Penelope

by Marilyn Kaye

  Vanderman Senior sensed this, and he pushed his son away from the microphone. “Gentlemen, ladies, I’ll now turn this over to the CEO of Clifton Enterprises.” As another man rose from his seat, Vanderman gripped Edward’s arm tightly and dragged him off the podium.

  Another man stood at the microphone now and started to speak, but Lemon was getting out of the crowd of reporters. He made his way out of the room and ran down the corridor. Placing himself behind the elevator, he could hear every word exchanged between the Vandermans as they approached. He whipped out his notebook and started to write.

  “Are you out of your mind?” the elder Vanderman snapped. “You can’t talk about Penelope like that!”

  “Father, I told you, she’s a pig. She’s disgusting. She’s got a snout!”

  “I don’t care if she’s got a curly tail and squeals oink oink, the people love her. Do you have any idea what kind of bad press you’ve just given us? We’re a public company! We love what the people love!”

  “But Father—”

  Poor slob, Lemon thought as the elder Vanderman continued to berate his son loudly. Edward could learn a lesson from Penelope.

  “Not to mention the fact that we need media support for this merger. This is worse than having a nervous breakdown in public! You’re going to make up for this, you idiot. And you’re going to do something fast.”

  “But what can I do?”

  Lemon was writing furiously. But unfortunately for him, at that very moment, the elevator doors opened, the Vandermans stepped in, and it was left to Lemon’s imagination to guess what Edward might possibly do to make up for his latest humiliation.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The pub was packed that evening, so maybe that’s why I didn’t see him right away. I was playing darts with Annie and a group of new friends, all Cloverdilly regulars.

  Life was good. I was still pretty much doing the same things I’d always done—studying French, exercising, taking care of plants. But now my routine had a twist—I was taking French at a school, with other people, in a real class. I exercised at a health club. And I volunteered afternoons at the botanical gardens, showing visitors around and telling them about the plants.

  The five-thousand-dollar reward I’d been paid for my photos was starting to run out, but I’d just picked up another fee for appearing in an advertisement for a candy company. Their latest product was chocolate truffles, and since real truffles were sniffed out by pigs, they thought it would be cute to have a pig-girl posing with their chocolate truffles. Any day now, pictures of me with chocolate smeared on my snout would be showing up in magazines. I didn’t think they would be very flattering, but they’d keep me from having to hit up my parents for money.

  Not that I’d written off my family. I still went back to the mansion on a regular basis, to tend my plants there, and I thought my mother was coming around to the fact that I was no longer in hiding. I’d been there just that morning, and I was surprised to see that the matchmaker was still hanging around.

  “What’s Wanda doing here?” I asked my mother.

  “Penelope, despite what you’ve done, I haven’t given up,” my mother told me. “She’s arranged for a suitor to come tonight.”

  My heart sank. “Tonight?”

  My mother eyed me sternly. “You haven’t forgotten that you’re coming here for dinner tonight, have you?”

  If only. “No, I haven’t forgotten, but I thought it would be just us.”

  “You still want to get married, Penelope, don’t you?”

  “Well, sure, eventually. But I’m not in so much of a rush anymore.”

  My mother was shocked. “What do you mean, you’re not in a rush anymore? Do you want to go on with that face? You have to get married, Penelope, that’s the only way to lift the curse.”

  I sighed. “But Mom, things have changed for me. I’m happy now. I’ve got a life. I’ve got friends.”

  “Friends!” My mother shook her head. “You don’t have friends, Penelope, you have fans. You’re a fad. You’re the flavor of the week. This is not real popularity, any more than that face is your real face.”

  I was insulted. “Mother, how can you say that? Did it ever occur to you that maybe they like me?”

  “How can they like you?” she countered. “They don’t know you. Nobody knows you, they know a talking pig. All this fame and attention—I’m sorry, dear, but it won’t last. People will get bored with you very soon.”

  I wanted to argue with her, but I wasn’t sure how. I’d been so happy these past few weeks, I hadn’t given much thought to the future. It was sort of like what Annie had advised—I wasn’t thinking as much of who I would be someday. I was just being.

  But maybe I was wrong, and maybe Annie didn’t understand. My mother put her hands on my shoulders and forced me to face her directly. “Penelope, wouldn’t you want your new friends to know the real you? Then you’d know which ones are really your friends.”

  I hated to admit it, but she had a point. And that was what I was thinking about as I took my turn throwing a dart at the Cloverdilly that evening.

  “Yay, Penelope!” a chorus of voices greeted my very first bull’s-eye.

  “You go, girl!” Annie yelled. “Hey, where did I leave my beer?”

  “I’ll get it,” I offered. I went over to the table where we’d left our drinks.

  “Hello, Penelope.”

  I hadn’t heard the voice in a while, but it still had the power to send shivers up my spine. I turned to face Max and the shivers turned into jolts of electricity. I’d forgotten how cute he was. No, that wasn’t true, I hadn’t forgotten at all—I’d just been trying very hard not to think about it.

  “Hello, Max. How are you?”

