I figured two weeks with her dad would push anyone onto a plane and out of town. She had self-quarantined for two weeks at her father’s place in San Mateo after flying in from French Samoa via Hawaii.
Penny arrived on a puddle-jumper flight from San Francisco. So we settled on having lunch at Petrini’s and asked the kitchen to make their special dishes normally reserved for wedding receptions and anniversaries. It turned out that none of us wanted to yield home-field advantage. “I have a large dining room and I’m a good cook.” “Oh sure, be a big ole showoff why don’t you.” “I can have it catered by Bouchon.”Īngela glared at her. “We all can have lunch at my place,” Nicole said. We ordered another carafe of burgundy, spent the afternoon gossiping about Pen, and debated what we would do when she arrived in Santa Barbara. I always wondered what it would have been like to be her partner and travel the world for a quarter century. But she had this off-kilter sexuality, call it a bit of craziness, and she put out those come-hither pheromones that even attracted ole stick-in-the-mud me. It seemed strange since there were plenty of girls more attractive than Pen. Would she come back and hit on their husbands or even my partner? Back in high school she could bag any boy she wanted, maybe because she had no moral hesitations. I had a feeling that both of them felt threatened by Pen. “Well, she’s always attracted handsome men,” I said, trying to smooth things over. “That last selfie she sent shows she’s no spring chicken.” “Maybe she can’t find a boyfriend,” Angela said and chuckled. And she should know how dangerous it is.”
“It’s getting too tough to globe trot when every country has its own travel restrictions. “I think she’s coming home because of the pandemic,” I said. But Pen also liked cities - Paris, London, Cairo, Buenos Aires, Cape Town, and Sydney. Twice a year her emails came from different places, with photos attached of the locals and landscapes that made Angela gasp with envy, wanting to paint those unreachable worlds. Maybe because she was an easy target, one that couldn’t respond from far off Morocco, Borneo, or some island off Tierra Del Fuego. I couldn’t understand fully why Nicole put Pen down. “Yes, well good ole Pen still hasn’t found a home, bouncing around hell’s half acre and sleeping with every devil.” I’m doing just fine as an artist, finally finding my vision, my style.” “Probably because, like art, it’s too damn hard to succeed as a writer.” Never did understand why she joined the Army.” I still remember the stories she wrote for English class. “Yeah, but Pen had that flair … and that’s what I needed.”Īngela scrubbed at a spot of tomato sauce on her voluminous bodice and grinned. She was the one who helped me with my college entrance essay.” “Unless she’s changed, Pen was never petty and, to a fault, generous. “Probably just … to rub our noses … in what she’s … seen and done.” “So why do you think she’s coming back now?” I asked.Īngela gobbled down the last forkfuls of chicken bruschetta while talking. My CPA business stayed steady through booms and busts. Angela struggled to make headway in the art world, with too few gallery showings but with a patient and loving family. Nicole had become a thoracic surgeon with a husband, kids, and a way-cool house on the Riviera overlooking the city and the yacht harbor. We’d gossip about family, local politics, science, art, and the sad decline of our sex lives. Except for the years spent away at college, the three of us routinely met once a month at Petrini’s off De La Vina Street for Saturday lunch.