Chapter 20
Penelope
Vivian bursts out laughing.
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me!” she says, in response to my recollections of last night out with Misha. “I’ve seen the transformation firsthand. She starts the night perfectly put together, total class. But add tequila, and boom—Patrón Princess takes over. Suddenly, she’s the loudest person in the room.”
“ Loud doesn’t really do her justice,” I cringe.
“True.” Vivian agrees. “I’ve heard her out-shout a DJ, a live band, and, once, an entire New Orleans brass section.”
Tuck coughs beside me, mumbling, “But I wanna bet she didn’t end the night halfway up an oak tree.”
I swiftly elbow his ribs and turn back to Vivian. She’s refreshingly down-to-earth for a born-and-bred LA girl. It’s clear Brady has finally met his match.
Meanwhile, I have no idea what’s going on between him and Tuck. They clammed up faster than a cartel informant in a police raid when I interrupted their BBQ-side powwow.
No matter. I’ll find out soon enough…When I have my way with Tuck.
Though at this rate, I might need a breather from his constant attentiveness. Pulling out my chair like a five-star restaurant waiter. Topping up my mineral water. Now he’s passing me the beetroot salad like some kind of doting ma?tre d’.
“Thanks?” I raise an eyebrow, considering my plate is already one forkful away from overflowing.
Just the usual spread at Nora and Harvey’s, of course—tons of incredible food and wine, good music, great company.
I pass the salad on to Molly’s mother, Violet, who rushed in just seconds ago, full of apologies and laden with a bottle of wine and a container with “ a special treat .”
She flashes me a smile. “Make sure you leave room for dessert. Our pastry chef at Monarch Mansion is amazing. Her peanut butter parfait with chocolate, roasted peanuts and salted caramel is to die for!” She winks.
My eyes widen. “That sounds dangerously good,” I agree. “And—you’re the events manager there? The ‘wedding wizard’ Mia raves about?”
She gives a tight smile, fixing me with gray eyes. “Well, I certainly hope to earn that title! And you are the incredible New York designer, Penelope Miller. I loved your store in the West Village. I stopped by all the time when I had my own business in the city. But after moving here, I don’t get to visit much.”
I blink, caught off guard. “That’s so nice! How long ago did you move to Blue Mountain Lake?”
What I really want to ask is: “ Why the hell would you leave the city for here?” But that seems a little extreme, given the contingent of steadfast locals at the table.
“Let’s see…it must be over a year now, huh, Molly?”
“Year and a half,” Molly confirms. “The first year was rough, but it’s way better now.”
Violet gives a wry smile. “They say moving’s up there with divorce and public speaking. And yep, I can confirm it’s no joke. But totally worth it. Way fewer sirens, way more treehouses. Molly’s doing great, and I haven’t yelled at a cab in months.”
“Absolutely.” Vivian chimes in. “I mean, LA is way more laid-back than New York, but the lifestyle here feels…more authentic, I guess. Plus, the people—that’s what really makes it feel like home. Right, Finn?”
Finn nods through a massive mouthful of steak and potatoes, then adds a thumbs-up for good measure.
The conversation drifts on, and Violet leans in with a conspiratorial smile.
“Mia’s being so tight-lipped about the wedding dress! I begged for details, but she won’t budge. I get it—top secret and all. I bet it’s going to be incredible .”
I force a smile.
“Can you believe it’s only weeks away?” She exhales. “At this point, I dream in logistics—weather reports, seating arrangements, every possible disaster unfolding in my sleep. But your part will be done well ahead of time, so you can relax.”
I wrestle my face into something hopefully resembling a calm composure. “Oh, yeah. Totally.”
But my gut isn’t just digesting perfectly cooked prime steak. It’s gurgling with pure anxiety. Mia’s wedding dress. Shit. This dress can’t rank as something just acceptable. There are expectations I have to live up to. Somehow.
With Mom’s death, my life is upended. Everything feels like a mess. I keep telling myself it’ll all come together. Inspiration will strike, that I’ll elevate the dress into something worthy of Mia Madson’s movie-star status. That I won’t let her down. That I won’t embarrass myself by failing the brief.