  “Fine. I guess I don’t have to ask how you ‘re doing. I can see how happy you are. Congratulations.”

  “For what?”

  “For breaking out. Leaving home. That took guts. What made you do it?”

  “I wanted to be free,” I said.

  There was no mistaking the fact that his eyes were shining in admiration. “Well, you’re free now. Not just free, you’re famous. How does that feel?”

  I laughed, embarrassed, and studied the floor. “A little weird, I guess. But okay.”

  “I admire you,” he said simply.

  I looked up. “Do you, Max? Really? So, now that I’m famous, have you changed your mind? Do you want to marry me now?”

  I’d intended that remark to sound like a wisecrack, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, a private joke. But it didn’t come out that way. Even as the words came out of my mouth, I could hear how they sounded. It was a real request, and I wished desperately I could take it back. How pathetic could I be? Didn’t I have any pride?

  At least Max had the courtesy not to appear embarrassed by my outburst. He didn’t even lose eye contact.

  “I’m sorry, Penelope. I still can’t.”

  “I was just kidding,” I assured him hurriedly. “I’ve got to go. Nice seeing you.”

  I hurried back to Annie with her drink and realized she’d been watching me.

  “So that’s him.”

  I feigned innocence. “Him who?”

  “The guy. The love of your life. The man you can’t live without.”

  Forcing a smile, I shook my head. “No, I’m hoping that guy is going to be at my parents’ tonight.”

  “Another blind date?”

  I nodded.

  Annie sighed. “Your mother never gives up, does she?”

  “She can’t,” I replied. “And if I ever want to be myself, neither can I.”

  The words were still ringing in my ears as I entered the house a little while later.

  “Hello, Jake. How’s everything?”

  “Just the same, Miss Penelope. Nothing ever changes.”

  “Oh, come on, that’s not true, Jake!” I exclaimed. “Things change. Look at me!”

  “You’re still the same, miss.”

  It was an oddly
personal thing for him to say, and I was annoyed. That was so not true! I’d left home. I was making a life for myself. I was famous. I was Penelope Pig!

  “Your young man hasn’t arrived yet, miss.”

  Then I realized what he meant when he said “Nothing changes.” I was still cursed.

  “Where’s my mother?” I asked him.

  “She’s waiting for you in the dining room with Miss Wanda,” Jake said.

  They were huddled together whispering when I walked in, and they stopped the second they saw me. I looked at them with suspicion.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” my mother said quickly. “We were just discussing the visitor who’s coming to see you tonight.”

  “And just who is this visitor?” I asked. “I would have thought you’d run out of blue bloods by now.”

  Wanda bit her lip. “Well, this is someone who’s had, well, let’s just say he’s had second thoughts. And he’s coming back to see you.”

  My heart was in my throat. For one wild and crazy moment, I thought she might be talking about Max. “He… he’s coming back?”

  My mother rose. “And there he is!”

  I turned to the window that displayed the music room. And my heart, which was in my throat, sank to the pit of my stomach.

  “Edward.”

  “Now, don’t judge him by his earlier behavior,” my mother pleaded. “Give him a chance to explain.”

  “Explain what? Why he ran away from me?”

  “Yes, exactly!” she said brightly. “Now you go right in there and listen to what he has to say to you.”

  I groaned. “Can’t I just listen to his apology through the window? I’m really not in the mood to hear him scream. Or watch him pass out, or throw up, or … die. Actually, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “Penelope! That’s a terrible thing to say!”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I admitted. I looked through the window at Edward. He was pacing nervously. He actually did look like he might throw up any minute. I almost felt sorry for him.

  “All right, Mother.”

  I went through the door into the music room. “Hello, Edward.”

  He turned to me, and I had to admire his control. His face was pale, but he didn’t scream, and his lips formed a thin smile. “Hello, Penelope.”

  “Would you like to sit down?” I asked.

  “Not exactly.” And to my surprise, he knelt down on one knee.

  “Edward, what are you doing?”

  “Oh, Penelope, I’ve been such a fool. When I ran away last time, I wasn’t running away from you. I was running from my feelings. My feelings about you.”

  I looked at him blankly. “Huh?”

  “I was afraid: afraid of the future, afraid of commitment. I was afraid to… to love.”

  I was completely bewildered. “To love who?”

  “You, Penelope! I’ve always been in love with you, from our very first conversation. You captured my heart, you were the only person in the world who understood me.”

  I scratched my head. “I’m not sure I understand you all that well right this minute, Edward.”

  It was like he hadn’t heard me. “I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re on my mind day and night. I dream of you. You’re the only girl in the world for me.”

  That was when I realized he was holding a tiny box.

  “Penelope … darling, wonderful Penelope …” He opened the box. The diamond was big enough to light up the room.

  “Will you marry me?”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Lemon had begun to realize that moving up in the world of journalism left something to be desired—namely, excitement. He’d hoped that by this time he’d be hanging out at City Hall and exposing corrupt politicians, but instead he’d been promoted to assistant editor. So he sat at a desk all day and copyedited stories about corrupt politicians. He was beginning to look back with longing on the days when he talked to the victims of alien abductions.

