Page 4 of The Cowboy and the Bombshell
“Really, Mr. Pennington, that’s a very generous offer, but not necessary. I’d be happy to stay in one of the rooms at the hotel.”
“Please, Miss Lund. I insist. None of the rooms at the Las Vegas property are ready to be lived in, and I just can’t stomach the thought of giving money to any of our competitors until they are.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me.
“Well,” I said laughing. “In the name of supporting Pennington Hotels, then I guess I accept.”
“Good. Good,” he replied, then paused. “There is one more thing. You will have a roommate in Summerlin, if that’s not too much trouble.”
“Oh,” I said cautiously. “Who?”
“Oh, just my kid,” he said with a wave. “Nothing to worry about, truly. The house is quite large. Eight bedrooms. You two probably won’t even notice each other.”
It made sense, I guessed, with Daphne going to school in Nevada, that she would be making use of her family home in the area. I remembered seeing what the dorm rooms looked like on campus when I was in school. I would have spent as much time in a mansion as I could have, too.
Plus, it might be nice to not be alone. If Daphne was familiar with the area, perhaps she and I could hang out a time or two.
“That will be no problem, Mr. Pennington. No problem at all.”
So now I sat, looking into my mother’s watery eyes as she processed the fact that we had just over forty-eight hours left together before I would be traveling half way across the country. It would be my first time on a plane, and the first time I had been away from my mother for longer than a sleepover in my entire life.
Some may have seen that as pathetic, but mom and I shared such a close bond that it was completely natural for us. We had needed to lean on each other so heavily in the past that it almost seemed like we were joined at the hip.
“Okay. Monday. Of course,” she said, putting on a brave face. “Then I guess we had better get started.”
We spent all of Friday night doing laundry, washing what meager work clothes I owned, and then most of Saturday was spent on our mending and alterations. Mom and I almost always had a pile of clothes waiting for a bit of inspiration. We were chronic thrift shop junkies, stopping in at our favorites on a regular basis to scour the bins for treasures. I liked to stop at a few in the city when I could as well. There were often designer pieces to be found if you looked hard enough. Some rich lady who couldn’t imagine wearing a blazer for longer than a single season, or some boots that were must-haves last year, but were quickly forgotten in the whirlwind that was the New York Fashion scene. It benefited me well enough.
Mom made my favorite dish for dinner, lasagna, and we sat side by side on the couch, stuffing our faces and watching The Bachelor while we added embellishments to a power suit mom had brought home after Christmas. We guessed someone had gotten a new one from Santa, so this one, practically new, was up for grabs. Mom was patiently stitching some delicate lace around the hem of the skirt, trying to add a little modesty for my overly-long legs.
At a commercial break, I worked up the nerve to say the thing that had been on my mind since Friday afternoon.
“I’m going to see Dad tomorrow,” I said quietly, watching my mother’s breath stall in her chest. “I want to make sure I say goodbye.”
Putting down her sewing, she reached over and squeezed my hand. “I think he’d like that very much.”
Sunday morning mom went to church as usual. I hadn’t joined her in a very long time, and while at first she was upset by that, she now understood that I couldn’t bring myself to talk to a god who had let the things that happened to my dad, and so many others, continue.
Wearing an over-sized hoodie, my hands stuffed deep in the front pockets, and a knit hat to protect against the biting winter wind, I walked slowly between the rows of headstones at St. Michael’s Cemetery, taking my time, savoring the quiet. The snow had been cleared from the roadways but was still several inches deep at the grave sites. Making my way to where I knew my father was laid to rest, my eyes ran over the names on the other grave-markers, familiar to me after so many days spent here since dad had died. As I walked the same road the funeral procession had followed that day, dozens of my father’s uniformed colleagues from the NYPD following behind my mother and me, I could see it all again in my head. Row upon row of men and women, their dress uniforms pressed to perfection, the white gloves on their hands standing out in stark relief against the dark blue they each wore. The flag draped coffin being carried by six of my dad’s closest friends from the department. The flag they folded so very carefully before handing it to my mom. But most of all I remember the silence. The absolute and soul crushing silence that hung over the cemetery as they lowered my father into the ground.