The brief. That’s half the problem, now that I think about it.
Mia told me to follow my creativity wherever it leads. But any designer—any artist—needs structure. Parameters. A framework to push against. When the sky’s the limit, it’s harder to find the tiny threads of inspiration that weave into something bigger. Without boundaries, there’s nothing to push toward. No tension to shape the vision. And right now, I’m grasping at air.
I glance over the table. Despite its oversized dimensions, it feels cramped with eleven of us squeezed around it. Or maybe it’s just me…boxed in by wedding talk that only reminds me how much is riding on Mia’s dress. And how much I’m neglecting the tasks that are piling up back home.
Because it’s not just the wedding dress that has me on edge; it’s my entire business. Every day I spend away from my studio, the work stacks higher, deadlines inch closer, and the risk of falling behind grows.
And yet, here I am. Stuck between funeral arrangements, Mom’s empty house, and the nagging guilt of indulging in long lunches and karaoke nights, no matter how fun they might be.
I envy the lighter conversation happening down the table. Brady and Harvey are relentlessly teasing Finn about thinking “Led Zep” was a guy named “Ed Zeppelin”. And Vivian and Nora are discussing fermented soda recipes for the restaurant.
That takes me back. Nora’s been brewing her own concoctions for decades. When we were kids, we had to master the art of opening her particularly volatile grape soda without setting off a fizzy explosion.
Kind of like my life right now: volatile . Bubbling away like some oversized cauldron of emotions, threatening to spill over at any moment.
The funeral is two days away. And in between arrangements, I’ve been meeting with the women whose lives my mother touched through her volunteer work at Safe Haven.
Women who arrived there after fleeing abusive relationships with kids in tow. Women who found themselves pregnant and alone, with no resources and nowhere to turn. Women who made the impossible choice to give up their babies, hoping to give them a better future.
So Tuck’s wrong. I’m not taking the idea of having a baby lightly. Not even close. I’ve seen firsthand what happens when someone doesn’t have support, when the difference between raising a child in a safe, loving environment or barely surviving comes down to circumstance.
And yet, in my sleep-deprived desperation last night, I somehow agreed to what ? Some ridiculous scheme where Tuck gets to influence my decision? And to stay in this town for another week? The thought elevates my anxiety even more.
Then again, I need time to settle Mom’s estate. Realistically, I wouldn’t be leaving just yet anyway. So what the hell? I get sex and pancakes on tap for a bit longer. There are worse fates.
As if sensing my shifting thoughts, Tuck’s thigh presses against mine.
The cramped seating does have its perks: tiny, charged moments of contact, the occasional bump of elbows, a lingering glimpse of his freshly shaved jaw, the light mass of fair chest hair visible at his collar. Even his damn earlobes are distractingly perfect.
“Pen?”
I blink. “Huh?”
Tuck’s mouth tilts into a knowing smirk. “Still got an appetite?” His deep, rasping voice drags over my skin like a slow burn. “Can I…offer you anything else?”
“Oh.” I sit up straighter. “I’m, uh, saving myself for dessert.”
“That right?” His gaze darkens, amusement flickering beneath something deliciously more dangerous.
My pulse stutters.
His hand finds my thigh, fingers just resting there, warm, possessive. And it’s all I can do not to shift, not to let him know exactly how willing my body is to give him whatever he wants.
Then, with a jolt, I notice Brady’s eyes flicking between me and Tuck, a perplexed look on his face. Then Nora rises to collect plates, and I spring up too, nearly toppling my wine—and in my rush, jamming Tuck’s hand against the table with my knee.
“ Ow. ” He groans, flexing his fingers.
I glare at him like it’s his fault I’m this flustered, then snatch his plate away.
“I was still eating that—”
I ignore that, quickly following Nora and Susan to the kitchen, our arms stacked high with bowls of slim left-overs and empty plates.
“I’ll get coffee started?” Vivian offers, joining us.
