Penelope in Retrograde: A Novel(43)

“My dad can’t be my business partner,” I say. “He’s not even a part of the Smut Coven.”

“Let me help you come up with your pitch and plan.” Martin rests his hands on my shoulders. “I know how your dad thinks about business. I can help you position yourself so that you feel safe and stay in charge.”

“OK.” I glance over my shoulder at my parents’ front door. “Any chance you want to come inside with me and defile a turkey?”

“You’re into some kinky shit, Banks.” He gives my shoulders a squeeze. “I’m actually going to keep walking a little longer. I do my best thinking when I’m walking, or when I’m in the shower.”

“You must get really excited when it rains.”

“Not nearly as excited as my neighbors get.” He raises his eyebrows. “Be gentle with that turkey. It’s had a rough go.”

“I can relate.”

I hurry into the kitchen and wash my hands, dragging out the process like I’m a surgeon prepping for the OR. Diced onions and garlic sizzle in a cast iron frying pan, filling the kitchen with their salty, sweet scent. Phoebe pushes them back and forth in the pan with a wooden spoon while Falon rips apart a loaf of French bread. They’re side by side in matching turkey aprons, lost in conversation. Meanwhile, my mother is at the helm of her standup mixer with Nana Rosie barking orders in between sips of her mimosa.

“Where’s my coffee?” Phoebe glares at me. “Martin promised me coffee.”

“I drank it.” I smile. “And it was delicious.”

“You are the worst sister in the world. You know that, right?”

“Obviously. I keep the certificate over my bed, and once a year, the town throws a parade in honor of all the worst siblings, and I always get to sit in the lead float. It’s a real honor.”

“Here. Grate this.” Falon sets a cutting board and a bag of carrots next to me. “And if you accidentally cut off your fingernail, do not simply continue grating.”

“Oh my god, that was one time, Falon, and you weren’t even in the family yet.” I throw a carrot at Phoebe’s back. “I can’t believe you told her about that.”

“She’s never been able to trust carrot cake since.” Phoebe kisses Falon’s cheek. “She’s counting on you to not screw it up this time.”

I grab a strainer from the cabinet and throw the bag of carrots in it. I rinse them in the sink and cut off the tops, hoping that Nana Rosie will continue to micromanage my mother’s cooking instead of mine.

“Silvia, if you put any more sugar in that batter, we’re going to have to stick a candle in the cornbread and sing it ‘Happy Birthday.’” Nana Rosie takes a sip of her mimosa. “Cornbread is a savory dish, not a diabetic coma.”

“I’m following your recipe exactly.” My mother wipes a bit of sweat from her brow. “You specifically call for a cup of sugar.”

“Let me see that thing.”

My mother hands Nana Rosie the yellowing index card from her recipe box. Nana Rosie puts on her glasses and inspects the card closely. Odds are that my mother is right and Nana Rosie is wrong, but the thing about being in your late nineties is that you have the luxury of not giving a shit and never having to admit your mistakes.

“That says half a cup, Silvia. You should really consider getting your eyes checked.”

“Thank you, Rosamunde.” Her lips pull from a thin line into a crooked smile. “I’d hate to have glaucoma and not realize it. Although, I have heard that the marijuana plant can be used for medicinal purposes when it comes to eye disease. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

“Shots fired.” Phoebe waves finger guns over her head.

“Can it, or I write you out of my will, blondie,” Nana Rosie grumbles. “We are not discussing my garden right now. We’re making dinner.”

“Do we get to discuss it after dinner?” Phoebe begs.

“Tread lightly.” Nana Rosie takes another sip of her mimosa. “I could write you out of the will today and die tomorrow.”

“You always ruin the fun when you threaten us with death,” Phoebe says.

“Hardly a threat when she’s been promising it for forty years,” my mother mutters under her breath.

“Penelope, come over here and finish the cornbread for your mother,” Nana Rosie says. “It looks like she’s exhausted all of her cooking talents and once again come up short.”

“I’m going to lie down and have a look at nursing homes.” My mother unties her apron. “I hear that in the nice ones, they even let the residents help out with the cooking.”

“Those are prisons, dear.” Nana Rosie smiles, unfazed by the threat. “And I’m fairly certain that they ration sugar there better than what you’ve managed to accomplish here.”

My mother throws her hands in the air and sighs as she leaves the kitchen. Some things never change, and I, for one, enjoy this tradition.

“I thought I was in charge of the turkey,” I say, putting aside the carrots.

“That’s cute, dear.” Nana Rosie pours me a mimosa. “Marie came over early this morning to get the turkey in the oven.”

“To think I did all of that stalling for nothing.”