It seems obvious to me that Penelope is tortured by her lack of achievement. She would give anything, I think, to possess a special gift, an ability; even the smallest, most modest skill.

She did make efforts to please her father over the years, she did try a few jobs, but hated them and left each one within a couple of months. The pottery class, however, she enjoyed greatly and she continues to take at least two ceramics classes every semester: Wheel Throwing and Handbuilding.

Penelope told me that each time she sees her father, which is every two weeks, he bitterly asks her how sales are going. She never lies, always says, “Terrible.” She’s becoming increasingly stressed by his questions.

PENELOPE AND HER parents are already seated when I arrive at Cipriani Downtown. They shake my hand warmly. They don’t know I’m wearing a disguise. Penelope assured me she never told them. In their eyes, I must make a striking contrast to their daughter, who’s sitting there all prim and ladylike in her cream cashmere sweater set and her immaculately applied makeup.

The waiter takes our order. After telling him I want to start with the steamed broccoli and then have the grilled sole, no sauce, Penelope’s very skinny mother leans over to me and says, “I admire your discipline. My willpower leaves much to be desired.” She rubs her stomach, as though it were convex instead of concave.

“It’s not discipline,” I say. “I just don’t like fatty foods.” It’s ironic that I, of all people, possess the rare trait of not enjoying the things that destroy one’s beauty. “Fat and sugar make me want to throw up,” I explain.

“Really? Then how do you maintain your . . .” She seems unsure how to finish.

“Girth?” I offer.

She nods sheepishly.

“It’s actually not that easy to get rid of, you know. For emotional reasons, I guess.”

“I sure know what you mean,” she says, squeezing her bony upper arms critically, as though they were covered in a layer of thick flesh caused by years of compulsive eating due to emotional torment. “I don’t know how Penelope does it, with what she went through six years ago . . .”

I nod politely.

Not for a moment did Penelope’s father hesitate to pay the exorbitant ransom when his daughter was abducted. He got it ready as soon as the kidnappers told him the amount, but before he had a chance to deliver the money, the police found the criminals and freed Penelope. The kidnappers had kept her in a coffin so that she’d sound all the more distraught when her father asked to speak to her. They held up the phone to the coffin and instructed her to talk to him through its walls and describe her situation. She was crying and had to shout to be heard.

“Barb!” her father booms at me. It’s the first time he’s spoken since I sat down. “You make a living designing costumes, right?”

“Yes,” I say, hoping he hasn’t figured out I’m wearing one.

“You make a good living at it, from what I gather from the magazines.” Penelope must have shown her parents the few articles that have been written about me during the past couple of years.

“It’s okay,” I say softly, sorry that my presence didn’t protect Penelope from her dad’s obsession.

“I wish my daughter would follow your example. She has so many advantages and opportunities.”

No one responds.

Penelope’s father turns to her. “How’s your store going?”

“Quite well, thank you,” she says. I look at her, startled.

Her father does an auditory double take. “What do you mean, ‘quite well’?”

“Selling vigorously,” she articulates. “Compared to before.”

“Are you putting me on?”

“No.”

“Are you selling new merchandise?”

“No.”

“I can’t believe those pots are selling.”

“I’ll show you the sales records next time I see you.”

“No need. I can look at them today when we go to your store.”

“But we’re not going to my store.”

“Yes we are. I want to see the records. After lunch, we’re going back to your store with you.”

“Today’s not a good day. I’m not in the mood.”

“Nonsense. Your reticence is very suspicious, I hope you realize.”

When lunch is over I try to take my leave, but Penelope grabs my arm so tightly it hurts, even through the padding, and in a low voice says to me, “Please come with us.”

“I really need to get back to my work.”

“I beg you with every shred of my being. For moral support,” she says.

In the store, Penelope’s father examines her recent sales records. Appearing impressed and amused, he says, “It looks like you’ve indeed been selling these pots. Didn’t I say customers can be endlessly surprising?”

He gets up and gazes at the merchandise. “It’s beyond my comprehension why anyone would buy any of this pottery. It’s abominable.”

Penelope says, “That makes it art, more than craft.”

Her father reaches for a big, misshapen brown mug. To my surprise, the handle comes off in his hand while the rest of the mug stays on the shelf. Startled, he turns to his daughter, holding the handle.

“You broke the mug!” Penelope says. “That was my best piece.”

He picks up the rest of the mug and attempts to put mug and handle back together. “I’m sorry. The handle just lifted right off.”

“It was a fragile, delicate piece. Very refined and elegant.”

He looks down at the two pieces of mug in his hand. “You grew up in a house filled with refinement and delicacy. This mug is a big clunky chunk of mud, the farthest thing from elegant.”

“Absolutely, according to your narrow-minded and unsophisticated definition of elegance.”

Looking irritated, he puts the pieces back on the shelf and reaches for another item—a bowl. It breaks in two as soon as he’s touched it.

He looks at Penelope. “This bowl was broken,” he says.

He picks up a plate, but only half of it goes with him. “What’s going on? All these items are broken,” he says.

“I can see that. It’s a shame you broke them,” she says.

“Stop it.”

Penelope blushes fiercely.

“Stop the bullshit. I want an explanation,” he says.

In a voice that sounds so strangled I myself can barely breathe, Penelope says, “Customers have to pay for what they break.”

A chuckle escapes me. She has gall. She may not be a creative genius like Lily or Georgia, but nature was a genius in making her.

After a moment’s reflection, her father’s eyes open wide. “That’s how you’ve been selling your merchandise? You make people believe they broke a piece of crap, and you make them pay for it?”

“I was kidnapped,” Penelope says.

“Ah, here we go again.”

“I was kept in a coffin for three days.”

“SO?” he screams. “Why do you always bring that up to defend your inadequacies?”

“Please don’t be so harsh,” Penelope’s mother finally says.

His tone softens. “Don’t you feel ashamed to do business this way?”

“It’s a selling technique,” Penelope says.

Feeling sorry for her, I jump in. “Positioning the broken pieces in such a way as to make them appear unbroken requires great skill. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in the long run, the art of the deception becomes the true art of the piece.” I reach for an ugly mug that looks in perfect condition. The moment I raise it from the shelf, a piece of the rim falls inside the mug. “Wow,” I gasp. “It looked so undamaged. Your technique is remarkable, Penelope. Achieving this effect of false wholeness, this illusion of integrity, must take a lot of work. It’s a tough balancing act.”

“Yes,” she says.

Her father is not satisfied. “But don’t customers object to paying for something they didn’t break? How did you manage to get so many people to pay for the pieces?”

“I cry,” Penelope says.

“You cry to sell your broken merchandise?” her father screams.

“Yes, it helps! And I’m thinking of branching out and selling glassware, too.”