Page 88 of Penelope in Retrograde

“Isn’t that what rock singers do when they throw themselves into a crowd during a performance?”

“Close but not quite.”

“Well, never mind that.” He shakes his head. “I have a small confession to make.”

“Dad, I’m not taking your money. I don’t want to complicate things between us, OK?”

“Penelope, I’m not offering you money.” He hands me his cell phone. “Do you remember that last Thanksgiving you came to visit, when you and Smith were in the process of divorcing?”

“Yes, of course I remember. It was awful.”

“Agreed. But there was one bright spot. You remember those shares you got from that magazine? The ones I told you to cash out and invest?”

I furrow my brow. “Vaguely?”

“I’ll take that as a no. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Against my better judgment, I held on to them for you. I never thought they would amount to anything, but as it turns out, I was wrong.” He taps his phone screen. “That’s a screenshot of what those shares are worth now, should you choose to cash them out.”

I don’t understand everything on the document my dad is showing me, but what I do understand leaves me speechless.

“I hope you’re not upset with me for never having them forwarded to your address in San Francisco.” He lowers his voice. “I let my pride get the best of me at first. I figured if you didn’t care about them, then why should I bother to bring them to your attention. Over the years, the little company started to do quite well, and there was a part of me that felt guilty for not telling you sooner.”

“These are worth over $100,000, Dad,” I finally manage to say as my initial shock wears off. “Am I reading it correctly?” He nods sheepishly. “That means I have over $100,000 to put toward the bookstore?”

“Well, there is the matter of taxes and such, but, yes. The bulk of that belongs to you should you decide to cash them.” He clears his throat. “I take it you’re not angry with me? You’d have every right to be.”

Ten years ago, I would’ve been angry. Ten years ago, I would’ve seen my father’s act of squirreling away money as a sign that he was preparing for me to fail. That he wouldn’t have believed for a second that I could make it on my own in San Francisco as a writer, and if I was given access to those shares, I would mishandle them. That a life designed without his help could ever be anything but a complete failure. But I’m not angry with my father today. If anything, for the first time in a long time, I see a little bit of myself in him.

“You’re stubborn, Dad.”

“Your mother would say pigheaded,” he chuckles. “But I like the way stubborn sounds much better.”

“I guess we have that in common.”

A warm smile spreads across his face. “You know, I think the most successful people in life are stubborn. Present company included.”

Teenage me could never have imagined a moment like this. Adult me will never forget it. We spend the next several hours discussing business and creating a core memory for the both of us.

Martin picks me up when it’s time to swap out shifts. Nana Rosie is up after me, and she’s armed with a stack of plant-based cookbooks.

“Your father is going to be a whole new man after I have Marie change his diet.” She taps the cover of a book titled Plants Are Friends and Food.

I have a feeling Marie might finally retire if she has to cook anything out of a cookbook with cartoon vegetables.

I walk out to the parking lot and see Martin on his bike. My helmet rests behind him on top of his leather jacket.

“We really need to discuss those shoes, Banks.” He nods at my Birks and socks. “I’d consider it a personal favor if you let me compost them.”

“I suppose I owe you quite a few favors,” I say. “I’ll grant you three, but none of them can include getting rid of my shoes.”

“Are you a genie in a bottle?” Martin hands me my helmet.

“That’s what Christina says.” I pull his jacket on. “So what are your wishes?”

He kisses me slowly, wrapping his arms around my waist. “First wish is that you’ll spend the night tonight.”

“Granted.”

“Second wish is that you’ll let me visit your bookstore in San Francisco.”

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