That still didn’t mean she wanted Noreen’s friends calling her at all hours.
“Mimi? Are you still there?” It was Vivian again.
Mimi opened her eyes and stared at her bedroom ceiling. “Yes, Vivian, I’m here.” She tried to sound tolerant.
“Oh, good.” Vivian cleared her throat. Then she cleared it again.
Even semicomatose, Mimi found the hesitation uncharacteristic for the normally overly confident businesswoman, university trustee and political candidate.
“I was wondering if you’d heard anything more from Lilah?” Vivian finally asked.
“Lilah? No, why should I?”
“After her weakened physical state yesterday, I was a bit concerned that perhaps I had, had, you know… I was concerned.”
Mimi ran her hand through her hair. She’d recently cut it to chin length to make life easier in the field, and she wasn’t yet used to it. “I haven’t heard anything, and if something were really wrong, I presume Justin would have called. We’re planning on getting together later, so if anything was wrong, I’m sure I would have heard by now.” Now that returning to Reunions had become their annual ritual, she and Lilah always got together.
“Well, that’s good to know.” There was another pause. “Actually there was another reason for my call.”
The real reason. Mimi parsed Vivian’s words. This time she waited, letting silence fill the air. It was an old trick she’d learned as a cub reporter on her days back on the Daily Grantham, the student newspaper. Invariably the subject felt obliged to fill the vacuum, sometimes revealing the most telling information.
“I thought that maybe you’d like an exclusive interview,” Vivian finally announced.
Mimi was intrigued but wary. Just because they were both Grantham alums didn’t mean that Vivian could mine Mimi’s press connections for some free publicity. “That’s very kind of you to think of me, Vivian. But to tell you the truth, I’m here on vacation—to go to Reunions, catch up with friends and spend time with Brigid. That kind of thing.” Her little half sister was definitely the only member of the family that truly mattered. No, that wasn’t true. Press had his redeeming qualities, but since he was no longer seven years old, he didn’t look at her with adoring eyes and a heart full of unqualified love.
“And, you know, state politics is not my regular beat. I wouldn’t want to infringe on anyone’s turf. Reporters are pretty touchy about things like that. But if you want, I can get you in touch with the right people at the Network? They’d be only too happy, I’m sure…” She gracefully tried to decline while leaving the possibility open.
“Of course, of course,” Vivian replied. “I understand the importance of family. The love and the trust.” She hiccupped.
Mimi decided to amp up the empathy factor. “Vivian, is there something wrong? Something…something personal I can help you with? Completely off-the-record, of course?” Nothing was off-the-record.
Mimi could hear Vivian inhale deeply.
“Thank you. It’s silly, really. I’m sure it’s happened to other people. I just never expected it to happen to me,” Vivian confided.
The lack of detail was practically killing Mimi. She sat up in bed and clutched the phone. She could hear Vivian blow her nose. “Vivian?” she prompted. “Are you all right?”
Vivian continued to blow her nose. Long and loud. “To tell you the truth, no, not really. My husband, Pierre Renard?”
“Yes, of course.” Pierre Renard was Belgium’s former ambassador to Great Britain, a successful businessman with a vast media empire, and the owner of the most successful soccer team in his home country. He was known as The Fox, not just because it was the English translation of his last name, but also because his business ventures had had remarkable success.
“Is he in town, too?” Mimi asked. Getting an exclusive interview with one of the most powerful men in Europe would be more up her alley.
“No, he’s at our place in Connecticut—or was supposed to be.” Vivian sniffed.
Mimi had seen the photos of the “place”—an understated eighteenth-century farmhouse with miles of picturesque stone walls, a formal perennial garden framed by boxwood hedges and a four-car garage that held a Ferrari, Land Rover and two Mercedes limousines—his and hers—not to mention the chauffeur and his wife who lived above.
“I thought he would probably be bored coming down to Grantham, what with the trustees meetings and all. Besides, all the folderol of Reunions isn’t really a European’s fancy, if you know what I mean.” There was a catch in her voice, then a moment of silence.
The next thing Mimi heard was the sound of something hitting something else with a thud.
“Mimi? Are you still there?” Mimi switched the phone to her other ear.
“Sorry, that was just the Kleenex box. I threw it against the wall,” Vivian announced, her voice suddenly forceful. “I feel much better now, much better.”
“I’m glad.” Though confused, Mimi thought.
“I think I’ve shed enough tears, don’t you?”
Mimi figured it was a rhetorical question and didn’t answer.
“Now where was I?” Vivian went on. “Oh, yes, I was saying that I thought he’d be bored. Bored my ass. It seems since my departure to Grantham, the lying toad has decided to run off to France with the nanny.”
Whoa! Mimi hadn’t seen that one coming. She frowned. “The nanny?” This sounded remarkably like the scenario in her family. Then she really was confused. “Wait a minute. You don’t have any children.”
“That’s true. It was the dog’s nanny. Daphne.”
“Daphne’s the nanny?”
