A Rare Find
A Rare Find
Tracy Kelleher
How does a rule-abiding, accomplished woman fall for a rebel college dropout? It's something rare-books curator Penelope Bigelow is still trying to figure out! Regardless of what logic she tries to use, the proof remains that when celebrity chef Nicholas Rheinhardt is around, her composure takes a vacation.With all the reunion festivities, it's hard to avoid him…especially since he needs her expertise in antiquities for an upcoming episode of his cable travel show.Too bad the past isn't what Penelope's focusing on when she's with Nick. There's more to him than his infamous reputation–and that intrigues her. Penelope isn't looking for perfection…even though Nick's coming very close!
She’s always lived her life by the book…
How does a rule-abiding, accomplished woman fall for a rebel college dropout? It’s something rare-books curator Penelope Bigelow is still trying to figure out! Regardless of what logic she tries to use, the proof remains that when celebrity chef Nicholas Rheinhardt is around, her composure takes a vacation. With all the reunion festivities, it’s hard to avoid him…especially since he needs her expertise in antiquities for an upcoming episode of his cable travel show.
Too bad the past isn’t what Penelope’s focusing on when she’s with Nick. There’s more to him than his infamous reputation—and that intrigues her. Penelope isn’t looking for perfection…even though Nick’s coming very close!
“What is it you really want?”
Nick took a step closer. It wasn’t a threatening move, but definitely allowed him to enter Penelope’s personal space.
Penelope didn’t retreat. Instead, she raised her head to look him directly in the eye.
He noticed the throb of that vein in her forehead again and felt an irresistible urge to stroke it. But he didn’t.
He wet his lips and said in a low voice, “Well, now that you mention it, I want you to come to Hoagie Palace with us tonight.”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
“It’ll be fun.”
“And after tonight?”
He searched her eyes to try to figure out what she was thinking, but he found himself distracted, confused…more than confused. But in a very good way.
Dear Reader,
Confession time: After graduating from Yale University with a degree in history, I had a fellowship to study in Rome, Italy. When I wasn’t practicing my Italian and exploring the city, I did research on early-medieval manuscripts in the Vatican Library. Ever since then, I’ve wanted to incorporate the fascinating world of rare books and manuscripts into a contemporary romance. Well, now I finally get my chance.
My heroine, Penelope Bigelow, is the curator at Grantham University’s Rare Book Library, and she gets to educate my hero, Nicholas Rheinhardt, on the wonders of old handwriting and the timeless beauty of historic documents. Nick is a Grantham dropout who’s achieved celebrity and notoriety as a chef and travel-show host. He’s in town to give a Class Day speech for the graduates and film an episode of his show. Can you say yin and yang? Oil and water? Total attraction?
The question is, how do you know when someone or something is the genuine article? When do the heart and the mind come together to trust that something so unique can exist in ways you never even dared to dream?
In this case, the answer’s not written in the stars, but on the folios.
As always, I love to hear from my readers. Just email me at tracyk@tracykelleher.com.
Tracy Kelleher
A Rare Find
Tracy Kelleher
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tracy sold her first story to a children’s magazine when she was ten years old. Writing was clearly in her blood, though fiction was put on hold while she received degrees from Yale and Cornell, traveled the world, worked in advertising, became a staff reporter and later a magazine editor. She also managed to raise a family. Is it any surprise she escapes to the world of fiction?
This book is dedicated to my great friend and fabulous cook Inkyung Yi.
Only you could have two sets of twins and somehow look so terrific.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#u8a08040b-3b35-501f-86f2-f4c93660339a)
CHAPTER TWO (#u12206fe7-ae78-52b5-80f6-71fd9d06dcc7)
CHAPTER THREE (#u8af13c4b-1dcf-51c2-85d8-c67e5242bd3a)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u8c3c7292-5468-50b7-b9ff-fcb63d6248c4)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u3033adaf-42b1-5a54-82e1-e9e341af01e8)
CHAPTER SIX (#uf71af614-4d65-5f25-9c36-d973411dca18)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#uf167839b-59d9-58fb-bd80-63336bbe3546)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#u9531aeb0-d642-5794-b84e-7fa717c78ef8)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FORTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
September
A Former Country of the Soviet Union—Far, Far Off the Grid
NICHOLAS RHEINHARDT©LAY©on the hard stone table, belly-side down, and hoped like hell that the moisture on the towel beneath him came from his own sweat. He gritted his teeth to stifle a groan as a seminaked and thoroughly oiled masseur squatted above him and frog-hopped down the length of his spine.
The humiliation would have verged on the comedic if the pain weren’t so excruciating. He couldn’t imagine anything worse, not even a root canal—two root canals—without Novocain. But he refused to whimper and beg for mercy.
After all, the cameras were rolling.
Whose idea had it been anyway to shoot several episodes of his travel-and-food show in this country so far off the beaten track?
Up until this point, the whole television thing had been a pretty good gig.
Now life had turned into a high-definition hellhole as recorded by a sardonic cameraman and a highly sensitive soundman. Was it any wonder that Frommer’s, Michelin or Lonely Planet guidebooks had failed to extol the wonders of this remote village, let alone the bathhouse?
Nick felt the vertebrae cracking in his neck as the otherwise silent masseur worked his torture. And, ironically, that’s when it came to him. The jackass who’d suggested they make a trek through the mysterious eastern provinces of the former Soviet Union—countries like Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan? The same jackass who’d had this romantic notion that they’d see yaks and yurts, fiery peasants and dreadful Communist architecture?
It’d been him.
The bantamweight masseur chose that moment to slip his sinewy arms under Nick’s armpits and force his elbows to lock together behind his back. A small ugh emitted from Nick’s throat. After this workout, he seriously wondered if from now on his upper limbs would dangle uselessly at his sides. Most probably he would go through the rest of life with curious onlookers remarking, “And to think he once was able to debone a leg of lamb with the best of them.”
“So, tell me. This massage you’re getting. It looks pretty…ah…strenuous. Still, it’s all it was cracked up to be, right?” Georgie, his jovial producer, asked from off camera.
Nick growled deep in his chest—the part that hadn’t been crushed as of yet—and thought, Just wait till I do the voice-over commentary to this bit back in New York. Because now it all comes back to me, that, between multiple vodka shots the other night, you were the sly dog who suggested this bit of local color. Yes, you, Georgie.
The masseur slapped Nick’s towel-covered rump, signaling the end of the session.
Georgie turned to the cameraman. “That’s a wrap.” Then he bounced jovially across the stone floor to his damaged on-air talent. “That bad, huh?”
Nick thought about raising his head off the table, but that small motion required too much energy. “Let’s put it this way, I will absolutely, positively agree to do anything else rather than go through this again—preferably something that involves close proximity to a Nathan’s Famous hot dog. I’m starving.” Knowing no shame, Nick held out an arm. “Help your lord and master get upright, if it’s at all possible.”
None too gently, Georgie hoisted Nick to a sitting position. The towel, which was wrapped around Nick’s waist, slipped to his hip bones, and his once-taut stomach muscles—once, as in a good ten years ago—sagged around the cotton terry cloth that had a thread count of about negative twenty.
Nick might have been thirty-seven in chronological years, and genetically blessed with a fast metabolism, but those had been hard-lived years. After turning thirty-five, even his long and lanky body could no longer bounce back from the harsh treatment due to overimbibing of fine food and not-so-fine drink.
Not that he regretted his lifestyle, mind you. Nick smiled at the memory of some of the more infamous escapades, at least those he could still remember.
His so-called adult life had taken a meandering path. After dropping out of college, he’d bummed around the world by scrounging low-paying jobs and harboring absolutely no ambition other than occasionally finding food, alcohol and the eye of a good-looking female. One winter in Paris, where he’d squatted in a tenement that lacked a shower—not to mention a toilet—he’d landed a job as a dishwasher in a traditional bistro in Montmartre. And voila! Nick had found his calling. Eventually he’d risen up the restaurant food chain to become a well-regarded though not quite top-tier chef.
Achieving greater fame would have required greater talent, a little more luck and, if he was going to be totally honest, a lot more dedication. Even the sudden acclaim he’d garnered for his book, a bare-knuckle look at the restaurant world, had been more of an accident than a well-planned career move. After all, he’d written the damn thing in fits and spurts after shifts at various restaurants, fueled by cigarettes and booze—more than a little, actually—and bouts of righteous indignation.
So it was hardly surprising that as Nick looked down at his body he felt a certain measure of disgust. And that was before he glimpsed his upper arm. The tattoo circling his right bicep was undulating with involuntary muscle spasms. An enormous Maori had given him that tattoo on a warm spring day on the north island of New Zealand. Now, that had been a good shoot, he recollected.
He raised an eyelid and saw Georgie silently chuckling. “What?” he asked with a snarl.
“Is that a promise?” Georgie asked, not bothering to hide his amusement, so secure was he in his worth as a producer. “That you’ll go anywhere provided it’s within sniffing distance of a New York hot dog?”
Nick contemplated the wisdom of getting up. “As long as it doesn’t involve rubdowns.”
“Last I heard, New Jersey specialized more in rubbing out than rubbing down.”
“New Jersey, you say?” Nick opened his jaw slowly and experimented with trying to shut it again. He got halfway. “You know, I was born and raised in Jersey.”
“Excuse me. Like I wouldn’t know? I was responsible for hiring that underpaid intern to write your bio for Wikipedia.”
Nick grumbled. “You know there’s a reason unions were invented—to regulate the outrageous behavior of unscrupulous employers like you.”
“Too bad, that’s all I can say,” Georgie said without any remorse. “Which is why I have decided to accept a request that came to the office last week.”
“I suppose this is my cue to say, ‘Could you be more specific?’”
“My pleasure. By the unfettered powers vested in me as producer, I plan to accept the offer for you to be the Class Day speaker at your old alma mater, Grantham University, this coming June,” Georgie announced proudly. “Naturally we’ll use it as an episode for the show—I’m not that generous.”
“Come again?” Maybe his brain was also starting to fail.
“You know, the Commencement ceremonies for the graduating class? The day before they do the whole diploma-giving-out bit, you will speak with wit and with a soupçon of encouragement to the seniors.”
“Soupçon of encouragement? Are you kidding me?”
“Well, their families will be there, as well. I think it’s only right and proper,” Georgie explained.
Nick stumbled to the dressing area and eased on his clothing. He didn’t bother with the button or the zipper on his jeans. If his pants fell down, so be it. He couldn’t be any more humiliated than he already had been.
He joined the others at the entrance to the dank, tiled bathhouse, nodding appreciatively to the manager, who had a severe lazy eye, which made eye contact difficult. The man would no doubt be dining off tales of the crazy Americans for years to come.
Georgie pushed open the heavy wooden door, and their little group instinctively huddled together. A horse-drawn cart, loaded with hay, clopped down the dirt road in front of them. Its driver paused and yelled to two men standing cross-armed in the narrow doorway of a coffee shop across the way. His loud monologue was seemingly cheerful sounding, but who could be sure?
Where is our friendly translator when we need him? Nick thought.
Then the squat and hairy horse turned its head at the sound of his master’s gravelly voice, and proceeded to do his business in the middle of the street.
Nick looked over at the steaming deposit. “I think that just about sums it up.” Then he creaked his neck in Georgie’s direction. “You realize of course that I never graduated from Grantham, don’t you? A little thing called the Junior Paper that I could never quite wrap my head around?”
“I don’t think they’re gonna rescind the offer, and frankly, I think they probably already know that.”
“True, failure has been one of my favorite biographical topics. Still, what would be the point? I mean, I do thirty minutes of hopefully semihumorous anecdotes about the world of food and travel—minus my usual four-letter words since, as you say, kiddies are likely to be present. And then what have you got? An hour’s TV show? I think not.”
With that, the horse, the cart and its owner moved on. The two men with grizzled beards and in severe need of good dental work, peered suspiciously at Nick and the rest of the crew before turning to enter the gloom of the coffee shop.
“Think of the bigger picture, Nick.” Georgie waved his hand across the gray and unforgiving sky. “The whole idea of graduation as the culmination of those happy college days, which, being happy, had to have included the customary drinking and eating of large quantities of food.”
“You want to check out dining-hall fare?” Nick asked, unconvinced.
Georgie nodded. “You’re missing the potential. Think bigger, like how the whole eating experience is the same or different from your day. What does that say about the peculiarities, if there are any, of the Ivy League experience?” Georgie suddenly got more animated. “Wait a minute. Doesn’t Grantham have those Social Whatevers—their own kind of snobby fraternities? Surely food and beer are plentiful at those places for the select few.”
“Social Clubs. And only a few of them were snobby. Certainly not mine—otherwise I couldn’t have been a member,” Nick clarified. Despite his carefully honed jaded personality, he found himself becoming intrigued. “There used to be a couple of places in town that I regularly went to, too. I wonder if they’re still there, especially this one greasy spoon famous for its hoagies.”
“Hoagie Palace,” Larry, the cameraman, piped up.
Nick slanted him a startled expression.
“Hey, I might have only gone to the University of New Hampshire, but even I know about Hoagie Palace.” Larry wore a down coat over a down vest and a stocking cap on his head. For a supposedly rugged New Englander, he had a very low tolerance for the cold.
Georgie punched the air. “There, what did I tell you? And by way of contrast to the usual street-food shtick, we could sample some new high-end joints. You know—what the wealthier denizens of the quaint college town go for when they want a night on the town.”
“As I recall, it was uninspired, nominally French food—and I mean nominal.” Nick thought back to the one time the mother of one of his freshmen advisees had taken them to the finest culinary institution in town. You knew it had pretences because it was housed in a mock, half timber Tudor building across the street from the university campus. Only minutes before meeting her Nick had learned it was a jacket-and-tie joint only, of which he’d had neither. He’d frantically scrounged something up from a guy who roomed down the hall. The waist on the jacket had been six inches too big and the sleeves three inches too short, but at least the tie hadn’t had a naked lady painted on it.
“People are always curious about Ivy League colleges and picture-perfect towns. Now we’ll be able to give the insider’s view,” Georgie continued, still selling the idea. He was a producer, after all. “Get the lowdown on whether students still go to the same places to grab something to eat when they’re up all night studying. Or maybe they’ve developed more sophisticated palates over the years to go along with their future hedge-fund-manager lifestyles?”
Something was definitely wrong because Nick was becoming seriously interested in Georgie’s idea. “I don’t know if you realize it, but Grantham holds its alumni Reunions right before Commencement. So it’s essentially a weeklong college-nostalgia party, where the soon-to-be graduates get to lock arms with their fellow Granthamites, thus building their sense of family and forging contacts for future employment.”
Nick was acutely aware that he was talking as if he was doing voice-over commentary—in addition to regaining feeling in his outer extremities. No wonder Larry’s bundled up like a polar bear, he suddenly realized. He shivered. A mistake, given his recent encounter with the lethal masseur.
“That’s better than perfect,” Georgie responded with enthusiasm. “A blend of past, present and future all rolled into one big happy, highly photogenic package.” He paused. “I presume these alums are your usual crazies—all rah-rah and wearing garish school colors?”
“Oh, wait till you see their school colors,” Nick said knowingly. The totally tasteless Reunions getups that the returning alums donned for the traditional parade and class functions were legendary. Then he eyed his producer. “So tell me. You think this august Ivy League institution is really going to allow my unique commentary on the wild and wacky world of small town, Ivy League customs?”
Clyde, the sound guy, snickered.
“Hey, just because you grew up in London and went to Cambridge, doesn’t mean you can look down on Grantham,” Nick shot back. “I’ve seen the apartment you share with three other guys in Queens. No one in your shoes can even think about looking down their nose.” Speaking of shoes, he was becoming increasingly aware of just how cold he was. He also figured that once he got back to their excuse of a hotel his maimed body would be incapable of removing his own frozen shoes.
“Clyde’s just being Clyde, and as to the permissions? Don’t worry,” Georgie interjected. “I’ll have them in hand before you can say ‘bourbon on the rocks.’” He seemed so gleeful that he began to skip down the frozen road.
In Nick’s critical view, the producer seemed more like some demented munchkin stumbling along some nightmare version of the Yellow Brick Road. Georgie was not exactly svelte, and he barely topped five feet three.
“I love it. I love it,” Georgie said to no one in particular as he continued to lead the little group down the road. Then he stopped and turned to face them. “Just think. You’ll be able to answer the question that burns in the hearts of all college students.” He put his hand to his chest, and if Nick didn’t know better, looked truly earnest.
“What? ‘Will I get laid tonight?’” Nick responded sardonically. Then he shuffled around to stare at Larry since he couldn’t turn his neck. “Don’t you have a bottle of schnapps back at the hotel?”
Georgie cupped his chin in his Gore-Tex-gloved hand. “I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Is it true that these are the happiest days of my life?’”
Thinking about that question suddenly made Nick feel very depressed, even worse than his usual morose state. “No, the black humor isn’t covering up a mirthful soul,” he once told a cub reporter for some newspaper in Peoria or Saskatchewan—or was it Lubbock? Whatever. “It’s merely the surface of a very angry guy,” he’d concluded before the reporter had quickly shut his notebook and hightailed it out of the hotel room.
“There’s less than a third left in the bottle,” Larry, the cameraman, whined, the tip of his nose having already gone from red to a worrisome ice-white.
“If you’re looking for sympathy, you’re looking at the wrong guy,” Nick retorted. “In fact, if you’re not careful, there’ll be no Christmas bonus in your stocking this year.”
“Hey, I’ve got a bottle of duty-free tequila and a hot-water bottle,” the soundman Clyde bragged in his very plummy accent.
“You British—always ready to sacrifice yourselves for queen and country, or your boss, in this case. But, hey, I’ll take whatever I can get.”
Georgie exhaled through his mouth as he waited for the others to follow. His breath formed clouds in the frigid air and partially obscured his bearded face. “Just think. It’ll be like old home week.”
“Or something like that,” Nick replied sullenly. He looked down absentmindedly, thinking of someone he could maybe call from his Grantham University days. Was it worth contacting an old college friend after more than fifteen years? he wondered. Then the ground came into focus. And for the first time after what seemed like hours of misery, Nick felt a smile cross his face.
Georgie, he noticed, was standing square in the steaming pile left by the horse.
CHAPTER TWO
May
Grantham, New Jersey
PENELOPE BIGELOW©HELD©the rare second-century manuscript of Galen’s medicinal writings between her white-cotton-gloved hands before placing it in the glass case for display. The Vatican Library had a Latin translation from the Arabic version of the ancient medicinal treatise dating from the eleventh century, but this manuscript in the original ancient Greek had been lost to the West after the fall of Rome, finally resurfacing centuries later. Only someone with a thorough knowledge of ancient and medieval history including Byzantine history, a background in multiple ancient languages, and the trained eye of a paleographer would appreciate the difference between the two versions.
Penelope had all that and more—a Ph.D in Classics and she had studied at the Vatican on a fellowship in Rome ten years ago. While there, she’d also gone through the Apostolic Library’s rigorous two-year course in paleography, the study of ancient handwriting.
Holding the so-called Grantham Galen manuscript in her hands, Penelope could practically feel the power of the ancient scholar and philosopher through the gloves. Galen had been a prolific author, and in his day he was known to have hired more than twenty scribes to take down his potent words. But as she stared at the confident blocklike script, she was almost positive that this manuscript was in Galen’s own handwriting. It was too swiftly written, as if it had been produced in a mad dash of insight.
She read the Greek as swiftly as if it were her mother tongue, though in her case, more her father’s tongue. Stanfield Bigelow was a professor of Classics at Grantham University, and he had made it a personal crusade to homeschool his precocious older child. And it had been he, in fact, who had recovered this lost manuscript and donated it to his alma mater.
The combination of forces—the knowledge that she was holding what might be the original manuscript by the work of an ancient genius and the role that her own father had played in preserving this crucial bit of antiquity—was almost overwhelming. Excited, Penelope felt her mouth start to water.
Don’t be foolish, she chided herself.
“As anyone with even a moderate IQ knows, the overproduction of saliva is attributed to specific physiological or medical conditions. And since I am not a teething infant, nor do I have a fever…” Just to make sure, she felt her forehead with the back of her wrist. “As I thought, normal. Therefore, I can eliminate mononucleosis or tonsillitis as other possible causalities,” she explained to no one in particular.
This type of self-directed conversation was something she tended to do. Her brother, Justin, called it “Penelope’s pontificating mode.” Her father said it was yet another indication of her superior intellect and geniuslike ability to retain facts. Her mother never commented. She was too busy chasing butterflies or spying delicate wildflowers.
Penelope had her own diagnosis, which she kept to herself. Still, it didn’t keep her from lecturing herself.
She lifted her chin and considered her current state further. “The only other causes of sudden drooling that I am aware of are certain medications, poisoning or a reaction to venom transmitted in a snakebite.” She paused. “I wonder if a particularly virulent insect bite could also have a similar effect?”
