Page 51 of Penelope in Retrograde

But none of that is happening.

My parents don’t even know that we’re engaged, and even if they did, my parents would rather spend Thanksgiving deworming livestock than with Smith’s parents. I think the only reason they’re OK with Smith stepping foot on our property is because I refused to come home without him. The way my parents see it, the Mackenzies are the reason for my undoing.

I gaze out the window as we hit the midpoint of the bridge. Smith’s Mustang is so low to the ground that if you tilt your head back, all you see is sky. It’s like taking a roller coaster to the clouds. “I wish your parents weren’t out of town. I feel like I haven’t seen your mom in ages.”

“I think they’re really digging the expat life in Thailand,” Smith says. “It might end up being a permanent thing. Even my sister says she likes it there. She says it’s given her an opportunity to completely reinvent herself after the split with Noah.”

“Sometimes I think that’s what I want.”

“To break up with Noah?” Smith squeezes my hand. “I heard he’s kind of a dick when it comes to giving your stuff back.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” My body tenses as the car slowly descends over the bridge and the island comes into view. “We should move to Thailand with your parents. Imagine the kinds of photos you could take there. We could live on their compound to keep our expenses down, and I could write. We’d all be together, and the two of us wouldn’t ever have to deal with my parents except for through postcards and email.”

“I thought you liked our little place in Berkeley. Just last week you said that you couldn’t hear the upstairs neighbors having sex at all hours of the night and the moldy smell in the hallway was distinctly less moldy.”

“Those are all positives, but we also barely see each other. I’m up at the crack of dawn to work at the coffee shop, and then I spend all afternoon at the paper. You work practically every night and weekend. I’m always alone, and sometimes I think it would be nice to have your mom and dad around to talk to. They’re so easy to talk to. You really lucked out with them.”

We pull onto Clementine Street, and my heart starts to beat a little faster. My mouth goes dry, but I don’t risk drinking any more coffee than I’ve already consumed. The last thing my heart rate needs is a jolt of caffeine.

I focus my attention back on Irene Steadman, specifically, the email that her son, Eddie, sent in. Maybe there’s something in here that I’ve missed. Most children prefer to write their deceased parents’ obituaries, which means it’s usually my job to proofread, but occasionally the Eddies of the world submit a few random facts and request that a staff writer create the final rendering.

Dear Ms.Banks,

My mother, Irene Steadman, had six cats. We don’t know when she died because nobody noticed right away. Her neighbor smelled a bad odor and called the cops to investigate on the thirteenth. She was 76, I think. My sister and I would prefer our families not be mentioned in the obituary. Irene wasn’t exactly a good mom.

Thanks.

PS You can add that last line if you want.

PPS We’re not having a memorial or funeral because, honestly, who would come?

I guess I could include the fact that she was a mother.

The car slows, and Smith parks in the driveway of my house. I save Irene’s rough draft and gingerly place my laptop into its musty carrying case. I’d normally leave it in the car since I won’t be doing any work today, but the carrying case has the Berkeley Gazette logo on it, which gives my whole I’m a real paid writer argument a tiny bit of proof. Of course, my parents don’t know that I get paid to write about dead people.

“I’m going to run to my place for a minute and turn the heat on, so I don’t freeze tonight.” Smith leans over and kisses me. “You going to wear your ring, or were you planning on waiting to tell them the big news until after all the knives have been removed from the dinner table?”

“You’re sleeping at your parents’ place?”

“Is that a problem?”

It annoys me slightly that he doesn’t see the inherent problem, but considering the fact that we’ve spent the last eight hours stuck in a car together, I’m willing to bet I’m being a little overly sensitive. And by overly, I mean a lot.

“Um. Well, I guess not. I just sort of assumed you’d stay over at my place since we’re engaged now and we already live together.”

“I didn’t think your parents would be exactly thrilled with the idea of me staying over.” Smith cups my face and kisses me again. “Plus, I thought you and your sister might want a girls’ night or something. You two barely talk anymore.”

He’s right, which isn’t helpful, because I really prefer it when he’s wrong.

Phoebe and I stayed in touch pretty regularly while she was at Princeton after I left, but once she graduated, she started working for our father and our weekly calls became infrequent at best. She got busy, and I ... well ... I got tired of hearing her talk about the place our father always wanted us to work at together.

“Fine.” I kiss Smith slowly, savoring every second his lips are on mine. “But if shit hits the fan, you better come get me out of the tree house. Got it?”

“I’ll be there with your girl Vermouth. Promise.”

Stepping into my parents’ home is like opening a window to an alternate reality where nothing changes. The same food that we’ve eaten at Thanksgiving for as long as I can remember is arranged on the buffet table like always. Tiny place cards with our names on them mark the same seats we’ve sat in since my sister and I were old enough to not be in high chairs. Even the flower arrangements—a medley of red roses, chrysanthemums, and sunflowers—stay the same. It kind of feels like the only thing that’s different is me.

“There’s my lucky Penny!” Nana Rosie’s voice echoes through the foyer. “Put those bags down and let me get a look at you, darling girl.”

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