Chapter 16
Penelope
The morning light streams in, turning the pale pink sheets to warm copper, dancing across Tuck’s chest, which has taken on a soft golden glow.
I stand there, half-dressed, drinking him in.
It’s a perfect moment. Until he ruins it.
“That your mother’s computer?” he nods at the clunky HP desktop in the corner.
“Either that, or a contraption to display ugly doilies,” I reply, eyeing the crochet design draped over the monitor.
“You opened it yet?” he probes.
I frown, toweling my hair. “Why?”
“Your mom’s digital footprint. You’ll need to shut down her online presence.”
I snort. “Pretty sure my mother had about as much of an online presence as she did offline. Or do you think she was secretly an influencer for senior citizens? Or killing it as a middle-aged model on OnlyFans?”
He props himself onto an elbow. “I mean the accounts she had, the sites she visited, the subscriptions she signed up for. Her information doesn’t just disappear. If you don’t request removal, it stays out there. Stored, accessible. That means it could be used by scammers, like identity thieves.”
My amusement fades. “Damn, this stuff is never-ending. I can’t even keep my own email inbox under control. How am I supposed to deal with all that?”
“First step is checking her browsing history, socials, pinned sites…” Tuck takes in my slumped shoulders. “You want me to help?”
I fold my hands into a prayer sign.
He nods. “But we have to prioritize, okay? The funeral home still needs the items from her final wishes list, right? Can we go through that today? You can’t keep putting this off.”
It’s kind of surreal, Tuck’s big frame overwhelming my childhood bed. Him lecturing me about my to-do list like an eager PA after the X-rated adventures we shared last night. Like we didn’t just strip each other down to nothing, like I didn’t spend hours tangled up in him, gasping his name into the pillows.
Now here he is, focused and pragmatic, nudging me through grief with lists and logistics.
Maybe that’s what I need. Someone who won’t let me drown in it. But it’s jarring, this pivot from raw intimacy to practical duty, from heat to obligation.
“Can we at least eat first?” I sigh. “I can’t face any of it on an empty stomach.”
Tuck sits up, dropping his legs to the floor. “I’ll make breakfast on one condition.” He squints at me, his ocean-hued eyes serious. “You go find the outfit your mom requested so we can drop it off today.”
I sag onto the bed. “I haven’t been in her room yet. I’m not sure I can do it.”
“Pen, I know this is hard, but don’t you want to make a plan and deal with this stuff?”
The mild hint of exasperation in his voice riles me.
“Of course,” I answer sarcastically. “Because nothing says processing trauma like goal-setting and performance metrics. You think I should just self-motivate my way through dressing my dead mother and planning her funeral? Like some corporate exercise?”
“Whatever works to get you through.” Tuck’s amazingly unruffled by my shitty attitude. “Consider that the sooner it’s done, the better you’ll feel. Or the fact that there’s a limit to how long you can delay a funeral, Pen.”
I shrug, pulling jeans from my suitcase.
“Maybe you need a short-term reward system?” Tuck runs his fingers through his hair. “Fine. You get through the tough stuff, starting with finding your mom’s blue dress, and I’ll make your favorite pancakes.”
Now I feel like a bribed child. But whatever, I really would like pancakes.
“Maybe we could do it together?” I bargain. “After breakfast?”
“No, Pen.” Tuck shakes his head. “Breakfast is the reward. We’re here now. Her room is at the end of the hall. Let’s just get it done.”
I tilt my head. “ Blueberry pancakes?”
“Yep.”
“With maple syrup?”
“Naturally.”
“And—”
“Stop stalling!” He grabs my hands and tugs me forward. “This is just the first task. There’s still the rest of the funeral arrangements, checking what’s on that old computer, and deciding what to do with the house.”
I go limp. “The house?”
“Yeah. It’s yours now, right?” he questions. “Don’t you think that’s what’s in her will? You’ll have to decide whether to keep it, sell it, or rent it out. That’s why you have to start dealing with this, Pen. There’s a lot to figure out.”
He plants his hands on my shoulders, steering me toward the hallway. “So, let’s get started.”
It’s barely a dozen steps to her bedroom door.
I glance at Tuck for reassurance.
He gives a determined nod.
Then we step inside.
“ Ugh .” We exchange grimaces.
A putrid stench clings to the heavy air.
