Losing Penny (18 page)

“Because we can. Listen, I’ll pay for
everything.”

“You’re going to pay yourself and that short
order cook to cater a party at my dad’s house?”

“Not at his house, at the beach below his
house, and don’t call her that. By the time I’m done with her,
you’ll be calling her a gourmet.”

“Because you’re a foodie and you have the
magical power to turn everyone else into a foodie?”

Penny settled back into the booth, a huge
smile spreading over her face.

“What have I to do with thee, monster of the
deep?” Hans called as the creature rose from the billowing waves,
drenching him with ocean spray. A mottled green and purple, the
horned serpent lifted itself up like a column searching the sky for
a lost heaven. Gazing into the dragon’s flaming red eyes, Hans knew
the serpent had come to remind him he was unworthy of Ingrid’s
love.

From
Hans and the Sunstone

Watching his mom
with Don Marx turned Drake’s stomach. Mia leaned forward, cocked
her head, and listened to Don’s bragging with an expression
Wolfgang wore when Drake fried bacon. The conversation was as
greasy as bacon, but not as crisp. He wanted to kick his mom. He
considered phoning his dad, hiding the phone beneath the table, and
letting his dad get an earful of this senior citizen flirting.

“Oh, Don!” Mia’s laugh sounded like yipping
poodles.

“Then on the eighth hole these mallards
wandered in.” Don stabbed a shrimp with his fork and pointed it at
Mia. “What can you do? I yelled ‘fore,’ but the ducks acted like
they owned the place…which was especially annoying since I own the
place!”

“Oh, Daddy! Tell Drake about those creatures
on your yacht.”

Drake looked up from his salad. “Sea
creatures?” he asked, only slightly curious.

Don puffed out his chest. “Right after I got
the Mystic Marx, I couldn’t figure out why all the boats moored in
the harbor were covered with large nets, but I found out the next
morning when I got up to find two enormous sea lions parked on my
deck.”

Drake politely smiled and went back to
thinking about sea serpents.

“Sea lions can sink boats.” Don pointed his
salad fork at Drake’s chest. “And they’re noisier than an all-night
frat party.”

“Goodness,” Mia breathed. “What did you
do?”

“Tried throwing some money at the situation,”
Don said, tucking into his food.

Drake stopped thinking about sea serpents and
smiled at a mental image of Don throwing twenties at sea lions.

Don swallowed a slug of wine and touched his
napkin to his lips. “Hired these guys they call shooers.”

Melinda placed her hand on Drake’s thigh and
Drake looked at it, wondering if he could hire a shooer. Melinda
squeezed his thigh and Drake realized he needed a wedding ring. If
he got a ring—not just one for himself, but also one for Penny—no.
This is ridiculous
, he told himself. He needed to tell
Melinda his interest in her was purely professional. He needed to
write the biography and get out of the beach house and out of Rose
Arbor.

But that meant leaving Penny. He wasn’t ready
to go; he wasn’t ready to leave Penny. Not yet.

“What did the shooers do?” Mia asked. She
leaned in with her chin propped up in her hands.

Drake decided to tell Melinda that he had all
the information he needed on Don so that he could stop playing
Don’s companion and just focus on the writing. He would tell her
that he needed time to write, which was true.

“Eighteen of them, weighing in from 200 to
800 pounds each.” Marx speared another shrimp.

Drake realized that he had missed some of the
conversation. He couldn’t imagine any shooer weighing 800
pounds.

“All piled on to a thirty-seven-foot
sailboat, like a marine mammal rugby team, sinking the boat within
minutes,” Don continued.

To stop his own sinking feeling, Drake
imagined himself writing on the back porch while Penny cooked in
the kitchen, humming and stirring something delicious. Drake
frowned at his salad. Everything Penny made tasted better than
anything cooked by anyone else. How did she do that?

“Chain link fences—the animals bite right
through them. Metal spikes are nothing but playthings to these
guys.” Don shook his head.

How could he stay at the beach house with
Penny and keep Melinda’s hands off his thighs? He had to win Penny
over, and he had almost been successful until his mother showed up.
Drake scowled at his mom, but she wouldn’t look at him. Don Marx
had her full attention.

“It sounds like they leave a palpable trail
of wanton destruction,” his mom said.

A palpable trail of wanton destruction? Who
talks like that? But Drake knew—the mother of a literature
professor. The flirty mother of literature professor. He had to
call his dad. Someone had to stop Mia before she embarrassed all of
them.

