse for Drake. He didn’t want to be a crazy Poe or a depressed Hemingway. He wanted Penny. He wanted her curled beside him, reading and giggling over her ghastly Drivel novels. He wanted her laughing in the kitchen and running on the beach. But looking at himself in the florist shop window, trying to wrap his mind around what sort of flowers suited her best, he realized that maybe what he wanted had been his problem all along. He had been so focused on what he demanded from a relationship that he couldn’t see or focus on Blair or Magdalena…or Penny.

  He had to focus on Penny. Drake looked down at the box of chocolates in his hand.

  Fiona’s Chocolates—fine European milk and dark chocolate truffles and bars made with all-natural ingredients. Penny, who carefully considered everything that she put in her mouth, wouldn’t want chocolate. Stupid. Again. He’d paid forty dollars for four ounces of unwanted chocolate.

  A trio of young boys walked by. They had long shorts and dangerous looking hair—the sort of hairdos that reminded Drake of porcupines. “Hey, would you guys like some chocolates?”

  The boys stopped, nudged each other, and turned away without a comment.

  He thought they were rude until he remembered that the kids were doing exactly as they had been taught. Never take candy from strangers.

  A group of teenage girls walked past in a cloud of perfume. They wore fluorescent colored T-shirts and contrasting polish on their fingernails and toes. A few of them smiled shyly at him, giving him the same sort of attention and admiration he received in daily doses from Western Washington coeds. He shook himself. He didn’t want that attention anymore. He wanted Penny’s blunt honesty. She was real. She wasn’t wrapped up in a cloud of perfume or hiding behind bright colors.

  “Drake?”

  He turned and faced Andrea. How long since he’d last seen her? A couple of months? Her band had been playing that night at the Fish House when Melinda had made her proposition.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” She barely came to his shoulder. He was often so overwhelmed by Andrea’s giant personality that he forgot how small she actually was, which was shorter than Penny. He almost laughed, realizing that Penny had become his new standard—the girl he measured all other girls against.

  He blinked down at her. Sunlight reflected off her giant hoop earrings and blinded him for a moment.

  When he didn’t respond, she softly said, “You know Blair’s out of town, right?”

  Drake blinked again. Of course, she would think he had come to Rose Arbor for Blair. “I know,” he told her. “I’m staying at a beach house just outside of town.”

  Andrea’s eyebrows rose with questions.

  “A friend offered the house and it was too good of an opportunity to pass up.” He paused then decided on honesty. He’d known Andrea too well and for too long to hedge the truth. “I didn’t know it was in Rose Arbor when I signed the lease. If I had thought I would run into Blair, I probably wouldn’t have come.”

  Andrea touched his arm sympathetically. “You know Blair doesn’t—”

  “I know. She thinks we’re friends, but honestly, I don’t know why she wants to be friends with me.”

  “Hey,” Andrea said softly and motioned toward her café, “do you want to come in for a free milkshake?”

  Drake looked back at the flower shop and then down at Andrea’s smiling face. “Can I pay you with chocolates?”

  Chapter 33

  Lau
ghter really is the best medicine. Unless you feel that the laughter is directed at you.

  From Losing Penny and Pounds

  Mia and Don Marx burst into the beach house, laughing. Penny looked up from her computer screen and her post from Istanbul. Her pudgy self smiled and waved from the midst of a crowded bazaar. Her recipe for lamb kabobs still wasn’t finished, but she didn’t want to risk blowing her cover. Should she turn it off and lose her information? Or leave it open and risk exposure? Despite the giggling and teenage behavior, she knew she couldn’t underestimate Mia or Don’s intelligence. She closed the laptop lid and hoped that her guests would leave soon.

  “Oh, Maggs, look at what we bought,” Mia’s voice literally trilled.

  Maggs? That was new. Penny raised her eyebrows as Mia and Don set multiple shopping bags down on the table. Colorful paper umbrellas, brightly painted maracas, and several sombreros spilled from the bags.

  “What’s all this?” Penny asked with a hollow feeling in her belly.

  “For Drake’s birthday party,” Mia said as she unloaded her bags onto the table. Trevor and Melinda had spilled the beans.

  “I thought we’d go with a Mexican theme,” Mia interrupted.

  “I want to pay for everything.” Don stood behind Mia and placed his hands on the back of Penny’s chair. He not only invaded her personal space, but he’d crossed into her party territory too.

  “That’s not necessary.” Penny bit back the desire to tell him her net worth. She wanted to tell him she didn’t need his money, but she also didn’t want to be the person who flaunted her wealth. She scolded herself for pride and vanity and only half listened to Mia making plans. A mariachi band—local, of course—shrimp tacos, and Black Forest Cake, Drake’s favorite.

  That caught Penny’s attention. Not only because a Black Forest Cake didn’t go with the fiesta theme, but also because she didn’t know that Drake liked Black Forest Cake. She would have pegged him as a lemon meringue or a berry tart sort of guy—someone who preferred the twang of tart over the weight of richness.

 

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