A young man in a white lab coat on the other side of the exhibition space stopped pushing a cart. “Penelope, did you need me for something?” he asked.
She shook her head and turned to Press. “No, I was just contemplating whether a reaction to an insect bite could induce excess saliva.”
“We once had a chocolate Lab who was stung by a bee and started drooling in reaction,” Press answered as if it were a perfectly normal question.
“I was thinking of the reaction in humans, but I think you make a good point,” Penelope said with a pleased nod.
Conrad Prescott Lodge IV, known as Press, was a senior at Grantham University. He was majoring in biology, with a concentration in paleontology, and while his dream student job would have been to work in a natural history museum, Grantham, alas, lacked such a facility. Given his respect for the fragility, not to mention the importance, of old objects, Penelope had immediately chosen him out of all the applicants for the job of part-time assistant at the university’s Rare Book Library. She had recognized a soul mate when she had asked him about his interest in paleontology and he had launched into a passionate discourse. He eventually stopped when, embarrassed, he realized he’d gone on for almost twenty minutes.
“I’m so sorry,” he had apologized. “I guess I got carried away.”
“No need to be sorry. To be sorry is to express regret for doing something that has upset someone. On the contrary, I found your intense interest illuminating. You may set your mind at ease. The job is yours,” Penelope had announced, followed by the news that she intended to raise his hourly salary by two dollars.
“But I haven’t done anything yet,” Press had protested.
“Oh, but you will. Many things. And by paying you more I just want to ensure that very fact.”
The way he had responded to her query about insect bites just now reaffirmed her initial faith in him.
“I brought over some additional manuscripts for the show,” he said, pointing to the protective boxes lying flat on the shelves of the metal cart. “The illuminated manuscript from the Burgundy, Captain Cooke’s logbook from his voyages in the Pacific and Woodrow Wilson’s love letters to his wife.”
Penelope smiled. The show she was putting together for Grantham University’s main library was comprised of manuscripts held in the university’s Rare Book Library. The show was to run during Reunions and Commencement and, therefore, she had chosen only manuscripts that had been donated by Grantham alumni.
“Thank you, Press. Yes, they’re the ‘warhorses’ of the show, though I must admit…” She gazed at the manuscript in her hands.
Press walked over and stood next to her. Penelope also wore a white lab coat over her clothes, and her strawberry-blond loose curls were twisted to the back of her head. A No. 2 pencil held the unruly mass in place.
“The Grantham Galen?” he asked, on noting what she held. “Now I get why you were asking about bites and stuff.”
Penelope made a face. “Clearly we have been working together too long, and it’s time for you to graduate.”
“Amen,” Press agreed with a praying motion.
Penelope eyed him. “Are you teasing me?”
Press held up his hands. “Would I do that?” He shrugged. “Well, probably. Anyway, you know, you should really give a talk to the alumni about the show, especially the Grantham Galen, what with your book contract and everything,” Press suggested.
“That may be so, but I think it’s better that I don’t. Interaction with people has never been my strong suit.” Penelope was sure that Press knew all about her being terminated as an assistant professor at the University of Chicago when she didn’t get tenure. That career low point had eventually led to her current position as the curator of Grantham’s Rare Book Library.
Penelope laid the priceless manuscript in the display case, locking it and her memories away. Then she glanced at her watch. “Goodness, it’s practically six o’clock. You should get going, or you’ll miss dinner at your Club.”
Press shrugged. “Somehow, I think Lion Inn will go on without my presence for one night.” The Social Clubs at Grantham were the bulwark of the college students’ social life, providing dining facilities besides a continual round of parties and sports leagues. “There’s still a lot of work to be done, and I don’t want you to have to do it all.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure you want to spend your remaining time with your friends. Pretty soon you will graduate, and you will all be going your separate ways.”
Press shrugged. “I guess I’ll miss some people, and I’m sure I’ll enjoy the graduation activities. You remember them, right?”
Actually Penelope couldn’t recall any festivities when she graduated from Grantham, but that was because she hadn’t attended any.
Press carried on without waiting for an answer. “To tell you the truth, though, a part of me is so ready to get out of here. Four years is a long time to be in one place. On top of which, I grew up in Grantham anyway. So even though I’ve lived in the dorms the whole time, it’s really kind of like I never left home. All I want to do now is to get out of here—far, far away.”
At one point, that had been Penelope’s ambition. After all, she, too, had grown up in Grantham. But here she was, back again, doing a job that her family never would have thought was in her future. Not that she didn’t find fulfillment in her current position. But life, as she had found out, didn’t always proceed as planned.
She was about to impart this pearl of wisdom to Press when he blurted out, “I can’t wait to take off for Mongolia. It’ll be amazing, don’t you think? Especially going out into the countryside.”
Penelope smiled and answered, “I think it will be a fascinating venture, especially the sites of recent paleontology discoveries. You must contact the relevant academics in the field. Perhaps I can help? I know a bit of Mongolian, as it turns out.” She recognized what appeared to be astonishment on his face. “What?” she asked. She was never quite sure if she was gauging body language correctly.
“You know Mongolian?” Press asked.
“Just a smattering. I was interested in languages written in the Cyrillic alphabet at one point. Standard Khlakha Mongolian, the dialect spoken in Mongolia proper, as opposed to the autonomous Inner Mongolian region of China…” Penelope stopped, noticing a certain fog settle over Press’s expression.
She waved her hand dismissively. “There I go, off in my own little world. I told you I was no good with social interactions. Now, as for staying—there’s absolutely no need. I’ll be working on the installation for several days. Furthermore, I am very keen for you to go to Lion Inn tonight because, if memory serves me correctly, it is Beer Pong night. You must promise to give me a full rendition of the competition. I am very much interested in the sociological aspects of the game, with the idea of establishing an anthropological link to Roman drinking games.”
Actually she had almost no interest in Beer Pong. But perhaps in telling this little white lie she was exhibiting a certain sensitivity to social interactions. At least she was trying.
CHAPTER THREE
June
Grantham
NICK©RAISED©HIS©GLASS of red wine. “To old college ties,” he toasted. “With an emphasis on the old.” He took a large sip of the Australian shiraz.
“Speak for yourself,” his host, Justin Bigelow, replied. Justin and his wife, Lilah Evans, who was also a Grantham University classmate, lived in a modest one-bedroom apartment in the center of Grantham. They called it home when they were in the States, but spent much of their time in Africa on behalf of Lilah’s nonprofit organization. Back in her senior year at Grantham, Lilah had founded Sisters for Sisters to help women and children in the central African country of Congo. Now, eleven years later, it was going strong, providing health-and-educational services in rural settlements.
“Lilah and I are as youthful as ever,” Justin chided him.
“Speak for yourself,” Lilah piped up.
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with getting older. I earned my gray hairs,” Nick announced grandly.
“If you’re going to claim they’re a mark of hard-earned maturity and wisdom, don’t even try. No one with even a smattering of fully functioning brain cells would have submitted to that crazy massage.” Justin chuckled. “I loved that episode.”
“Glad to oblige.” Nick took another sip. He had lived to regret that episode in more ways than one. Not only was his neck perpetually out of whack, but people who met him for the first time inevitably brought up the massage debacle. The price of being semifamous, he told himself.
“Even back in college when you were my Residential Advisor, you were not exactly a role model. Not that I didn’t enjoy myself, of course. I still remember you orchestrating all us freshmen advisees in stealing the clapper from Grantham Hall.”
It was a well-known tradition for students to try to steal the clapper from the bell tower atop the administration building in the center of campus. This centuries-old battle between the students and the administration had led to some epic adventures and even more epic tales.
“Excuse me. I did a good job. Did you guys get caught? Hell, no. Not on my watch,” Nick boasted, and took another gulp. He really should slow down, but then, hey, he wasn’t driving. He barely needed to roll down a gentle hill to get back to his hotel.
Then there was the irritating fact that despite the easy manner with which Justin had invited him to dinner on his first night back to Grantham, he wasn’t feeling all that relaxed. There was something about returning to the scene of his first big screwup—not finishing college—that had a disquieting effect. All those parental dreams that he had squashed without a second thought.
Lilah, seated across the wooden table, shook her head. “I like that. Your definition of morality is that it’s all right as long as you don’t get caught.”
“I bet you never considered stealing the clapper, did you? I have vague memories of you being always on the forefront of whatever good cause was going around, and from the looks of things, you’ve made that your life’s work.” Nick poured himself another glass of wine and held the bottle out to Lilah. “Drink?”
Lilah laughed. “No wine for me, thanks. I’m three months pregnant.”
Nick eyed Justin. “As I recall, you always were a fast worker.” Then he turned to Lilah. “And I guess congratulations are in order. If anyone could reform a party boy, it’s you.” He picked up a fork and dug into the pasta that Lilah had just served. It followed an absolutely superb appetizer of marinated grilled eggplant.
“Yum. This is good.” Nick nodded after a large forkful. “Actually, speaking of great food, my producer’s been laying the groundwork around town for this show I’m filming, but frankly, I’ve got my number-one priority—Hoagie Palace.”
Justin passed the freshly grated Parmesan. “Oh, yeah, you gotta go to The Palace.” He used the student slang for the beloved greasy spoon in town.
“And I was hoping you’d both accompany me on my pilgrimage,” Nick said. “You know, some nice on-camera interplay of how the food conjures up certain episodes of our wild college youth.”
“Speak for yourself. The Palace for me was strictly late-night fare when writing papers,” Lilah said.
“For me it was the place to go after practice,” Justin remarked. He’d been captain of the lightweight crew.
“You know, comments like that are perfect,” Nick agreed. He took another bite. The pasta was good. More than good.
“I’m not sure I’d be the best person for your show, though,” Lilah admitted sadly. “The way my stomach is now, just the thought of all that grease is enough to make me queasy.”
“Bummer, I was viewing it as a family moment,” Justin teased her. Then he patted her arm. “Not to worry. I’ve got a great idea for somebody else. Press Lodge,” Justin announced.
“Is this someone I should know?” Nick asked.
“Remember Mimi Lodge, who was a classmate?” Justin asked. “She’s now a foreign correspondent.”
“You mean, have-war-will-travel Mimi Lodge?”
“That’s the one. Well, she has a half brother, Press, who’s a graduating senior.”
“And he’s practically been adopted by the owners,” Lilah added. “Not surprising, given his family situation.” Then she covered her mouth. “I shouldn’t be gossiping.”
“Don’t worry. Other shows deal with family strife. I’m after the food scene, and the idea of having a true insider in artery-clogging food is better than perfect. You think he’ll do it?” Nick asked.
Justin shrugged. “I don’t see why not, especially if it means publicity for Hoagie Palace.”
“I know Mimi came in today for Reunions. I’ll call her, and she’s sure to twist Press’s arm.”
“Ask her if she’ll come, too. The more the merrier.” Nick rested his fork on the edge of his plate. The pasta had been so delicious he had gobbled it down in record time.
Justin reached for more bread from the wicker basket by his elbow, then held it up. “Anyone else?”
Nick shook his head. “No, thanks, but I gotta tell you. This pasta is truly to die for. What’s in it? I mean, I can see there’s sausage—though it’s like no other sausage I’ve ever had. But what’re the greens?”
Lilah furrowed her brow in thought. “I can’t remember.” She looked to Justin. “What did Penelope say she put in it?”
“Wild fennel. She said something about foraging it somewhere near the Delaware Water Gap,” Justin explained.
Nick tipped his chair on the back two legs and craned his neck from side to side. “So where are you hiding this Penelope? This place doesn’t seem big enough to accommodate a golden retriever, let alone another person.”
It was true. The quaint apartment had lots of Victorian charm, including the bay window with a window seat and the original molding, but square footage was at a definite premium.
“It’s more like Penelope hides herself. She doesn’t exactly socialize,” Justin explained.
Lila touched her chin. “Penelope is definitely her own person.”
Justin looked at Nick. “Penelope’s a little weird. As her younger brother, I should know.”
“So she’s your sister.” Nick narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute, didn’t she go to Grantham, too? Like a year behind me? I have this fuzzy recollection of her always going around campus with her face buried in a book.”
“That would be Penelope.” Justin chuckled. “She was born almost legally blind. Even with glasses, she had to read with the book an inch from her nose. The miracle is that she’s had laser surgery, and now she doesn’t need to wear glasses anymore.”
Nick held his bloated stomach. “As far as I’m concerned, anyone who makes pasta this good can be blind as a bat. The woman’s a genius in the kitchen, that’s for sure.”
“Well, she actually happens to be a genius,” Lilah said. “And please, have some more.” She indicated the large ceramic bowl.
“I know this is the wrong thing to do, but since when have I ever turned down an opportunity to eat myself silly?” Nick reached across the table and grabbed the serving utensils. “So your sister’s become a chef?”
“No, it’s more a…a…” Justin searched for the correct word. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a hobby, but a…a…”
“It’s more a passion,” Lilah finished his sentence. “When Penelope takes an interest in something, it’s total immersion.”
“She’s into southern Italy. You know, Calabria?”
Nick started on his second portion. “Not personally, but I know the region you’re referring to.”
“Anyway, somebody left her a house there, in this dot-on-the-map town called Capo Vaticano. It’s all a bit of a mystery, especially for someone on her salary. Though I guess she rents the place out.”
Lilah rested her chin on her hands. “Well, I for one am not complaining. She let us stay there for our honeymoon. The house is in the private garden on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean.”
“And don’t forget the infinity pool.” Justin’s eyes clouded over. “When I die and go to heaven, I hope it looks like that infinity pool.”
Nick set his fork down—for him, a real concession. “From what you’re all saying, Penelope’s passions have led to some pretty good things—the house, this food…” He pointed it out. “That type of passion I can deal with. In my experience, indifference is a lot harder to cope with, believe me.”
He didn’t elaborate, nor did they ask. If they had, Nick supposed he could have made some snide remark about his ex-wife. Heaven knows, for years after their divorce he hadn’t had any problems commenting on her faults. Now, those faults had become dimmer with time, and mostly what he felt was moderate disdain or worse, nothing, when he thought about her. Which, granted, he tried to do as little as possible.
He quickly forked down another mouthful and gulped. There was definitely something about the pasta that was incredible. “So why is your sister doing whatever she’s doing instead of cooking professionally?” He looked up. “It’s gotta be another passion, right?”
“I hope so.” Justin ripped his hunk of bread into smaller pieces. “Penelope had been groomed by our father to be another Classics professor, and…well…that didn’t quite work out.” He munched thoughtfully. “For the past year, she’s been a rare-book librarian.”
“Here at the university,” Lilah added. “Which means we get lucky sometimes and get some of her cooking.”
“Well, if this pasta’s any indication of her culinary prowess, all I can say is wow.” Nick pointed at his empty plate. “Take the sausage she used. Only someone truly into cooking would take the pains to track down something that good.”
“Actually she makes it herself,” Lilah said. “But if you liked this, you should taste this other spreadable kind she makes. I can’t remember the name exactly, but it’s smoky and hot.”
“I think it’s called N-something,” Justin said. “It’s some unpronounceable word in a Calabrian dialect.”
“You don’t mean ’nduja?” Nick pronounced it instead like “endooya.” “My accent sucks, but you get the drift.”
Justin nodded. “That’s it!”
“That stuff’s legendary in southern Italy, you know. Supposedly the Calabrians concocted it in the eighteenth century while the French kings were ruling over that part of Italy. It’s essentially their version of the French andouille—you know, smoked pork sausage?”
“I learn something new every day. I guess it pays to invite a food expert to your place,” Lilah remarked. “In all sincerity, I’m glad you could come over tonight. Having said all that, can I get you to sign a copy of your book? I’ve got it right here.” She pointed to the wall of shelves and rose to get it. “And I want you to know I paid full price—no discounts.” She walked in her bare feet to the front of the room, all of five paces.
“I’d be happy to. This is what an author lives for—that, and the royalty checks.” Nick opened to the title page and began writing. “So, tell me, if I want to get in contact with your sister, Justin, what do I need to do? I presume she lives nearby.”
“Right here in Grantham,” Justin answered.
“So you think she’d be interested?” Nick handed the signed book to Lilah. “I mean, I’ve never heard of anyone being able to get ’nduja in the States, let alone make it.”
“Interested in what?” Lilah smiled as she read the message written in her book.
“You mean you want to meet her?” Justin asked. He pushed back his chair and beckoned his wife over.
“Well, that—”
“You mean for your show, don’t you?” Lilah said. She sat on Justin’s lap, squirming to get comfortable.
“Of course.”
Justin shook his head. “I’m not sure that would work. Penelope isn’t exactly a people person. Listen, I’m no professional, but from my experience teaching kindergarten, she seems to show a lot of the symptoms of Asperger’s—the mild form of autism. Not that she’s ever been diagnosed.”
Nick leaned on his elbows and opened his palms to the air. “I may not know your sister, but anyone who spends this kind of time and effort cooking a masterpiece like this—” he waved at his empty dish “—and then gives it to you no questions asked? You want my view?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “That person is definitely interacting with you on a fundamental basis. So she likes to be by herself. Hey, I’ve met a lot of people, and frankly, I can understand that. And that she doesn’t make chitchat in the normal superficial ways that, say, you or I do? In my case, that’s probably a good thing.”
He rose. “I tell you what. Why don’t you both think more about how I can get her to meet with me, and in the meantime I’ll clear and wash up. I may not be trusted to cook in a fine restaurant anymore, but I can still be counted on for my busboy and dishwasher abilities.”
Justin watched as Nick expertly lined multiple plates along the length of his arm without stacking. “Are you trying to show up my KP skills?”
“You’re just jealous,” Nick spoke over his shoulder as he turned toward the kitchen.
His cell phone started to chime in the back pocket of his jeans. He looked down. “Damn.” He juggled the dishes.
“Here, let me,” Lilah volunteered, hopping off Justin’s lap. “It’s not every day I get to come into close contact with a celebrity.”
Nick crooked his hip to offer up his back pocket.
Lilah slipped her fingers in gently.
“Now I’m jealous,” Justin kidded.
“Nothing wrong with a little jealousy.” Lilah slid the bar across the screen to activate the phone.
He cocked his head sideways against the screen. “Hello,” he answered the call, still juggling the plates.
“Daddy? I’m ba-ack!”
CHAPTER FOUR
IT©WAS©A©SMALL©MIRACLE that Nick hadn’t dropped the plates. Maybe it would have been better if he had.
Then he’d have an excuse to disconnect the phone and regroup before responding to the caller. Instead he looked up. “I better take this call.” He eased the plates into the sink and stepped out of the kitchen into the hallway. He figured he needed as much privacy as possible where his seventeen-year-old daughter was concerned.
“What’s up, Amara? I got your email about your graduation, but unfortunately I’m shooting an episode right now, so there’s a possibility that I won’t be able to make it.” He glanced out the arched window over the landing to the traffic below. Across the street the Grantham Public Library was ablaze with light. Maybe there still were people who read books, Nick mused.
“Well, it’s not like I really expected you to come. Since when have you made it to any of the important moments in my entire existence?” a sarcastic, high-pitched voice complained. “Anyway, Mom was the one who told me to tell you.”
Well, I was there at the moment of your conception, Nick could have said. But he wisely kept that remark to himself.
“Anyway, there’s no need for you to interrupt your busy schedule on my account,” Amara went on.
“I really want to,” Nick insisted ingenuously. Hanging out at the snotty prep school Amara attended in upstate New York—and where his well-mannered, maturely sensible ex-wife happened to work in the development office—was not high on his list of favorite activities.
“Don’t even pretend, Daddy.” She made the word sound ugly. “Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be there anyway.” The last remark was almost a throwaway.
Nick was immediately suspicious. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re not graduating? I thought you were supposed to be some hotshot student?”
“Have you ever seen a single one of my report cards?” she snapped back.
“No, but, somehow I remember you or maybe your mother…”
“Forget Mother.”
Gladly, thought Nick.
“She’s out of the picture, on her honeymoon in Tahiti with Glenn.”
“Honeymoon? Tahiti? And wait a minute. Glenn?”
Nick heard a sigh of exasperation on the other end of the line.
“God, you’re so lame. Don’t the two of you ever talk? I don’t know why I even bother to ask. Anyway, I blamed it all on defective genes, inherited from you.”
Now Nick was really suspicious. “Back up there, Tonto. Blame what on me?”
“My getting kicked out. I figure I’m just keeping up the family tradition.”
So this is what fatherhood was all about? Not that he would really know, given his rare contact with his daughter. “Listen, Amara,” he responded, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice. “As amusing as you may find it to pick on your old man—” he heard snickers, which didn’t improve his mood one bit “—it’s quite another to get kicked out of high school right before graduating. If nothing else, just think of how your mother will take this.” That sounded like something his father would have said about him growing up, Nick thought.
