Page 72 of Penelope in Retrograde

The last thread of composure inside me snaps. I go from panicked to full-out distraught in a manner of seconds. Tears pour down my cheeks.

“I was trying to save her,” I sob.

“Did she go inside the doggy door?” Smith kneels next to me. “Because unless there’s an axe murderer in the house, I’m pretty sure she’s safe now.”

“I chased her through cow shit, and I lost my necklace.” I start to wipe my tears away, but quickly realize that my hands are covered in bits of grass and manure. “And there’s not even a moon out.”

“The moon is always out.”

“Well, I can’t see it, and I don’t have my necklace that your mom gave me after we got divorced. And I miss her, Smith. I miss her so much it hurts.”

“Come here.” He opens his arms to me. “I can’t watch you cry like this.”

“You can’t hold me. I’m covered in cow poop,” I wail. “And I’m still mad at you. I don’t want you to give Fiona’s ring to Sarah.”

The moment I say it aloud, I realize how foolish I sound. I realize how unreasonable and selfish my request actually is. Fiona might’ve felt like a mother to me, but she actually was Smith’s mother. He can give his mother’s ring to whomever he wants.

“I’m not proposing to Sarah, Penny.” He drapes his arm over me for half a second before pulling it back. “Come inside with me. Let me at least give you a towel to clean up with.”

“Really?” I sniffle. “Can I go look in your mom’s writing room?”

“Uh.” He hesitates. “Why don’t you just come into the kitchen first?”

He holds out his hand, and I let him help me up. Snot and manure be damned. I’ve wanted to visit this house for years. I’m not going to let the fact that I smell like a barn ruin it for me.

Smith unlocks the door, and I almost want to close my eyes. This feels like one of those big reveal moments. I know everything won’t be exactly as I remembered it. Too much time has passed for that. But it should still smell like her. It should still feel like Fiona’s house.

Except it doesn’t. Not even a little.

“I thought you said you guys were going to start going through her stuff this weekend.” My voice echoes in the big empty house. “Where is everything?”

“Mo got a jump on things last weekend. She had an estate company come out and move everything into storage.”

My feet stick to the white marble floors as I follow Smith into the kitchen. It looks sterile. Gone are the colorful cabinets that Fiona hand painted, and so are the old, vintage appliances that she loved so much. Everything is stainless steel and gray and white. It’s the exact opposite of Fiona in every way imaginable.

“The basics are here.” Smith grabs a hand towel from a drawer next to the sink and runs it underneath the tap. “There’s a bed in most of the rooms, and there’s some furniture coming in next week for the living room. Mo wants to turn it into a vacation rental until we can figure out what we want to do with the place.”

“So, there’s no writing room?” I take the damp towel and wipe my face.

“There’s not.”

“I hate this. It doesn’t seem fair.” I shake my head. “I know I spent a long time without her in my life, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that your mom was important to me.”

“You were important to her too.”

“I need to go find that necklace.” I drop the dirty towel in the sink. “And my shoes. Then I’ve got to go eat pie with a bunch of people who hate me and wish I wasn’t here, and a very stoned man who I’ve put in a really awkward position for the last twenty-four hours.”

“Your family doesn’t hate you, Pen.”

“Trust me, they do.”

Just as the words leave my lips, my foot slides across the tile and I fall on my ass. It’s like the universe is trying to kill me slowly via humiliation. Like I’m this little field mouse and it’s a rattlesnake bopping me on the head repeatedly until I just give up.

“I’m going to just sit for a second until the mud dries on my feet or until I die.” I lean against the cabinet. “Whichever comes first.”

Harriet’s nails click on the tile. She’s just as muddy as I am, but she has the benefit of it being socially appropriate to lick herself clean. She saunters over to me and curls up in my lap.

“Pen.” Smith kneels down next to me, and in his hand is the small, blue Tiffany box. “The ring wasn’t for Sarah. I like her. She’s a fun girl to spend some time with, but I’m not ready to marry her. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to marry anyone again.”

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