My feet stick to the white marble floors as I follow Smith into the kitchen. It looks sterile. Gone are the colorful cabinets that Fiona hand painted, and so are the old, vintage appliances that she loved so much. Everything is stainless steel and gray and white. It’s the exact opposite of Fiona in every way imaginable.
“The basics are here.” Smith grabs a hand towel from a drawer next to the sink and runs it underneath the tap. “There’s a bed in most of the rooms, and there’s some furniture coming in next week for the living room. Mo wants to turn it into a vacation rental until we can figure out what we want to do with the place.”
“So, there’s no writing room?” I take the damp towel and wipe my face.
“There’s not.”
“I hate this. It doesn’t seem fair.” I shake my head. “I know I spent a long time without her in my life, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that your mom was important to me.”
“You were important to her too.”
“I need to go find that necklace.” I drop the dirty towel in the sink. “And my shoes. Then I’ve got to go eat pie with a bunch of people who hate me and wish I wasn’t here, and a very stoned man who I’ve put in a really awkward position for the last twenty-four hours.”
“Your family doesn’t hate you, Pen.”
“Trust me, they do.”
Just as the words leave my lips, my foot slides across the tile and I fall on my ass. It’s like the universe is trying to kill me slowly via humiliation. Like I’m this little field mouse and it’s a rattlesnake bopping me on the head repeatedly until I just give up.
“I’m going to just sit for a second until the mud dries on my feet or until I die.” I lean against the cabinet. “Whichever comes first.”
Harriet’s nails click on the tile. She’s just as muddy as I am, but she has the benefit of it being socially appropriate to lick herself clean. She saunters over to me and curls up in my lap.
“Pen.” Smith kneels down next to me, and in his hand is the small, blue Tiffany box. “The ring wasn’t for Sarah. I like her. She’s a fun girl to spend some time with, but I’m not ready to marry her. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to marry anyone again.”
He opens the box, and there it is. My old ring. Fiona’s ring. Our ring. It’s somehow even more brilliant than I remember it being in the van. The light catches the moonstone perfectly, and for a moment, this place doesn’t feel so cold. Not with a little piece of Fiona shining inside it.
“Why do you have it, then?” I ask.
“Because she wanted you to have it.” He closes the box and sets it next to me. “It was in her will that if I hadn’t remarried at the time of her death, the ring would go to you, as long as it had my blessing. And it does. It always would have. I couldn’t give that ring to someone else. It’s in that box because the ring was appraised and cleaned. There’s a little paper tucked inside with how much it’s worth, if you ever want to—”
“It’s priceless,” I say. “Thank you, Smith. This is probably the best gift anyone has ever given me.”
“You might not want to share that bit with your boyfriend.” Smith leans against the cabinet next to me. “I have a feeling that stoned or not, he wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“Martin’s not my boyfriend.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “I lied.”
“Go on.” He chuckles. “Let’s get it all out in the open.”
“I saw the ring in your bag, and I thought you were going to propose to a woman you’ve known for less time than I’ve known my air fryer, so I panicked and lied. Martin went along with it, as long as I agreed to get him out of playing golf with my father tomorrow.”
“There’s a lot to unpack there, but I’m going to bet that Carter is not going to want to play golf with Martin tomorrow.”
“At least I held up my end of the bargain, then.” I close my eyes and sigh. “I don’t like who I am when I come here. It’s like I become the worst version of myself, which only ends up pushing my family away instead of bringing us closer together. I know they love me, because they’re good and decent people, and I love them. I just wish when we all got together it didn’t feel like we were just tolerating one another. I want them to like me for me.”
“How can they like someone they’ve never met?” He kisses the top of my head. It’s not romantic so much as comforting. “Maybe you need to start by telling them your pen name.”