A loud whooshing noise on the phone drowned out whatever Amara was saying. That’s when he went beyond being suspicious to downright panicked. “Where are you? Did you run away?”
“Hardly. I’m at the Grantham Junction train station. I called your production-company office and the receptionist told me where you were. The school wouldn’t let me leave except into the custody of a parent. And since Mom is now doing the dirty with Glenn…”
Nick cringed at the thought. Whatever affection he had had for Amara’s mother, Jeannine, had long since vanished. Still, he couldn’t deny a sense of irritation that his ex had managed to get on with her life while he was still floundering through random relationships.
The least he could do was put on his big-boy pants and do the right thing. “So I guess this means you’re planning on staying with me, right?” he asked.
“It looks that way.” Amara was not giving an inch. “So are you going to pick me up at the station, or do you plan on sending one of your lackeys? I always thought your cameraman was kind of cute.”
Now Nick was really scared. “I’ll be there. It’ll be a few minutes. My car’s in the garage, and I’m at a dinner party right now.”
Lilah approached him with a look of concern. “Problems?” she asked.
“Are you sure that party’s just dinner?” Amara asked sarcastically over the phone.
Nick narrowed his eyes. “The voice you heard was my friend and married host for dinner, thank you very much. Listen, I’ll be right over. Whatever you do, don’t move. And don’t talk to any strangers,” he barked before hanging up.
He thrust his phone into his pocket and rolled his eyes. “That was my teenage daughter. She’s unexpectedly descended on me.” He didn’t feel the need to elaborate. “I’m just going to pick her up at the train station, and somehow I’m gonna find her a place to stay, which, given that Reunions and Commencement are just about to start, is going to be quite a feat.” He rubbed his mouth. “I don’t think she’s up for the close, personal experience of sharing a room with me.”
“Surely there’s another option.” Lilah frowned in thought, and Nick could practically hear the machinery of her altruistic fervor grind into action.
Lilah snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it. I was going to call Mimi about Press and Hoagie Palace. Why don’t I ask her if your daughter can stay at her family’s place on the western side of town? The house is enormous.”
“It could easily provide shelter for a whole village,” Justin said.
“Well, it’s probably going to take a whole village to keep my teenage daughter in line.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Lilah said with a shake of her head. “Listen, wait a minute. I’ll call Mimi now before you leave and that way you’ll know.”
Nick watched her leave and turned to Justin. “Is she always this determined?”
“Why do you think she’s so good at what she does?”
“You’ve got a point.” Then he waved to the sink. “Move over, and let a pro take charge.”
After a few minutes, Lilah returned, phone in hand. Nick was wet up to his elbows with soapy water as he washed the dishes before passing them to Justin to dry.
“Mimi says it’s no problem. The pool house is vacant, so she can have privacy.”
Nick turned as he sponged off the silverware. “If she’s sure? I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Lilah repeated his words into the phone, then looked up. “She says it’s no problem.” Then she listened to the phone again, nodding, before hanging up. “So, it’s all settled then. Mimi even said that if your daughter—”
“Amara,” Nick supplied.
“Amara, nice.” Lilah smiled. “Anyway, if Amara wants to help out, she can probably provide some free babysitting for Mimi’s little half sister, Brigid. She’s adorable. Seven going on forty. Here, I think I even have a photo of her on my phone from last year’s Reunions.” She quickly pressed the screen on her cell phone, scrolling through her photos. “Here she is. Doesn’t she look cute with the ribbons in her hair? I think she even insisted that Mimi put them in.” She held out her arm so that he could look.
Nick passed the forks to Justin. “Cute,” he said, barely glancing at the photo. That seemed to be the thing one said in these circumstances.
“She looks a little like Mimi, but really, I see a lot of Noreen in her. Noreen’s her mother, and she works with me at the nonprofit.” She began flipping through more photos. “Wait, here’s another.” Lilah thrust out her hand again. “You’ve got to see this one.”
Nick stopped washing the large serving bowl and squinted. He saw a little girl laughing as she sat on the shoulders of a young guy. She seemed to have lost one of her ribbons, not that it bothered her. But it was the guy that really got Nick’s attention. His mussed-up blond hair looked sun bleached from high-class stuff like sailing or polo. He wore an orange polo shirt that hugged his slim body. Could you say negative body fat? His large hands gripped the girl’s small ankles. A row of perfect white teeth seemed to shine as his smile pierced his cheeks, the sunburned skin showing nary a blemish. The gods would not allow it.
Nick’s nose started to itch and he rubbed it with the back of a soapy hand. “And he’s?” Nick asked, pointing but careful not to drench the phone.
“Oh, Mimi’s half brother, Press. The one we talked about earlier? He graduates from Grantham in another week.”
Nick’s felt a sense of dread well in the base of his throat. “But he lives in the dorms, right?” Please, pretty please, a little voice inside begged.
“Sure, just like we all did.” Lilah kept her eyes on the phone’s screen as she went through some more pictures, a smile curving her lips. “Though maybe with exams and everything over, he’s moved back home.”
CHAPTER FIVE
PENELOPE©GLANCED©DOWN at the watch on her wrist. The appointment had been for eight o’clock. It was now eight-oh-six. Exactly. Penelope knew it was correct since every morning she set her watch to official U.S. Time, using the government website.
Justin had called her around seven in the morning, knowing she was an early riser, to let her know that the celebrity chef and author Nicholas Rheinhardt was in Grantham to speak at Class Day ceremonies and also to shoot an episode about local cuisine. Penelope remembered him from her college days, not that he would remember her. He had been Justin’s Residential Advisor, and as far as she could tell, he spent most of his time avoiding anything resembling advising, let alone remaining in residence. He had appeared to be more interested in taking the train to New York City to hear grunge bands, only to return to campus toting several Peking ducks, heads and all.
And now it seemed that he had mentioned to Justin an interest in filming some scenes in the Rare Book Library. Something to go along with a more scholarly approach to food and society.
Penelope found this odd. Not that someone would be interested in the library. Grantham University, after all, had one of the finest collections in the country, if not the world. Research scholars, museums, other libraries, and film and television people asked to use specific works, or to borrow manuscripts for all kinds of scholarly and commercial endeavors. The process for approval varied from object to object, with the standard legal, financial and insurance hoops to jump through.
Mr. Rheinhardt apparently preferred not to do any jumping.
So, she had reluctantly agreed to meet him, assuming nothing would come of it in the end. “All right, Justin, you may tell him that I’ll be here. I’ll go in early and pull a few texts relevant to his particular field. But this meeting is strictly preliminary. No cameras.” She’d cringed at the idea of cameras.
“Of course, of course,” Justin had agreed in his usual easygoing fashion. Somewhere in his prenatal development he had acquired a mutant “no worries” gene that was not a normal part of the family mix. “I’ll let Nick know. He’ll be very happy.”
Unconvinced, Penelope had hung up. But like the conscientious person that she was, she had arrived at the library forty-five minutes early to search for manuscripts pertaining to food and its preparation—not that she didn’t know the entire extent of the holdings already, but one could never be too careful. Then she’d pulled the material and put it on display in a locked conference room off to the side of the main reading room. The whole procedure had taken twenty-six minutes.
That had still left nineteen minutes to check her email, make a cup of coffee and do some deep-breathing exercises.
Now as she stood sentry at the front double doors to the modern building, she looked at her watch again. If she had known Mr. Rheinhardt would be late, she would have used the extra time to watch one of his old episodes online, to perhaps gain some insight into his character since his college days.
And then what? They’d discuss the street food of Penang Pen? She thought not.
But then she remembered an episode she’d accidentally caught while flipping channels. Yes, much to her father’s dismay, Penelope owned a flat-screen television—a small one, mind you. “The nature shows on public television are quite fascinating,” she had argued, appealing to her mother’s interests. Her father had coughed dismissively.
Nature shows weren’t the only things fascinating, Penelope thought as she cooled her heels. Nicholas Rheinhardt had definitely aged in the seventeen years since she’d last seen him in college. But at least on-screen, those years appeared to have provided real-life knowledge—as opposed to the book-learning variety—and a sense of mocking self-deprecation that only someone truly confident in his skin possesses. Not that she personally had ever experienced such a sensation.
Penelope pursed her lips. Perhaps she should just watch an episode after all?
* * *
“WHERE©THE©HELL©IS©SHE, and why doesn’t she answer her phone?” Nick threw his cell phone on the dashboard of the rental car.
Georgie, who was driving, glanced over. “Hey, watch it. That’s genuine plastic. And besides, what are you getting all worked up about? It’s only eight in the morning. Amara’s probably fast asleep with her phone turned off. My kids at that age used to sleep past noon when they didn’t have school.”
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? She should have been in school,” Nick replied.
The traffic inched forward on Main Street only to grind to a halt when the light turned red. “So why’d she get kicked out?” Georgie asked. He tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel.
Nick stared at him. “You know, I didn’t even ask. What kind of a father doesn’t even ask his kid the reason for being thrown out of school?”
“I don’t know. A total screwup?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Nick glanced past Georgie at a small movie theater on the corner. The marquee displayed the title of some esoteric foreign flick. “Maybe Amara would want to take in a film? She seems like the artsy-fartsy type.”
The light changed and the traffic sputtered forward. Georgie eased his foot on the gas pedal. Three cars advanced. Then a car wanting to turn left held up everybody behind it. Naturally the light turned red again.
Georgie shook his head. “If I had known traffic would have been this bad in this two-bit town, I would have suggested walking. I hate being late. Maybe we should give this Penelope lady a call?”
Nick reached for his phone on the dashboard and checked the time. “Nah, we still have five minutes.”
Georgie looked unconvinced. “You’re really sure this is worth it? I mean, we’ve already got that Hoagie joint set up for tonight.”
Nick held up his hand. “Which reminds me. I’ve got to text Mimi Lodge—”
“The war correspondent?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Definitely get her to come. She’d be fantastic for ratings. Plus, I’ve never known any other woman to do quite so much for a kuffiyeh—you know, those Palestinian scarves all the correspondents wear?”
Nick tapped away as he texted. “Glad to know you’re such a fashion maven. Anyway, she promised to have her kid brother there, too. A nice…ah…sort of quasi-multigenerational thing.”
Georgie nodded.
The light changed. “Finally we have action.” Georgie gunned the engine so they didn’t waste any more time. “According to the GPS we’re within spitting distance. Hey, isn’t that the Hoagie Palace?” He pointed to the left. The building’s trim was painted a combination of orange and black, Grantham University’s colors, so it was virtually impossible to miss.
Nick sighed. “My heart is already going pitter-patter.” He fluttered his hand on his chest. In deference to meeting a librarian type, he’d traded in his usual frayed souvenir T-shirt for an open-neck oxford-cloth shirt and a blue blazer. Only the quest for the Holy Grail—homemade ’nduja—could bring out this sartorial condescension. “Trust me, this library gig will be worth it. We’ll go through the whole food-manuscript charade, and then get down to the real meat and potatoes, so to speak.”
“Okay, supposedly just a right at the next light, and we’re practically there,” Georgie said.
The next light changed to red.
Nick laughed. “That’ll teach you to be optimistic.”
Georgie nodded in agreement. “Why do I even try?” he joked. Then his face turned more serious. “You know, Nick, I wouldn’t beat yourself up about your relationship with Amara.”
“You mean my lack of relationship—totally my fault, by all stretches of the imagination.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I really had anything to do with bringing up our kids—not with the constant travel. It was all Marjorie, really.” He bit down on his bottom lip.
Georgie’s wife, Marjorie, had died two years ago of an aneurism. Nick knew that the suddenness had rocked him, but through it all, Georgie had insisted on working. “It’s my therapy,” he had said at the time in an unthreatening voice that was so not Georgie.
“She was a great lady,” Nick answered now.
“She was,” Georgie agreed. “But you know, even she had her moments with the kids, especially Sallie, our second, when she was Amara’s age. Kids are kids. They talk tough and give you all sorts of grief. But deep down you can’t imagine life without them.”
“You promise?” Nick asked.
* * *
AMARA©LAY©IN©THE©QUEEN-SIZE©BED in the pool house staring at prints of America’s Cup sailboats artfully arranged on the walls. On the nightstand, the glass eye of a sculpted seagull stared back at her. She blinked, grateful that she hadn’t noticed it last night before she’d fallen asleep.
It was about the only thing she had to be grateful about. Mostly she was scared stiff that by getting kicked out before graduation she’d blown her acceptance to Grantham University.
The headmistress had informed her that her guidance counselor would be letting Grantham know about her changed status. “In light of that news, do you have anything further you’d like to say about the incident?” she’d asked, her half-glasses sliding down her nose. Photographs of the woman shaking hands with an Academy Award-winning actress and a prominent female senator, both graduates of the Edwina Worth School for Girls, had been prominently displayed.
Amara had silently shaken her head. She wasn’t about to rat out anyone else. She was already something of an outsider. Not only was she a day student among mostly boarders, her mother also worked in the development office. A double strike against her.
True, having a father who had a TV show counted in her favor. But the positives of being Nicholas Rheinhardt’s daughter stopped there, as far as she was concerned. He was a nonentity who, when she was younger, didn’t always send monthly checks. In more recent years, though, he was far more generous where the money was concerned.
As for any personal interaction? Did one week a year in Manhattan count as father-daughter bonding time? When she mostly ended up going to museums by herself or sitting in his production offices reading? Sure, he seemed cool and all—some of her classmates said that, for an old guy, he looked sexy.
But to Amara he remained someone she was supposed to love, who she wanted to love but who had hardly shown any interest in her love.
So screw him.
Yet, here she was. With him.
Her so-called father might have noticed the black fingernail polish and the purple streak in her dark hair. And if he had—a big if, in Amara’s opinion—he might have assumed that they were signs of subversive behavior. Truth be told, these affectations were more an indication of boredom. After all, there wasn’t a lot to do at an all-girls private school in what had to be the dreariest town in upstate New York.
And as she mulled her sorry state, Amara heard a splash in the pool outside. She got out of bed and peeked through the white sailcloth curtains. It was a guy. A couple of years older than she. The cutest guy ever, swimming laps. He was strong, fit. And he had shoulders, actual shoulders, and real abdominal muscles just like in the ads.
She pulled open the door a few inches and took a tentative step into the sunlight.
He reached her end of the pool and slapped his fingertips on the wall before standing up in the shallow water. He whipped back his head. Water sprayed. He casually ran his hand through his wet hair, pushing it off his forehead. Then he placed his hands on his hips where the waistband of his low-slung trunks hung. “I thought I spotted someone looking out the window,” he said with a smile.
Amara blinked as she watched a droplet wander down the pale line of blond hair that trailed toward his waistband.
“My name’s Press,” he announced.
Embarrassed, her head shot up. “I’m Amara,” she squeaked. “This woman, Mimi, said it was okay for me to stay here for a few days while my father has work in Grantham.”
Press laughed. “That’s just like my half sister—to invite someone when it’s not really her house.”
“If it’s any problem…”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can stay.” Then he studied her. “So how come you’re here? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
She pulled in the sides of her cheeks. “I got kicked out of private school right before graduation.”
“That sucks.” He ran his hand through his hair again. “Can’t your parents just bribe the school administration with some fat donation? Happens all the time.”
“My father barely knows the name of my school, so I don’t think that’s going to work.”
“What about your mom?”
Amara pressed her lips together, then sighed. “She doesn’t know I was suspended. She’s on her honeymoon on some Polynesian island, and her phone doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Well, won’t she be surprised when she shows up at your graduation and you’re not there?”
Amara swallowed. “I hadn’t gotten that far in my thinking. The whole thing just blew up yesterday.”
Press picked up a beach towel from a chaise and started to dry himself off. Amara turned her head away, taking a sudden interest in the climbing roses on a trellis. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the way he moved the towel across his back. This time her throat was too dry to swallow.
He tossed the towel over one shoulder and slipped his feet into a pair of well-worn flip-flops. “So what are you planning on doing? Hang around the pool all day?”
Amara nervously slipped a lock of hair behind her ear. “No, I think from what my father and your sister Mimi said, I’m supposed to be babysitting. You have a little sister?”
“Half sister. Brigid. She’s cool. For a seven-year-old. But she’s in school until three, so you still have most of the day to yourself.”
“I guess I’ll just wait around here. I’ve got a book I could read.”
“That sounds pretty boring. Why don’t you just hang out with me?”
“Shouldn’t I let your other sister know?”
“You mean Mimi?” Press shook his head. “Trust me, Mimi will eventually wake up later, a little fuzzy about the fact that she invited you to stay here.” He used the tip of the towel to get water out of his ear. “I mean, you can say no. Or if you think your father wouldn’t like it?”
Amara shook her head. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind since he’s really tied up with work. My being here suddenly has only complicated his life.” She didn’t feel like filling him in on the details of who her father was. The conversation would then inevitably turn to questions about what Nicholas Rheinhardt was really like, was he really as cool as he seemed on TV. The thing of it was, she really didn’t have the foggiest idea how to answer.
“Well, in that case, why don’t I meet you back here in about fifteen minutes? I need to take a shower.” Press pointed over his shoulder to the house. It was a stately brick Georgian manor complete with towering columns and shiny black shutters. “And then we can go to the club to get some breakfast. Normally I live in a dorm on campus and eat there. But since I’m graduating from Grantham next week, and classes and exams are done, I decided to crash at home for a change.” Unconsciously he rubbed his tanned washboard stomach.
Amara’s mouth dropped open.
“You haven’t eaten yet, right?”
She snapped her jaw shut. “Ah, no.” She hadn’t even had dinner last night.
“They have scrambled eggs and bacon and stuff like that at the club. You’re not a vegetarian, are you? A lot of girls are vegetarians. I just don’t get that. There’s no way I could live without bacon.”
Amara hadn’t had a bite of meat in more than three years. It was a philosophical thing—she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting animals—not a weight thing, the way it was for some of her friends.
She was torn. She believed in standing up for her principles, but there was no way she was going to piss off this amazing guy… .
Her stomach growled loudly. She looked down, horrified.
Press laughed. “I guess bacon it is. After that I’ll take you to meet Penelope.”
She glanced up, doubly stricken. “Is she your girlfriend?”
Press laughed, this time louder.
CHAPTER SIX
PENELOPE©WAS©JUST©FINISHING the episode that took place in some remote corner of the former Soviet Union, which seemed solely notable for its frigid temperatures, temperamental plumbing and thin potato soup. When she leaned back in her ergonomically designed desk chair and glanced out her office window, she caught sight of two men coming up the walkway.
One was short and squat, his legs doing a two-step for every long stride of the man to his right—or her left.
Technically she ceased observing Man Number One after less than a millisecond. There was nothing technical about the way Penelope bit the inside of her cheek and gazed openly at Nicholas Rheinhardt—in the flesh as opposed to on screen.
Oh, my. No amount of cyberknowledge had prepared her for the accelerated heart rate and tightness of breath that she was currently experiencing. Her agitated state made her recall the conversation she’d had with herself when she’d held the Grantham Galen several weeks earlier. Now, mentally, she did a checklist once more of the causes of these physiological effects. There was only one explanation.
Clearly Nicholas Rheinhardt was poison.
And she had no idea of the antidote.
Still, ever stalwart, she rose and walked softly on the wall-to-wall carpeting of the reading room to the front of the building. She pushed open the central glass door and waited.
It seemed like a good idea to take the offensive. Penelope gulped. Whatever she did, she refused to muss with her hair in classic female flirtatious behavior.
“Our apologies for being late,” the shorter man said. He stuck out his hand.
Penelope looked down. She noticed the man bit his nails, but they were otherwise clean. She extended her hand to shake his. “I’m Penelope Bigelow. My brother, Justin, mentioned over the phone that Nicholas Rheinhardt wanted to visit the Rare Book Library.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, well, I’m Georgie De Meglio, Nicholas’s producer. Think of me as Nick’s alter ego.” He smiled wide.
A seemingly genuinely pleasant man, Penelope thought. Then she focused on the man rocking on his heels. “And you must be the ego, then?”
For a moment—several moments actually—he stared intently. Even Georgie appeared to notice because he jabbed him in the ribs. “Nick isn’t his best in the morning, are you?”
“Mr. Rheinhardt, I presume,” she said.
“Nick, please,” he responded, his eyes locked on hers. He held out his hand.
They made contact. This time Penelope’s heart stopped beating, her jaw became slack and breathing was all but forgotten. Poison, definitely.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” he said, his hand still holding hers. He didn’t appear to be as disturbed as she felt, but Penelope could have sworn she saw his pupils dilate. He wasn’t as unaffected as he appeared to be.
“The traffic. It was murder. But then, you probably know all about that seeing as you live here.” He gave her his famous camera-ready smile.