“Yes, but maybe more wine first?” Nora suggests, already moving toward the fridge. “Harvey, open something, won’t you?”
At the sink, I settle in beside Susan, and we fall into an easy rhythm—rinsing, stacking, passing dishes into the dishwasher.
Through the open window, laughter drifts in from outside. Brady has recruited Finn and Molly to help clean the grill, their teasing and banter carrying on the breeze.
Susan wipes her hands on a dish towel, watching them for a moment. Then she shakes her head with a small smile. “So like you and Tuck at that age,” she muses.
I smile back. “Except Finn is the total spitting image of Brady, don’t you think?”
“Yes…” Her eyes crinkle with fondness. “But it was always you and Tuck with your heads together, blonde boy and dark-haired girl, always hatching plans.”
I pause, swept away with her warm sentiment. It’s a small thing, but it feels like she’s including me in something precious and nostalgic.
Then Nora’s voice cuts through the moment.
“Harvey! What are you digging around for now?” she snaps. “Where’s the wine?”
He’s rummaging with clear intent, shifting jars of homemade preserves and a wedge of cheese before finally retrieving a small, sealed vial.
Nora groans. “You can’t be serious. Now ? We’re about to have dessert.”
Harvey shuts the fridge with his elbow, holding up the vial. “It’s the perfect time,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Hormone levels are right on track, and I don’t want to waste a good dose.”
I pause mid-rinse, my curiosity piqued. “A good dose of what?”
Harvey pops open a drawer and grabs a catheter, setting it beside the vial on the counter. “Semen. For the sow,” he answers casually, like he’s talking about a sourdough starter.
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
Oblivious to my reaction, Harvey launches into an explanation, detailing the challenges of breeding heritage pigs for ethical meat production.
“See, timing’s key. The sow’s at peak fertility for a narrow window, so you have to catch it just right. Then you insert this here—” He gestures to the catheter. “And let the magic happen.”
Nora shakes her head as Tuck appears, having gathered the last of the condiments from the table. She hands him a bottle of red. “Open that, please, honey. Harvey’s busy servicing the pig.”
Tuck stops mid-reach, his head jerking in amused disbelief. “Servicing the—?”
I barely suppress a laugh. “Apparently, Harvey’s heritage pig is ovulating. He’s got a whole clinical process for making sure she gets pregnant.”
Tuck’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh yeah? Taking notes, Pen?”
I stare at him, heat rushing to my face. “You’re hilarious.”
He smirks. “What? The romance of artificial insemination not quite working for you?”
Harvey, still focused on his task, doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, sure, there’s foreplay,” he says matter-of-factly.
Tuck chokes on a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry.” Susan raises her hands in surrender, “I’m out. I think I’ll join Vivian and Violet back at the table for some less stimulating conversation.” She beats a swift retreat from the kitchen.
Harvey’s completely unfazed. “Yeah, Gretel —that’s the sow. She gets to see the boar first. Visual stimulation helps get the hormones flowing. And we apply a non-spermicidal lubricant. After all, a pig’s penis isn’t exactly the most comfortable fit.” He holds up the spiral-tipped catheter, wiggling it slightly.
I gasp. It looks alarmingly similar to the end of the corkscrew Tuck’s holding.
“A lot of inseminators prefer the spiral tips since they lock in, mimicking the boar,” Harvey continues. “Helps reduce backflow, increases efficiency.”
My vision prickles with stars as I reach for the benchtop.
“It’s all about timing and technique. A well-placed dose and…” Harvey snaps his fingers. “Piglets in three months. That’s the beauty of it. Multiple births.”
My knees sag.
Nora sighs, plucking the bottle of wine from Tuck’s grip. “For the love of God, let’s just have dessert before we’re all traumatized.”
The kitchen tilts before me, my thoughts tangling into a sickening whirlpool of “spiral tips”, “backflow”, “multiple births…”
Then Tuck is there, crossing the kitchen in a flash, his hand firm against my back.
“Pen, are you okay?”