Chapter 6
Penelope
Tuck’s speaking, but the droning in my ears drowns him out.
I’m on autopilot, driving down Main Street, free-falling through time. In fact, there is no time here. This town feels untouched, suspended between decades. We’re in the lap of mountain peaks, glimpses of the sparkling lake, ancient trees, and heritage buildings that have stood for generations. It could be ten years ago, twenty—maybe a hundred.
The giveaways? Traffic congestion from out-of-towners in rental cars and minivans. Tourists glued to their phones, snapping selfies amongst the Hallmark scenery.
I drive past the library, which Tuck, Brady, and I nearly set alight by testing firecrackers in the parking lot one summer. The scorch mark might still be there as a relic of our stupidity. Past the turn-off to the police station, where Sergeant Cooper hauled us in after we “borrowed” old Mr. Carmichael’s tractor for a joyride and lodged it in the mud behind the high school football field.
Then the grocer’s, where that same faded “Cash or Check Only” sign clings stubbornly to the window. I picture the candy section tucked in the corner with its chipped jars of gumdrops and licorice. I have no idea if it’s still there, but it lives on in my mind regardless.
“Holy hell—the Tavern is still operating?” I say in surprise. “I thought that place would be condemned by now.”
“At least there’s more competition these days,” Tuck says, as I try to clear the static in my head. “Have you been back since Déja Brew opened? Awesome coffee. And Brady’s new restaurant will have really elevated the local dining scene. Can’t wait to try it.”
Tuck shakes his head. “Seriously, what a turnaround it’s been for him. Can you believe Brady settled back here—and has a teenage kid? I still can’t wrap my head around it.”
I nod. Brady’s news shocked me, too. That a woman he had a one-night stand with fifteen years ago showed up back in his life—with the child Brady never knew about. Then he told us how he’s setting up a whole new life with them, back here in Blue Mountain Lake, of all places.
My heart twists guiltily. “Brady sent me a message about Mom.” I sigh. “I didn’t get back to him yet. It’s all been so…hectic.”
“That’s okay,” Tuck assures me. “We’ll see him in person. Tomorrow. Let’s just get settled for tonight, okay? My parents made up the guest room for you.”
“Huh?” I frown. “Why? I have Mom’s place to stay. An entire empty house.”
“Sure. But Pen, she only just died a few days ago,” he says gently. “Do you really want to stay there alone?”
I fight back a rising wave of nausea. This is exactly what I don’t want. Questions, decisions, working out how to even be here in this town I’ve avoided for so long. The closer we get to Mom’s street, the more I feel like I’m being filled with wet sand, my limbs heavy, my chest tight, struggling for breath.
Maybe it will be strange in the house without Mom…but the thought of staying with Tuck and his parents doesn’t appeal either. Smothered in his parents’ sympathies, and lying in the guest room with Tuck just across the hall, would be too weird.
I mean, back when we shared an apartment, we ended up in each other’s beds more times than I can count—but Brady and Mason were clueless. And Tuck’s parents? They thought our so-called study sessions and all those hours spent curating epic playlists were totally innocent. Adorable.
“Pen— here !” Tuck exclaims, snapping me back. “You nearly missed it.”
“I know my way,” I say a little too sharply, making the turn.
The Hasting’s house comes first—the same old boat and rust-speckled trailer parked on the gravel, fishing gear spilling out of the back. Next is the Greer place. They’ve added a shiny new extension with big windows that really don’t match the old brick. Then the Murphy house—their youngest, with his unmistakable carrot-top, was just a kid the last time I was here. Now he’s a teenager kicking a soccer ball against the garage door.
Tuck’s family house. Tall and familiar, a double-story with white siding and a sprawling oak tree that still shades the window of his old bedroom. And…there. Right next door, Mom’s smaller brick cottage feels rooted in time.
Its sturdy exterior is weathered, the shutters in need of a fresh coat of paint. But the garden is thriving, with tall, lush lavender swaying in the breeze and hydrangeas so full they almost obscure the path to the front door.
My throat tightens as I pull into the driveway.
For a moment, I just take it in. This isn’t just a house—it’s a time capsule of my childhood. And now…all that remains of my mom’s life.
I kill the ignition, but neither of us move.
I feel Tuck’s eyes on me. But I’m numb. Unblinking, immobile.
“They’re here!” Susan’s voice carries from next door, filled with restrained excitement.
Releasing my seatbelt, I try to gather the momentum to exit the vehicle as Tuck’s parents appear. Older, softer versions of who I remember, as if faded from the natural elements, just like Mom’s house.