Penelope blinked. “I usually bike.”
“Oh.” The smile dipped in wattage. He dropped his hand.
“Shall we go inside, gentlemen,” she said, recovering. Penelope held out her hand in the direction of the conference room. “From what my brother mentioned, you’re interested in seeing some of our food-related manuscripts.” She walked briskly in front of them. She was aware of the sound of her ballet flats clipping along the stone floor of the entrance hall.
She opened the second set of glass doors to the well-lit reading room and its long tables. A hushed silence enveloped the space. She continued to the conference room on the right and opened the door. “I tried to intuit what you had in mind.”
“I’ve never been intuited before,” Nick quipped.
Penelope was taken aback. Then she saw him purse his lips. Aha. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were making a joke.”
“He does that frequently. Is that a problem?” Georgie acted the mediator.
Penelope gave it some thought. “No, I don’t think so. The more you do it, the more I should be able to read your verbal and facial cues to know when you are attempting to be humorous.”
Nick raised his dark eyebrows. “Talk about being put in my place.”
Penelope saw he still had a smile. “That was another joke?”
“No, that was serious,” he said.
“Trust me, he could use being put in his place,” Georgie reassured her. He walked over to the conference table to get a better look at the works she’d chosen. “Hey, don’t tell me that the marginal notations in this are by that famous chef? You know, the one who basically introduced French cooking to America?”
Penelope joined him. “You have a good eye. This is the proof copy of her work, and those are her comments—not entirely happy, as you can tell. The head of the publishing house at the time was a Grantham alum and kindly donated the book.”
“Hey, Nick, get a look. It’s pretty interesting. I suppose we could do a short bit giving a kind of academic feel to the episode—that cuisine and scholarship go hand in hand in these hallowed halls.”
“As opposed to what’s served in the residential college dining halls?” she asked.
“Is that a joke?” Nick asked. He stood close on Penelope’s other side.
She immediately felt disconcerted. She slanted her head and eyed him askance. “I suppose so. It’s not a skill that comes naturally to me.” She quickly avoided more of his searing gaze by concentrating on material that was far more in her comfort zone—the books and manuscripts that lay displayed before them. “If you want to emphasize the richness of Grantham’s holdings, you might also be interested in an exhibition that I put together over at the main library. It showcases rare manuscripts donated by alumni.”
“That’s another way to go.” Georgie nodded as he peered more closely at a handwritten list. “What’s this? I can’t read all the writing, but it looks likes a shopping list of some sort.”
Penelope sidestepped to keep up with him—and move farther away from Nick. “It’s a list of provisions needed for the Continental Congress when it met here in Grantham.”
“So now we know what John Adams and Thomas Jefferson ate for breakfast,” Nick remarked. He scratched the side of his face as he leaned over to read the items.
Penelope caught a whiff of unadulterated bar soap and strong coffee. The smells of morning. Somehow she automatically thought of sex.
He seemed to be pointing at something and saying something that might have been directed at her, but Penelope wasn’t sure. She supposed she would have to think of something quick, something informative about the nutritional preferences of eighteenth-century gentlemen or how the penmanship reflected a certain educational stature of the writer, but at the moment she was having a hard time remembering her own nutritional preferences.
The door to the conference room cracked open behind her.
Penelope felt a rush of hope. Saved by the proverbial bell. She swiveled around.
Except the action caused her to brush up against Nick’s outstretched arm, the one he’d been pointing with. And it wasn’t just her shoulder that did the brushing. Her breasts also made contact as she rotated counterclockwise, which was decidedly odd since Penelope was sure she normally turned in clockwise fashion.
Tell that to my tingling nipples, she thought—crudely. Her father would no doubt have chastised her language, although it was not as if she would ever, ever have had this particular conversation with him. Luckily the white lab coat she wore over her scoop-neck top prevented any embarrassment.
So, trying to compose herself, Penelope swallowed and applied a stiff smile to her face as she turned to face the interloper.
“Hey, Penelope, I hope it’s okay that I brought a visitor to take around the place?” Press gave her a salute. He stood at the door to the conference room, looking fresh and full of life, his hair wet from a shower, his wrinkled madras shorts hanging loosely from his narrow hips. A white T-shirt stretched across his taut chest.
Next to him was a young woman, a girl really, with shocking-pink highlights in her long black hair. She wore an oversize work shirt with black leggings. Penelope had never seen Press with a girl.
“Oh, wow.” Press stopped dead in his tracks. “I didn’t realize you had Nick Rheinhardt as a visitor. I mean, I knew you’re going to be our Class Day speaker, and I can’t tell you how excited we all are. The episode where you got that killer massage? Amazing. It went viral on YouTube.”
“It’s my pleasure to be speaking at your graduation ceremony,” Nick replied formally.
Penelope looked over at Nick, who for some unknown reason looked somewhat perturbed. “I suppose introductions are in order?” She nodded toward Press. “This is my student assistant in the Rare Book Library…”
“Press Lodge.” Press stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “It’s a pleasure.” He politely introduced himself to Georgie, as well. Then he turned around. “And this is a guest at my house, Amara.”
The girl clenched her jaw.
Strange, thought Penelope.
Then she heard Nick Rheinhardt inhale dramatically.
Even stranger.
“Hello, Amara,” he said after a beat, his voice tight.
“Hello, Daddy,” she replied without any warmth.
“Daddy?” Press asked. “You didn’t tell me you were Nick Rheinhardt’s daughter this morning.”
“And you—” Nick stared at Amara “—didn’t tell me that he was the reason you didn’t answer the phone when I called earlier.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
NICK©RECOGNIZED AMARA’S©obvious displeasure. Clearly, she’d been hoping to avoid her wayward father. Not to mention the other whammy of having to watch her new little buddy—this college kid flaunting his preppy testosterone and gee-whiz smile—fawn all over said dad. And having Georgie practically hopping on his toes, no doubt hoping to work unexpected encounters like this into the episode, only added to the sense that a crisis was looming. Not to forget the librarian.
Yes, let’s not forget the librarian, Nick thought. Penelope.
He closed his eyes, feeling all over again the brush of her breasts across his arm. And the thing of it was, he was simply not one of those guys who ever harbored a librarian fantasy.
Not that she looked like anybody’s idea of a librarian. That shapeless lab coat couldn’t hide her whippetlike frame that somehow had all the requisite curves. And then there were her legs…oh, boy, those legs. He’d never been a fan of skinny jeans—until now. And the way they ended just above her delicate anklebones, leaving a stretch of tantalizing bare flesh before her little slip-on flats. And not just any flats—ones with what looked like pages of an Italian newspaper covered in photos of Brigitte Bardot. A librarian wearing a sex goddess—could he ever have imagined?
Her ankles weren’t the only irresistible features. Her heart-shaped face with its pale skin, the delicately arched brows and a nose so narrow it was like something out of a painting by Vermeer. Still, the determined set of her jaw spoke of fire and passion—totally Rubens. Then there was her hair—that fairylike mass of ringlets that haloed about her head. Was it gold or russet? And then there was something else about her face that had him searching—for words, for insight.
But it wasn’t just her face. It was the way her mind worked—so orderly, so precise. Posed with a problem—such as finding manuscripts ASAP for some demanding TV host—she had analyzed the situation and come up with an imaginative yet totally logical solution. So different from the chaos that seemed to consume his own life. So refreshing. So calming… So soothing…
Perhaps he was having librarian fantasies after all… .
He shook his head. And narrowed his eyes when he focused on his daughter’s defiant face. “I tried to reach you this morning to set up a time to get together.”
“I must have been out by the pool when you called,” she shot back.
The guy—he was definitely part of the equation. Nick had no doubt. Which is why he was about to suggest—no, order—that from today onward, while Amara was under his watch, she’d be sleeping on a cot in his hotel room. But before he could do so, Georgie spoke up. Good ol’ Georgie. Ever ready to make things go smoothly.
“Well, you both found each other anyway. So no harm in the end,” Georgie chimed in. He held out his arms and approached Amara. “C’mon, you’re not too old to give your uncle George a big hug.” Troll-like, he enveloped her in his expansive arms, and Amara leaned into him naturally.
Nick felt a pang of jealousy. The two of them had barely exchanged a peck on the cheek.
When Georgie and Amara broke their hug, his librarian—yes, he was already beginning to think of her as his—spoke up.
“As long as you’re here, why don’t you come over and see what I’ve put out for your father and Mr. De Meglio to see.” She stepped to the side and indicated the conference table behind her. “I know that Press is accustomed to my little impromptu lectures on various holdings, and he has always kindly demonstrated an interest, genuine or otherwise.”
“Excuse me, when have I ever not thought something was really interesting?” Press asked, holding his hand up.
“The collected dry-cleaning bills from the last five years of Henry Ford’s life?”
“Okay, that was just weird. But that was the exception.” He motioned Amara over to the table. “So what have we got here?”
“These are all food related, as you might have guessed, given the circumstances. We’ve just finished looking at the work by a celebrity American chef and a provisions list from the Revolutionary War period, and now we’re on to something a little older and quite unique.”
Nick stepped aside and let the two younger people shoulder their way front and center.
Amara stared intently at one of the folios on display. “Hey, cool. Look at this.” She motioned to Press.
“The Grantham Galen. You brought it over from the exhibit?” Press asked.
“Just for this meeting. It goes right back,” Penelope answered.
“So what’s a Grantham Ga-something?” Georgie asked.
“It seems to be an old Greek manual that talks about using all these cooking herbs like cinnamon and ginger and laurel.” Amara pointed toward the text. “I’m not quite sure what this one is.” She looked to Penelope. “Am I right about it being an herbal treatise?”
“Our little Amara reads ancient Greek, and you never told me?” Georgie looked to Nick.
Nick opened his eyes wide and held up his hands. “Hey, whatever she’s learned she didn’t get it from me. And as far as languages are concerned, my accomplishments beyond mangling the mother tongue extend only to restaurant French, which is heavy on the swear words.”
“And possibly very useful in certain contexts,” Penelope observed. Then she immediately turned her attention to Amara. “Yes, it does talk about herbs, which nowadays are used in cooking, but in ancient times were the mainstays of medicine. And the word you were unsure of is cardamom,” she noted.
Amara lowered her head and studied the folio some more. “Is it? Wait a minute. If this is one of Galen’s writings, like Press said, wouldn’t it be his Theriac electuary?” She was addressing Penelope.
“A Ther-i-what?” Georgie asked, coming forward to take a better look.
“It sounds like a kind of enema,” Nick suggested, feeling more and more peripheral to the discussion.
Penelope appeared to take no notice of his comment. “A Theriac electuary, also known as a Venice treacle, is a mixture of sixty-four drugs—including what today we think of as herbs and spices, such things as cinnamon, cloves, mustard seed—”
“And cardamom,” Amara interjected.
Penelope nodded before continuing. “Including cardamom, which was formed by pulverizing the mixture with the addition of honey as a binder. It was supposed to be an antidote to poison. The recipe here is one attributed to Galen.”
“Galen who?” Nick asked. He could be as academic-y as the next person, he told himself.
Georgie leaned to Nick. “That would have been my next question, too.”
Amara raised her hand. “He’s Aelius Galenus. Also known as Claudius Galenus and Galen of Pergamon. He was of Greek ancestry, but lived in Rome, and was an important philosopher, and physician, and, really, one of the most famous medical scientists in the classical period. Unfortunately, with the fall of the Roman Empire, his works were lost to the West until the Renaissance, when he was rediscovered and his works were translated from the Arabic versions into Latin. In fact, since the original texts were mostly lost to the West, sometimes these translations were actually translated back into Greek. But this one…” Her voice trailed off.
“Is an original from the second century A.D.,” Penelope confirmed.
Amara cupped her hands over her open mouth.
Even Nick was too stunned to speak. Sure it was mind-boggling that they were looking at something written that long ago. But what was more startling was the bald demonstration of his daughter’s intellect and education. Not to mention Penelope’s complete command of arcane information and the assumption that everyone wanted to know about it.
Which, come to think of it, he did. Nick shook his head. He wasn’t a total ignoramus, and he respected people with genuine intellectual curiosity. It’s just that he had never equated himself with the latter.
And that’s when he found himself becoming mesmerized by that throbbing blue vein on the side of her forehead.
* * *
“HIS©CONTRIBUTIONS to anatomy and pharmacology are obvious—”
“To some of us.” Press interrupted Penelope with a smile.
Penelope frowned. “Press, are you making fun of me?”
“Never…well…okay, but no more than normal.”
Penelope smiled in an understated way. She was satisfied with his answer. Indeed, she was rather pleased that the two of them had this convivial relationship. It was…almost normal. “Yes…well…but in addition, in light of this manuscript, one can see that he made enormous contributions to pharmacology.”
“Don’t forget his philosophical work,” Amara noted.
“Of course, you’re right. His studies of logic are very important.” Penelope crossed her arms. “That’s very impressive for someone of your age.”
“Or any age,” Georgie added.
Penelope acknowledged his comment before addressing Amara again. “So you’re interested in the ancient languages and thought?”
Nick found himself leaning forward, curious about the answer.
Amara shrugged, appearing awkward as the center of attention. “I just took a bunch of courses in ancient Greek and Latin in school. But it’s not like it was a big deal. I mean, I’m one of those people who seem to have a thing for languages. Like some people can throw a curve ball, or be good with map directions, I’m good with languages.”
“Amara, honey, that’s fantastic,” Georgie congratulated her. “There’s no need for modesty. And you speak other languages, too?”
“Yeah, Spanish and French and Italian. But once you know one Romance language, it’s pretty easy to pick up another.”
“You must learn German,” Penelope instructed. “I’m sure you’d find its logical construction fascinating, and then you’ll be able to enjoy all those great writers like Goethe and Thomas Mann.”
“Oh, Death in Venice,” Amara practically cooed. “I loved that. I even cried. But of course, I only read it in translation. Hey, maybe I could take a German course this summer, although…”
“Wow, I’m impressed. I thought I was doing well when I passed the language requirement for Grantham, and that was only French,” Press said.
Penelope shifted her gaze to Nick. “You must be very proud of your daughter. Very few young people these days have an appreciation for the past, let alone such expertise.”
“Proud? Stunned is more like it,” he admitted. “Makes me embarrassed that I didn’t know anything about this before now.”
Penelope raised a critical eyebrow as she digested this information. Then she turned to Press. “As long as Amara appears to be interested in manuscripts, perhaps you’d like to show her around the library before you take over at the information desk.”
“Sure, if you want,” Press agreed.
Amara nodded eagerly and she inched closer to him as he headed for the door.
“Where’s a camera and a cameraman when we could use one?” Georgie said to Nick. “They look very cute together, don’t you think?”
“Way too cute,” Nick muttered.
* * *
NICK©LIFTED©HIS©HEAD and spoke up, “It will have to be a quick tour, Amara, because you’re coming with me when we’re finished here.”
“Maybe I should just go back to the pool house, then.” Amara looked as though she was about to pout.
“I know, I know, not the most exciting option, but it’ll give us a chance to catch up,” he offered. He held up his hand to get Press’s attention as he started to turn. “And, Press, did Mimi mention to you that we’ll be filming at Hoagie Palace this evening? I understand that you’re a real insider, and it would be great if you could join us.”
Press bobbed a nod. “Yeah, I heard from Mimi. It will be great. Angie and Sal—they’re the owners—are amazing. I’m happy to do anything that’ll help them.” Press looked at Amara. “If you’ve never had hoagies from The Palace, you haven’t lived.”
“On the other hand, perhaps you’ll live longer if you haven’t tried the saturated fat and cholesterol content,” Penelope observed.
“Yeah, but you only live once,” Press replied.
“Spoken like someone whose doctor has not mentioned that fateful word—Lipitor,” Nick added.
“You gotta come,” Press urged Amara, seemingly oblivious to Nick’s caustic humor.
Amara seemed torn. Nick could tell she wanted to hang out with lover-boy here. Yet the thought of spending any more time than necessary with her father was a complete downer.
“You must go,” Penelope intervened, stepping between the two young people. “I believe someone with your intellectual interests would be a good influence on Press.” She leaned closer to Amara and whispered loudly, “He’s what I like to think of as a diamond in the rough.”
Press rolled his eyes.
“You see? He’s suitably embarrassed, so you have no choice but to go.”
“Okay,” Amara conceded.
“Good, now that’s settled.” She shooed them out the door. Then she looked back at Nick and Georgie. “I’ll be right with you. I want to make sure Press gives Amara a glimpse of the maps of the Holy Land and ancient Rome. They are sure to be of interest.”
As soon as she left, Nick turned to Georgie and smiled. “The camera’s going to love her,” he murmured with a shake of his head.
“You could be right,” Georgie replied. He worked his mouth.
Nick knew that face. “What is it? What’s bugging you?”
Georgie snapped his mouth shut and heaved a sigh. “Tell me, what is it you actually want with her? Penelope?”
“To taste her ’nduja.”
“Is that what they call it now?” Georgie looked dubious.
Nick shook his head. “This is strictly aboveboard. When you get a load of this stuff, you’ll know why I want to get it on film. It’ll be like tasting ambrosia. And who knows? This other stuff?” He waved his hand at the manuscripts on the table. “We should include it, too. I mean, it wasn’t what I had in mind going into this project. But, hey, as you are always telling me—adaptation is key.”
“Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t listen to me.” Georgie frowned. “She’s a nice lady, Nick. I saw the way you reacted. I get what’s going on with you.”
Nick held up his hands defensively. “Then you get more than I do.”
Georgie gazed over his bushy eyebrows. “She doesn’t need any trouble.”
Penelope came striding back into the room. She looked squarely at Nick. “Before I show you any more items from the collection, I have a question.”
Nick raised his eyebrows.
“What are you really doing here?” Penelope asked. “I’ve been at this job long enough and dealt with other production companies. Usually, when someone wants to use our collection, they contact us months in advance.”
Nick glanced at Georgie. “Maybe that’s why we’re still on basic-cable television?” He turned back to Penelope and attempted his aw-shucks smile.
Penelope crossed her arms.
Georgie covered his mouth and coughed.
Nick rubbed his nose. “Okay, you caught me. The manuscripts you showed us are great. It’ll provide some kind of academic context for the show. After all, this is Grantham, an Ivy League school. And dunce that I am, I really didn’t put all that together until I was talking with Justin last night, and he happened to mention your position here.”
Penelope tapped her foot.
Nick looked down. The photos of Brigitte Bardot on her shoe jiggled up and down provocatively.
“Maybe I’ll just wait outside?” Georgie suggested. “I have a few phone calls to make.” He slipped out.
“I would hardly call someone who has written a bestseller, hosts and writes his own award-winning travel-food show and has a degree from Grantham University—”
“Full disclosure,” Nick interrupted. “I never got my degree.”
She waved off his comment. “I repeat again, what is it you really want?”
He took a step closer. It wasn’t a threatening move, but definitely allowed him to enter her personal space.
She didn’t retreat, but instead raised her head to look him directly in the eye.
He noticed the throb of that vein in her forehead again and felt an irresistible urge to stroke it. But he didn’t.
Instead he wet his lips and said in a low voice, “Well, now that you mention it, I want you to come to Hoagie Palace with us tonight.”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
“It’ll be fun.”
“Fun?”
“Yes, not to mention a free meal.”
“And after tonight?” She toyed with the collar of her lab coat.
Never had a uniform been so alluring. “After tonight?” he repeated her words. He searched her eyes to ascertain what she was thinking, but he found himself distracted, confused…more than confused. And then it dawned on him—what he hadn’t been able to figure out before. The reason he felt so off balance around her? “Why, to find out what a woman with eyes each a different color does for excitement.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“THIS©IS©JUST©THE©KIND©of place that makes me very, very happy,” Nick announced on camera. “I’m here with a student from Grantham University who is such an aficionado of Hoagie Palace, he even has a sandwich named after him.”
“Not just named after me. I came up with the combination,” Press clarified. He waited expectantly as Nick thrust himself wholeheartedly into eating his enormous hoagie. The long split roll barely contained a full chicken cutlet, half-a-dozen mozzarella sticks and a bunch of French fries—all covered in hot sauce.
Nick chewed and swallowed. “That’s some kinda wonderful. Who said the youth of America had nothing to offer these days? Press, this is inspirational.” Nick took another bite.
Actually the hoagie was delicious, which meant Nick was currently thinking good thoughts about Mimi’s half brother, instead of wanting to cut off essential male parts because he seemed to be the object of his daughter’s constantly adoring gaze.
