Page 127 of The Nanny and the Nerd
“He was always so proud of you, Penny,” Diana added, the warmth in her voice coming through the line.
And Penny was back to trout mouth—not sure what to say. “I never knew you guys felt that way. And I had no idea Dad did that.”
“It’s the truth, Penelope. I mean Penny. Sorry! I know mom calls you Penelope. I remember the way you twist up your face like you sucked a lemon when she says it,” Di added.
And her sister wasn’t wrong. It had bothered her, but not anymore. A strange sense of calm washed over her. “You don’t need to apologize. I don’t mind being called Penelope.”
It was her name—hers. It didn’t belong to her mother, or to Rowen, or to anyone else. And she wasn’t about to allow it to have a negative connotation. She was done with that. Now, she decided what it meant to her. Penny, Penelope, no matter what anyone called her, she knew who she was. She was a daughter, a sister, a nanny, a best friend, a damned good video game narrative writer, and a person who loved with her whole heart.
She glanced at her girls. “I hate to cut this call short, but Libby, Harper, Charlotte, and I are at a coffee shop. But I’d love to talk more if you have time later on. And maybe we could talk more often?”
“We’d like that, too,” Claudia answered. “Keep on writing, little sis.”
“We love you, Penelope,” Diana added as the line went quiet.
“The universe seems to have quite a bit to say to you today, Penn,” Libby said softly.
Penny laughed. “Yeah, with a blow horn!” She closed the phone, dropped it into her tote, then stilled when her fingertips brushed past a few slips of paper before landing on a smooth object. She pulled the curved item out of her bag and stared at it.
“Is that from your trip?” Charlotte asked.
Penny placed the conch shell in her palm. Pink and white with a touch of brown, she tried to imagine the journey of this delicate object—from tropical waters to a city a mile above sea level. “It is,” she answered, unable to take her eyes off of it. She could smell the salt in the air, hear the rise and fall of the Caribbean Sea, and feel Rowen’s arms around her waist and his warm breath against her lips. She stroked the smooth surface, then traced the cone-shaped spire all the way up to the sharp tip. She pressed her finger against the top, feeling the sharp prick as an epiphany struck. The shell embodied the beautiful unpredictability of life. One minute it was smooth sailing, and the next, out of nowhere, you could look down and find an arrow driven straight into your heart. And suddenly, Delores Lambert DuBois’s whispered words came back to her.
All our experiences, good and bad, are a gift. They mold us into who we are as women and as writers. Pay attention. Life is always teaching us something. The lessons are there, but the opportunity for growth is buried deep within. Once you tap into that energy and that emotion, the words will come.
She stared out the coffee shop’s window at the computer repair store across the street. They’d kept her old laptop limping along. She’d been there a few times. But today, she noticed something she’d never seen before—a sign. The wordsrefurbished laptops for saleflashed in neon lights, and a chill passed over her. She would have sworn the sign was meant for her.
“What is it, Penn? You’re doing that thing where you zone out. What’s gotten into you?” Charlotte asked.
Penny smiled, cradling the shell in her hand. “What’s always been in me. What’s been there all along.”
This much was crystal clear. She loved Rowen Gale. He might love her, and he very well might not. And that was okay. In fact, it was his loss—not because he did or didn’t but because he didn’t believe he could. Yes, he’d hurt her, but somewhere deep inside, she knew he’d hurt himself more by holding it in, by trying to control the chaos. She’d given herself to him, opened herself to him, and loved with her whole heart. That kind of honesty didn’t require an apology.
It made her stronger.
And that was the lesson.
She’d always had the power—not her mother, not Rowen, not her manager at the Crystal Cricket. They didn’t get to define her. They were a part of her narrative, but they didn’t set the pace or dictate the story. Just like she’d done for Princess Amelia, when she’d taken the helpless, scantily clad character and given her purpose, she, Penelope Fennimore, needed to flex her agency. She alone had to take the leap—the leap of believing in herself with the knowledge that she had always been and always will be enough.
“You’re not about to tell us you’ve decided to join a cult, are you?” Harper questioned, worry etched in her expression.
“Or go work for your mom?” Charlotte finished, looking as perplexed as H.
Libby shook her head as a wide grin bloomed on her lips. “No, that’s Penny’s idea face!”
Libby was right.
A warmth radiated through Penny’s body as her writer’s block dissolved, and a concept sparked—not so much an idea for a story but the whisper of a calling.
“I’m tapping into it,” she said, borrowing Delores’s words as her friends exchanged curious glances. But she didn’t have time to explain. She observed the delicate shell once more before carefully tucking it into her tote. Coming to her feet, she gathered her things. The drive that had compelled her to fill notebook after notebook with her words for the better part of her life returned.
And Penny got her groove back!
It was time for a Penelope Fennimore do-over—not a rewrite but a new chapter.
“Penn, what’s going on with you?” Charlotte asked.
With resolve coursing through her body, Penny glanced out the window at the shop’s neon sign, then grinned at her friends. “Girls, I have to go. I’ve got things to do, and I don’t have much time to get them done.”
