Chapter 34 #2
I find myself shifting on my feet, unaccountably uncomfortable.
Worse, Mom is peering at me with interest. The woman can see through walls, I swear to God.
No one is going to convince me otherwise.
And I do not want her looking too closely at me, because I’m fairly certain she can read minds as well.
“Jan and the rest are out getting barbecue,” I tell them for no other reason than to fill the silence. It feels awkward and fraught—like a couple of busybody parents will soon start probing with endless questions.
Turning on my heel, I take their things into the side hall where it leads to the bedrooms. There’s only two rooms left, so I leave the bags by those doors.
When I get back, everyone has retreated to the kitchen and settled around to watch Pen pack away the cream for later.
The elegant line of her neck is tense as she moves, the lobes of her ears bright pink.
I know she’s thinking of that cream and what we might have done with it. And that our parents are too.
Again, a pulse of aching tenderness hits me. It does that a lot now, at least once a day. I might have been concerned, except I know exactly what it is.
Moving to Pen’s side, I press my cheek to the crown of her head in comfort, and lower my voice so only she can hear. “Let me do this.”
“I got it,” she says just as softly. But she leans into me for a moment to acknowledge the offer.
Swiftly, I kiss her head, then turn back to three sets of very interested eyes. It’s clear they are completely disarmed by seeing Pen and I together. “How about some drinks. Mom, Anne, you want some white wine, tequila maybe?”
It snaps them out of it a little. Mom rises from her perch on the island stool. “I’ll get the wine.”
“Want a beer, Dad?”
“I’ll probably need more than that,” he mutters but then heads for the bar. “Guessing you need one too, son?”
God, yes, I do. “Sure.”
Anne slides up next to me. “Since I don’t know where anything is, why don’t you help me put together something to tide us over. Does January have cheese and crackers, or something?”
“Let’s see what we got.”
Anne pats my arm in solidarity. She’s a beautiful woman, but aside from their coloring, Pen and her mother don’t look very much alike.
Whereas Pen is soft curves and delicate features, Anne is bold and vivid, her jaw more squared and sharper, her nose a strong slash down her face.
Features well suited to the stage. As is her voice with crystal-clear diction and warm resonance.
When I was a kid, I used to hear that voice booming up from our downstairs to vibrate around my bedroom.
And every time it would set off a small flutter of anticipation in my gut because it meant Penelope Morrow might be there as well.
Later, when Pen stopped coming over with her mom, I still felt that flutter, that strange ache, because even though Pen wasn’t there, Anne could be counted on to tell stories of her daughter’s life.
It was through Anne that I’d learn where Pen was, what she might be doing.
And they never had a clue. All of them thought I didn’t like Pen. That’s why they stare. They can’t figure it out.
The realization is disquieting. I feel like I’ve done Pen some wrong, dishonored her somehow.
My movements grow sluggish as I help Anne set up platters of cheese, cold cuts, and bread, and by that, I mean I show her where things are, and she arranges everything like art. It reminds me of the way Pen presents food; it’s not enough for it to taste good, it has to look good as well.
She sets everything on the round conversation table by the kitchen fireplace. And soon, we’re all tucked into the wicker armchairs that surround it. Dad lights the fire and settles down with a sigh. “Christ, I’m tired of traveling.”
“Be glad it wasn’t to Egypt,” Mom chides.
“Yeah, about that. Aren’t you all supposed to be sailing down the Nile right now?” Pen has the seat next to mine, a glass of wine in her hand. She’s composed now, and I’m gratified to notice, is leaning toward me in an unconscious manner of ease.
Anne heaves a long, artful sigh and selects a sliver of cheese.
“The boat caught on fire and they had to cancel last minute.” Her once dark brown hair has been colored to pale honey, and she flips a length of it back in apparent annoyance.
“Two years of coordinating our schedules for the right trip and some ass-munch ruins it by deciding to smoke in bed.”
“The bastard,” Pen puts in, lips pursed in a smile.
“You betcha!” Anne’s eyes flash dark sparks. “Never get involved with a smoker, Pen. They stink.”
Pen shakes her head, laughing as if to say her mother is being dramatic. But she says nothing more about the subject of potential future involvements with other men. I find myself clutching my beer bottle tighter as I take a long pull. Cold beer slides down my dry throat.
From across the table, I catch my dad’s eye. There’s a speculative glint in his that I want to ignore. But I find myself staring back. Yeah, Dad, it’s like that. And isn’t it the damndest thing?
Empathy flickers in his gaze as he gives the slightest nod of acknowledgment.
“So, we figured,” Mom is saying with a laugh, “that we’d drop in on our kids—”
“Given that they’re all together for the first time in years,” Anne adds, reproach coloring her tone.
“And have Thanksgiving together,” Mom finishes with a happy clap.
Pen and I do not share a look. We have more restraint than that. But I feel it along my side where she sits. And I know she’s thinking similar thoughts.
Now, I love my parents. I love “Auntie” Anne. But the idea of all of them underfoot when I can barely keep my hands off Penelope is rough. Never mind the fact that all of them seem hell-bent on reminding Pen that our budding relationship is unfathomable to them. Which fucking irks.
Thankfully, I am spared having to say a word because Jan, March, May, and June come walking in just then, Jan’s and March’s arms loaded with fragrant tin platters of food.
March halts mid-stride and looks about at the ceiling. My lips twitch.
“Why are you looking around like that?” May squawks. “Did you let a fly in!”
March shakes his head. “Sorry, no. It’s just I could have sworn I heard the Psycho music playing.”