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Tracy Kelleher
How does a rule-abiding, accomplished woman fall for a rebel college dropout? It's something rare-books curator Penelope Bigelow is still trying to figure out! Regardless of what logic she tries to use, the proof remains that when celebrity chef Nicholas Rheinhardt is around, her composure takes a vacation.With all the reunion festivities, it's hard to avoid him…especially since he needs her expertise in antiquities for an upcoming episode of his cable travel show.Too bad the past isn't what Penelope's focusing on when she's with Nick. There's more to him than his infamous reputation–and that intrigues her. Penelope isn't looking for perfection…even though Nick's coming very close!
She’s always lived her life by the book…
How does a rule-abiding, accomplished woman fall for a rebel college dropout? It’s something rare-books curator Penelope Bigelow is still trying to figure out! Regardless of what logic she tries to use, the proof remains that when celebrity chef Nicholas Rheinhardt is around, her composure takes a vacation. With all the reunion festivities, it’s hard to avoid him…especially since he needs her expertise in antiquities for an upcoming episode of his cable travel show.
Too bad the past isn’t what Penelope’s focusing on when she’s with Nick. There’s more to him than his infamous reputation—and that intrigues her. Penelope isn’t looking for perfection…even though Nick’s coming very close!
“What is it you really want?”
Nick took a step closer. It wasn’t a threatening move, but definitely allowed him to enter Penelope’s personal space.
Penelope didn’t retreat. Instead, she raised her head to look him directly in the eye.
He noticed the throb of that vein in her forehead again and felt an irresistible urge to stroke it. But he didn’t.
He wet his lips and said in a low voice, “Well, now that you mention it, I want you to come to Hoagie Palace with us tonight.”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
“It’ll be fun.”
“And after tonight?”
He searched her eyes to try to figure out what she was thinking, but he found himself distracted, confused…more than confused. But in a very good way.
Dear Reader,
Confession time: After graduating from Yale University with a degree in history, I had a fellowship to study in Rome, Italy. When I wasn’t practicing my Italian and exploring the city, I did research on early-medieval manuscripts in the Vatican Library. Ever since then, I’ve wanted to incorporate the fascinating world of rare books and manuscripts into a contemporary romance. Well, now I finally get my chance.
My heroine, Penelope Bigelow, is the curator at Grantham University’s Rare Book Library, and she gets to educate my hero, Nicholas Rheinhardt, on the wonders of old handwriting and the timeless beauty of historic documents. Nick is a Grantham dropout who’s achieved celebrity and notoriety as a chef and travel-show host. He’s in town to give a Class Day speech for the graduates and film an episode of his show. Can you say yin and yang? Oil and water? Total attraction?
The question is, how do you know when someone or something is the genuine article? When do the heart and the mind come together to trust that something so unique can exist in ways you never even dared to dream?
In this case, the answer’s not written in the stars, but on the folios.
As always, I love to hear from my readers. Just email me at tracyk@tracykelleher.com.
Tracy Kelleher
A Rare Find
Tracy Kelleher
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tracy sold her first story to a children’s magazine when she was ten years old. Writing was clearly in her blood, though fiction was put on hold while she received degrees from Yale and Cornell, traveled the world, worked in advertising, became a staff reporter and later a magazine editor. She also managed to raise a family. Is it any surprise she escapes to the world of fiction?
This book is dedicated to my great friend and fabulous cook Inkyung Yi.
Only you could have two sets of twins and somehow look so terrific.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#u8a08040b-3b35-501f-86f2-f4c93660339a)
CHAPTER TWO (#u12206fe7-ae78-52b5-80f6-71fd9d06dcc7)
CHAPTER THREE (#u8af13c4b-1dcf-51c2-85d8-c67e5242bd3a)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u8c3c7292-5468-50b7-b9ff-fcb63d6248c4)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u3033adaf-42b1-5a54-82e1-e9e341af01e8)
CHAPTER SIX (#uf71af614-4d65-5f25-9c36-d973411dca18)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#uf167839b-59d9-58fb-bd80-63336bbe3546)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#u9531aeb0-d642-5794-b84e-7fa717c78ef8)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FORTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
September
A Former Country of the Soviet Union—Far, Far Off the Grid
NICHOLAS RHEINHARDT©LAY©on the hard stone table, belly-side down, and hoped like hell that the moisture on the towel beneath him came from his own sweat. He gritted his teeth to stifle a groan as a seminaked and thoroughly oiled masseur squatted above him and frog-hopped down the length of his spine.
The humiliation would have verged on the comedic if the pain weren’t so excruciating. He couldn’t imagine anything worse, not even a root canal—two root canals—without Novocain. But he refused to whimper and beg for mercy.
After all, the cameras were rolling.
Whose idea had it been anyway to shoot several episodes of his travel-and-food show in this country so far off the beaten track?
Up until this point, the whole television thing had been a pretty good gig.
Now life had turned into a high-definition hellhole as recorded by a sardonic cameraman and a highly sensitive soundman. Was it any wonder that Frommer’s, Michelin or Lonely Planet guidebooks had failed to extol the wonders of this remote village, let alone the bathhouse?
Nick felt the vertebrae cracking in his neck as the otherwise silent masseur worked his torture. And, ironically, that’s when it came to him. The jackass who’d suggested they make a trek through the mysterious eastern provinces of the former Soviet Union—countries like Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan? The same jackass who’d had this romantic notion that they’d see yaks and yurts, fiery peasants and dreadful Communist architecture?
It’d been him.
The bantamweight masseur chose that moment to slip his sinewy arms under Nick’s armpits and force his elbows to lock together behind his back. A small ugh emitted from Nick’s throat. After this workout, he seriously wondered if from now on his upper limbs would dangle uselessly at his sides. Most probably he would go through the rest of life with curious onlookers remarking, “And to think he once was able to debone a leg of lamb with the best of them.”
“So, tell me. This massage you’re getting. It looks pretty…ah…strenuous. Still, it’s all it was cracked up to be, right?” Georgie, his jovial producer, asked from off camera.
Nick growled deep in his chest—the part that hadn’t been crushed as of yet—and thought, Just wait till I do the voice-over commentary to this bit back in New York. Because now it all comes back to me, that, between multiple vodka shots the other night, you were the sly dog who suggested this bit of local color. Yes, you, Georgie.
The masseur slapped Nick’s towel-covered rump, signaling the end of the session.
Georgie turned to the cameraman. “That’s a wrap.” Then he bounced jovially across the stone floor to his damaged on-air talent. “That bad, huh?”
Nick thought about raising his head off the table, but that small motion required too much energy. “Let’s put it this way, I will absolutely, positively agree to do anything else rather than go through this again—preferably something that involves close proximity to a Nathan’s Famous hot dog. I’m starving.” Knowing no shame, Nick held out an arm. “Help your lord and master get upright, if it’s at all possible.”
None too gently, Georgie hoisted Nick to a sitting position. The towel, which was wrapped around Nick’s waist, slipped to his hip bones, and his once-taut stomach muscles—once, as in a good ten years ago—sagged around the cotton terry cloth that had a thread count of about negative twenty.
Nick might have been thirty-seven in chronological years, and genetically blessed with a fast metabolism, but those had been hard-lived years. After turning thirty-five, even his long and lanky body could no longer bounce back from the harsh treatment due to overimbibing of fine food and not-so-fine drink.
Not that he regretted his lifestyle, mind you. Nick smiled at the memory of some of the more infamous escapades, at least those he could still remember.
His so-called adult life had taken a meandering path. After dropping out of college, he’d bummed around the world by scrounging low-paying jobs and harboring absolutely no ambition other than occasionally finding food, alcohol and the eye of a good-looking female. One winter in Paris, where he’d squatted in a tenement that lacked a shower—not to mention a toilet—he’d landed a job as a dishwasher in a traditional bistro in Montmartre. And voila! Nick had found his calling. Eventually he’d risen up the restaurant food chain to become a well-regarded though not quite top-tier chef.
Achieving greater fame would have required greater talent, a little more luck and, if he was going to be totally honest, a lot more dedication. Even the sudden acclaim he’d garnered for his book, a bare-knuckle look at the restaurant world, had been more of an accident than a well-planned career move. After all, he’d written the damn thing in fits and spurts after shifts at various restaurants, fueled by cigarettes and booze—more than a little, actually—and bouts of righteous indignation.
So it was hardly surprising that as Nick looked down at his body he felt a certain measure of disgust. And that was before he glimpsed his upper arm. The tattoo circling his right bicep was undulating with involuntary muscle spasms. An enormous Maori had given him that tattoo on a warm spring day on the north island of New Zealand. Now, that had been a good shoot, he recollected.
He raised an eyelid and saw Georgie silently chuckling. “What?” he asked with a snarl.
“Is that a promise?” Georgie asked, not bothering to hide his amusement, so secure was he in his worth as a producer. “That you’ll go anywhere provided it’s within sniffing distance of a New York hot dog?”
Nick contemplated the wisdom of getting up. “As long as it doesn’t involve rubdowns.”
“Last I heard, New Jersey specialized more in rubbing out than rubbing down.”
“New Jersey, you say?” Nick opened his jaw slowly and experimented with trying to shut it again. He got halfway. “You know, I was born and raised in Jersey.”
“Excuse me. Like I wouldn’t know? I was responsible for hiring that underpaid intern to write your bio for Wikipedia.”
Nick grumbled. “You know there’s a reason unions were invented—to regulate the outrageous behavior of unscrupulous employers like you.”
“Too bad, that’s all I can say,” Georgie said without any remorse. “Which is why I have decided to accept a request that came to the office last week.”
“I suppose this is my cue to say, ‘Could you be more specific?’”
“My pleasure. By the unfettered powers vested in me as producer, I plan to accept the offer for you to be the Class Day speaker at your old alma mater, Grantham University, this coming June,” Georgie announced proudly. “Naturally we’ll use it as an episode for the show—I’m not that generous.”
“Come again?” Maybe his brain was also starting to fail.
“You know, the Commencement ceremonies for the graduating class? The day before they do the whole diploma-giving-out bit, you will speak with wit and with a soupçon of encouragement to the seniors.”
“Soupçon of encouragement? Are you kidding me?”
“Well, their families will be there, as well. I think it’s only right and proper,” Georgie explained.
Nick stumbled to the dressing area and eased on his clothing. He didn’t bother with the button or the zipper on his jeans. If his pants fell down, so be it. He couldn’t be any more humiliated than he already had been.
He joined the others at the entrance to the dank, tiled bathhouse, nodding appreciatively to the manager, who had a severe lazy eye, which made eye contact difficult. The man would no doubt be dining off tales of the crazy Americans for years to come.
Georgie pushed open the heavy wooden door, and their little group instinctively huddled together. A horse-drawn cart, loaded with hay, clopped down the dirt road in front of them. Its driver paused and yelled to two men standing cross-armed in the narrow doorway of a coffee shop across the way. His loud monologue was seemingly cheerful sounding, but who could be sure?
Where is our friendly translator when we need him? Nick thought.
Then the squat and hairy horse turned its head at the sound of his master’s gravelly voice, and proceeded to do his business in the middle of the street.
Nick looked over at the steaming deposit. “I think that just about sums it up.” Then he creaked his neck in Georgie’s direction. “You realize of course that I never graduated from Grantham, don’t you? A little thing called the Junior Paper that I could never quite wrap my head around?”
“I don’t think they’re gonna rescind the offer, and frankly, I think they probably already know that.”
“True, failure has been one of my favorite biographical topics. Still, what would be the point? I mean, I do thirty minutes of hopefully semihumorous anecdotes about the world of food and travel—minus my usual four-letter words since, as you say, kiddies are likely to be present. And then what have you got? An hour’s TV show? I think not.”
With that, the horse, the cart and its owner moved on. The two men with grizzled beards and in severe need of good dental work, peered suspiciously at Nick and the rest of the crew before turning to enter the gloom of the coffee shop.
“Think of the bigger picture, Nick.” Georgie waved his hand across the gray and unforgiving sky. “The whole idea of graduation as the culmination of those happy college days, which, being happy, had to have included the customary drinking and eating of large quantities of food.”
“You want to check out dining-hall fare?” Nick asked, unconvinced.
Georgie nodded. “You’re missing the potential. Think bigger, like how the whole eating experience is the same or different from your day. What does that say about the peculiarities, if there are any, of the Ivy League experience?” Georgie suddenly got more animated. “Wait a minute. Doesn’t Grantham have those Social Whatevers—their own kind of snobby fraternities? Surely food and beer are plentiful at those places for the select few.”
“Social Clubs. And only a few of them were snobby. Certainly not mine—otherwise I couldn’t have been a member,” Nick clarified. Despite his carefully honed jaded personality, he found himself becoming intrigued. “There used to be a couple of places in town that I regularly went to, too. I wonder if they’re still there, especially this one greasy spoon famous for its hoagies.”
“Hoagie Palace,” Larry, the cameraman, piped up.
Nick slanted him a startled expression.
“Hey, I might have only gone to the University of New Hampshire, but even I know about Hoagie Palace.” Larry wore a down coat over a down vest and a stocking cap on his head. For a supposedly rugged New Englander, he had a very low tolerance for the cold.
Georgie punched the air. “There, what did I tell you? And by way of contrast to the usual street-food shtick, we could sample some new high-end joints. You know—what the wealthier denizens of the quaint college town go for when they want a night on the town.”
“As I recall, it was uninspired, nominally French food—and I mean nominal.” Nick thought back to the one time the mother of one of his freshmen advisees had taken them to the finest culinary institution in town. You knew it had pretences because it was housed in a mock, half timber Tudor building across the street from the university campus. Only minutes before meeting her Nick had learned it was a jacket-and-tie joint only, of which he’d had neither. He’d frantically scrounged something up from a guy who roomed down the hall. The waist on the jacket had been six inches too big and the sleeves three inches too short, but at least the tie hadn’t had a naked lady painted on it.
“People are always curious about Ivy League colleges and picture-perfect towns. Now we’ll be able to give the insider’s view,” Georgie continued, still selling the idea. He was a producer, after all. “Get the lowdown on whether students still go to the same places to grab something to eat when they’re up all night studying. Or maybe they’ve developed more sophisticated palates over the years to go along with their future hedge-fund-manager lifestyles?”
Something was definitely wrong because Nick was becoming seriously interested in Georgie’s idea. “I don’t know if you realize it, but Grantham holds its alumni Reunions right before Commencement. So it’s essentially a weeklong college-nostalgia party, where the soon-to-be graduates get to lock arms with their fellow Granthamites, thus building their sense of family and forging contacts for future employment.”
Nick was acutely aware that he was talking as if he was doing voice-over commentary—in addition to regaining feeling in his outer extremities. No wonder Larry’s bundled up like a polar bear, he suddenly realized. He shivered. A mistake, given his recent encounter with the lethal masseur.
“That’s better than perfect,” Georgie responded with enthusiasm. “A blend of past, present and future all rolled into one big happy, highly photogenic package.” He paused. “I presume these alums are your usual crazies—all rah-rah and wearing garish school colors?”
“Oh, wait till you see their school colors,” Nick said knowingly. The totally tasteless Reunions getups that the returning alums donned for the traditional parade and class functions were legendary. Then he eyed his producer. “So tell me. You think this august Ivy League institution is really going to allow my unique commentary on the wild and wacky world of small town, Ivy League customs?”
Clyde, the sound guy, snickered.
“Hey, just because you grew up in London and went to Cambridge, doesn’t mean you can look down on Grantham,” Nick shot back. “I’ve seen the apartment you share with three other guys in Queens. No one in your shoes can even think about looking down their nose.” Speaking of shoes, he was becoming increasingly aware of just how cold he was. He also figured that once he got back to their excuse of a hotel his maimed body would be incapable of removing his own frozen shoes.
“Clyde’s just being Clyde, and as to the permissions? Don’t worry,” Georgie interjected. “I’ll have them in hand before you can say ‘bourbon on the rocks.’” He seemed so gleeful that he began to skip down the frozen road.
In Nick’s critical view, the producer seemed more like some demented munchkin stumbling along some nightmare version of the Yellow Brick Road. Georgie was not exactly svelte, and he barely topped five feet three.
“I love it. I love it,” Georgie said to no one in particular as he continued to lead the little group down the road. Then he stopped and turned to face them. “Just think. You’ll be able to answer the question that burns in the hearts of all college students.” He put his hand to his chest, and if Nick didn’t know better, looked truly earnest.
“What? ‘Will I get laid tonight?’” Nick responded sardonically. Then he shuffled around to stare at Larry since he couldn’t turn his neck. “Don’t you have a bottle of schnapps back at the hotel?”
Georgie cupped his chin in his Gore-Tex-gloved hand. “I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Is it true that these are the happiest days of my life?’”
Thinking about that question suddenly made Nick feel very depressed, even worse than his usual morose state. “No, the black humor isn’t covering up a mirthful soul,” he once told a cub reporter for some newspaper in Peoria or Saskatchewan—or was it Lubbock? Whatever. “It’s merely the surface of a very angry guy,” he’d concluded before the reporter had quickly shut his notebook and hightailed it out of the hotel room.
“There’s less than a third left in the bottle,” Larry, the cameraman, whined, the tip of his nose having already gone from red to a worrisome ice-white.
“If you’re looking for sympathy, you’re looking at the wrong guy,” Nick retorted. “In fact, if you’re not careful, there’ll be no Christmas bonus in your stocking this year.”
“Hey, I’ve got a bottle of duty-free tequila and a hot-water bottle,” the soundman Clyde bragged in his very plummy accent.
“You British—always ready to sacrifice yourselves for queen and country, or your boss, in this case. But, hey, I’ll take whatever I can get.”
Georgie exhaled through his mouth as he waited for the others to follow. His breath formed clouds in the frigid air and partially obscured his bearded face. “Just think. It’ll be like old home week.”
“Or something like that,” Nick replied sullenly. He looked down absentmindedly, thinking of someone he could maybe call from his Grantham University days. Was it worth contacting an old college friend after more than fifteen years? he wondered. Then the ground came into focus. And for the first time after what seemed like hours of misery, Nick felt a smile cross his face.
Georgie, he noticed, was standing square in the steaming pile left by the horse.
CHAPTER TWO
May
Grantham, New Jersey
PENELOPE BIGELOW©HELD©the rare second-century manuscript of Galen’s medicinal writings between her white-cotton-gloved hands before placing it in the glass case for display. The Vatican Library had a Latin translation from the Arabic version of the ancient medicinal treatise dating from the eleventh century, but this manuscript in the original ancient Greek had been lost to the West after the fall of Rome, finally resurfacing centuries later. Only someone with a thorough knowledge of ancient and medieval history including Byzantine history, a background in multiple ancient languages, and the trained eye of a paleographer would appreciate the difference between the two versions.
Penelope had all that and more—a Ph.D in Classics and she had studied at the Vatican on a fellowship in Rome ten years ago. While there, she’d also gone through the Apostolic Library’s rigorous two-year course in paleography, the study of ancient handwriting.
Holding the so-called Grantham Galen manuscript in her hands, Penelope could practically feel the power of the ancient scholar and philosopher through the gloves. Galen had been a prolific author, and in his day he was known to have hired more than twenty scribes to take down his potent words. But as she stared at the confident blocklike script, she was almost positive that this manuscript was in Galen’s own handwriting. It was too swiftly written, as if it had been produced in a mad dash of insight.
She read the Greek as swiftly as if it were her mother tongue, though in her case, more her father’s tongue. Stanfield Bigelow was a professor of Classics at Grantham University, and he had made it a personal crusade to homeschool his precocious older child. And it had been he, in fact, who had recovered this lost manuscript and donated it to his alma mater.
The combination of forces—the knowledge that she was holding what might be the original manuscript by the work of an ancient genius and the role that her own father had played in preserving this crucial bit of antiquity—was almost overwhelming. Excited, Penelope felt her mouth start to water.
Don’t be foolish, she chided herself.
“As anyone with even a moderate IQ knows, the overproduction of saliva is attributed to specific physiological or medical conditions. And since I am not a teething infant, nor do I have a fever…” Just to make sure, she felt her forehead with the back of her wrist. “As I thought, normal. Therefore, I can eliminate mononucleosis or tonsillitis as other possible causalities,” she explained to no one in particular.
This type of self-directed conversation was something she tended to do. Her brother, Justin, called it “Penelope’s pontificating mode.” Her father said it was yet another indication of her superior intellect and geniuslike ability to retain facts. Her mother never commented. She was too busy chasing butterflies or spying delicate wildflowers.
Penelope had her own diagnosis, which she kept to herself. Still, it didn’t keep her from lecturing herself.
She lifted her chin and considered her current state further. “The only other causes of sudden drooling that I am aware of are certain medications, poisoning or a reaction to venom transmitted in a snakebite.” She paused. “I wonder if a particularly virulent insect bite could also have a similar effect?”
A young man in a white lab coat on the other side of the exhibition space stopped pushing a cart. “Penelope, did you need me for something?” he asked.
She shook her head and turned to Press. “No, I was just contemplating whether a reaction to an insect bite could induce excess saliva.”