“Nine years ago the city of Seattle attached
an anchor to an underwater Fiberglas killer whale called Fake Willy
to try and scare the sea lions away. It didn't work,” Don went on.
“When it comes to sea lions and humans fighting over turf, the sea
lions have the upper flipper.”

“Oh Daddy, no one has an upper flipper over
you!” Melinda said.

Drake pushed away from the table and
Melinda’s hand fell to her side. “Excuse me,” Drake said, no longer
able to stomach the Don Marx appreciation luncheon. He threw down
his napkin and walked away.

Whether you are being dishonest with yourself
or with others, you are negatively affecting your health.

From
Losing Penny and Pounds

While she cooked,
Penny eavesdropped on Andrea and Trevor. It had occurred to her
that she could help Andrea in more ways than one, but she was
beginning to think that cooking skills out-sizzled her match-making
skills. She peeked at Andrea and Trevor through the window. They
sat on the back porch, a growing pile of cornhusks between
them.

“I don’t get it,” Andrea said in a low
voice.

“Get what? Why I’m shucking corn?” Trevor
asked, pulling off strings of silk one slivery strand at a time. At
his speed they’d have corn salsa in about a month.

“No,” Andrea cast her eyes toward the kitchen
to see if Penny was within earshot. Penny ducked her head and
pretended to be absorbed in the Roma tomatoes on the cutting board.
She hummed along with Jack Johnson who was wailing from her
computer. Apparently satisfied, Andrea continued. “Maggie’s
married, but not to you.”

Trevor nodded and picked up another ear of
corn.

“Then why are you always together?”

“She’s gorgeous,” Trevor said, “smart, funny,
and getting divorced.”

Penny’s stomach did a little flip at the word
gorgeous
.

Trevor hadn’t even taken a breath. “And she’s
an awesome cook. Why wouldn’t I hang around?”

“Where’s her husband? Doesn’t he mind?”

Trevor shrugged. “Penny doesn’t mind and I
don’t mind—why should I care what’s going on his head? Besides, my
sister has him spinning in her orbit.”

“I know…none of my business,” Andrea rushed
in. “I’m sorry. It’s just…she’s
so
nice offering me cooking
lessons, trying to help my café, hiring me to cater her husband’s
birthday party, giving my café exposure…I just don’t know why she
hangs out with you.”

Trevor barked a short deep laugh. “Because
she’s so nice and I’m not?”

“I didn’t say that,” Andrea back peddled.

“No, but that’s what you’re thinking.” Trevor
dropped the ear of corn in the bucket, wiped his hands together,
and stood. He frowned at her. “I don’t have to explain myself to
you.”

But Penny wished he would. Being called
gorgeous, funny, and talented was lovely, and it should be enough,
but she shared Andrea’s questions. She couldn’t blame Andrea and
Trevor for not understanding her relationship with Drake—she didn’t
understand it either.

With her thoughts elsewhere, Penny sliced her
finger instead of the tomato. Softly swearing, she lurched toward
the sink. The tomato juice on her hands made the cut sting, and she
blinked back tears as she washed her finger.

“Hey,” Trevor spoke softly as he came behind
her. “Are you all right?”

“Stupid, but okay,” Penny said, her voice
shaky.

Standing close, Trevor looked over her
shoulder at the blood mixing with the water and swirling down the
drain. “Where’s your husband’s fancy first aid kit?”

He sounded a little contemptuous. Maybe he
thought only sissies and hypochondriacs owned “fancy” first aid
kits. Everything Trevor said or did seemed to set her teeth on
edge. “Can you get me a paper towel or something?” Penny asked.

Trevor stripped off a paper towel and said,
“I can do better than that. I’m not going to let anyone up my first
aid skills. I’m military.”

Penny tried not to be uncomfortable by his
nearness, but she felt trapped between him and kitchen counter. “I
thought you flew planes.”

“Even pilots have to bandage the
wounded.”

She looked at him with a smidgeon of new
respect. “Did you—”

He laughed as he took her hand in his and
wrapped the paper towel around her finger. “No, never. I stayed
safely stateside.” A grim expression crossed over his face. “I
think my dad’s money had something to do with that, but I can’t be
sure.” He swatted her butt before heading for the door. “I’ll be
right back with a proper Band-Aid.”

