The car slows, and Smith parks in the driveway of my house. I save Irene’s rough draft and gingerly place my laptop into its musty carrying case. I’d normally leave it in the car since I won’t be doing any work today, but the carrying case has the Berkeley Gazette logo on it, which gives my whole I’m a real paid writer argument a tiny bit of proof. Of course, my parents don’t know that I get paid to write about dead people.
“I’m going to run to my place for a minute and turn the heat on, so I don’t freeze tonight.” Smith leans over and kisses me. “You going to wear your ring, or were you planning on waiting to tell them the big news until after all the knives have been removed from the dinner table?”
“You’re sleeping at your parents’ place?”
“Is that a problem?”
It annoys me slightly that he doesn’t see the inherent problem, but considering the fact that we’ve spent the last eight hours stuck in a car together, I’m willing to bet I’m being a little overly sensitive. And by overly, I mean a lot.
“Um. Well, I guess not. I just sort of assumed you’d stay over at my place since we’re engaged now and we already live together.”
“I didn’t think your parents would be exactly thrilled with the idea of me staying over.” Smith cups my face and kisses me again. “Plus, I thought you and your sister might want a girls’ night or something. You two barely talk anymore.”
He’s right, which isn’t helpful, because I really prefer it when he’s wrong.
Phoebe and I stayed in touch pretty regularly while she was at Princeton after I left, but once she graduated, she started working for our father and our weekly calls became infrequent at best. She got busy, and I . . . well . . . I got tired of hearing her talk about the place our father always wanted us to work at together.
“Fine.” I kiss Smith slowly, savoring every second his lips are on mine. “But if shit hits the fan, you better come get me out of the tree house. Got it?”
“I’ll be there with your girl Vermouth. Promise.”
Stepping into my parents’ home is like opening a window to an alternate reality where nothing changes. The same food that we’ve eaten at Thanksgiving for as long as I can remember is arranged on the buffet table like always. Tiny place cards with our names on them mark the same seats we’ve sat in since my sister and I were old enough to not be in high chairs. Even the flower arrangements—a medley of red roses, chrysanthemums, and sunflowers—stay the same. It kind of feels like the only thing that’s different is me.
“There’s my lucky Penny!” Nana Rosie’s voice echoes through the foyer. “Put those bags down and let me get a look at you, darling girl.”
I set my bags down carefully and make a beeline for my grandmother. Like the house, she doesn’t change, but with her, I don’t mind it one bit. In fact, I prefer it. I stretch out my arms to hug her. “I’ve missed you, Nana.”
“Wait one minute now.” Nana’s eyes narrow. “What is that I see on your finger, my dear?”
Shit.
“Nothing.” I shove both hands in the pockets of my cardigan like a child who’s just been caught stealing candy from the store counter. “Nothing at all.”
Nana Rosie’s green eyes twinkle with mischief. She gently tugs at my left sleeve until I finally take my hand out and show her my ring.
“This is not nothing, my love.” She holds my hand up to the light, admiring the setting of the simple solitaire. “It’s beautiful.”
“It was Fiona’s ring,” I say proudly.
It’s simple: a gold band and a moonstone solitaire. Nothing flashy like what you might expect from a prolific rock star, but then again, Fiona isn’t a typical woman. Jasper bought her the ring at a London flea market when they were teenagers backpacking through Europe. It’s what the ring symbolizes that I care about. This ring is a part of the Mackenzie family history, and they trusted me with it because Smith chose me.
“I take it your parents don’t know.”
“Not exactly.”
“But you plan on telling them today?”
“Telling who what?” Phoebe’s voice startles me.
I whip around just as she throws her arms around my neck. We hold each other for a moment until our breathing syncs and I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. We used to do this all the time when we were in kindergarten. Phoebe was terrified to go to school. She cried day after day, until finally the teacher asked me if I could figure out a way to settle her. Distractions didn’t work but holding her did. My mother thinks it’s what we must’ve done when we were in the womb. Maybe we did. But I also think that sometimes Phoebe needs to fall apart a little, and she trusts me enough to let her do that.
“I missed you,” I whisper softly. A lump of emotion forms in my throat. “A lot.”
“Me too.” She pulls back. Her hazel eyes are misty like mine. “So, what’s the big secret?”
“This.” I hold up my hand. “I’m engaged.”
I’m not sure what reaction I expected from my sister. She’s always been a little indifferent when it came to me talking about boyfriends and such. I chalked it up to her not being interested in men. She was supportive of me getting back together with Smith but still indifferent. But telling her I’m engaged isn’t the same as telling her I’m back with Smith. An engagement is supposed to be a big deal. It’s the sort of thing that elicits a big reaction, good or bad. Phoebe doesn’t do either. She simply looks at my ring, then looks at me with the blankest of blank stares plastered across her face.
“Oh.” She blinks away the last hint of emotion from her eyes. “Nice.”
Nice?
She turns her attention to Nana Rosie. “Nana, Mom and Dad want to have drinks by the firepit while we wait to eat.”
Nana Rosie groans. “I guess it won’t really matter if I have to take my medication late. What do doctors know about blood sugar anyway?”
“First, why do we have to wait? Smith’s across the street. He’ll be here any minute. And two, did you completely miss the part where I just told you that I’m engaged?”
“I’m going to excuse myself to the kitchen, girls,” Nana Rosie says. “Maybe there’s a garnish or two back there that Marie forgot to use that can stave off my diabetic coma.”
She saunters off to the kitchen like a cat ready to dip its paw into a bucket of cream.
“Since when did Nana Rosie become diabetic?” I ask.
“She’s not.” Phoebe tucks a short lock of blond hair behind her ear. “She’s just dramatic.”
I wait for Phoebe to acknowledge my questions, but she doesn’t. Instead she busies herself with rolled silverware on the buffet table, unrolling perfectly fine rolls only to reroll them again. My frustration grows with every second that goes by and with each rolling and unrolling of cutlery. Why is she being so weird about this? Scratch that. Why is she being so rude? She likes Smith. He’s a great guy, and he makes me happy. After the hell I went through at Princeton and with disappointing Mom and Dad, she of all people should want me to be happy.
When she starts rearranging the flowers, my anger moves from a simmer to a full-out boil. “Phoebe, did my engagement ring do something to piss you off?”
“Great. More drama,” she deadpans. “No, Penny. I’m not mad that you’re getting engaged.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Phoebe plucks a dying chrysanthemum from the arrangement. She eyes the dead flower in her hand, as if she’s deep in thought and carefully considering her words. It’s like she’s not sure whether she wants to tell me what’s gotten her so worked up, and it’s in that moment that I realize exactly how far apart we’ve grown.
“Just say it, Phoebe.” I rest my hand on top of hers and the dead flower. “I don’t want to spend this weekend fighting.”
“I invited a friend.” She clears her throat, eyes still focused on the flower. “A colleague, actually.”