“We once had a chocolate Lab who was stung by a bee and started drooling in reaction,” Press answered as if it were a perfectly normal question.
“I was thinking of the reaction in humans, but I think you make a good point,” Penelope said with a pleased nod.
Conrad Prescott Lodge IV, known as Press, was a senior at Grantham University. He was majoring in biology, with a concentration in paleontology, and while his dream student job would have been to work in a natural history museum, Grantham, alas, lacked such a facility. Given his respect for the fragility, not to mention the importance, of old objects, Penelope had immediately chosen him out of all the applicants for the job of part-time assistant at the university’s Rare Book Library. She had recognized a soul mate when she had asked him about his interest in paleontology and he had launched into a passionate discourse. He eventually stopped when, embarrassed, he realized he’d gone on for almost twenty minutes.
“I’m so sorry,” he had apologized. “I guess I got carried away.”
“No need to be sorry. To be sorry is to express regret for doing something that has upset someone. On the contrary, I found your intense interest illuminating. You may set your mind at ease. The job is yours,” Penelope had announced, followed by the news that she intended to raise his hourly salary by two dollars.
“But I haven’t done anything yet,” Press had protested.
“Oh, but you will. Many things. And by paying you more I just want to ensure that very fact.”
The way he had responded to her query about insect bites just now reaffirmed her initial faith in him.
“I brought over some additional manuscripts for the show,” he said, pointing to the protective boxes lying flat on the shelves of the metal cart. “The illuminated manuscript from the Burgundy, Captain Cooke’s logbook from his voyages in the Pacific and Woodrow Wilson’s love letters to his wife.”
Penelope smiled. The show she was putting together for Grantham University’s main library was comprised of manuscripts held in the university’s Rare Book Library. The show was to run during Reunions and Commencement and, therefore, she had chosen only manuscripts that had been donated by Grantham alumni.
“Thank you, Press. Yes, they’re the ‘warhorses’ of the show, though I must admit…” She gazed at the manuscript in her hands.
Press walked over and stood next to her. Penelope also wore a white lab coat over her clothes, and her strawberry-blond loose curls were twisted to the back of her head. A No. 2 pencil held the unruly mass in place.
“The Grantham Galen?” he asked, on noting what she held. “Now I get why you were asking about bites and stuff.”
Penelope made a face. “Clearly we have been working together too long, and it’s time for you to graduate.”
“Amen,” Press agreed with a praying motion.
Penelope eyed him. “Are you teasing me?”
Press held up his hands. “Would I do that?” He shrugged. “Well, probably. Anyway, you know, you should really give a talk to the alumni about the show, especially the Grantham Galen, what with your book contract and everything,” Press suggested.
“That may be so, but I think it’s better that I don’t. Interaction with people has never been my strong suit.” Penelope was sure that Press knew all about her being terminated as an assistant professor at the University of Chicago when she didn’t get tenure. That career low point had eventually led to her current position as the curator of Grantham’s Rare Book Library.
Penelope laid the priceless manuscript in the display case, locking it and her memories away. Then she glanced at her watch. “Goodness, it’s practically six o’clock. You should get going, or you’ll miss dinner at your Club.”
Press shrugged. “Somehow, I think Lion Inn will go on without my presence for one night.” The Social Clubs at Grantham were the bulwark of the college students’ social life, providing dining facilities besides a continual round of parties and sports leagues. “There’s still a lot of work to be done, and I don’t want you to have to do it all.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure you want to spend your remaining time with your friends. Pretty soon you will graduate, and you will all be going your separate ways.”
Press shrugged. “I guess I’ll miss some people, and I’m sure I’ll enjoy the graduation activities. You remember them, right?”
Actually Penelope couldn’t recall any festivities when she graduated from Grantham, but that was because she hadn’t attended any.
Press carried on without waiting for an answer. “To tell you the truth, though, a part of me is so ready to get out of here. Four years is a long time to be in one place. On top of which, I grew up in Grantham anyway. So even though I’ve lived in the dorms the whole time, it’s really kind of like I never left home. All I want to do now is to get out of here—far, far away.”
At one point, that had been Penelope’s ambition. After all, she, too, had grown up in Grantham. But here she was, back again, doing a job that her family never would have thought was in her future. Not that she didn’t find fulfillment in her current position. But life, as she had found out, didn’t always proceed as planned.
She was about to impart this pearl of wisdom to Press when he blurted out, “I can’t wait to take off for Mongolia. It’ll be amazing, don’t you think? Especially going out into the countryside.”
Penelope smiled and answered, “I think it will be a fascinating venture, especially the sites of recent paleontology discoveries. You must contact the relevant academics in the field. Perhaps I can help? I know a bit of Mongolian, as it turns out.” She recognized what appeared to be astonishment on his face. “What?” she asked. She was never quite sure if she was gauging body language correctly.
“You know Mongolian?” Press asked.
“Just a smattering. I was interested in languages written in the Cyrillic alphabet at one point. Standard Khlakha Mongolian, the dialect spoken in Mongolia proper, as opposed to the autonomous Inner Mongolian region of China…” Penelope stopped, noticing a certain fog settle over Press’s expression.
She waved her hand dismissively. “There I go, off in my own little world. I told you I was no good with social interactions. Now, as for staying—there’s absolutely no need. I’ll be working on the installation for several days. Furthermore, I am very keen for you to go to Lion Inn tonight because, if memory serves me correctly, it is Beer Pong night. You must promise to give me a full rendition of the competition. I am very much interested in the sociological aspects of the game, with the idea of establishing an anthropological link to Roman drinking games.”
Actually she had almost no interest in Beer Pong. But perhaps in telling this little white lie she was exhibiting a certain sensitivity to social interactions. At least she was trying.
CHAPTER THREE
June
Grantham
NICK©RAISED©HIS©GLASS of red wine. “To old college ties,” he toasted. “With an emphasis on the old.” He took a large sip of the Australian shiraz.
“Speak for yourself,” his host, Justin Bigelow, replied. Justin and his wife, Lilah Evans, who was also a Grantham University classmate, lived in a modest one-bedroom apartment in the center of Grantham. They called it home when they were in the States, but spent much of their time in Africa on behalf of Lilah’s nonprofit organization. Back in her senior year at Grantham, Lilah had founded Sisters for Sisters to help women and children in the central African country of Congo. Now, eleven years later, it was going strong, providing health-and-educational services in rural settlements.
“Lilah and I are as youthful as ever,” Justin chided him.
“Speak for yourself,” Lilah piped up.
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with getting older. I earned my gray hairs,” Nick announced grandly.
“If you’re going to claim they’re a mark of hard-earned maturity and wisdom, don’t even try. No one with even a smattering of fully functioning brain cells would have submitted to that crazy massage.” Justin chuckled. “I loved that episode.”
“Glad to oblige.” Nick took another sip. He had lived to regret that episode in more ways than one. Not only was his neck perpetually out of whack, but people who met him for the first time inevitably brought up the massage debacle. The price of being semifamous, he told himself.
“Even back in college when you were my Residential Advisor, you were not exactly a role model. Not that I didn’t enjoy myself, of course. I still remember you orchestrating all us freshmen advisees in stealing the clapper from Grantham Hall.”
It was a well-known tradition for students to try to steal the clapper from the bell tower atop the administration building in the center of campus. This centuries-old battle between the students and the administration had led to some epic adventures and even more epic tales.
“Excuse me. I did a good job. Did you guys get caught? Hell, no. Not on my watch,” Nick boasted, and took another gulp. He really should slow down, but then, hey, he wasn’t driving. He barely needed to roll down a gentle hill to get back to his hotel.
Then there was the irritating fact that despite the easy manner with which Justin had invited him to dinner on his first night back to Grantham, he wasn’t feeling all that relaxed. There was something about returning to the scene of his first big screwup—not finishing college—that had a disquieting effect. All those parental dreams that he had squashed without a second thought.
Lilah, seated across the wooden table, shook her head. “I like that. Your definition of morality is that it’s all right as long as you don’t get caught.”
“I bet you never considered stealing the clapper, did you? I have vague memories of you being always on the forefront of whatever good cause was going around, and from the looks of things, you’ve made that your life’s work.” Nick poured himself another glass of wine and held the bottle out to Lilah. “Drink?”
Lilah laughed. “No wine for me, thanks. I’m three months pregnant.”
Nick eyed Justin. “As I recall, you always were a fast worker.” Then he turned to Lilah. “And I guess congratulations are in order. If anyone could reform a party boy, it’s you.” He picked up a fork and dug into the pasta that Lilah had just served. It followed an absolutely superb appetizer of marinated grilled eggplant.
“Yum. This is good.” Nick nodded after a large forkful. “Actually, speaking of great food, my producer’s been laying the groundwork around town for this show I’m filming, but frankly, I’ve got my number-one priority—Hoagie Palace.”
Justin passed the freshly grated Parmesan. “Oh, yeah, you gotta go to The Palace.” He used the student slang for the beloved greasy spoon in town.
“And I was hoping you’d both accompany me on my pilgrimage,” Nick said. “You know, some nice on-camera interplay of how the food conjures up certain episodes of our wild college youth.”
“Speak for yourself. The Palace for me was strictly late-night fare when writing papers,” Lilah said.
“For me it was the place to go after practice,” Justin remarked. He’d been captain of the lightweight crew.
“You know, comments like that are perfect,” Nick agreed. He took another bite. The pasta was good. More than good.
“I’m not sure I’d be the best person for your show, though,” Lilah admitted sadly. “The way my stomach is now, just the thought of all that grease is enough to make me queasy.”
“Bummer, I was viewing it as a family moment,” Justin teased her. Then he patted her arm. “Not to worry. I’ve got a great idea for somebody else. Press Lodge,” Justin announced.
“Is this someone I should know?” Nick asked.
“Remember Mimi Lodge, who was a classmate?” Justin asked. “She’s now a foreign correspondent.”
“You mean, have-war-will-travel Mimi Lodge?”
“That’s the one. Well, she has a half brother, Press, who’s a graduating senior.”
“And he’s practically been adopted by the owners,” Lilah added. “Not surprising, given his family situation.” Then she covered her mouth. “I shouldn’t be gossiping.”
“Don’t worry. Other shows deal with family strife. I’m after the food scene, and the idea of having a true insider in artery-clogging food is better than perfect. You think he’ll do it?” Nick asked.
Justin shrugged. “I don’t see why not, especially if it means publicity for Hoagie Palace.”
“I know Mimi came in today for Reunions. I’ll call her, and she’s sure to twist Press’s arm.”
“Ask her if she’ll come, too. The more the merrier.” Nick rested his fork on the edge of his plate. The pasta had been so delicious he had gobbled it down in record time.
Justin reached for more bread from the wicker basket by his elbow, then held it up. “Anyone else?”
Nick shook his head. “No, thanks, but I gotta tell you. This pasta is truly to die for. What’s in it? I mean, I can see there’s sausage—though it’s like no other sausage I’ve ever had. But what’re the greens?”
Lilah furrowed her brow in thought. “I can’t remember.” She looked to Justin. “What did Penelope say she put in it?”
“Wild fennel. She said something about foraging it somewhere near the Delaware Water Gap,” Justin explained.
Nick tipped his chair on the back two legs and craned his neck from side to side. “So where are you hiding this Penelope? This place doesn’t seem big enough to accommodate a golden retriever, let alone another person.”
It was true. The quaint apartment had lots of Victorian charm, including the bay window with a window seat and the original molding, but square footage was at a definite premium.
“It’s more like Penelope hides herself. She doesn’t exactly socialize,” Justin explained.
Lila touched her chin. “Penelope is definitely her own person.”
Justin looked at Nick. “Penelope’s a little weird. As her younger brother, I should know.”
“So she’s your sister.” Nick narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute, didn’t she go to Grantham, too? Like a year behind me? I have this fuzzy recollection of her always going around campus with her face buried in a book.”
“That would be Penelope.” Justin chuckled. “She was born almost legally blind. Even with glasses, she had to read with the book an inch from her nose. The miracle is that she’s had laser surgery, and now she doesn’t need to wear glasses anymore.”
Nick held his bloated stomach. “As far as I’m concerned, anyone who makes pasta this good can be blind as a bat. The woman’s a genius in the kitchen, that’s for sure.”
“Well, she actually happens to be a genius,” Lilah said. “And please, have some more.” She indicated the large ceramic bowl.
“I know this is the wrong thing to do, but since when have I ever turned down an opportunity to eat myself silly?” Nick reached across the table and grabbed the serving utensils. “So your sister’s become a chef?”
“No, it’s more a…a…” Justin searched for the correct word. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a hobby, but a…a…”
“It’s more a passion,” Lilah finished his sentence. “When Penelope takes an interest in something, it’s total immersion.”
“She’s into southern Italy. You know, Calabria?”
Nick started on his second portion. “Not personally, but I know the region you’re referring to.”
“Anyway, somebody left her a house there, in this dot-on-the-map town called Capo Vaticano. It’s all a bit of a mystery, especially for someone on her salary. Though I guess she rents the place out.”
Lilah rested her chin on her hands. “Well, I for one am not complaining. She let us stay there for our honeymoon. The house is in the private garden on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean.”
“And don’t forget the infinity pool.” Justin’s eyes clouded over. “When I die and go to heaven, I hope it looks like that infinity pool.”
Nick set his fork down—for him, a real concession. “From what you’re all saying, Penelope’s passions have led to some pretty good things—the house, this food…” He pointed it out. “That type of passion I can deal with. In my experience, indifference is a lot harder to cope with, believe me.”
He didn’t elaborate, nor did they ask. If they had, Nick supposed he could have made some snide remark about his ex-wife. Heaven knows, for years after their divorce he hadn’t had any problems commenting on her faults. Now, those faults had become dimmer with time, and mostly what he felt was moderate disdain or worse, nothing, when he thought about her. Which, granted, he tried to do as little as possible.
He quickly forked down another mouthful and gulped. There was definitely something about the pasta that was incredible. “So why is your sister doing whatever she’s doing instead of cooking professionally?” He looked up. “It’s gotta be another passion, right?”
“I hope so.” Justin ripped his hunk of bread into smaller pieces. “Penelope had been groomed by our father to be another Classics professor, and…well…that didn’t quite work out.” He munched thoughtfully. “For the past year, she’s been a rare-book librarian.”
“Here at the university,” Lilah added. “Which means we get lucky sometimes and get some of her cooking.”
“Well, if this pasta’s any indication of her culinary prowess, all I can say is wow.” Nick pointed at his empty plate. “Take the sausage she used. Only someone truly into cooking would take the pains to track down something that good.”
“Actually she makes it herself,” Lilah said. “But if you liked this, you should taste this other spreadable kind she makes. I can’t remember the name exactly, but it’s smoky and hot.”
“I think it’s called N-something,” Justin said. “It’s some unpronounceable word in a Calabrian dialect.”
“You don’t mean ’nduja?” Nick pronounced it instead like “endooya.” “My accent sucks, but you get the drift.”
Justin nodded. “That’s it!”
“That stuff’s legendary in southern Italy, you know. Supposedly the Calabrians concocted it in the eighteenth century while the French kings were ruling over that part of Italy. It’s essentially their version of the French andouille—you know, smoked pork sausage?”
“I learn something new every day. I guess it pays to invite a food expert to your place,” Lilah remarked. “In all sincerity, I’m glad you could come over tonight. Having said all that, can I get you to sign a copy of your book? I’ve got it right here.” She pointed to the wall of shelves and rose to get it. “And I want you to know I paid full price—no discounts.” She walked in her bare feet to the front of the room, all of five paces.
“I’d be happy to. This is what an author lives for—that, and the royalty checks.” Nick opened to the title page and began writing. “So, tell me, if I want to get in contact with your sister, Justin, what do I need to do? I presume she lives nearby.”
“Right here in Grantham,” Justin answered.
“So you think she’d be interested?” Nick handed the signed book to Lilah. “I mean, I’ve never heard of anyone being able to get ’nduja in the States, let alone make it.”
“Interested in what?” Lilah smiled as she read the message written in her book.
“You mean you want to meet her?” Justin asked. He pushed back his chair and beckoned his wife over.
“Well, that—”
“You mean for your show, don’t you?” Lilah said. She sat on Justin’s lap, squirming to get comfortable.
“Of course.”
Justin shook his head. “I’m not sure that would work. Penelope isn’t exactly a people person. Listen, I’m no professional, but from my experience teaching kindergarten, she seems to show a lot of the symptoms of Asperger’s—the mild form of autism. Not that she’s ever been diagnosed.”
Nick leaned on his elbows and opened his palms to the air. “I may not know your sister, but anyone who spends this kind of time and effort cooking a masterpiece like this—” he waved at his empty dish “—and then gives it to you no questions asked? You want my view?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “That person is definitely interacting with you on a fundamental basis. So she likes to be by herself. Hey, I’ve met a lot of people, and frankly, I can understand that. And that she doesn’t make chitchat in the normal superficial ways that, say, you or I do? In my case, that’s probably a good thing.”
He rose. “I tell you what. Why don’t you both think more about how I can get her to meet with me, and in the meantime I’ll clear and wash up. I may not be trusted to cook in a fine restaurant anymore, but I can still be counted on for my busboy and dishwasher abilities.”
Justin watched as Nick expertly lined multiple plates along the length of his arm without stacking. “Are you trying to show up my KP skills?”
“You’re just jealous,” Nick spoke over his shoulder as he turned toward the kitchen.
His cell phone started to chime in the back pocket of his jeans. He looked down. “Damn.” He juggled the dishes.
“Here, let me,” Lilah volunteered, hopping off Justin’s lap. “It’s not every day I get to come into close contact with a celebrity.”
Nick crooked his hip to offer up his back pocket.
Lilah slipped her fingers in gently.
“Now I’m jealous,” Justin kidded.
“Nothing wrong with a little jealousy.” Lilah slid the bar across the screen to activate the phone.
He cocked his head sideways against the screen. “Hello,” he answered the call, still juggling the plates.
“Daddy? I’m ba-ack!”
CHAPTER FOUR
IT©WAS©A©SMALL©MIRACLE that Nick hadn’t dropped the plates. Maybe it would have been better if he had.
Then he’d have an excuse to disconnect the phone and regroup before responding to the caller. Instead he looked up. “I better take this call.” He eased the plates into the sink and stepped out of the kitchen into the hallway. He figured he needed as much privacy as possible where his seventeen-year-old daughter was concerned.
“What’s up, Amara? I got your email about your graduation, but unfortunately I’m shooting an episode right now, so there’s a possibility that I won’t be able to make it.” He glanced out the arched window over the landing to the traffic below. Across the street the Grantham Public Library was ablaze with light. Maybe there still were people who read books, Nick mused.
“Well, it’s not like I really expected you to come. Since when have you made it to any of the important moments in my entire existence?” a sarcastic, high-pitched voice complained. “Anyway, Mom was the one who told me to tell you.”
Well, I was there at the moment of your conception, Nick could have said. But he wisely kept that remark to himself.
“Anyway, there’s no need for you to interrupt your busy schedule on my account,” Amara went on.
“I really want to,” Nick insisted ingenuously. Hanging out at the snotty prep school Amara attended in upstate New York—and where his well-mannered, maturely sensible ex-wife happened to work in the development office—was not high on his list of favorite activities.
“Don’t even pretend, Daddy.” She made the word sound ugly. “Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be there anyway.” The last remark was almost a throwaway.
Nick was immediately suspicious. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re not graduating? I thought you were supposed to be some hotshot student?”
“Have you ever seen a single one of my report cards?” she snapped back.
“No, but, somehow I remember you or maybe your mother…”
“Forget Mother.”
Gladly, thought Nick.
“She’s out of the picture, on her honeymoon in Tahiti with Glenn.”
“Honeymoon? Tahiti? And wait a minute. Glenn?”
Nick heard a sigh of exasperation on the other end of the line.
“God, you’re so lame. Don’t the two of you ever talk? I don’t know why I even bother to ask. Anyway, I blamed it all on defective genes, inherited from you.”
Now Nick was really suspicious. “Back up there, Tonto. Blame what on me?”
“My getting kicked out. I figure I’m just keeping up the family tradition.”
So this is what fatherhood was all about? Not that he would really know, given his rare contact with his daughter. “Listen, Amara,” he responded, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice. “As amusing as you may find it to pick on your old man—” he heard snickers, which didn’t improve his mood one bit “—it’s quite another to get kicked out of high school right before graduating. If nothing else, just think of how your mother will take this.” That sounded like something his father would have said about him growing up, Nick thought.
A loud whooshing noise on the phone drowned out whatever Amara was saying. That’s when he went beyond being suspicious to downright panicked. “Where are you? Did you run away?”