That same silence hung over me now, the low gray sky of winter hovering like an oppressive blanket, pressing against the snow covered ground, making me feel as if that pressure was a physical thing, constricting my lungs and making it hard to breathe. I clutched my hands into fists in my hoodie pockets, feeling my nails pressing crescents into my palms, the slight pain grounding me and bringing me back to the moment.
When I reached the appropriate row, I stepped off the road and into the snow, lifting my booted feet high over the drifts as I made my way to my father. Stopping in front of his grave, the dark granite looking harsh against the fresh white show, I closed my eyes as my heart squeezed in my chest. Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes again and smiled down at his name, Frederick Lund.
“Hi, Daddy,” I said, swiping at the single tear that moved down my cheek. “How are things? Mom and I are good, but you probably already know that.” I knelt down in the snow, heedless of the cold that started soaking into my jeans, and used my hands to clear some of the snow away from his marker. I dug down until I could see the engraved shield with his badge number on it in the lower left corner. “I’ve got some big things happening right now work wise,” I continued, carrying on a one-sided conversation as I always did, talking to him as if he was right here with me. I liked to think he might be. I went on for some time, talking about the competition, the position, and how Toddrick and Constance were standing in my way. “Oh, Dad, she is simply awful. Exactly how you’d expect her to be. I know. I know,” I said, already hearing my father’s voice in my head, telling me not to be so judgmental, that everyone had their own obstacles to face, and that maybe Constance was struggling just like the rest of us. “But she makes it so hard to try to be understanding, dad. She’s like a lemon in a basket of peaches. Sour for the sake of being sour.”
I laughed, thinking of how my dad would have made a face, pretending he was sucking a lemon, and how, in my head, it looked a lot like the pinched look Constance had given me the other day. Taking a breath, I continued. “I really want this, Daddy. I want this so bad. For Mom, of course, but for myself, too. I want to prove that I can, you know? That all my hard work, all my studying and sacrificing and effort actually means something. That my struggle can count for something against people like Toddrick, who get ahead, not because they earned it, but because they are related to the right people. It has to count, Daddy. Other wise, what were all our sacrifices for?”
I was quiet for a time, thinking of all the hours mom and I worked, all the pennies we saved, trying to keep our heads above water. There was absolutely no way I could let someone like Constance, who had never had to go without a day in her life, take this from me simply because she felt she could.
“Anyway,” I continued, shaking off my heavy thoughts. “I have to leave town for a bit, so I won’t be by to visit. But look after Mom while I’m away, okay? Don’t let her feel lonely. I think, I mean I hope, that she will use this time to do some things for herself for a change. She deserves it.”
Standing, I brushed the snow off my now very damp knees. Running my fingers along the top of the gravestone one more time, I kissed their tips and pressed them to his name. “Love you, Daddy. Always.”
* * * *
Monday morning arrived in a flurry of chaos. I was supposed to be at the hotel in Las Vegas for a project meeting at two, Nevada time. Harold's silent receptionist, who I had learned went by the predictably insufferable name of Angelique, had emailed me my flight information. I was on a six a.m. flight out of JFK, which meant that my alarm was set to go off at three a.m. So when my door flew open at a quarter to four, my mother flying in wearing her house coat and shrieking about me being late, I was in complete panic mode.
Skipping my preferred scalding hot morning shower in favor of a quick face wash and an extra swipe of deodorant, I slid into my best skinny jeans and a white button-up blouse, hurrying through my usual routine at warp speed. Forgoing make up and slapping on a layer of chap stick, I tossed my hair back into my usual bun and raced out of my room to find my mother near the door where she was arranging my suitcase and carry-on bag for me.
“I had hoped we would have time for a coffee before you had to go, but when has our life ever gone how we planned, hey my girl?” she said with a wry smile. I reached out and wrapped my arms around her, squeezing for all I was worth. “You go kick some serious butt, okay, Penelope? You got this in the bag!”
