Chapter 13
Tuck
“Penelope, I’m so sorry! I should have warned you,” Mom’s voice wavers. “I didn’t know you wanted to see the site where she…where it happened. That must have been such a terrible shock.”
“It’s fine, Susan. I’m fine, really,” Pen says.
Her face tells a different story, her dark eyes unfocused, her mouth pressed into a bloodless line.
“I just…I didn’t expect it to be so obvious,” she says, voice unsteady. “We were talking on the way to Newcombe, and I didn’t even notice it. And then, coming back—” She shakes her head, eyes darting as if replaying the moment. “All those flowers. All those tributes. It’s so…unexpected.”
Mom nods sympathetically as she tops up Pen’s glass of water. “It’s been a shock for the whole community, Penelope. And people need a way to express their grief. Which reminds me—” Her eyes flick to the kitchen. “My freezer is bursting at the seams with all the homemade meals Beatrice Kennedy dropped off for you earlier.”
“What?” Pen’s head snaps up. “As in Becky’s sister , Beatrice?”
“That’s right!” Mom smiles. “She said Becky sends her condolences, too—she’s living abroad…Spain, I think? Beatrice took charge of gathering donations from some of your old friends. Everything’s labeled: lasagna, pumpkin soup, meatloaf, casserole…even a freshly baked apple and rhubarb strudel.”
Pen chews her lip, saying nothing.
Then, Dad steps in, offering his specialty margarita, and she’s quick to accept.
“God, yes.” She exhales.
Drinks in hand, we progress to the porch, watching on as Mom waters the garden. Dad offers her advice as we take in the streaky dusk sky and their gentle bickering blends with the sounds of settling bird calls.
But Pen stays quiet, lost in thought.
Eventually, she sets her drink aside, reaching for her phone. She scrolls through her camera roll, then hands it to me.
“Is it weird I took pictures?” she asks.
“No, of course not,” I reply.
But as I flick through image after image of the tree, the flowers, the notes left behind, I start to wonder.
Maybe it is strange. Or maybe it’s just her way of processing the reality of her loss.
She still hasn’t seen her mom’s body. Maybe these photos are her way of trying to grasp what’s happened—proof, in pixels, that her mother is really gone.
Over dinner, Pen becomes a little more chatty, asking Mom about a women’s shelter in Newcombe.
“It’s not actually in the township,” Mom explains. “The address is kept confidential for safety reasons. Domestic violence, custody disputes—there are a lot of situations where women need a secure place to go.”
Dad nods. “Even though times have changed…we have a pregnant student at Blue Mountain High, and another raising an infant. But single mothers, especially minors, still face so many challenges. Well, I don’t have to tell you, Penelope.”
“What do you mean?” Pen asks, pausing mid-motion, her fork hovering over the small portion of potato salad on her plate.
Dad hesitates, glancing at Mom for backup. She does her signature deep breath and eye flutter—classic signs that he’s put his foot in it.
“I think Keith is referring to your mother’s struggles,” Mom says, gently. “You know your father was…troubled. I imagine Caitlyn had a hard time staying with him as long as she did. And it wasn’t until your grandfather passed away that she finally came back to Blue Mountain Lake. Your grandmother wasn’t exactly thrilled at first, but she did the right thing, taking in your mother and you.”
Pen doesn’t say anything right away, just keeps staring at her plate.
“I remember Mom and Dad’s arguments,” she says, finally, her voice thin. “The cheating, the drinking. I mean, Dad could be so much fun…but even when he was in a good mood, there was always something beneath it. Like a clear sky before a storm. You couldn’t relax because you could sense it brewing, even before it crashed into life, disrupting everything.”
She presses her thumb against her temple, and I notice the weariness in her eyes.
“You think Mom deliberately came back after my grandfather died? That he would have refused to help us?” she asks tentatively.
Mom takes a moment, as if choosing her words carefully.
“Your grandparents were very religious, Penelope. I don’t think he turned his back on your mother out of malice. He was a proud man, deeply anchored in his beliefs. It’s just…sad that he couldn’t find a way to reconcile with her before he passed.”