“No, Daphne’s the dog—a bichon frise. Florence is the nanny. She came highly recommended. All the right schools, her mother a member of the DAR.”
“Those Daughters of the Revolution, they’re not to be trusted,” Mimi commented.
“I don’t blame the girl, though.”
“Girl?”
“Yes, Florence is only seventeen. She just finished her junior year at Miss Porter’s. This was a summer job.”
Holy mother of… Mimi thought. “Abduction of a minor and fleeing the country. And you found all this out how?” She needed solid confirmation if she was going to break the story.
“He sent me a note this morning. As far as I know, they’re on the evening flight to Paris.”
Terrific! was Mimi’s first thought. Written confirmation. Later on, she told herself, she would feel sympathy.
“I just got a call from Florence’s mother because their daughter had missed her appointment at the dermatologist and hadn’t returned any of their calls. Little did they know that acne was the least of their worries as far as Florence is concerned. I told them what I’d heard, and, needless to say, they’ve contacted the police. When I think back now, I realize I should have anticipated something. Yesterday evening, when I spoke to him on the phone from Hoagie Palace, he wouldn’t put Daphne on the phone for me to say hello. That’s something I like to do when I’m traveling—just to let the dog know that I haven’t forgotten her.”
Vivian was a little crazy, that’s all Mimi could think. Though in voters’ eyes, she supposed, a little crazy was preferable to running off with an underage nanny.
Speaking of the dog. “So how’s Daphne holding up?”
“Traumatized, I’m sure, but you’d never know it. You see, Pierre had the dog couriered to me overnight. She arrived this morning with the breakup note attached to the crate.”
Mimi got up out of bed to find a notepad and a pen. She had to get this down. “Tell me, in light of all that’s happened, do you plan to drop out of the race?” She imagined the headlines with Vivian cast as yet another wronged wife, the victim of a powerful husband. Would she stand stoi
cally next to him if he were ever forced to return to face charges of corrupting a minor and abduction?
“Drop out! Absolutely not!” Vivian responded vehemently. “But right now, the race isn’t my focus. Right now my main concern is for Florence, that she’s safe. Once I can verify that, then I intend to crucify him. As for the governorship? Eventually, when it’s time to address that, we’ll have to see. Whatever the outcome, I must say I feel energized. This could be a blessing in disguise, especially now that I know Daphne is safe with me. The one thing I want to make sure of is that I’m the first to tell the story. That’s why I thought of you. I don’t want it to leak out from Pierre’s end, or be covered up somehow.”
Mimi didn’t want to think about Pierre’s end in any form. But she was totally on Vivian’s side when it came to taking down a no-good, vile, conniving husband. “In which case, I’ll need a camera crew. I can put in a call to New York.”
“Actually I have another idea,” Vivian suggested.
CHAPTER TWELVE
PENELOPE DIDN’T NORMALLY have problems with being patient or keeping focused on a task. And being surrounded by books—the things she most loved—should have made her toes curl with delight—not that Penelope believed in the literal interpretation of the metaphor, of course.
But as she leaned over the cookbook on French cuisine and explained for the third time—in front of a camera, no less—about the history of ownership of the work, she couldn’t help but feel…well…distracted.
“Yes, the author returned the annotated proof copy to her editor, who sent it out to a copy editor, who then returned it to the senior editor. She then passed it to the publisher, who, since he was a Grantham alum, decided to bequeath it to…” She found herself gazing into Nick’s deep chocolaty-brown eyes. Naturally, since they were discussing a cookbook, her thoughts turned to food. Or had they?
“Cut,” yelled Georgie. Ace producer that he was, Georgie had managed to obtain in record time all the necessary permissions to film. “Nick, buddy, you’re supposed to be helping Ms. Bigelow here, not leaving her hanging out to dry. My feeling is we might as well call it a day. We’ve got enough in the can anyway.”
Nick threw up his hands. “I know, I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m distracted.”
Distracted? thought Penelope. Could it be me?
“It’s Amara,” Nick said with a shake of his head. “I texted her earlier. I even left messages on her voice mail, but she still hasn’t gotten back to me.”
The answer is no, apparently, Penelope told herself. Then, like the supremely logical person she was, Penelope slipped her own phone from her back jeans pocket and scrolled her contacts. She placed a call.
“You think you’ll have better luck?” Nick asked.
Penelope held up a finger for silence. “Hello, Press,” she said, when the call went through. “I’m sorry to bother you. I know you must be busy preparing for Reunions… .What?…Learning to roll the kegs on their rims, you say? It sounds as if your coursework in physics is coming in handy… .Why did I call? It’s regarding another matter. Amara Rheinhardt? Have you seen her?…Oh, good… .That’s okay. I’ll tell him.”
Penelope ended the call. “Press said that she’s sitting in the shade while he’s working setting up the drinks tent for the Fifth Reunion site. He’s—and I quote—‘kinda swamped.’ So I said I would relay the information.”
“I can’t believe you knew how to get through that way. You must be an expert on the teenage mind.”
