Penny from Heaven by Jennifer L. Holm Page B

back and sips his coffee. “I guess the bushes could use a prune.”
    “Sure,” Frankie says eagerly.
    “And there are a few sticks that need picking up.”
    “Sticks, you got it,” Frankie says.
    “And while you’re at it, you can cut the grass.”
    Frankie’s smile droops a little, but he says, “Be glad to.”
    “Thanks, kid,” Uncle Paulie says, and turns back to his paper.
    Two hours later we’re still picking up sticks in the front yard. They’re all over the place. A big tree is dying and has been dropping them everywhere. We haven’t even gotten to the backyard yet.
    “I’m beat,” I say to Frankie.
    “Quit complaining,” he says.
    “But we’re never going to find anything at this rate.”
    “Grandpa must have left some sort of marker or something,” Frankie says.
    “How come?”
    “Because otherwise how would he find it?”
    I guess he does have a point. Still, I think it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I don’t say anything.
    “I’m gonna get something to drink,” I say.
    As I walk away, I hear Frankie grumble to himself. “A few sticks. Right. And I’ll sell you a bridge to China while I’m at it.”
    I go into the house. It’s quiet except for the sound of music floating downstairs. Uncle Paulie’s gone to work and Nonny’s visiting her old-lady friends. I help myself to a ginger ale and then wander out into the hallway.
    “Hello,” I call.
    “Who’s that?” Aunt Gina calls back.
    “It’s me, Penny,” I say.
    “Come on up, doll,” she says.
    I like Aunt Gina. She’s the most interesting aunt, in my opinion. She’s not afraid to say what she thinks. Also, she’s the only one of the aunts who doesn’t have any kids, but nobody ever talks about that.
    Aunt Gina is in her bedroom. It’s a real fancy bedroom, done all in pink. There are pink chenille bedspreads on her and Uncle Paulie’s twin beds, and her makeup table has a flouncy matching pink skirt. Her dresser is covered with fancy bottles of perfume and all sorts of jars of makeup and lipsticks, and the whole room smells like Evening in Paris. She’s got a record player in the corner, and it’s playing Nat King Cole. I love this room. It’s what I imagine a movie star’s bedroom looks like.
    Aunt Gina’s standing in her slip studying two dresses lying on one of the beds.
    “Which one, you think?” she asks me.
    “For what?” I say.
    She squints and takes a puff on her cigarette. “Atlantic City. We’re going there Friday night for our anniversary. Dinner and dancing. The works.”
    I study the dresses. One’s emerald-green silk with a straight skirt and the other one is red satin with a full skirt.
    “The red one,” I say. “That’s a dancing dress.”
    She nods approvingly. “You got a good eye, doll.”
    “Try it on,” I say.
    I sit back on the bed and watch Aunt Gina shimmy into the dress. The material clings to her curvy figure and she looks beautiful. She slips on high heels and gives a few good twirls. The skirt flies up, showing off strong, slim legs. Aunt Gina used to be a dancer with the Rockettes before she married Uncle Paulie. She danced at Radio City Music Hall and met lots of famous entertainers.
    “Come here,” she says, motioning me over to her dressing table. “On the stool.”
    I sit on the pink stool with the ruffle, feeling like Cinderella meeting her fairy godmother.
    Aunt Gina shakes her head at the state of my hair.
    “I know, I know,” I say.
    She picks up a thick brush and does this and that and takes a few pins and clips my hair behind my ears and flips it so that it falls all soft and pretty around my face. “That’s better,” she says. “You tell that grandmother of yours to stop giving you those home perms.”
    “You try telling her,” I say.
    She laughs and pats my curls. “You’re real pretty, you know that? I’m surprised the boys aren’t after you already.”
    They won’t ever be after me if Pop-pop keeps chasing them off, I