“Hardly. I’m at the Grantham Junction train station. I called your production-company office and the receptionist told me where you were. The school wouldn’t let me leave except into the custody of a parent. And since Mom is now doing the dirty with Glenn…”
Nick cringed at the thought. Whatever affection he had had for Amara’s mother, Jeannine, had long since vanished. Still, he couldn’t deny a sense of irritation that his ex had managed to get on with her life while he was still floundering through random relationships.
The least he could do was put on his big-boy pants and do the right thing. “So I guess this means you’re planning on staying with me, right?” he asked.
“It looks that way.” Amara was not giving an inch. “So are you going to pick me up at the station, or do you plan on sending one of your lackeys? I always thought your cameraman was kind of cute.”
Now Nick was really scared. “I’ll be there. It’ll be a few minutes. My car’s in the garage, and I’m at a dinner party right now.”
Lilah approached him with a look of concern. “Problems?” she asked.
“Are you sure that party’s just dinner?” Amara asked sarcastically over the phone.
Nick narrowed his eyes. “The voice you heard was my friend and married host for dinner, thank you very much. Listen, I’ll be right over. Whatever you do, don’t move. And don’t talk to any strangers,” he barked before hanging up.
He thrust his phone into his pocket and rolled his eyes. “That was my teenage daughter. She’s unexpectedly descended on me.” He didn’t feel the need to elaborate. “I’m just going to pick her up at the train station, and somehow I’m gonna find her a place to stay, which, given that Reunions and Commencement are just about to start, is going to be quite a feat.” He rubbed his mouth. “I don’t think she’s up for the close, personal experience of sharing a room with me.”
“Surely there’s another option.” Lilah frowned in thought, and Nick could practically hear the machinery of her altruistic fervor grind into action.
Lilah snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it. I was going to call Mimi about Press and Hoagie Palace. Why don’t I ask her if your daughter can stay at her family’s place on the western side of town? The house is enormous.”
“It could easily provide shelter for a whole village,” Justin said.
“Well, it’s probably going to take a whole village to keep my teenage daughter in line.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Lilah said with a shake of her head. “Listen, wait a minute. I’ll call Mimi now before you leave and that way you’ll know.”
Nick watched her leave and turned to Justin. “Is she always this determined?”
“Why do you think she’s so good at what she does?”
“You’ve got a point.” Then he waved to the sink. “Move over, and let a pro take charge.”
After a few minutes, Lilah returned, phone in hand. Nick was wet up to his elbows with soapy water as he washed the dishes before passing them to Justin to dry.
“Mimi says it’s no problem. The pool house is vacant, so she can have privacy.”
Nick turned as he sponged off the silverware. “If she’s sure? I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Lilah repeated his words into the phone, then looked up. “She says it’s no problem.” Then she listened to the phone again, nodding, before hanging up. “So, it’s all settled then. Mimi even said that if your daughter—”
“Amara,” Nick supplied.
“Amara, nice.” Lilah smiled. “Anyway, if Amara wants to help out, she can probably provide some free babysitting for Mimi’s little half sister, Brigid. She’s adorable. Seven going on forty. Here, I think I even have a photo of her on my phone from last year’s Reunions.” She quickly pressed the screen on her cell phone, scrolling through her photos. “Here she is. Doesn’t she look cute with the ribbons in her hair? I think she even insisted that Mimi put them in.” She held out her arm so that he could look.
Nick passed the forks to Justin. “Cute,” he said, barely glancing at the photo. That seemed to be the thing one said in these circumstances.
“She looks a little like Mimi, but really, I see a lot of Noreen in her. Noreen’s her mother, and she works with me at the nonprofit.” She began flipping through more photos. “Wait, here’s another.” Lilah thrust out her hand again. “You’ve got to see this one.”
Nick stopped washing the large serving bowl and squinted. He saw a little girl laughing as she sat on the shoulders of a young guy. She seemed to have lost one of her ribbons, not that it bothered her. But it was the guy that really got Nick’s attention. His mussed-up blond hair looked sun bleached from high-class stuff like sailing or polo. He wore an orange polo shirt that hugged his slim body. Could you say negative body fat? His large hands gripped the girl’s small ankles. A row of perfect white teeth seemed to shine as his smile pierced his cheeks, the sunburned skin showing nary a blemish. The gods would not allow it.
Nick’s nose started to itch and he rubbed it with the back of a soapy hand. “And he’s?” Nick asked, pointing but careful not to drench the phone.
“Oh, Mimi’s half brother, Press. The one we talked about earlier? He graduates from Grantham in another week.”
Nick’s felt a sense of dread well in the base of his throat. “But he lives in the dorms, right?” Please, pretty please, a little voice inside begged.
“Sure, just like we all did.” Lilah kept her eyes on the phone’s screen as she went through some more pictures, a smile curving her lips. “Though maybe with exams and everything over, he’s moved back home.”
CHAPTER FIVE
PENELOPE©GLANCED©DOWN at the watch on her wrist. The appointment had been for eight o’clock. It was now eight-oh-six. Exactly. Penelope knew it was correct since every morning she set her watch to official U.S. Time, using the government website.
Justin had called her around seven in the morning, knowing she was an early riser, to let her know that the celebrity chef and author Nicholas Rheinhardt was in Grantham to speak at Class Day ceremonies and also to shoot an episode about local cuisine. Penelope remembered him from her college days, not that he would remember her. He had been Justin’s Residential Advisor, and as far as she could tell, he spent most of his time avoiding anything resembling advising, let alone remaining in residence. He had appeared to be more interested in taking the train to New York City to hear grunge bands, only to return to campus toting several Peking ducks, heads and all.
And now it seemed that he had mentioned to Justin an interest in filming some scenes in the Rare Book Library. Something to go along with a more scholarly approach to food and society.
Penelope found this odd. Not that someone would be interested in the library. Grantham University, after all, had one of the finest collections in the country, if not the world. Research scholars, museums, other libraries, and film and television people asked to use specific works, or to borrow manuscripts for all kinds of scholarly and commercial endeavors. The process for approval varied from object to object, with the standard legal, financial and insurance hoops to jump through.
Mr. Rheinhardt apparently preferred not to do any jumping.
So, she had reluctantly agreed to meet him, assuming nothing would come of it in the end. “All right, Justin, you may tell him that I’ll be here. I’ll go in early and pull a few texts relevant to his particular field. But this meeting is strictly preliminary. No cameras.” She’d cringed at the idea of cameras.
“Of course, of course,” Justin had agreed in his usual easygoing fashion. Somewhere in his prenatal development he had acquired a mutant “no worries” gene that was not a normal part of the family mix. “I’ll let Nick know. He’ll be very happy.”
Unconvinced, Penelope had hung up. But like the conscientious person that she was, she had arrived at the library forty-five minutes early to search for manuscripts pertaining to food and its preparation—not that she didn’t know the entire extent of the holdings already, but one could never be too careful. Then she’d pulled the material and put it on display in a locked conference room off to the side of the main reading room. The whole procedure had taken twenty-six minutes.
That had still left nineteen minutes to check her email, make a cup of coffee and do some deep-breathing exercises.
Now as she stood sentry at the front double doors to the modern building, she looked at her watch again. If she had known Mr. Rheinhardt would be late, she would have used the extra time to watch one of his old episodes online, to perhaps gain some insight into his character since his college days.
And then what? They’d discuss the street food of Penang Pen? She thought not.
But then she remembered an episode she’d accidentally caught while flipping channels. Yes, much to her father’s dismay, Penelope owned a flat-screen television—a small one, mind you. “The nature shows on public television are quite fascinating,” she had argued, appealing to her mother’s interests. Her father had coughed dismissively.
Nature shows weren’t the only things fascinating, Penelope thought as she cooled her heels. Nicholas Rheinhardt had definitely aged in the seventeen years since she’d last seen him in college. But at least on-screen, those years appeared to have provided real-life knowledge—as opposed to the book-learning variety—and a sense of mocking self-deprecation that only someone truly confident in his skin possesses. Not that she personally had ever experienced such a sensation.
Penelope pursed her lips. Perhaps she should just watch an episode after all?
* * *
“WHERE©THE©HELL©IS©SHE, and why doesn’t she answer her phone?” Nick threw his cell phone on the dashboard of the rental car.
Georgie, who was driving, glanced over. “Hey, watch it. That’s genuine plastic. And besides, what are you getting all worked up about? It’s only eight in the morning. Amara’s probably fast asleep with her phone turned off. My kids at that age used to sleep past noon when they didn’t have school.”
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? She should have been in school,” Nick replied.
The traffic inched forward on Main Street only to grind to a halt when the light turned red. “So why’d she get kicked out?” Georgie asked. He tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel.
Nick stared at him. “You know, I didn’t even ask. What kind of a father doesn’t even ask his kid the reason for being thrown out of school?”
“I don’t know. A total screwup?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Nick glanced past Georgie at a small movie theater on the corner. The marquee displayed the title of some esoteric foreign flick. “Maybe Amara would want to take in a film? She seems like the artsy-fartsy type.”
The light changed and the traffic sputtered forward. Georgie eased his foot on the gas pedal. Three cars advanced. Then a car wanting to turn left held up everybody behind it. Naturally the light turned red again.
Georgie shook his head. “If I had known traffic would have been this bad in this two-bit town, I would have suggested walking. I hate being late. Maybe we should give this Penelope lady a call?”
Nick reached for his phone on the dashboard and checked the time. “Nah, we still have five minutes.”
Georgie looked unconvinced. “You’re really sure this is worth it? I mean, we’ve already got that Hoagie joint set up for tonight.”
Nick held up his hand. “Which reminds me. I’ve got to text Mimi Lodge—”
“The war correspondent?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Definitely get her to come. She’d be fantastic for ratings. Plus, I’ve never known any other woman to do quite so much for a kuffiyeh—you know, those Palestinian scarves all the correspondents wear?”
Nick tapped away as he texted. “Glad to know you’re such a fashion maven. Anyway, she promised to have her kid brother there, too. A nice…ah…sort of quasi-multigenerational thing.”
Georgie nodded.
The light changed. “Finally we have action.” Georgie gunned the engine so they didn’t waste any more time. “According to the GPS we’re within spitting distance. Hey, isn’t that the Hoagie Palace?” He pointed to the left. The building’s trim was painted a combination of orange and black, Grantham University’s colors, so it was virtually impossible to miss.
Nick sighed. “My heart is already going pitter-patter.” He fluttered his hand on his chest. In deference to meeting a librarian type, he’d traded in his usual frayed souvenir T-shirt for an open-neck oxford-cloth shirt and a blue blazer. Only the quest for the Holy Grail—homemade ’nduja—could bring out this sartorial condescension. “Trust me, this library gig will be worth it. We’ll go through the whole food-manuscript charade, and then get down to the real meat and potatoes, so to speak.”
“Okay, supposedly just a right at the next light, and we’re practically there,” Georgie said.
The next light changed to red.
Nick laughed. “That’ll teach you to be optimistic.”
Georgie nodded in agreement. “Why do I even try?” he joked. Then his face turned more serious. “You know, Nick, I wouldn’t beat yourself up about your relationship with Amara.”
“You mean my lack of relationship—totally my fault, by all stretches of the imagination.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I really had anything to do with bringing up our kids—not with the constant travel. It was all Marjorie, really.” He bit down on his bottom lip.
Georgie’s wife, Marjorie, had died two years ago of an aneurism. Nick knew that the suddenness had rocked him, but through it all, Georgie had insisted on working. “It’s my therapy,” he had said at the time in an unthreatening voice that was so not Georgie.
“She was a great lady,” Nick answered now.
“She was,” Georgie agreed. “But you know, even she had her moments with the kids, especially Sallie, our second, when she was Amara’s age. Kids are kids. They talk tough and give you all sorts of grief. But deep down you can’t imagine life without them.”
“You promise?” Nick asked.
* * *
AMARA©LAY©IN©THE©QUEEN-SIZE©BED in the pool house staring at prints of America’s Cup sailboats artfully arranged on the walls. On the nightstand, the glass eye of a sculpted seagull stared back at her. She blinked, grateful that she hadn’t noticed it last night before she’d fallen asleep.
It was about the only thing she had to be grateful about. Mostly she was scared stiff that by getting kicked out before graduation she’d blown her acceptance to Grantham University.
The headmistress had informed her that her guidance counselor would be letting Grantham know about her changed status. “In light of that news, do you have anything further you’d like to say about the incident?” she’d asked, her half-glasses sliding down her nose. Photographs of the woman shaking hands with an Academy Award-winning actress and a prominent female senator, both graduates of the Edwina Worth School for Girls, had been prominently displayed.
Amara had silently shaken her head. She wasn’t about to rat out anyone else. She was already something of an outsider. Not only was she a day student among mostly boarders, her mother also worked in the development office. A double strike against her.
True, having a father who had a TV show counted in her favor. But the positives of being Nicholas Rheinhardt’s daughter stopped there, as far as she was concerned. He was a nonentity who, when she was younger, didn’t always send monthly checks. In more recent years, though, he was far more generous where the money was concerned.
As for any personal interaction? Did one week a year in Manhattan count as father-daughter bonding time? When she mostly ended up going to museums by herself or sitting in his production offices reading? Sure, he seemed cool and all—some of her classmates said that, for an old guy, he looked sexy.
But to Amara he remained someone she was supposed to love, who she wanted to love but who had hardly shown any interest in her love.
So screw him.
Yet, here she was. With him.
Her so-called father might have noticed the black fingernail polish and the purple streak in her dark hair. And if he had—a big if, in Amara’s opinion—he might have assumed that they were signs of subversive behavior. Truth be told, these affectations were more an indication of boredom. After all, there wasn’t a lot to do at an all-girls private school in what had to be the dreariest town in upstate New York.
And as she mulled her sorry state, Amara heard a splash in the pool outside. She got out of bed and peeked through the white sailcloth curtains. It was a guy. A couple of years older than she. The cutest guy ever, swimming laps. He was strong, fit. And he had shoulders, actual shoulders, and real abdominal muscles just like in the ads.
She pulled open the door a few inches and took a tentative step into the sunlight.
He reached her end of the pool and slapped his fingertips on the wall before standing up in the shallow water. He whipped back his head. Water sprayed. He casually ran his hand through his wet hair, pushing it off his forehead. Then he placed his hands on his hips where the waistband of his low-slung trunks hung. “I thought I spotted someone looking out the window,” he said with a smile.
Amara blinked as she watched a droplet wander down the pale line of blond hair that trailed toward his waistband.
“My name’s Press,” he announced.
Embarrassed, her head shot up. “I’m Amara,” she squeaked. “This woman, Mimi, said it was okay for me to stay here for a few days while my father has work in Grantham.”
Press laughed. “That’s just like my half sister—to invite someone when it’s not really her house.”
“If it’s any problem…”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can stay.” Then he studied her. “So how come you’re here? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
She pulled in the sides of her cheeks. “I got kicked out of private school right before graduation.”
“That sucks.” He ran his hand through his hair again. “Can’t your parents just bribe the school administration with some fat donation? Happens all the time.”
“My father barely knows the name of my school, so I don’t think that’s going to work.”
“What about your mom?”
Amara pressed her lips together, then sighed. “She doesn’t know I was suspended. She’s on her honeymoon on some Polynesian island, and her phone doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Well, won’t she be surprised when she shows up at your graduation and you’re not there?”
Amara swallowed. “I hadn’t gotten that far in my thinking. The whole thing just blew up yesterday.”
Press picked up a beach towel from a chaise and started to dry himself off. Amara turned her head away, taking a sudden interest in the climbing roses on a trellis. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the way he moved the towel across his back. This time her throat was too dry to swallow.
He tossed the towel over one shoulder and slipped his feet into a pair of well-worn flip-flops. “So what are you planning on doing? Hang around the pool all day?”
Amara nervously slipped a lock of hair behind her ear. “No, I think from what my father and your sister Mimi said, I’m supposed to be babysitting. You have a little sister?”
“Half sister. Brigid. She’s cool. For a seven-year-old. But she’s in school until three, so you still have most of the day to yourself.”
“I guess I’ll just wait around here. I’ve got a book I could read.”
“That sounds pretty boring. Why don’t you just hang out with me?”
“Shouldn’t I let your other sister know?”
“You mean Mimi?” Press shook his head. “Trust me, Mimi will eventually wake up later, a little fuzzy about the fact that she invited you to stay here.” He used the tip of the towel to get water out of his ear. “I mean, you can say no. Or if you think your father wouldn’t like it?”
Amara shook her head. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind since he’s really tied up with work. My being here suddenly has only complicated his life.” She didn’t feel like filling him in on the details of who her father was. The conversation would then inevitably turn to questions about what Nicholas Rheinhardt was really like, was he really as cool as he seemed on TV. The thing of it was, she really didn’t have the foggiest idea how to answer.
“Well, in that case, why don’t I meet you back here in about fifteen minutes? I need to take a shower.” Press pointed over his shoulder to the house. It was a stately brick Georgian manor complete with towering columns and shiny black shutters. “And then we can go to the club to get some breakfast. Normally I live in a dorm on campus and eat there. But since I’m graduating from Grantham next week, and classes and exams are done, I decided to crash at home for a change.” Unconsciously he rubbed his tanned washboard stomach.
Amara’s mouth dropped open.
“You haven’t eaten yet, right?”
She snapped her jaw shut. “Ah, no.” She hadn’t even had dinner last night.
“They have scrambled eggs and bacon and stuff like that at the club. You’re not a vegetarian, are you? A lot of girls are vegetarians. I just don’t get that. There’s no way I could live without bacon.”
Amara hadn’t had a bite of meat in more than three years. It was a philosophical thing—she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting animals—not a weight thing, the way it was for some of her friends.
She was torn. She believed in standing up for her principles, but there was no way she was going to piss off this amazing guy… .
Her stomach growled loudly. She looked down, horrified.
Press laughed. “I guess bacon it is. After that I’ll take you to meet Penelope.”
She glanced up, doubly stricken. “Is she your girlfriend?”
Press laughed, this time louder.
CHAPTER SIX
PENELOPE©WAS©JUST©FINISHING the episode that took place in some remote corner of the former Soviet Union, which seemed solely notable for its frigid temperatures, temperamental plumbing and thin potato soup. When she leaned back in her ergonomically designed desk chair and glanced out her office window, she caught sight of two men coming up the walkway.
One was short and squat, his legs doing a two-step for every long stride of the man to his right—or her left.
Technically she ceased observing Man Number One after less than a millisecond. There was nothing technical about the way Penelope bit the inside of her cheek and gazed openly at Nicholas Rheinhardt—in the flesh as opposed to on screen.
Oh, my. No amount of cyberknowledge had prepared her for the accelerated heart rate and tightness of breath that she was currently experiencing. Her agitated state made her recall the conversation she’d had with herself when she’d held the Grantham Galen several weeks earlier. Now, mentally, she did a checklist once more of the causes of these physiological effects. There was only one explanation.
Clearly Nicholas Rheinhardt was poison.
And she had no idea of the antidote.
Still, ever stalwart, she rose and walked softly on the wall-to-wall carpeting of the reading room to the front of the building. She pushed open the central glass door and waited.
It seemed like a good idea to take the offensive. Penelope gulped. Whatever she did, she refused to muss with her hair in classic female flirtatious behavior.
“Our apologies for being late,” the shorter man said. He stuck out his hand.
Penelope looked down. She noticed the man bit his nails, but they were otherwise clean. She extended her hand to shake his. “I’m Penelope Bigelow. My brother, Justin, mentioned over the phone that Nicholas Rheinhardt wanted to visit the Rare Book Library.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, well, I’m Georgie De Meglio, Nicholas’s producer. Think of me as Nick’s alter ego.” He smiled wide.
A seemingly genuinely pleasant man, Penelope thought. Then she focused on the man rocking on his heels. “And you must be the ego, then?”
For a moment—several moments actually—he stared intently. Even Georgie appeared to notice because he jabbed him in the ribs. “Nick isn’t his best in the morning, are you?”
“Mr. Rheinhardt, I presume,” she said.
“Nick, please,” he responded, his eyes locked on hers. He held out his hand.
They made contact. This time Penelope’s heart stopped beating, her jaw became slack and breathing was all but forgotten. Poison, definitely.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” he said, his hand still holding hers. He didn’t appear to be as disturbed as she felt, but Penelope could have sworn she saw his pupils dilate. He wasn’t as unaffected as he appeared to be.
“The traffic. It was murder. But then, you probably know all about that seeing as you live here.” He gave her his famous camera-ready smile.
Penelope blinked. “I usually bike.”
“Oh.” The smile dipped in wattage. He dropped his hand.
“Shall we go inside, gentlemen,” she said, recovering. Penelope held out her hand in the direction of the conference room. “From what my brother mentioned, you’re interested in seeing some of our food-related manuscripts.” She walked briskly in front of them. She was aware of the sound of her ballet flats clipping along the stone floor of the entrance hall.
