Page 6 of Love is a Game

I hit speaker and stare at him, confused. “Susan?”

“Penelope.” The shake in Susan’s voice unsettles my stomach. “I’m so sorry…you need to come home right away—”

“Home?” I swallow against the bile in my throat and lock onto the concerned look in Tuck’s eyes. “Why, what’s happened?”

“Penelope, it’s your mother.” Susan’s words fracture into sobs. “She’s…dead.”

Chapter 3

Tuck

I take the phone from Penelope as she folds weakly onto a chair.

“I’ll take care of her,” I assure Mom, who practically wails with relief as she hears my voice.

Of course I will.

I’ll be here to hold her and comfort her through the brutal pain of loss. To support her all the way.

Except…it seems like she doesn’t need any such interventions.

“I’m fine.” She pushes me away to gather her things. “I’ve got to get to the studio.”

“Pen, your mother just died! You need to make plans.”

She stares at me blankly.

“You have to go back—take care of the funeral, organize the house…settle her estate.”

Pen shakes her head. “I’ve got people waiting for me, a whole collection to finish—and the wedding dress, remember? Mason’s not marrying justanybody. It’sMia Madson, the Hollywood movie star! Her wedding dress—my design—has to be beyond amazing. I can’t just take off to Blue Mountain Lake.”

I reach for her hands. “Listen to me—you have no choice. You’re her only child. Whatever you feel for your mother, you have to go back and take care of this. Call your assistant, get a flight booked, and start packing.”

“Don’t get all bossy!” she snaps. “I need time to think, to get my studio in order.” She presses her lips together, finishing in a small voice. “Then I’ll go.”

The security guy returns to escort us from the building, Pen tapping at her phone as we follow him out. I gently guide her course, avoiding obstacles, until we reach the parking lot.

She finally lifts her head.

“Wednesday,” she says heavily. “There’s a midday flight I can take.Happy?”

“Of course, I’m not happy about what’s happened. But you’re doing the right thing, Pen,” I respond. “Can you share the flight details with my mom? Let her know exactly when you’ll arrive?”

“Sure thing. Maybe she can organize a get-together for me and all my Blue Mountain Lake friends?” she suggests sarcastically as she gets in her car. “Later, Gator.”

I watch her drive away, frustrated at her attitude—or maybe at myself for being unable to pierce through it. Could this be the denial part of grief everyone talks about? The inability to process such a momentous loss?

Not that I should expect Penelope to follow any standard emotional script. She’s always been this way. She’s as deceivingly fragile as spider silk with the same built-in strength of steel, making her stubbornly impenetrable.

Stella, on the other hand, has no such emotional gray areas. When I get back to the penthouse, she appears, red-eyed and emotional. And uncharacteristically dressed in head-to-toe black.

Her blonde hair, usually a glossy showpiece, is scraped into a messy ponytail, stray strands framing her face like static.

I drop my keys and phone onto the console table, the sharp clatter echoing in the awkward silence.

“Why are you here?” My voice is flat, exhausted.

She holds up a handful of vials like a defense attorney presenting Exhibit A.

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