Mom exhales softly. “Your grandmother was strong-minded too, but when you came into her life, she softened. She adored you, Penelope. I believe your grandfather would have too, if only he had let himself.”
Pen gives a tight smile. “Grandma was actually good to me. She taught me to sew on her old Singer machine. Crochet, too. But…while we’re on the subject—” Her voice has a challenging edge. “Why do you think my mother was so cold and unfeeling?”
Mom, caught off guard, sets down her cutlery. She and Dad exchange a glance.
“Pen, I’m not sure that’s how we saw your mom—” I start.
But she cuts me off with a sharp, cynical smile. “Oh, no? Tuck, do you know who helped me when I got my first period?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Susan. I went to her at school when it happened. Do you remember?” She turns to Mom.
Mom presses her lips together and nods.
Dad sighs, swiping a napkin over his face.
“My mother never told me a damn thing about what to expect,” Pen says, voice taut. “All she cared about after that life milestone was making sure I didn’t get pregnant. And that I studied hard enough to get out of this town, away from her.”
“Oh, Penelope, I don’t think that’s quite right,” Mom says.
But Pen barrels on.
“She wasn’t even friends with you, Susan, and you lived right next door! She wasn’t friends with anyone. ” Her eyes flash. “So what I want to know is, who the hell left all those flowers at the crash site?”
Pen folds her arms, defiant. “She never went anywhere besides home, work, and the grocery store. No hobbies. No interests. So where did all those messages come from?”
She yanks out her phone, scrolling furiously before reading aloud, her voice laced with disbelief.
“ An angel on earth, fly high! I will never forget your warmth and compassion. Love, Angie and Paul. ”
“ You were my strength when I had no one. I will remember you forever. Minnie. ”
“ Caitlyn, your generosity and strong spirit kept me going whenever I wanted to cave. My heart is broken. Belinda. ”
Pen looks up, her eyes burning with intent. “Who was this woman? Because that doesn’t sound anything like my mother.”
I can tell this isn’t going anywhere. “Pen, it’s been a long day. How about we clean up and you get some sleep?”
For a second, she looks like she might argue, still wired, still determined to press her point. But then her gaze drifts over the table. She pushes back her chair, considering.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Mom says firmly. “It’s an emotional time.”
We clear the table, and Mom retrieves the donated food from the freezer, despite Pen’s protests. Soon, I’m walking Pen next door, arms loaded with plastic containers.
“It’s ridiculous,” she mutters. “What ‘old friends’? Don’t you remember how mean those girls were to me in school?”
“I do,” I admit. “But no one’s at their peak in high school. Ever consider they might regret who they were back then, too?”
She shrugs, taking the strudel from my stack while I attempt to wedge everything into the freezer, packing as tightly as a Jenga set to fit it all in.
Meanwhile, Pen uncovers the strudel and pulls out a pair of shot glasses.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“It’s tradition,” she declares. “You’re not allowed to eat strudel without whiskey shots. It’s the law in…Germany? Austria? Yeah, pretty sure it’s compulsory in Austria.”
“Or what? The strudel police show up and haul you away?”
Pen finishes pouring and raises her glass. “C’mon.”
I hesitate.
“Tuck, you’re a sophisticated guy—don’t be so culturally insensitive,” she chides. “No strudel without whiskey.”
“I haven’t eaten any strudel.”
She snaps off a wedge of pastry crust, leans in, and waves it over my lips. “ Open .”
I do. And the sweet, tart fruit and buttery pastry melt in my mouth.
“And now the whiskey!” she commands.
We clink glasses. As I reach for a napkin to wipe my mouth, she points accusingly.
“Hey! Seven years bad sex if you don’t hold eye contact through the toast.”
I freeze mid-wipe. “That a fact?”
“Swear on my Austrian heritage,” she says solemnly.
“First I’m hearing of that. Aren’t most Austrians blonde and blue-eyed?”
“ Ugh . Discriminatory, Tuck. Honestly.”
We reenact the toast, this time with deliberately exaggerated eye contact, both of us holding it for an absurdly long moment until Pen snorts into her glass.
She’s practically buzzing with mischief now, a complete shift from the grief and barely contained anger earlier. I guess emotions don’t move in a straight line—except Pen’s evolve so fast, it’s like you gotta stand back to avoid whiplash.
