Chapter 8
Penelope
Hurt
Bereft
Yes. I really do hurt. A very deep and ugly hurt.
Bereft ? A kind of strange, rarely used word that has sprung from the recesses of my mind to weave itself into the aching parts of me.
It relates to something lost. Taken. Stolen.
I guess that rings true since even my fitful sleep is filled with strange dreams of wandering through empty rooms searching for something I can’t define.
I mean, of course, it’s about my mother. She’s dead. Gone. Swept from my life. I can’t even begin to verbalize what that actually means to me.
Even though it’s not like she was a part of my daily life or considerations. We spoke occasionally—on our birthdays and most holidays. I visited rarely. Thought about her now and again. She came to see me in New York just once.
Now, I’m back here. In the single bed from my childhood. Encased within the pastel green walls I painted as a teenager, adorned with old posters curled at the edges, and boxes of things from my past I can’t bring myself to look through. The only update to the room is the HP computer and stack trays filled with notebooks and documents on my old pine desk.
At some point, my bedroom became Mom’s study.
I picture her in here, perched on the worn tapestry cushion on the hard wooden chair, paying her bills, googling garden advice, perhaps? Reading up on who knows what…I couldn’t guess.
A woman I don’t even know. My mother. How can you grieve for someone you don’t understand? I can’t even hate her for leaving me like this, for dying before I could figure her out. How do you hate a stranger?
And these stupid therapeutic exercises. What’s the point of crossing through “hurt” with a red pen? What’s the opposite of hurt, anyway? Heal ? Is that what I’m expected to do? To find some miraculous way to turn this ache into something softer, something positive? But how do you heal when the source of the pain is a void?
What else do I feel? Not creative, that’s for sure. Usually, work is the answer when my emotions get fraught and tangled. Channeling my feelings into creativity, turning the chaos in my mind into something tangible and beautiful. But I’m the opposite of creative right now. Whatever that might be.
I idly tap that query into Google and get my answer:
“Creative has to do with new things coming into being: creative is the opposite of ‘destructive’.”
Huh. If I don’t feel creative, do I actually feel “destructive”? Well…I do feel strangely compelled to rip something apart. Like this house, stamped with my childhood and Mom’s whole life. With remnants of my grandparents—the cross by the door, the lace curtains by the kitchen window, the old facets and worn carpets.
And this room. I could raze all of it and feel no regret, only cathartic relief.
Damn. All this digging around into my emotions is exhausting.
Destructive
Exhausted
Stuck
Abandoned
But it’s not just my mother’s death that has caused my creativity to go AWOL. It’s all about my most pressing project: Mia Madson’s wedding dress.
Ugh . Why didn’t I listen to my gut? There are entire ateliers dedicated to wedding gowns for a reason. But I couldn’t say no to Mason. And now, here I am, at the lowest point of my life, with something essential ripped from the fabric of my existence, and my creative spark has abandoned me.
And it’s true. Tuck’s right that Mia’s dress isn’t all it could be. My inspiration took a backseat to form and practicality. It’s beautiful, yes. But something’s lacking. I really didn’t want to admit it…but Tuck made sure I knew.
Tuck. In his infinite ability to complicate my life, he didn’t just critique my design, he threw out an entirely new set of issues to untangle. Like how my mother fought to keep me away from child services. How she was desperate to hold on to me, even though she never hesitated to remind me of everything she lost out on because of me. Everything from not going to college to why she returned to Blue Mountain Lake.
And, oh, let’s not forget Tuck’s casual, throwaway question—about why we’ve never given “it a shot” at being a real couple?
What the hell? As if we can simply erase all our messy history and pretend ourselves into something as neatly packaged as a proper relationship?
We’re not couple material. I can’t even imagine being Tuck’s girlfriend—it’s ridiculous, borderline offensive even. Especially since his girlfriends never last more than three years before vanishing into an abyss. He doesn’t fight for those relationships. He doesn’t seem to value them enough to try harder. So why would he bring up such a ludicrous idea to me ?
I always felt what we had was unique, untouchable. And just thinking about it in those simplistic terms stirs my hurt into a raging ball of fury. How dare he try to flippantly use me as a rebound fling! How dare he threaten to ruin the one reliable relationship of my life! Does he not appreciate what we have the way I do? What the fuck?!
Furious
Bitter
MAD AS HELL!
Screw this game of forcing my feelings into something they’re not. I don’t want to ignore these destructive thoughts—I want to let them take over, let them spread. Coat the raw ache inside me like a layer of hard shellac, sealing everything beneath it.
It’s like a superpower, this anger. The more I feed it, the stronger it gets.
I ruminate on Tuck’s outlandish suggestion, my failure as a designer—unable to make a dress worthy of Mia Madson. My failure as a daughter who never understood her mother, whose father never came looking for her once he had his new family to love…marrying a woman with kids that aren’t even his, but are apparently more worthy than me.
The anger and self-hatred build and solidify. It helps dissipate the threatening tears as I step into the shower and reach for the soap my mother used before she died, dry off with the towel she laundered, stand on the bath mat where she once stood, and gaze into the mirror that reflected her face.