For a horrifying second, my mind scatters as I turn to the bed, almost expecting to see Mom’s prone body. Decaying and rotten from my neglect.
My heart slams against my ribs as I stare at the cream duvet and embroidered scatter pillows—empty. Of course, it’s empty. She’s not here. She’s across town at the funeral home. And yet, somehow, the usual powdery floral scent of my mother’s room has been overtaken by something deathly and rotten.
Tuck yanks open the curtains and pushes up the windows. Then he targets a tall jug of wilted zinnias. He lifts a fistful of flowers, revealing their stringy, slimy, brown stems. The compost-like stench intensifies.
“Ew!” I gag. “That’s disgusting.”
“I’ll get rid of them while you look for the dress,” he says.
Left alone, I shiver, the pale walls pressing in on me. All this stuff . Furniture, clothing, blankets, linen…even the view of Mom’s pampered garden out the window adds to the burden I’m suddenly feeling. That I’m responsible for all of it.
Okay, comparatively, maybe it’s not that much. Mom lived fairly simply. At least I’m not burdened with a crazy hoarder’s piles of junk.
But still, even the closet—a heavy antique that opens with the aroma of potpourri and mothballs, is a whole thing. Just the thought of pulling everything off hangers and inspecting them, piling things into categories to dump, donate, or… keep, brings a wave of nausea. And why would I keep any of it?
I reach inside, fingertips brushing against fabrics: cotton, polyester, nylon…block colors, florals, stripes. No polka dots. She hated polka dots. Why ? Now, I’ll never know.
“Found some spray,” Tuck says, stepping back in with a can of air freshener.
I nod, and he douses the air with artificial lavender.
Meanwhile, I dig deeper, through blouses, jackets, and dresses. A glimpse of powder blue catches my eye.
I reach for the crocheted hanger—the type charities tend to sell at market stalls.
Then, I lay the dress on the bed, smoothing my hands over the fabric. Rayon blend, maybe a touch of viscose. Soft, lightweight, cool against my skin. Practical elegance.
It’s definitely the kind of dress she’d appreciate. A flowy A-line skirt, fitted waist, modest V-neck, three-quarter sleeves. Not cheap, not extravagant. A Macy’s find, probably. Bought for what? A work event? Something where she wanted to look nice but not stand out.
The dress is neatly pressed, as if she always meant to wear it again. Now, it’s the last thing she ever will. I step back, a clammy sweat prickling my nape, my stomach gripping.
Tuck moves closer, wraps his arm around me, and squeezes me against his side.
I notice he’s fully dressed now, as if he, too, feels the weight of death pressing in. That strange, unspoken instinct to show respect, even though my mother has ceased to exist. Because there is no denying something of her still lingers in this room, in the hush of the house.
This house. My house?
When Tuck first said it, the words felt abstract, hollow. But now, the reality has settled in, heavy and suffocating, a responsibility I’m not ready to claim.
But I also know I have little choice. The smell of dead flowers has faded, but its message remains. Whatever I ignore, whatever I refuse to face, only stagnates. Festers. Like a painful boil ready to rupture.
It’s something I’ve worked through in therapy, this tendency to avoid the ugly parts of life. Of my past. Of myself. Sometimes, I don’t even realize what I’m capable of until it’s dissected in those expensive sessions. The way I interpret events or manipulate things. Almost like I have a built-in agenda I’m not even aware of…one that needs to be cracked open, examined, exposed.
A survival instinct? Or just some primal, animal response buried deep in my brain?
And suddenly, wrapped inside Tuck’s embrace, the warm, steady security of him, I have to wonder…Am I leaning into my helplessness just to keep him close? To stretch out our time together? Because being here with him, alone, suspended from the demands of our usual lives, is rare and precious.
And completely unsustainable.
What I do know for certain is that, eventually, he’ll leave. He’ll return to his high-flying, hectic life. And no matter how much I drag out this process of Mom’s death, I can’t keep him here forever.
And what of my real life? Right now, I feel like a spider torn from its web, ripped from the routines and environment that anchored me. I need to get back to what keeps me sane and focused. Get back to the city and far away from Blue Mountain Lake.
“You okay?” Tuck’s warm, concerned smile catches me off guard.