She hops onto the benchtop, swinging her legs as she refills our glasses. Just as she lifts a generous handful of strudel to her mouth, the filling spills onto the draping neckline of her top, a deep purple stain blooming against the fabric.
“Damn it,” she mutters, dragging a finger through the mess and sticking it in her mouth.
“Glad you don’t play on pretense around me, Pen,” I smirk. “All you need now is a can of whipped cream to spray directly down your throat.”
She rolls her eyes. “I love this top. You think the stain will come out?”
“Only if you soak it now. Cold water.”
She slumps her shoulders. “Tomorrow?”
“No. It’ll be set by then. Here, lift your arms.” I motion.
She shoves the last of the pastry into her mouth, chews, and then sighs dramatically before obliging.
I grab the hem of her top, lifting slowly. Her stomach is smooth, satin-soft under the dim kitchen light. The lace trim of her pink bra peeks into view, her breasts pressing together as she raises her arms. She wiggles impatiently, snapping me out of whatever momentary lapse I’m having, and I pull the top free.
I carry it to the sink, inspecting the stain. Running the cold water, I spot a bottle of ever-reliable Dawn detergent and dab at the fabric before letting it soak.
By the time I turn back, we’re onto another shot, another bite of strudel. She feeds me, her fingers brushing my lips, and I wonder where this mood, this energy, might take us tonight.
Then, her gaze wanders past me, scanning the lounge and dining room. Her expression darkens.
“This place is depressing,” she complains, waving a hand at the blank walls and heavy-set furniture. “So bland. I just want to throw paint at it, rip down those crappy curtains, tear up the carpet.”
Her hands ball into fists. “I want to make a goddamn mess. Break something, shatter something—” She exhales sharply, her shoulders rising and falling. “But you could pummel a football through this empty space and it wouldn’t hit a damn thing. It’s so…bare. Unlived in.”
She picks at the dark, chewy edges of the strudel, licking the remnants from her fingers. Then she flashes me a devastating smile.
Arousal stirs—just like that. The flick of her dark hair, the way a few strands cling to her soft skin. The flake of pastry at the corner of her curving mouth. The tilt of her chin as she clocks my interest, eyes gleaming with something knowing, something cunning.
Her fingers return to the pastry. I follow her movement as she breaches the delicate layers, sinking into the crimson filling. Another finger joins, then her thumb, lifting a hunk of warm, crumbling sweetness.
Except she doesn’t take a bite.
Instead, she lowers her hand, presses it to her chest, and crushes the oozing strudel into the swell of her cleavage.
She meets my gaze, moistens her lips. “More strudel?”
I don’t trust my voice against my thick throat. Instead, I reach out, fingers tangling in the coiled knot of hair at the nape of her neck, roughly tugging her head back. I take a long moment to study her—her tempting mouth, her flushed skin, the rise and fall of her breath. Then I lower my head, my lips tracing the streak of dessert spread across her chest.
Pen gasps as I drag my tongue over her warm skin, the crumbling pastry, sweet fruit, and the scent of her skin filling my mouth.
I unhook her bra and edge it from her shoulders. Pen blindly shoves her hand back into the pie, adding more mixture to the valley between her breasts…to the erect tips of her rosy nipples.
I suck one clean, then the other as I unbutton her jeans.
Then I get a smack of strudel to the chest.
“ Oops. ” Pen grins mischievously. “I guess that better soak, too.”
I pull my shirt over my head in one movement, drop it to the floor, and continue my progress on removing what’s left of Pen’s clothing. I want naked. Completely. I want to lay her out on this bench and taste every inch of her.
Down to her panties…she spreads her legs. I toss the remnants of the pastry out of the way—across to the adjacent benchtop. The last dregs of whiskey get upended with a crash to the floor as Pen lays back, writhing with impatience.
I undo my pants as she lifts to her elbows, staring at me with open lust. I grab her thighs and drag her to the edge of the bench. Rip her panties free.
“Condom.” She pants.
“I know.”
I fish for one and prepare, my dick straining with urgency.
What I want is to fuck her hard and fast.
But I won’t .
I’m going to make this last.