Keith’s swept-back, sandy hair is tinged with gray, his blue eyes crinkled with lines that suit his academic air. Susan’s conservative bob is now a gray pixie cut, and she’s wearing red-framed glasses. She wraps me in her generous softness.
“Penelope.” She squeezes tight, and I tense, scared my emotions might spill out like stuffing out of a child’s overloved toy. “I’m so, so sorry for your loss, sweetie.”
I step back only to get folded into Keith’s arms. “Darlin’, we’re here for you, anything you need, you know that—” I nod against his shoulder, on the precipice of losing my composure.
He releases me, and I finger the band on my wrist, swallowing hard against the destabilizing forces surging inside me, threatening to escape.
Tuck is unloading the luggage. Right here in Mom’s driveway—in the spot where her sky-blue Toyota Camry should be parked. Instead, its crumpled remains are up the road at Mountain Power Wrecking Yard. And my mom’s crumpled body…stored in a chiller at Lakeside Funeral Home.
I shiver despite the warm spring air swirling the treetops. Even here, in the heart of town with its neat grid of streets and clustered homes, the earthy scent of tilled fields and the sharp tang of pine from the forest seep in, mingling with the faint, cool breath of the expansive lake nearby.
Keith steps away to help Tuck, and I catch the flash of joy in Susan’s eyes. Her beloved son is home, and it’s obvious how much it means to her.
And I can’t help the rancid, bitter jealousy welling to the surface of my skin. That look of love, pride, and pure happiness is something I never saw pass my mother’s face.
It makes me impatient to escape. To let them have their reunion, untainted by sympathy for my dead mother, and without my ugly thoughts polluting the atmosphere.
A small standoff brews. I can hear Tuck’s low voice as he counters Keith’s insistence on carrying my things next door. After a pause, Keith relents, following Tuck to the porch to stack the bags by the door.
I move forward. Step into the overhang of the house, reach my fingertips into the hollow of a loose brick. Then I strike it—the cool metallic texture. Still there after all.
Removing the key, I approach the door. A practiced wiggle and tug, and suddenly I’m looking into the bare bones of my early life—one I’ve tried so hard to plaster over and remodel in my mind.
“Pen?” Tuck’s reassuring hand presses against my shoulder.
“I’ll be okay—go catch up with your parents,” I insist, despite the resistance in his eyes. “Please, Tuck.”
It takes a long moment but finally, he agrees.
And then I’m alone, the silence of the house engulfing me, prickling my skin. Everything here speaks of her. But s he’s gone .
She’s not here to greet me with her stoic, predictable routine: “How was your flight? Did you eat?” No hug, just practicalities. “Your bed’s made up. You know where the towels are. I turned on the heating—let me know if it needs adjusting.”
It’s not like we fought that much. It wasn’t like that. It was more the distance she maintained—parenthood approached like a checklist. Fulfilling necessities.
When I was twelve, I got really sick. The culprit was a sore red bump in the soft junction of my left arm and torso, just above the slope of my burgeoning breast. I alternatively ignored it, waited for it to go away, and poked at it with gruesome interest. I never thought to mention it to Mom.
She hated doctors, mostly because of the cost. As a single mother working as a receptionist in the next town, every penny mattered. She worked for Feldman and Associates—a name that sounded grand but really just meant John Feldman, the town’s go-to lawyer for wills, real estate deals, family disputes, and small business contracts.
Mom seemed to like her job, but the pay wasn’t great. Everything was budgeted down to the last cent. She’d sit me down with her ledger and walk me through the numbers, pointing out how rising gas prices, groceries, and electricity bills meant we couldn’t afford to waste a drop of water, or even the scrape of peanut butter clinging to the bottom of the jar.
And then there was her distrust of authority—teachers, doctors, the church. She didn’t want them knowing our business. Despite—or maybe because of —working for a lawyer, she viewed many institutions as some kind of racket.
The day I got sick, we were at Brady’s. His family farmhouse, where we often hung out with the horses and his sweet dog. Eating our body weight in freshly baked goods, since Brady’s dad made the best after-school snacks around. We got back from riding our bikes through the nearby trails. And then it happened: I fainted.
The boys were so excited by the turn of events. When I came to, Brady quickly claimed credit for grossing me out to the point of passing out, evidencing his scraped shin from a failed pogo stunt. Meanwhile, Tuck wanted to know if fainting was the same as a near-death experience, and asked if I’d seen a flaming-winged angel like the ones in Dragon Ball Z .
Brady’s mom clocked my high fever, and flew into action. She hydrated me with orange juice, got a cold flannel to my forehead, and drove me straight home. I remember her silhouette in the doorway, her urgent voice as she explained what happened to Mom, as I stumbled inside, the world warped behind a veil of heat and delirium.
