Chapter 37
Penelope
It’s bad.
Way worse than I anticipated.
So bad that the panic is clenching at my intestines like a fist. Like, I might actually throw up.
It goes beyond the studio.
Now that I’ve finally opened all my neglected emails, I realize my apartment’s caught in the price hike, too—up twenty percent. Twenty percent! Is that even legal? Holy hell.
I stare at the spreadsheet bleeding red across my screen. Where the hell am I supposed to find the money for another year?
My fingers automatically search for the band on my wrist. Gosh, it probably wasn’t even the knife blade to blame for its demise. More likely, those threads unraveled under the weight of my constant negativity.
Shit. I always knew I was an emotional mess. But I had two things going for me: my business and New York. Or so I thought.
This is what you get when you ignore financial statements for months on end. My whole life is slipping through the cracks.
What would Mom think of this disaster? The apartment she bragged about, the one she sent photos of to Dad and his wife as proof I’d made it, potentially gone. The business she always said I was too sharp to let fail? Crumbling under the weight of my own blind ambition.
Turns out that eco-fabrics and noble mission statements don’t pay the rent. And if I lose the apartment, what then? Do I downsize? Move to a cheaper neighborhood? Find some cramped little box where I can pretend I don’t see the walls closing in?
The thought of scouring the city for a new place, of signing away my independence in exchange for something lesser, something less me—is completely, utterly soul-crushing.
I push off the seat, pacing the hall, arms wrapped tight around my chest. So stupid. So irresponsible. How could I have been so blind, so reckless, to let things spiral into this financial avalanche?
I stalk into the kitchen, pour a glass of water with shaky hands, and stare out at the house next door. Keith is outside, watering their yard, his gaze fixed on Mom’s precious dahlias. Their drooping stalks and unhealthy hue make them look about how I feel.
Keith lifts his head as I wander aimlessly outside, my shoulders slumped, my grip tight around the glass.
“Might need staking,” he says, nodding toward the sad-looking dahlias. “Caitlyn used to clip them ‘round this time of year—said it’d help them bloom stronger.”
I glance at the garden. The overgrown flower beds, the patchy grass. Somehow, it feels like a tragic metaphor for my entire life.
“Yeah…” My voice is hollow. “I’ve kind of neglected everything. She wouldn’t be impressed.”
Keith studies me, his weathered face full of quiet patience. “Penelope,” he says in a firm voice, “you came back here and handled things nobody ever wants to face. You did right by your mom. She’d be nothing but proud of you.”
I straighten slightly. Is he serious? Does he have any clue how much I’ve messed up? That his son, his amazing, steady, patient son, deserves so much better than the emotional whiplash I’ve put him through?
And despite everything, Tuck is striving to handle my tanking business, unaware how far my fuckups extend. Not yet knowing my apartment will soon be gone, too. That I’ll be dragging my things to some grim little dive in Tremont where I’ll have to triple-bolt the door at night.
“That’s nice of you to say, Keith,” I mumble, picking at a faded, limp leaf. “But I’ve—I’ve made a lot of mistakes.” The words spill out, unchecked. “I don’t know what direction I’m going in, what I want. And I put everything into my work, but only the creative side. I let the business part of it fall apart, which Mom would be so disappointed about. She always said to budget and never overextend. She didn’t even own a credit card.”
Keith’s thick eyebrows pull together in an expression of sympathy I don’t deserve.
I let out a hollow laugh. “And I’ve ignored people. Important people. I’ve hurt them because I was too wrapped up in myself to consider their needs. And then—” My breath catches. “Then I decided I could be a mother. As if I have the slightest clue what it takes. What the hell kind of credentials do I have to be a parent?”
Keith sets down the hose, rubbing his hands together. “You know,” he says, looking over the garden thoughtfully, “I do a lot of research on how to support my students. And this one concept stuck with me—because after decades of teaching, I think it’s dead-on.”
I sip my water, waiting, appreciating the way Keith speaks—unhurried, like we have all the time in the world to solve things. Even though I have no clue how this relates to my messed-up life.