Penny watched him go then turned her
attention back to her finger. She unwrapped the paper towel. It was
nothing but a tiny knick. It looked worse than it felt, but she sat
down at the table with hard thump. When Trevor took her hand and
gently wrapped her finger she felt nothing. No tingle. No zip.
Nothing.

She raised her fingers to her lips. If she
closed her eyes she could still feel Drake’s kiss.

“Are you okay?” Andrea banged through the
door, interrupting Penny’s memories. “You look positively
white.”

“I’m always white,” Penny said, looking up.
“I blame my Scottish ancestors.”

“Did they cut your finger?”

“No, that was all me.” Penny sighed. “I guess
you’re on cutting board duty. I’ll have to find something to
stir.”

Andrea motioned to the computer screen. A
chubby Penny smiled from the screen. Andrea looked from the screen
to Penny’s face without a trace of “ha-ha, gotcha” in her
expression. “I didn’t think there was a whole lot of stirring in a
tomato basil salad.”

“You’re right, it’s more a layering thing,
and until the bleeding stops, I need to stay away. Fresh mozzarella
cheese is ugly all by itself—it doesn’t need blood to make it look
even more unappetizing.”

“Fresh mozzarella does look a little like
congealed fat,” Andrea said, moving to stand beside the cutting
board.

“I guess I can stir the corn salsa,” Penny
said, suddenly wishing that Andrea and Trevor would both go. She
wanted to touch Drake, as an experiment, not unlike cooking. She
liked mixing herbs and spices, taste testing, seeing how one
reacted with another. She’d touched Trevor and nothing. She wanted
to make sure that when she touched Drake there was…something. It
probably wouldn’t hurt to kiss him again either…purely in the
spirit of experimentation, of course.

Andrea was talking. Penny scrambled to keep
up and tried to stop thinking of kissing Drake. “I’m sorry—what did
you say?”

“How do you make corn salsa?”

Penny slipped into her TV cooking hostess
voice. “Easy peasy.”

“But there’s no peas, right?” Andrea
interrupted.

Penny laughed and shook her head. “No
peas.”

“Good, I don’t like peas.”

Penny took a deep breath. First squash and
now peas—Penny was beginning to worry that the string of all the
things Andrea didn’t like and wouldn’t eat would choke the café.
Maybe foodies really were born and couldn’t be made. “Corn, black
beans, tomatoes, cilantro, green onion, red onion, bell pepper,
garlic, lime juice, avocado, and just a drizzle of olive oil.”

“Olive oil? I hate olives,” Andrea said.

Penny wasn’t surprised.

He remembered the words of the hag. “Your
paths will intertwine,” she had told him. “It doesn’t matter which
road you take, you are her destiny just as surely as she is yours.
Should you sail, you will wash up on her shores. Should you ride,
you will fall into her valley. There will be no escape. And no
desire to do so.”

From
Hans and the Sunstone

Drake stood in
front of a florist shop, debating. His reflection in the window
stared back at him. He tried to see beyond himself, but he
couldn’t. He felt wounded and inept. He’d destroyed his two serious
relationships—his ten-year romance with Blair and his short and
disastrous marriage to Magdalena. The only problem with his
relationship with Blair had been himself. He hadn’t recognized love
when it had cooked his food and typed his poetry. He had been
selfish, blind, critical, insensitive, and now he wondered why
she’d stayed as long as she had. He had been stupid. Stupid about
Blair and idiotic about Magdalena. This time he would be smart.
With Penny he would be the opposite of everything he had been
before.

But despite his PhD from Yale, Drake knew he
had a great capacity for stupidity, especially when it came to
romance. He’d written his thesis on the writers of the Romantic
period: Wordsworth, Blake, Sir Walter Scott. But now that he
thought about it, even the romantics would have received poor marks
in the relationship category. Not many successful writers had
equally successful private lives. That was no excuse for Drake. He
didn’t want to be a crazy Poe or a depressed Hemingway. He wanted
Penny. He wanted her curled beside him, reading and giggling over
her ghastly Drivel novels. He wanted her laughing in the kitchen
and running on the beach. But looking at himself in the florist
shop window, trying to wrap his mind around what sort of flowers
suited her best, he realized that maybe what
he
wanted had
been his problem all along. He had been so focused on what he
demanded from a relationship that he couldn’t see or focus on Blair
or Magdalena…or Penny.