And this moment, returning to this empty house, is like reviving all those symptoms. There’s a frayed, opaque edge to my vision and an unpleasant sensation of something festering inside me, just like that boil poisoning my system.
I enter the hallway, my footsteps dull against the old wood. And like every time I’ve entered this house since my grandmother passed, I wonder why her ornately carved cross still adorns the otherwise bare wall.
My mother rejected religion. Had the cross escaped her notice after all those years? Did she leave it there in deference to my Christian grandparents? Or, like me, did she submit to the sense of judgment it provides—a silent reminder of every daily fall from grace?
In the kitchen, the silence weighs heavier. The heart of the house, where families mingle over bad news and good, mundane conversations, and jubilant celebrations. But often, for us, preparing meals felt like just another chore to be tackled, alongside laundry and vacuuming.
Mom’s water glass is upended by the sink…a thin layer of condensation still clinging to the sides. The fridge door makes a soft groan as I pull it open, and the slow-reacting light flickers on a second later.
Inside, a lonely egg, a half dozen condiments. The instant coffee—always kept in the fridge, a habit she’d never explained. And low-fat milk.
I picture how my frugal mother would have carefully checked the milk’s expiry date before purchase. Never guessing that its longevity would surpass her own.
It’s all so ordinary. Yet now, infused with so much significance. These are the objects she last touched…these are the things she left behind.
I hesitate outside Mom’s bedroom, her scent hovering so strongly that it seems to steal the air out of me. The door frame tilts, stars peppering my vision so that I quickly grip the wall.
Smell is the only sense that travels directly to parts of the brain that process memory and emotions—something I learned during a branding workshop in fashion school. We went through how companies like Nike diffuse stylized aromas in their stores to make customers feel energized and connected to the brand, or to encourage people to linger and buy. A single whiff can transport you completely.
And here I am, caught in a slipstream, feeling Mom’s presence and her absence all at once.
Swirling memories of how she cared for me when that nasty boil throbbed stop-light red and made me woozy. So weak that Mom had to bathe me. She fed me soup and tucked me into bed. And despite being so sick, I relished every moment of her care.
The next day, we went to the hospital where they lanced the boil. There was no anesthesia—just a quick incision and a pain so sharp and overwhelming I screamed until my lungs burned. Mom held my hand tightly, her voice steady, trying to reassure me through my sobs. Then came the tetanus shot in the other arm, a final indignity.
When the nurse offered me a jelly bean as a consolation, I glared, too offended to accept it.
And Mom’s advice? “Penelope, pain doesn’t last forever. It feels like it will, but it won’t. And when it passes, you’ll be stronger for it.”
I slide down the wall, collapsing to the floor as my body gives way. Hot tears burn my cheeks, deep spasms rack my lungs, and ugly, rasping, howling sobs burst from the pit of my stomach.
I’m a crumpled wreck. Just like mom’s car. Just like her body. My mother is gone. Taken from me. I’ll never see her again.
I pull my knees into my chest, gasping for air, needles of driving pain hammering down on me. The onslaught rips and tears at my heart and soul, ravaging my body so that I lift my arms to my head as if to protect myself from the blows.
Then another sound comes, breaking through the concrete tide of grief.
Rushed footsteps and hushed words as he reaches my side.
“Pen! Come here.” Tuck pulls me into the wall of his chest. “Shhh, it’s okay…let it out.”
I cling to him, spilling tears, snot, sadness, and tragedy all over his pale blue shirt.
“I have no happy memories of her.” I heave out the words between sobs. “The only remote one is being sick! And I was delirious! Maybe I even imagined it. She never loved me, Tuck. I’ll never hear her say she loved me.”
“Oh, Pen.” Tuck pulls me closer. “Of course, she loved you.”
“How could you know that?” I rasp.
“Because—” He tilts my chin, his eyes imploring. “It’s impossible not to love you. Okay? Besides, that’s not the only time she showed it, Pen. I have plenty of memories of your mother too, you know.”
I gaze up at him. Tuck’s intent face, his blue eyes soft as he strokes my hair. Tuck…a witness to my life from so long ago, over so many years. Could he really have that kind of gift for me? A memory of my mother I’ve forgotten?
“A good memory?” I question, hesitantly. “Not like when she yelled at us for trashing the kitchen or dumping our bikes on the front lawn? Or for the Zig-Zag papers she found in my pocket when she guessed we’d tried weed?”
“Nope.” Tuck gives me a gentle smile. “It’s a good one.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely,” he assures me. “It’s from the day I broke your nose.”