She opened the second set of glass doors to the well-lit reading room and its long tables. A hushed silence enveloped the space. She continued to the conference room on the right and opened the door. “I tried to intuit what you had in mind.”
“I’ve never been intuited before,” Nick quipped.
Penelope was taken aback. Then she saw him purse his lips. Aha. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were making a joke.”
“He does that frequently. Is that a problem?” Georgie acted the mediator.
Penelope gave it some thought. “No, I don’t think so. The more you do it, the more I should be able to read your verbal and facial cues to know when you are attempting to be humorous.”
Nick raised his dark eyebrows. “Talk about being put in my place.”
Penelope saw he still had a smile. “That was another joke?”
“No, that was serious,” he said.
“Trust me, he could use being put in his place,” Georgie reassured her. He walked over to the conference table to get a better look at the works she’d chosen. “Hey, don’t tell me that the marginal notations in this are by that famous chef? You know, the one who basically introduced French cooking to America?”
Penelope joined him. “You have a good eye. This is the proof copy of her work, and those are her comments—not entirely happy, as you can tell. The head of the publishing house at the time was a Grantham alum and kindly donated the book.”
“Hey, Nick, get a look. It’s pretty interesting. I suppose we could do a short bit giving a kind of academic feel to the episode—that cuisine and scholarship go hand in hand in these hallowed halls.”
“As opposed to what’s served in the residential college dining halls?” she asked.
“Is that a joke?” Nick asked. He stood close on Penelope’s other side.
She immediately felt disconcerted. She slanted her head and eyed him askance. “I suppose so. It’s not a skill that comes naturally to me.” She quickly avoided more of his searing gaze by concentrating on material that was far more in her comfort zone—the books and manuscripts that lay displayed before them. “If you want to emphasize the richness of Grantham’s holdings, you might also be interested in an exhibition that I put together over at the main library. It showcases rare manuscripts donated by alumni.”
“That’s another way to go.” Georgie nodded as he peered more closely at a handwritten list. “What’s this? I can’t read all the writing, but it looks likes a shopping list of some sort.”
Penelope sidestepped to keep up with him—and move farther away from Nick. “It’s a list of provisions needed for the Continental Congress when it met here in Grantham.”
“So now we know what John Adams and Thomas Jefferson ate for breakfast,” Nick remarked. He scratched the side of his face as he leaned over to read the items.
Penelope caught a whiff of unadulterated bar soap and strong coffee. The smells of morning. Somehow she automatically thought of sex.
He seemed to be pointing at something and saying something that might have been directed at her, but Penelope wasn’t sure. She supposed she would have to think of something quick, something informative about the nutritional preferences of eighteenth-century gentlemen or how the penmanship reflected a certain educational stature of the writer, but at the moment she was having a hard time remembering her own nutritional preferences.
The door to the conference room cracked open behind her.
Penelope felt a rush of hope. Saved by the proverbial bell. She swiveled around.
Except the action caused her to brush up against Nick’s outstretched arm, the one he’d been pointing with. And it wasn’t just her shoulder that did the brushing. Her breasts also made contact as she rotated counterclockwise, which was decidedly odd since Penelope was sure she normally turned in clockwise fashion.
Tell that to my tingling nipples, she thought—crudely. Her father would no doubt have chastised her language, although it was not as if she would ever, ever have had this particular conversation with him. Luckily the white lab coat she wore over her scoop-neck top prevented any embarrassment.
So, trying to compose herself, Penelope swallowed and applied a stiff smile to her face as she turned to face the interloper.
“Hey, Penelope, I hope it’s okay that I brought a visitor to take around the place?” Press gave her a salute. He stood at the door to the conference room, looking fresh and full of life, his hair wet from a shower, his wrinkled madras shorts hanging loosely from his narrow hips. A white T-shirt stretched across his taut chest.
Next to him was a young woman, a girl really, with shocking-pink highlights in her long black hair. She wore an oversize work shirt with black leggings. Penelope had never seen Press with a girl.
“Oh, wow.” Press stopped dead in his tracks. “I didn’t realize you had Nick Rheinhardt as a visitor. I mean, I knew you’re going to be our Class Day speaker, and I can’t tell you how excited we all are. The episode where you got that killer massage? Amazing. It went viral on YouTube.”
“It’s my pleasure to be speaking at your graduation ceremony,” Nick replied formally.
Penelope looked over at Nick, who for some unknown reason looked somewhat perturbed. “I suppose introductions are in order?” She nodded toward Press. “This is my student assistant in the Rare Book Library…”
“Press Lodge.” Press stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “It’s a pleasure.” He politely introduced himself to Georgie, as well. Then he turned around. “And this is a guest at my house, Amara.”
The girl clenched her jaw.
Strange, thought Penelope.
Then she heard Nick Rheinhardt inhale dramatically.
Even stranger.
“Hello, Amara,” he said after a beat, his voice tight.
“Hello, Daddy,” she replied without any warmth.
“Daddy?” Press asked. “You didn’t tell me you were Nick Rheinhardt’s daughter this morning.”
“And you—” Nick stared at Amara “—didn’t tell me that he was the reason you didn’t answer the phone when I called earlier.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
NICK©RECOGNIZED AMARA’S©obvious displeasure. Clearly, she’d been hoping to avoid her wayward father. Not to mention the other whammy of having to watch her new little buddy—this college kid flaunting his preppy testosterone and gee-whiz smile—fawn all over said dad. And having Georgie practically hopping on his toes, no doubt hoping to work unexpected encounters like this into the episode, only added to the sense that a crisis was looming. Not to forget the librarian.
Yes, let’s not forget the librarian, Nick thought. Penelope.
He closed his eyes, feeling all over again the brush of her breasts across his arm. And the thing of it was, he was simply not one of those guys who ever harbored a librarian fantasy.
Not that she looked like anybody’s idea of a librarian. That shapeless lab coat couldn’t hide her whippetlike frame that somehow had all the requisite curves. And then there were her legs…oh, boy, those legs. He’d never been a fan of skinny jeans—until now. And the way they ended just above her delicate anklebones, leaving a stretch of tantalizing bare flesh before her little slip-on flats. And not just any flats—ones with what looked like pages of an Italian newspaper covered in photos of Brigitte Bardot. A librarian wearing a sex goddess—could he ever have imagined?
Her ankles weren’t the only irresistible features. Her heart-shaped face with its pale skin, the delicately arched brows and a nose so narrow it was like something out of a painting by Vermeer. Still, the determined set of her jaw spoke of fire and passion—totally Rubens. Then there was her hair—that fairylike mass of ringlets that haloed about her head. Was it gold or russet? And then there was something else about her face that had him searching—for words, for insight.
But it wasn’t just her face. It was the way her mind worked—so orderly, so precise. Posed with a problem—such as finding manuscripts ASAP for some demanding TV host—she had analyzed the situation and come up with an imaginative yet totally logical solution. So different from the chaos that seemed to consume his own life. So refreshing. So calming… So soothing…
Perhaps he was having librarian fantasies after all… .
He shook his head. And narrowed his eyes when he focused on his daughter’s defiant face. “I tried to reach you this morning to set up a time to get together.”
“I must have been out by the pool when you called,” she shot back.
The guy—he was definitely part of the equation. Nick had no doubt. Which is why he was about to suggest—no, order—that from today onward, while Amara was under his watch, she’d be sleeping on a cot in his hotel room. But before he could do so, Georgie spoke up. Good ol’ Georgie. Ever ready to make things go smoothly.
“Well, you both found each other anyway. So no harm in the end,” Georgie chimed in. He held out his arms and approached Amara. “C’mon, you’re not too old to give your uncle George a big hug.” Troll-like, he enveloped her in his expansive arms, and Amara leaned into him naturally.
Nick felt a pang of jealousy. The two of them had barely exchanged a peck on the cheek.
When Georgie and Amara broke their hug, his librarian—yes, he was already beginning to think of her as his—spoke up.
“As long as you’re here, why don’t you come over and see what I’ve put out for your father and Mr. De Meglio to see.” She stepped to the side and indicated the conference table behind her. “I know that Press is accustomed to my little impromptu lectures on various holdings, and he has always kindly demonstrated an interest, genuine or otherwise.”
“Excuse me, when have I ever not thought something was really interesting?” Press asked, holding his hand up.
“The collected dry-cleaning bills from the last five years of Henry Ford’s life?”
“Okay, that was just weird. But that was the exception.” He motioned Amara over to the table. “So what have we got here?”
“These are all food related, as you might have guessed, given the circumstances. We’ve just finished looking at the work by a celebrity American chef and a provisions list from the Revolutionary War period, and now we’re on to something a little older and quite unique.”
Nick stepped aside and let the two younger people shoulder their way front and center.
Amara stared intently at one of the folios on display. “Hey, cool. Look at this.” She motioned to Press.
“The Grantham Galen. You brought it over from the exhibit?” Press asked.
“Just for this meeting. It goes right back,” Penelope answered.
“So what’s a Grantham Ga-something?” Georgie asked.
“It seems to be an old Greek manual that talks about using all these cooking herbs like cinnamon and ginger and laurel.” Amara pointed toward the text. “I’m not quite sure what this one is.” She looked to Penelope. “Am I right about it being an herbal treatise?”
“Our little Amara reads ancient Greek, and you never told me?” Georgie looked to Nick.
Nick opened his eyes wide and held up his hands. “Hey, whatever she’s learned she didn’t get it from me. And as far as languages are concerned, my accomplishments beyond mangling the mother tongue extend only to restaurant French, which is heavy on the swear words.”
“And possibly very useful in certain contexts,” Penelope observed. Then she immediately turned her attention to Amara. “Yes, it does talk about herbs, which nowadays are used in cooking, but in ancient times were the mainstays of medicine. And the word you were unsure of is cardamom,” she noted.
Amara lowered her head and studied the folio some more. “Is it? Wait a minute. If this is one of Galen’s writings, like Press said, wouldn’t it be his Theriac electuary?” She was addressing Penelope.
“A Ther-i-what?” Georgie asked, coming forward to take a better look.
“It sounds like a kind of enema,” Nick suggested, feeling more and more peripheral to the discussion.
Penelope appeared to take no notice of his comment. “A Theriac electuary, also known as a Venice treacle, is a mixture of sixty-four drugs—including what today we think of as herbs and spices, such things as cinnamon, cloves, mustard seed—”
“And cardamom,” Amara interjected.
Penelope nodded before continuing. “Including cardamom, which was formed by pulverizing the mixture with the addition of honey as a binder. It was supposed to be an antidote to poison. The recipe here is one attributed to Galen.”
“Galen who?” Nick asked. He could be as academic-y as the next person, he told himself.
Georgie leaned to Nick. “That would have been my next question, too.”
Amara raised her hand. “He’s Aelius Galenus. Also known as Claudius Galenus and Galen of Pergamon. He was of Greek ancestry, but lived in Rome, and was an important philosopher, and physician, and, really, one of the most famous medical scientists in the classical period. Unfortunately, with the fall of the Roman Empire, his works were lost to the West until the Renaissance, when he was rediscovered and his works were translated from the Arabic versions into Latin. In fact, since the original texts were mostly lost to the West, sometimes these translations were actually translated back into Greek. But this one…” Her voice trailed off.
“Is an original from the second century A.D.,” Penelope confirmed.
Amara cupped her hands over her open mouth.
Even Nick was too stunned to speak. Sure it was mind-boggling that they were looking at something written that long ago. But what was more startling was the bald demonstration of his daughter’s intellect and education. Not to mention Penelope’s complete command of arcane information and the assumption that everyone wanted to know about it.
Which, come to think of it, he did. Nick shook his head. He wasn’t a total ignoramus, and he respected people with genuine intellectual curiosity. It’s just that he had never equated himself with the latter.
And that’s when he found himself becoming mesmerized by that throbbing blue vein on the side of her forehead.
* * *
“HIS©CONTRIBUTIONS to anatomy and pharmacology are obvious—”
“To some of us.” Press interrupted Penelope with a smile.
Penelope frowned. “Press, are you making fun of me?”
“Never…well…okay, but no more than normal.”
Penelope smiled in an understated way. She was satisfied with his answer. Indeed, she was rather pleased that the two of them had this convivial relationship. It was…almost normal. “Yes…well…but in addition, in light of this manuscript, one can see that he made enormous contributions to pharmacology.”
“Don’t forget his philosophical work,” Amara noted.
“Of course, you’re right. His studies of logic are very important.” Penelope crossed her arms. “That’s very impressive for someone of your age.”
“Or any age,” Georgie added.
Penelope acknowledged his comment before addressing Amara again. “So you’re interested in the ancient languages and thought?”
Nick found himself leaning forward, curious about the answer.
Amara shrugged, appearing awkward as the center of attention. “I just took a bunch of courses in ancient Greek and Latin in school. But it’s not like it was a big deal. I mean, I’m one of those people who seem to have a thing for languages. Like some people can throw a curve ball, or be good with map directions, I’m good with languages.”
“Amara, honey, that’s fantastic,” Georgie congratulated her. “There’s no need for modesty. And you speak other languages, too?”
“Yeah, Spanish and French and Italian. But once you know one Romance language, it’s pretty easy to pick up another.”
“You must learn German,” Penelope instructed. “I’m sure you’d find its logical construction fascinating, and then you’ll be able to enjoy all those great writers like Goethe and Thomas Mann.”
“Oh, Death in Venice,” Amara practically cooed. “I loved that. I even cried. But of course, I only read it in translation. Hey, maybe I could take a German course this summer, although…”
“Wow, I’m impressed. I thought I was doing well when I passed the language requirement for Grantham, and that was only French,” Press said.
Penelope shifted her gaze to Nick. “You must be very proud of your daughter. Very few young people these days have an appreciation for the past, let alone such expertise.”
“Proud? Stunned is more like it,” he admitted. “Makes me embarrassed that I didn’t know anything about this before now.”
Penelope raised a critical eyebrow as she digested this information. Then she turned to Press. “As long as Amara appears to be interested in manuscripts, perhaps you’d like to show her around the library before you take over at the information desk.”
“Sure, if you want,” Press agreed.
Amara nodded eagerly and she inched closer to him as he headed for the door.
“Where’s a camera and a cameraman when we could use one?” Georgie said to Nick. “They look very cute together, don’t you think?”
“Way too cute,” Nick muttered.
* * *
NICK©LIFTED©HIS©HEAD and spoke up, “It will have to be a quick tour, Amara, because you’re coming with me when we’re finished here.”
“Maybe I should just go back to the pool house, then.” Amara looked as though she was about to pout.
“I know, I know, not the most exciting option, but it’ll give us a chance to catch up,” he offered. He held up his hand to get Press’s attention as he started to turn. “And, Press, did Mimi mention to you that we’ll be filming at Hoagie Palace this evening? I understand that you’re a real insider, and it would be great if you could join us.”
Press bobbed a nod. “Yeah, I heard from Mimi. It will be great. Angie and Sal—they’re the owners—are amazing. I’m happy to do anything that’ll help them.” Press looked at Amara. “If you’ve never had hoagies from The Palace, you haven’t lived.”
“On the other hand, perhaps you’ll live longer if you haven’t tried the saturated fat and cholesterol content,” Penelope observed.
“Yeah, but you only live once,” Press replied.
“Spoken like someone whose doctor has not mentioned that fateful word—Lipitor,” Nick added.
“You gotta come,” Press urged Amara, seemingly oblivious to Nick’s caustic humor.
Amara seemed torn. Nick could tell she wanted to hang out with lover-boy here. Yet the thought of spending any more time than necessary with her father was a complete downer.
“You must go,” Penelope intervened, stepping between the two young people. “I believe someone with your intellectual interests would be a good influence on Press.” She leaned closer to Amara and whispered loudly, “He’s what I like to think of as a diamond in the rough.”
Press rolled his eyes.
“You see? He’s suitably embarrassed, so you have no choice but to go.”
“Okay,” Amara conceded.
“Good, now that’s settled.” She shooed them out the door. Then she looked back at Nick and Georgie. “I’ll be right with you. I want to make sure Press gives Amara a glimpse of the maps of the Holy Land and ancient Rome. They are sure to be of interest.”
As soon as she left, Nick turned to Georgie and smiled. “The camera’s going to love her,” he murmured with a shake of his head.
“You could be right,” Georgie replied. He worked his mouth.
Nick knew that face. “What is it? What’s bugging you?”
Georgie snapped his mouth shut and heaved a sigh. “Tell me, what is it you actually want with her? Penelope?”
“To taste her ’nduja.”
“Is that what they call it now?” Georgie looked dubious.
Nick shook his head. “This is strictly aboveboard. When you get a load of this stuff, you’ll know why I want to get it on film. It’ll be like tasting ambrosia. And who knows? This other stuff?” He waved his hand at the manuscripts on the table. “We should include it, too. I mean, it wasn’t what I had in mind going into this project. But, hey, as you are always telling me—adaptation is key.”
“Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t listen to me.” Georgie frowned. “She’s a nice lady, Nick. I saw the way you reacted. I get what’s going on with you.”
Nick held up his hands defensively. “Then you get more than I do.”
Georgie gazed over his bushy eyebrows. “She doesn’t need any trouble.”
Penelope came striding back into the room. She looked squarely at Nick. “Before I show you any more items from the collection, I have a question.”
Nick raised his eyebrows.
“What are you really doing here?” Penelope asked. “I’ve been at this job long enough and dealt with other production companies. Usually, when someone wants to use our collection, they contact us months in advance.”
Nick glanced at Georgie. “Maybe that’s why we’re still on basic-cable television?” He turned back to Penelope and attempted his aw-shucks smile.
Penelope crossed her arms.
Georgie covered his mouth and coughed.
Nick rubbed his nose. “Okay, you caught me. The manuscripts you showed us are great. It’ll provide some kind of academic context for the show. After all, this is Grantham, an Ivy League school. And dunce that I am, I really didn’t put all that together until I was talking with Justin last night, and he happened to mention your position here.”
Penelope tapped her foot.
Nick looked down. The photos of Brigitte Bardot on her shoe jiggled up and down provocatively.
“Maybe I’ll just wait outside?” Georgie suggested. “I have a few phone calls to make.” He slipped out.
“I would hardly call someone who has written a bestseller, hosts and writes his own award-winning travel-food show and has a degree from Grantham University—”
“Full disclosure,” Nick interrupted. “I never got my degree.”
She waved off his comment. “I repeat again, what is it you really want?”
He took a step closer. It wasn’t a threatening move, but definitely allowed him to enter her personal space.
She didn’t retreat, but instead raised her head to look him directly in the eye.
He noticed the throb of that vein in her forehead again and felt an irresistible urge to stroke it. But he didn’t.
Instead he wet his lips and said in a low voice, “Well, now that you mention it, I want you to come to Hoagie Palace with us tonight.”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
“It’ll be fun.”
“Fun?”
“Yes, not to mention a free meal.”
“And after tonight?” She toyed with the collar of her lab coat.
Never had a uniform been so alluring. “After tonight?” he repeated her words. He searched her eyes to ascertain what she was thinking, but he found himself distracted, confused…more than confused. And then it dawned on him—what he hadn’t been able to figure out before. The reason he felt so off balance around her? “Why, to find out what a woman with eyes each a different color does for excitement.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“THIS©IS©JUST©THE©KIND©of place that makes me very, very happy,” Nick announced on camera. “I’m here with a student from Grantham University who is such an aficionado of Hoagie Palace, he even has a sandwich named after him.”
“Not just named after me. I came up with the combination,” Press clarified. He waited expectantly as Nick thrust himself wholeheartedly into eating his enormous hoagie. The long split roll barely contained a full chicken cutlet, half-a-dozen mozzarella sticks and a bunch of French fries—all covered in hot sauce.
Nick chewed and swallowed. “That’s some kinda wonderful. Who said the youth of America had nothing to offer these days? Press, this is inspirational.” Nick took another bite.
Actually the hoagie was delicious, which meant Nick was currently thinking good thoughts about Mimi’s half brother, instead of wanting to cut off essential male parts because he seemed to be the object of his daughter’s constantly adoring gaze.
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Tracy Kelleher
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: How does a rule-abiding, accomplished woman fall for a rebel college dropout? It′s something rare-books curator Penelope Bigelow is still trying to figure out! Regardless of what logic she tries to use, the proof remains that when celebrity chef Nicholas Rheinhardt is around, her composure takes a vacation.With all the reunion festivities, it′s hard to avoid him…especially since he needs her expertise in antiquities for an upcoming episode of his cable travel show.Too bad the past isn′t what Penelope′s focusing on when she′s with Nick. There′s more to him than his infamous reputation–and that intrigues her. Penelope isn′t looking for perfection…even though Nick′s coming very close!