Penelope in Retrograde: A Novel(73)
“Coffee,” I say. “Maybe with a little Baileys if you’ve got it.”
“I do.”
I rest my head on the back of the rocking chair, pushing it back and forth with my heels. The warmth from the heater radiates across my face, melting the frozen tips of my ears and nose. It’s quiet out here. The park is guarded by a natural barrier of evergreens and bougainvillea bushes. It cuts out what little street noise there is and almost makes you forget that there’s an entire ocean a mile away. It really is a little slice of Kentucky.
“Dessert is served.” He carries a wooden cutting board with two cups of coffee and an arrangement of chocolate-frosted and powdered doughnuts in the center. “The powdered doughnuts have more of a biscotti texture at this point, ideal for dunking in coffee.”
“Is that a nice way of saying you’re serving me stale gas station doughnuts?” I take a white mug and hold it to my chest.
“Maybe.” He smiles and eases into the chair next to me. “Or maybe it’s my way to hoard the powdered doughnuts for myself because they’re my favorite.”
“Is this where you snuck off to yesterday morning?” I take a bite of chocolate-frosted doughnut. “Because I would’ve. In fact, I’m pissed at you for not telling me about this place sooner. Think of all the arguments I could’ve avoided.”
“But where would be the fun in that?” He sips his coffee. “And no, I didn’t come here yesterday morning. I had a phone call.”
“From who?”
“Family.” He tilts his head back and gazes up at the stars. “I have a son back in Kentucky.”
“Oh.”
“His name is Logan. He’s twelve.”
“Twelve. Wow.”
“I was nineteen when his mother got pregnant. Twenty when she had him.” He slowly exhales, his breath visible in the cool night air. “She was older. Twenty-five or so, and she was married. Before you ask, the answer is yes. Yes, I knew she was married. I was young and stupid and thought I was in love.”
“That must’ve been hard,” I say.
“I don’t usually tell people that. I usually just lie and say we had a one-night stand or something. It spares me the awkward looks that usually come with admitting you slept with a married woman.”
“Why are you telling me the truth?”
“Because I like you, Banks.”
Maybe it’s the clear night sky, the twinkling lights in the trees, or the liquor in my coffee, but right now, I can’t help but think that Martin Butler is one of the best humans I’ve ever met. He’s an old soul wrapped in a kind and gentle spirit. The fact that he looks like Thor is honestly the least interesting thing about him.
“I like you too, Butler,” I say.
He takes my hand and holds it. We sway back in our rockers like an old married couple, with Ozzie sprawled out beneath the heater. The writer in me feels a sense of relief in knowing that moments like this exist in real life and not just on paper.
“Can I ask you something?”
“As long as it’s not math,” I reply. “Go for it.”
“Why’d you stop coming around here? Was it the divorce? Was it your parents?”
“It was everything,” I say.
But it was mostly me.
Chapter 24
Thanksgiving 2012:
The One with a Side of Divorce
It’s the first time there’s been only four of us for Thanksgiving, and never have I missed my sister as much as I do now. She’s flying down from London for Christmas, instead of Thanksgiving, which means that today it’s just me, my parents, and Nana Rosie.
My parents didn’t even bother inviting over one of my dad’s associates to set me up on a blind date with or one of his professor buddies to lure me back to school. They won’t say it, but I think they’re too embarrassed to have company over this year. Having a daughter with a divorce under her belt after a year of marriage isn’t the sort of thing Carter and Silvia Banks like to brag about. I considered getting a shirt made up with the phrase At least I’m not pregnant on the back in bold lettering to remind my parents that things could be worse. I could be the divorced college dropout who is also barefoot and pregnant. But my parents aren’t the best at looking at the bright side of things.
They are, however, incredibly gifted when it comes to being efficient. Within twenty-four hours of informing them that Smith had filed for divorce, I had a one-way ticket to San Diego. Upon landing, I had an attorney and a moving truck filled with my belongings from my LA apartment. Seventy-two hours later and I’m back in my childhood bedroom and have a plethora of interesting job opportunities to choose from, thanks to my mother. So far, my top picks include assistant to the vice president of the Daughters of the American Revolution, and secretary to the treasurer of the Women’s Historical Society of Southern California. It’s always been my dream to get coffee and take notes for busybody housewives who use charities as excuses to host tea parties.
“Penelope, you’re sure you don’t want both dogs?” My father peers at me over the brim of his reading glasses from across the table. He’s got a stack of divorce papers next to his half-eaten slice of pie, and I’ve got a knot in my stomach that hasn’t managed to untie itself since the appetizer course. This going page by page through Smith’s divorce filing is about as painful as plucking out my eyelashes one by one. “Your mother and I are more than happy for you to keep both of the dogs here while we figure out living arrangements.”