I nod. Because what other choice is there other than to be okay? What’s the alternative when the last thing I want to be is like my mother? Forever hiding from the world, wallowing in the one major fuck-up of her life: falling pregnant to a loser boyfriend at seventeen. And forever after condemned to living a lonely, small life.
Now I can’t wait to be free of everything. To get to the other side of her death, the funeral, and this town. To reclaim the life that I worked so hard to create.
Tuck goes to prepare breakfast. He even seems relieved when I linger behind. And he’s right—if I want to get back to the city, I need to get started on this stuff.
I sit at Mom’s computer. The screen hums to life, casting a glow over the desk.
I press my fingers where hers should be and type in her password—the one she’d neatly noted on a Post-it tucked beneath the lace doily. I guess practicality trumps security in a small town.
Opening her history, I click through to Facebook. It’s been ages since I’ve used this platform, and her feed is a blur of cute animal rescues, gardening hacks, and fitness ads. Where are the actual posts from friends? Or is it just that…she didn’t have any?
I check her profile.
Then I reel back in surprise. Holy shit: 338
What the actual? My mom, Ms. Reserved-Keep-to-Herself, had 338 friends?
Scrolling further, the answer hits me in a flood of tagged posts.
Photos. Tons of them. My mother, smiling, arms linked with other women. At fundraisers. At community events. Holding a raffle ticket, planting trees, standing behind a bake sale table. Even at a wedding, next to a radiant bride and groom, wearing her blue dress!
I blink. She’s laughing in some, hugging people in others. There’s even one of her with a Santa hat perched awkwardly on her head, surrounded by kids, their faces blurred out for privacy.
And most of it stems from the Newcombe Safe Haven page.
I hesitate, hovering over the name. Then I click, and the pinned post on their page stops me cold. It’s an image of my mother, standing beside a table draped in white linen, a microphone in hand.
The caption reads: “A tragic loss for our community. Our dear friend and longtime volunteer, Caitlyn Miller, passed away earlier this week. We are heartbroken.”
Hundreds of comments follow. And I sit back, stunned.
The roadside tribute. All those flowers. It was these women—people connected with the shelter.
I swallow.
I’d always seen my mother as a quiet woman, someone who faded into the background. But here, in these photos, she’s at the center of everything. Speaking. Leading. Loved .
Forever later, when Tuck comes to find me, I look up, dazed, falling out of this bizarre new world…of piecing together the life she built outside of me. A whole life I never knew existed.
This vibrant, smiling, impactful woman was real. And yet, she feels like a stranger, a version of my mother so foreign it’s like glimpsing a parallel world—one I had no place in.
And now, I’m the one left to close it down. To sever her ties to these people. To end her virtual life along with her physical one.
Tuck places his hands on my shoulders, wrapping me in the even rhythm of his breath, the comforting arc of his body enclosing mine, as I stare at my mother’s image, suspended on the screen.
The fabric between these multiple worlds suddenly feels flimsy and transparent. My mother smiling back at me from another dimension, forever frozen in time.
Looking into her bright eyes, I feel her all around me, her DNA embedded in every inch of this house. The years collapse in on themselves as I sit at this old study desk, drifting back to the innocent naivety of childhood, when life stretched out like an open road, endless and brimming with possibility.
I used to think reaching thirty was light-years away, filled with adventure, career, lovers…and one day, the man I would marry. The children I would have. The family I would build. My mother as a grandmother. Someday .
But life is not as infinite as it once felt. Now, fifty-five is a blink. My mother’s life, snuffed out like a birthday candle.
Life is more fragile and fleeting than I ever let myself believe. I don’t have forever. I have now.
Despite everything I’ve built—my career, my success. What do I really have? No family. Few close friends. No child. No one to pass anything down to. The contents of this house, Mom’s house, feel like the end of the line.
I always thought life was a long, steady climb, but it isn’t. It’s a collection of moments, choices, chances you either take or let slip away.
And now, I see it. I’ve spent my whole life waiting for approval, for permission, for some invisible judge to tell me I was doing it right.
But there’s no one left to judge me. Only me.
Tuck leans down to consult the screen. “So, what did you find out?”
I turn to him, and he stills, his eyes searching mine as if sensing the shift, the realization that just rewrote my future.
“Pen?” he prompts. “Did you discover anything important?”
The answer crystallizes, sharp and undeniable.
“Yes, Tuck, I did.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “I found out I want to have a baby.”