  So when the features editor appeared at his door, he looked up eagerly.

  “I’m short on reporters today,” the editor told him. “Want to go out on a human interest story?”

  “Absolutely,” Lemon said. “Anything, you name it.”

  “It’s an interview. We’re calling it ‘from blue blood to jailbird.’”

  “Who is he?”

  “A fellow named Maxwell Campion. He’s over at the county jail.”

  Lemon was stunned. “You’re kidding. What happened? He passed a bad check?”

  The editor shook his head. “Armed robbery.”

  Now Lemon was in complete shock. He couldn’t believe it. Max may have had some attitude adjustment problems, sure, but he couldn’t imagine the young man getting violent. “Are you sure? You didn’t mix up the names?”

  The editor glanced at the paper in his hand. “Nope, I’ve got the police report right here. So how about it, you want the assignment?”

  “Yes.”

  Lemon liked to think that, over the years, he’d developed the objectivity all good journalists needed to have, and that he wouldn’t ever let personal feelings come into his stories. But this wasn’t going to be easy, interviewing Max, seeing a guy he’d become … well, almost fond of… behind bars. He could remember thinking that Max had a sensitive quality, that he showed some real decency in his personality, particularly when he refused to exploit Penelope by taking her picture. This was a real shocker.

  And Lemon was equally surprised at himself. After all these years of meeting every kind of good, bad, and strange human being who existed, how could he have become such a poor judge of character?

  What could have possibly driven Max to this? For a moment he felt guilty, wondering if Max’s need for money had anything to do with the debt he’d been paying off to Lemon. But it was more likely that he’d just gone back to his old gambling habits and run out of money to put on the table.

  Lemon had been to the jail before, of course, for his job. It wasn’t one of his favorite places. As he turned his van off the road through the big gates, he could feel himself becoming depressed. Passing guards everywhere. Showing his identification every three steps. Feeling the angry, bitter eyes of prisoners in white jumpsuits and handcuffs.

  From experience, he knew the procedure for interviewing a prisoner. He waited in a reception area with sad-faced wives and girlfriends, confused-looking children, and the occasional shady-looking colleague. When his name was called, he was escorted into another room made up of little desks in separated cubicles. There was a chair on either side of each desk, and the desks were divided by a glass wall. The glass dividers had a telephone on each side.

  “Number four,” the guard told him in a bored voice.

  Lemon walked over to the booth and saw a heavyset man sitting and waiting on the other side of the glass. He went back to the guard. “No, my name’s Lemon, I’m here to see Max Campion.”

  “Number four,” the guard repeated.

  He must have gone to the wrong booth. Lemon looked at the numbers carefully this time. But the booth labeled “four” was the same booth he’d already checked, and the same man was on the other side.

  The prisoner picked up his phone and indicated that Lemon do the same.

  “You the guy from the newspaper?”

  “Y-yes, but I think there’s been a mistake. I’m here to see Maxwell Campion.”

  “That’s me, Max Campion.”

  “Then … there must be another Max Campion.”

  “Nah, I was an only child.”

  This is a bright one, Lemon thought. “No, I mean … someone else with the last name Campion and the first name Max.”

  The man looked completely blank.

  “Maxwell Campion,” Lemon said again. “The son of the late real estate mogul Clarence Campion.”

  “Hey, I know my old man’s name. Just like I know mine. Now, you gonna interview me or what?”

  It dawned on Lemon t
hat there was something vaguely familiar about this guy. He tried to picture him in a loud, flowered Hawaiian shirt.

  “You ever gamble in the back room of the Cloverdilly Pub?”

  “Yeah, sure, what about it?”

  It was like he was struck with lightning. No … more like he was nearsighted and had just put on corrective glasses. Suddenly everything was clear. The long-ago event went into instant mental replay.

  The Cloverdilly Pub and a beefy-looking bouncer on a stool. Lemon asking him to point out Max Campion. The man indicated a table where a heavyset guy in a brightly flowered Hawaiian shirt, a blue-haired woman, an old man, and a younger one were playing cards.

  “That’s him.”

  The younger guy was getting up, so that was who Lemon thought the bouncer was referring to. He was wrong. He was supposed to be looking at the guy in the Hawaiian shirt.

  It all made sense—the way Max didn’t respond when Lemon first called out his name. He could still hear the conversation.

  “Listen, Campion, I got a proposition for you.”

  “You got the wrong guy.”

  “Hey, reporter guy, you got questions for me or what?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a question,” Lemon said. “When you were gambling at the Cloverdilly, there was a guy who was at your table a lot. Young guy, shaggy hair. You know his name?”

  Campion scrunched his forehead. “Yeah, Marty.”

  “Marty what?”

  “No, wait. Martin.”

  “Okay, Martin what?”

  “Nah, it’s what Martin.”

  “Huh?”

  Campion snapped his fingers and looked immensely proud of himself. “Johnny! Johnny Martin.”

  Lemon jumped up. “Thanks, pal.”

  “That’s it? You don’t want to ask me any more questions?”