Page 37 of Love is a Game

~Every little bit helps!

Thank you for supporting the women and children in our community.”

I stare at the drop-off location: “Feldman & Associates.” Where Mom worked.

That’s…odd. I pull out my phone and scan the code before Misha bustles us outside, suddenly eager to get back to Blue Mountain Lake.

The day has slipped away.Five hours.I can hardly believe we’ve spent that long together, lost in discovering the surprising attractions of Newcombe. And for a fleeting moment, the weight of Mom’s death receded, and I felt lighter…the tightness in my chest lifting.

I’m already imagining getting back to the house and describing my surprisinglynotcompletely unpleasant day to Tuck.

And then it happens.

We crest a tree-lined ridge, the road dipping into a curve before rising again. The bridge comes into view. An incline. A swing to the right—

“Stop! Misha, stop the car!”

She slows down, tires skidding slightly, before we lurch to a stop at the side of the road.

“What? What is it?”

I don’t answer. My breath feels trapped in my throat as I sink into the seat, my gaze locking on the tree ahead.

Tall. Elegant. Its branches stretching high above the canopy.

And its wide, solid trunk—strong enough to withstand the impact of a careening sky-blue Toyota Camry, now encased in layers of cellophane wrapped flowers. Hues of dusty white, pink, and yellow, some wilted to dark gray, petals curling inward like warped pages of a well-read book.

Ribbons and handwritten notes peek out between the stems, ink smudged from the damp air. A few bouquets are tied directly to the bark with twine, their plastic wrapping catching the fading light, flickering like wispy ghost fingers.

My voice is barely more than a whisper.

“This is where Mom died.”

Chapter 13

Tuck

“Penelope, I’m so sorry! I should have warned you,” Mom’s voice wavers. “I didn’t know you wanted to see the site where she…where it happened. That must have been such a terrible shock.”

“It’s fine, Susan. I’m fine, really,” Pen says.

Her face tells a different story, her dark eyes unfocused, her mouth pressed into a bloodless line.

“I just…I didn’t expect it to be so obvious,” she says, voice unsteady. “We were talking on the way to Newcombe, and I didn’t even notice it. And then, coming back—” She shakes her head, eyes darting as if replaying the moment. “All those flowers. All those tributes. It’s so…unexpected.”

Mom nods sympathetically as she tops up Pen’s glass of water. “It’s been a shock for the whole community, Penelope. And people need a way to express their grief. Which reminds me—” Her eyes flick to the kitchen. “My freezer is bursting at the seams with all the homemade meals Beatrice Kennedy dropped off for you earlier.”

“What?” Pen’s head snaps up. “As inBecky’s sister, Beatrice?”

“That’s right!” Mom smiles. “She said Becky sends her condolences, too—she’s living abroad…Spain, I think? Beatrice took charge of gathering donations from some of your old friends. Everything’s labeled: lasagna, pumpkin soup, meatloaf, casserole…even a freshly baked apple and rhubarb strudel.”

Pen chews her lip, saying nothing.

Then, Dad steps in, offering his specialty margarita, and she’s quick to accept.

“God, yes.” She exhales.

Drinks in hand, we progress to the porch, watching on as Mom waters the garden. Dad offers her advice as we take in the streaky dusk sky and their gentle bickering blends with the sounds of settling bird calls.

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