“It’s an analogy to explain personal traits,” he continues. “That some people are delicate like orchids—or like these dahlias.” He gives the wilted plants a look of sympathy. “They thrive and succeed only if they’re carefully cultivated. Add any form of stress, or neglect them, and they will most likely fail.”
I blink. “Okay—”
“Then there are the resilient ones,” he muses, scanning the yard. “The ones that survive even in the toughest conditions—like dandelions.”
“‘Dandilions’?” I repeat. “Aren’t they a weed?”
“Well, quite a pretty weed…even contains medicinal properties,” he qualifies. “They can take root anywhere, even crack through cement. Their roots dig deep—some go down fifteen feet. And they have a long lifespan. A dandelion you spot in a playground could be older than the kids running past it. Tough little things.”
He scratches his nose. “Anyway, I see those separate qualities reflected in my students. It explains why kids from the same family can have totally different behavior patterns. And whenever I think of the resilient type of kid…I think of you, Penelope.”
I’m taken by surprise. “Me?”
He nods. “You always bounced back from adversity. Your dad not being around? That had to be tough. And yeah, you were a little quiet and introspective sometimes, but you never backed down from a challenge. You held your own. Had it all over Tuck and Brady when you were kids.” He chuckles. “Always had this inner confidence, even when things didn’t go your way.”
“I did?”
“Yeah. Look at you now. You handled your mom’s estate, even with all the grief you’re still carrying. And you were brave enough to take off to New York straight after school. You took a risk on that internship. Even built something of your own.” He shrugs. “And if your business is struggling? Then it’s a lesson. One you’ll use to build something even stronger next time. Because that’s what you do. You bounce back. You’re a tough little—”
“Dandelion?” I grin.
“Yeah.” He bends down to adjust the hose, shifting it further along the garden bed. “It was a privilege to watch you grow up and to see the woman you’ve become—big-shot designer and all.” He glances up with a small smile. “You know, in many ways, Susan and I are just as proud of you as we are of Tuck.”
I blink rapidly as an unexpected sting of tears pricks my eyes. I never really considered that Susan and Keith might have felt that way about me. Carry such memories of me.
But I guess it makes sense. They’ve known me since I was eight—watched me through school, witnessed my angsty teenage years, saw the way I practically lived at their house some days. Keith was even patient enough to give me a few driving lessons when Mom was too busy. When I was desperate to get my license before Tuck did.
“It’s not always easy for small-town kids to make it,” Keith continues, his voice thoughtful. “Maybe it was the way you all had each other—you, Tuck, Brady, Mason. You pushed each other, inspired each other.” He shrugs. “Anyway, the point is, I have faith in you.”
I drop my gaze to the ground, feeling something unfamiliar lodge in my chest. Acceptance. Maybe even belonging. And it’s almost too much to process.
“And maybe you don’t have every answer yet,” Keith adds gruffly. “Maybe you don’t know exactly where you’re going. And as far as parenting goes, believe me, no one has the answers these days—with technology pervading kids’ lives, all the pressures they’re under? You just have to pour love into them and hope for the best.”
He gives me a pointed look. “And whatever’s happening now? You don’t have to solve everything at once. Just figure out the first thing, the most urgent, most important thing, and handle that. One step at a time, Penelope.”
His voice is calm. Certain.
And for the first time in hours, I feel like I can breathe.
Latching onto Keith’s quiet faith in me, I step back inside and face what I now realize isn’t just about the garden. The whole house is a mess.
I start with the dishes. Then the counters. Launder the sheets and towels. Before I know it, I’m knee-deep in a full-on cleaning spree. One small, manageable task at a time.
It’s a relief to focus on something simple. Tangible. Scrubbing away stains, wiping surfaces, clearing clutter. Each task has a clear start and finish. Unlike the mess in my head, this is something I can control.
I’m vacuuming when I spot it. The broken string of pearls, half-hidden by the table leg. I must have missed it in my last rather lazy cleanup. Now, I pick up the delicate strand, loop the ends together securely, and drape it over the back of a chair. As I keep going, my eyes drift back to it, the soft glow of pearls stark against the dark wood.
I pause. Fold the string in on itself, doubling the rows.
Hmm .
