Penelope in Retrograde: A Novel(11)

“Any luck?” Smith asks.

“Still looking,” I reply.

I unclip the brass buckle and peer into his bag. It’s neat and orderly, like I would expect it to be. There’s a tablet secured in a matching leather cover. Two Montblanc pens and a stylus hang in leather loops on the interior of the bag next to his wallet. There’s a paperback copy of the latest Stephen King novel and some sort of self-help book. Smith was always a reader, usually reading more books in a year than me, and there’s something comforting in seeing that he still is.

A crack of thunder rattles the van, and Aidan lets out another yelp. I unzip the last compartment of Smith’s bag, and to my relief, there’s a pack of cinnamon gum.

“Here.” I toss the pack to the back of the van. “This is all we’ve got.”

I start to close Smith’s bag, but something catches my eye. It’s a small box in Tiffany blue. My heart sinks for reasons I don’t fully understand. I steal a glance at the back seat. Smith and Aidan are locked in conversation. Apparently, Aidan has strong feelings about cinnamon-flavored gum. My fingers graze the edges of the box. It’s too small to hold a bracelet, and the shape is all wrong for earrings.

“Peppermint soothes upset stomachs, not cinnamon,” Aidan explains. “Don’t you have any peppermint?”

“Penny, is there any peppermint gum in my bag?” Smith’s voice is gruff.

“No,” I reply, my gaze still fixed on the box. “Just cinnamon.”

I close his bag and move back to the middle row before I have some sort of breakdown and open that ring box. I’m certain it has to be a ring box. The question is, what kind of ring is in it? Obviously, an engagement ring comes to mind. Not that it matters to me if it is. Smith and everything that has to do with him is going back in the Old Penny memory filing cabinet the minute this ride is over.

“Well, I’m running out of ideas,” Smith says. “You got any?”

“I’ve got a worry stone in my pocket.” I pull out the smooth amber-and-black stone. “It’s tiger’s eye.”

“You want me to eat a rock?” Aidan wheezes.

“No. I’m going to want this stone back, and if you eat it, that’s going to cause a problem. Tiger’s eye is good for protection.” I hold out the stone for him. “You can meditate on it. Sometimes people can get so relaxed when meditating with crystals that they fall asleep.”

Aidan wrinkles his nose and makes a face. “Clearly it’s not very good at protection. If it was, do you really think we’d be stuck on a bridge?”

“Well, the bridge hasn’t collapsed yet, so it’s kind of working, if you look at things from a glass-half-full point of view.” I untuck my necklace from beneath my flannel. “This is smoky quartz. I wear it all the time when I’m traveling to help me feel safe.”

Smith glances at my necklace. I can’t tell whether he recognizes it as belonging to Fiona. There’s a part of me that wants him to, though I’m not sure why. Maybe I just want a chance to talk about her with someone who loved her the way I did. Like a mother.

Aidan moans. “I don’t think a magic rock is going to help me calm down.”

“Not unless we hit him over the head with that rock repeatedly,” Smith mutters before holding up what’s left of Aidan’s torn paper bag. “I think it’s time to give the cookies a try.”

A gust of wind whistles past the van, causing it to sway. Aidan braces himself with both arms on either side of the back seat as if he’s preparing to be ejected into the eye of the storm.

“Do you think these winds are gale force?” Aidan winces as the van settles. “If they are, we’re never going to make it. You know that, right?”

“I don’t know what gale force means,” I say. “My mother used to be friends with a Gayle, though. She was a jerk.”

“Cookies.” Smith motions toward my purse. “It’s time for the cookies.”

“I have no idea if these are going to work,” I whisper. “I’m surprised you don’t have something stronger.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your parents used to grow weed the way my parents grow begonias. Don’t you have a weed vape or something?”

“My parents would never vape weed.” Smith shakes his head. “They were weed purists. It’s rolled or nothing.”

“We’re suspended over the ocean on a giant tightrope, guys,” Aidan continues, completely oblivious to Smith’s and my conversation. “What if the bridge collapses? What if a tsunami hits us? What if the big one hits? What if—”

“You’re right. Next time we get stuck in a van together, I’ll make sure to pack a weed pen,” Smith grumbles. “Now give me the cookies. They’re our only hope.”

“Fine.” I take the bone-shaped cookies from my purse and thrust them into Smith’s hand.

“Here you go, buddy.” Smith shoves a cookie onto Aidan’s lap. “We found something to eat. It’s got a little CBD or THC or OPP in it that’ll help calm you down.”

“You want me to eat your dog’s weed cookie?” Aidan makes a face. “Have you lost your mind?”

“It’s totally safe,” I say. “I buy them from this little boutique that sells artisan pet goods. They don’t sell anything that isn’t safe for human consumption. I promise.”