Penelope shook her head. “I know nothing about teenagers—male or female. I was homeschooled and never really interacted with children of any age group. Frankly I find teenagers rather intimidating—especially boys en masse. On the other hand, I do know something about being a daughter.”
“Well, my daughter is hanging around beer kegs with this…this guy.”
“Technically she’s sitting in the shade,” Penelope corrected. “And I don’t know why you’re so critical of Press.”
“He’s young. He’s good-looking. And he has a penis.” He counted off the points on his fingers. “Need I say more?”
“Press is a very bright and determined young man. He’s working Reunions to make money for his trip to Mongolia this summer to look at various significant paleontology sites. Then he’s going to Australia to work under a noted scientist who has developed the latest three-dimensional scanning techniques for evaluating fossils. And, as I distinctly remember Angie from Hoagie Palace telling you, he then plans to come back to the United States to pursue a Ph.D.” Penelope waited. “All that information should set your mind at ease.”
“Only the part about him being far, far away.” He studied Penelope. “But I have one question.”
“About Press’s trip to Mongolia?”
“No, I’ve been there and it’s fantastic—you just have to get used to a diet of animal fat and airag, which is fermented mare’s milk.”
“Hmm, interesting. I suppose that’s necessary, given the prolonged frozen temperatures.”
“Yes, I suppose. But that’s not what puzzles me.”
Penelope crossed her arms and waited.
“Why would anyone who’s born a Lodge need to work at Reunions? I’ve seen their house. Even if generations managed to fritter away much of the family millions, his dad is a well-known mover and shaker on Wall Street. When the economy was tanking for the rest of the country, I’m pretty sure he took a healthy bonus. He’s got to be as rich as Croesus.”
Penelope considered his statement. “Contrary to popular opinion, I believe it was Croesus’s use of gold coinage as the standard of purity that led to the legend of his own personal fortune.”
Nick closed one eye and just looked at her. “You know, Penelope, I find myself strangely fascinated by your breadth of knowledge. But that’s still not my point.”
Penelope nodded with great seriousness. “I realize that. Sometimes I can’t help myself. I apologize.”
“Don’t apologize. You would be a very good companion to have on a long trip.”
“I’ve never thought of myself as a good companion. You’re very kind.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I think you like to think you’re not.” And before Nick could protest, she continued, “As to why Press needs to work, I believe that his father, whom he commonly refers to as The Bastard, has Press’s money in trust until he reaches thirty. Something about building backbone, which is anatomically impossible since bones tend to lose density with age.” She saw him raise an eyebrow. “Yes, I know, it’s a metaphor, but as I said…”
Nick put aside her explanation. “So the kid isn’t some rich layabout?” he admitted begrudgingly. “Still, I don’t like the idea of Amara glomming on to him. She’s very vulnerable right now. How can I say this? There’ve been some issues with her boarding school.”
“I don’t understand. Clearly she’s a bright and accomplished student.”
“A bright and accomplished student who just got kicked out of school before graduation.”
“That’s terrible. Have you contacted the school?”
“I only found out the reason earlier this morning. I more or less had to pry it out of her. You see, it’s not like she tends to confide in me,” Nick responded sheepishly and explained what little he knew. “I’m more a Write The Checks And See You Once A Year kind of parent.”
“Oh.” Penelope’s voice dropped off.
“You can say that again.”
And she did. “Oh. And her mother? I presume she is of the I Take Care Of Everything Else On A Daily Basis kind of parent?”
“I’ve always assumed that was the case. But as to her knowing what’s happened, at the moment she’s out of communication on her honeymoon, and she won’t be back until Amara’s gradua
tion—or what was supposed to be her graduation.”
“Imagine her surprise?” Penelope paused and repeated his words more thoroughly. “You said ‘assumed’? You assumed her mother handled crisis situations?”
“I confess. It’s not like I’ve kept close tabs—or any tabs for that matter. What can I say? I’m a lousy father. Something Amara’d agree with, especially now that I’ve made her vacate the pool house at the Lodge’s house and had her move into my room at the Grantham Inn. I’ve never heard so many complaints about the accommodations.”
“I’ve heard they are small rooms.”
“Very small,” Nick concurred.
“Overly close proximity doesn’t necessarily improve already strained relations.”
“How could you say that?” he retorted.
Penelope frowned. “I presume that was sarcasm.” She took a step toward him. “You may be a delinquent father, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be the grown-up in this situation.”
“You intend to reform me?”
“No, I’m thinking of your daughter. You, as far as I can fathom, may be beyond reform.”
“I’m sorry to be a disappointment.” He hung his head.
Penelope shook hers. “You misunderstand. Unfortunately that is also part of your charm.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GEORGIE LISTENED TO THE back-and-forth between Nick and Penelope with amusement. There was clearly something going on between them. What, he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
The librarian lady confused him, to say the least. On the one hand, she seemed to be the absentminded professor type—out of touch with reality and immersed in a world of arcane facts. But the way she’d given Amara a boatload of respect yesterday and the polite dressing-down she was giving Nick right now warmed the cockles of his heart.
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