The sleeve I kept tweaking on Mia’s dress…I like it—really like it. Accordion folds in stiff fabric, positioned just off the shoulder, as striking and artful as a sail. I guess I wanted to invoke the setting of Blue Mountain Lake, its shapes and angles: peaks, arcs of bobbing boats, the rising crescent of the township surrounded by water and forest. And it works, it’s original, bold, and a touch whimsical.
But it’s not Mia. It’s a strong statement piece I love, but that’s not the point. This design has to be right for her … for her story.
I glance back at the pearls.
An idea unfurls in my mind, slow at first, then with a spark of certainty.
What if, instead of fabric, the “sleeve” was arcs of pearls? Cascading over Mia’s velvety skin. Because as much as she is super sexy with curves in all the right places, her skin is flawless and well worth drawing attention to. And this will bring more than an accent…it will give weight, luminosity…something unexpected.
Oh my god.
My pulse kicks up. My fingers itch for a sketchpad.
Not fabric—pearls!
I sprint to Mom’s desk, grabbing a pen and paper, my pulse thrumming.
Swiftly, I sketch: a graceful neck, delicate décolletage, elegant arms. At the base of the throat, a necklace. It extends wide across the collarbones, where a narrow, jeweled band attaches and sweeps outward, reminiscent of an officer’s epaulette, contouring the slope of each shoulder.
I add the pearls. Anchored between the epaulette-like band and the necklace, strands cascading in fluid arcs, forming delicate U-shaped drapes…like a pattern of glistening pebbles left by a receding wave.
It’s Art Deco. It’s old century with a twist. It’s a midnight waltz at the Palais Garnier in Paris. Bold, decadent, glorious. And utterly perfect!
And with it? I sense a whisper of old world, classical. A strapless silhouette, sheath-like in its simplicity…elegant and supremely refined.
I need space to let the vision settle. Ideas always come best when I don’t force them, stay in this state, let them drift in naturally. Relax a little. Dream a little.
I finish vacuuming and decide to shower. God knows my hair needs it. But as I peel off the gauze on my arm, I realize all the cleaning effort has reopened the wound. I douse it with antiseptic, cover it again, and add a wrapping of cling wrap to protect it from the pounding water.
And when I step out, wrinkled plastic clinging to my skin, folding over itself in delicate, translucent layers—something clicks.
The bodice. A film of silk wrapped in sheer organza. Weightless. Yet sculpted. A contrast of textures that diffuse the light…that elegantly define and contour the body before seamlessly flowing into the draping, floor-length skirt.
My breath catches.
I grab a towel, wrap it around myself, and practically run for my sketchbook.
All my molding and playful layering with scraps of fabric from Mom’s wardrobe and elsewhere has paid off. Strong. Classic. Architectural. That’s what this needs to be.
The vision comes to me. As I get to work, everything falls away. All my problems verge to the deep recesses of my mind, and time evaporates as I work the sketches, adding every intricate detail. A fitted bodice with a crossover drape cinching at the hip before the bias-cut skirt cascades in soft, liquid folds.
I rework it multiple times, adding, refining, taking away.
Hours later, I collapse into bed, my mind still alight with swirling images: bolts of shimmering satin, rows of covered buttons, the sweep of a bridal train over cobblestones…the hush of a crowd. Draped pearls. Crystal earrings. Deep red lips against waves of gleaming dark hair.
The images evolve into swirling textures of raw creamy-toned silk, my grandmother’s cameo brooch that gradually morphs into a sparkling butterfly…notes of jasmine, lilting music. A dark-suited man at the altar.
In my mind’s eye, he turns.
I gasp. His eyes, filled with wonder, with love—lock onto mine.
Tuck.
I jolt upright, breathless. Dazed.
And then reality rushes back, crashing over me like a cold wave, the euphoria of the dress giving way to the crushing weight of his absence.
He’s in the city, trying to clean up my mess. My failures.
Because that’s all I ever have to offer him: problems. A tangled, never-ending maze. And every day he works on my behalf, he’s seeing more of the cracks, the flaws…
So, what’s this fantasy in my head? How can I be so delusional?
How on earth can I dream of us together when my life is crumpled in pieces?