Penelope in Retrograde: A Novel(44)

“Is that what you call walking three times around the block with Martin Butler? Back in my day, we called that flirting.” Nana Rosie bats her long fake eyelashes. “You like this man, don’t you?”

“You know, Nana, this recipe does call for half a cup of sugar.” I hold up the card, desperate to drive this conversation as fast and far in the other direction as possible. “I’m just going to have to double this batch so we don’t have to throw it all out.”

“Good idea.” Nana Rosie polishes off the last of her mimosa. “Now, let’s get to more important matters: Do you intend on sleeping with Martin at all during your visit? I only ask because I’d like to know whether or not my granddaughter is up-to-date on safe-sex practices.”

“Nana!”

“What? I’m on the internet. I read things.”

“Nana, I’m not sleeping with Martin.” I crack an egg on the side of the bowl and watch it slide into the gooey cornmeal batter. “In fact, I’m not sleeping with anyone within one hundred feet of this house.”

“I guess that rules out Smith. Pity. For a minute, I thought there was a chance for us to play The Bachelorette right here. It was quite nice to see him last night.”

“Well, brace yourself, because you’re about to see plenty more of him this evening. Dad invited him and his girlfriend over for dinner.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Phoebe groans from across the kitchen. “Is it too much to ask that Falon and I get a tiny bit of attention this holiday so we can share our news and have our moment? It’s like that Thanksgiving before Oxford all over again.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“What’s the news?” Nana Rosie asks.

“We want to wait and tell everyone at the same time.” Falon takes the whisk and bowl from me and starts mixing. “Maybe we’ll just have to wait until tomorrow morning when it’s just family. We could do it over brunch.”

“I don’t want to wait until Friday morning.” Phoebe glares at me while she pours herself a glass of prosecco and adds a tiny bit of orange juice. “This is dinner-worthy news, not brunch.”

“Can we get back to the part where you said this is like the Thanksgiving before Oxford?” I rest my hands on my hips. “Or as I like to remember it, the Thanksgiving that you ran me out of my own house?”

“I didn’t run you out. That was a choice you made all on your own. You were behaving completely unreasonably because for once the moment wasn’t about you and—” Phoebe pauses and unties her apron. “You know what, it’s not worth it.”

“Phoebe, where are you going?” Nana Rosie asks. “There’s still so much food we need to make. Surely you two can call a truce for the time being.”

“I need some air, Nana.” Phoebe makes her way to the back door. “And don’t worry about dinner. I’m the one who always comes back to make sure everything is taken care of.”

I don’t know how to describe what I’m feeling. It’s some unfamiliar combination of surprise and hurt and anger. I can’t control who Dad invites to his home for dinner. How was I supposed to know that Phoebe made plans to make this big announcement tonight? What if I wanted to use tonight’s dinner to talk about my bookstore? That’s dinner worthy, isn’t it? I thought we’d squashed everything last night. We’ve been getting along so well. I’ve got the group chat between us to prove it.

“She’s just stressed, Penny,” Falon tries to reassure me.

“I get that, but why does she keep taking it out on me?”

I realize the answer before Falon has a chance to reply. I’m the source of her stress. Me being here has thrown everything off for her. If I wasn’t here, Smith wouldn’t have come over last night, and he wouldn’t be coming over again this evening. It would just be another normal holiday. I’ve taken that away from her.

“Maybe we should go talk to her together?” Falon suggests. She’s an excellent Switzerland, which is great considering how often the Banks family is on the cusp of nuclear war. “We can both assure her that tonight can still be just as special as she planned, despite a few extra guests.”

“You go ahead,” I say.

The only way Phoebe’s going to feel assured of anything is if I leave, and I’m not doing that again. I don’t want to invalidate her feelings, but I can’t make her happy at the expense of the store. Chelsey and Jackie are counting on me to pull through on this.

I also can’t sacrifice my own happiness for Phoebe, or anyone else for that matter. Despite all logic and reason, I’m a little happy right now, even with Smith and his Penny knockoff coming to dinner tonight. It’s not a big happy—nothing to shoot off confetti cannons over—but it’s happier than I expected. And I don’t want to give that up just yet. I want to hold on to it, and see if it’s possible for this little happy to grow roots and bloom.





Chapter 15


Thanksgiving 2009:


The One with Irene

I balance my ancient laptop on my knees, praying to all things holy that my battery doesn’t die, while Smith navigates through the sludge that is the 5 on Thanksgiving Day. The Berkeley Gazette doesn’t loan laptops to low-level journalists, and as the official curator of the obituaries, there truly isn’t anyone less important. This means I’m forced to use my old college laptop, which likes to play a fun game of roulette whenever it’s time to save a document. To save the file or to completely obliterate it along with three other files is the question my laptop asks every time it runs out of battery, and I can’t stomach the idea of one more thing letting Irene Steadman down.