It keeps me firmly distanced even as I note her features in mine: fair skin, full bottom lip, slightly upturned nose. And then the parts that aren’t—the dark brown eyes and defined brows from my asshole father who is long gone.
Then I see Mom’s hairbrush. I touch the strands of soft gray. When did she stop dying her hair?
My blood thickens. A heavy weight spreads through my limbs.
How am I supposed to accept these remnants of her are all that’s left? What am I even supposed to do with all these things—a house filled with possessions that are meaningless to anyone else?
Then, just as I’m contemplating the sparse contents of Mom’s pantry, Tuck arrives. All country casual in jeans and boots, tousled hair, and a soft T-shirt that clings in ways I can’t unsee. It’s disarming, almost boyish, and I feel the familiar tug of attraction.
No . He doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to breeze in, all relaxed charm, like everything between us is fine—like we could slip into a new category as easily as switching a card game from Big Two to Poker.
And yet, here in Blue Mountain Lake, there’s no avoiding him.
He’s right next door…and seemingly hellbent on “helping me through this”, as he mentioned last night over dinner with his parents. After I thanked them for offering their guest bedroom, but insisted on staying at Mom’s place.
No regrets there. I knew I’d made the right choice when Susan pulled out a to-do list for planning a funeral, and I told them there wouldn’t be one.
The silence that followed made it clear—they were taken aback. Shocked, even.
Tuck, ever the mediator, suggested I sleep on it. Then he pushed ahead, planning our visit to the funeral home today like it’s all already decided.
But instead of letting his presence unsteady me, I grip onto my newfound superpower. This bristling, restless energy inside me—raw and ready to strike.
I hold onto its swirling darkness as we grab takeout coffee and blueberry muffins from Déja Brew. I cling to it even as the soft blue morning sky, dotted with cotton-ball clouds, reflects over the lake, where canoes, kayaks, and paddleboarders drift across the glassy surface.
It’s a palette worthy of a Monet painting.
The air is pine-fresh, the coffee floral and nutty, and the buttery sweetness of the muffin tingles on my tongue.
But still, I don’t let go. Because all that beauty and warmth is disconcerting.
My mother is dead. Cold and unfeeling, even as the sun radiates over the peaked mountaintops and projects sparkles of silver off the pristine lake.
I feed the anger, stoking it with my irritation at Tuck’s constant glances—measuring my mood like a high-stakes gambler reading the table, searching for the slightest tell.
I wallow in all the ways we are incompatible…his long history of dating tall, honey-blonde, confident types who, unlike me, have never had to grapple with their ability to fit in; to struggle with bouts of paralyzing insecurity; or the ingrained unworthiness that comes from having—literally and figuratively—absent parents.
Because how else am I supposed to walk into the hushed white funeral home where my mother lies?
How else do I face John Feldman, her boss of more than twenty years, who arranged to meet us? How else do I just stand here, nodding at his condolences, when I feel like I should be offering them to him?
Because John looks appropriately grief-stricken, his hand pressing against his chest as he speaks. “Life is so unpredictable,” he says. “She didn’t deserve this.”
No, she didn’t.
And yet, here we are.
I drift out for a moment as his next words jolt me back.
“…following the will reading at your convenience,” John says, averting his gaze to the hovering funeral director. “And, of course, there are the burial arrangements—”
Her will ? I never considered that. Even though it makes total sense. Mom worked for a lawyer, after all.
“It’s good she had her affairs in order,” I concede. “But there actually won’t be a funeral service as such—”
“ Oh ?” John looks between Tuck and me, a deep frown etching his face as he reaches into his jacket. “But I have her last wishes request right here. That’s why I thought it best to meet you here today. I know you need to make the arrangements, and Caitlyn provided all the details —the coffin, burial clothes, the service. It will make it much easier for you, Penelope.”
I glance at Tuck as I silently accept the document.
Then I stare at the typed header: “Caitlyn Miller’s Last Wishes.”
I swallow, my mouth dry and scratchy like I’ve eaten a lump of baking soda.
“Easier” for me : it’s supposed to be a comfort, but it feels more like an accusation. I need things made easier because I wouldn’t know where to start to fulfill my mother’s wishes.
The words blur…my hands trembling as I grip the paper. The irrefutable proof that she’s really gone.
Tuck shifts beside me, his hand lightly brushing my arm.
“I didn’t realize,” I say, my voice low, shaky, “that she made all these decisions…” I trail off.
John clears his throat. “Your mother just wanted you to have peace of mind, Penelope.”
But no part of this feels like “peace of mind ” . The weight of her wishes is heavy in my hands. The finality of it all settles around me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m somehow failing her—failing to handle this with the grace she deserves.
Then I feel Tuck’s hand on my back. I lean into him, the steady warmth of his body, solid and reliable, so that the floor beneath me has stopped shifting. For a moment, my aching heart softens with trust and relief. He’s always been there for me. No matter what.
Except now, that refuge feels under threat.
His rogue suggestion that we could be more than what we are—more than what we’ve always been—undermines everything I thought we had together.
I thought what we had was different. Safe. Something separate from the expectations and inevitable unraveling of romantic games and tactics. But if he sees me like every other woman in his life, then maybe I was wrong.
And that terrifies me more than losing him ever should.