“What? You’ve got exciting plans or something? With your classmates, right? I suppose you want to spend as much time together before you all take off.” She tried not to sound hurt.
“It’s just that later tonight I’ll be hanging out with some of the guys from my Social Club. And before that I gotta have dinner with my family.” He ran his hand through his damp hair. “And believe me, you’d much rather be with Penelope and your father. I know I would.”
“Penelope seems cool, but you don’t know my father,” Amara argued.
“Please, let’s not get into a discussion of lousy fathers because, trust me, I’d win hands down. Like I said, you’re better off on your own tonight.”
Amara craned her neck up to get a better view of Press’s expression. “You’re not saying that because it’s annoying to hang out with me, are you? ’Cause I can take a hint, you know.”
Press squatted down next to her. “No, it’s not that—not that at all. I mean, sure, I like you a lot. You’re a nice kid.” He placed his hand on her knee.
She looked down at it. “I’m not just a kid.” She brought her gaze back to his. “I’ll be eighteen in August.”
Press gingerly removed his hand. “Listen, Amara, you may be mature for your age, but for now, you’re still seventeen. There are some rules that can be bent. And then there are others engraved in stone. This is one of the stone kind. I like hanging out and all, but I don’t want you to read too much into the time we’re spending together.”
“No problem. I get what you’re saying.” That didn’t mean she was willing to give up. “But when you’re cold and hungry in some remote Mongolian steppe…”
“Probably more like dying of the heat—it’ll be summer,” he corrected.
“Okay, dying of the heat,” she repeated dramatically. “Whatever. Maybe then you’ll take a moment to think of me, sitting around the pool at my new stepfather’s house, wearing an itty-bitty bikini, oiling up to get a great tan.” Amara only had a racing suit, but she wanted to conjure up a certain image.
She noticed Press wet his lips, so maybe it had worked.
But then he sprang to a standing position. “That sounds like fun. It’ll be nice to know that you’ll be relaxing. Maybe hanging out with your girlfriends, too. It’s just what I’d want a little sister to do.”
Ya think?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AS USUAL, PENELOPE’S parents arrived early.
Why was she not surprised?
Her father, Stanfield Bigelow—member of the Grantham University class of ’68 and the Vivian Pierpoint Distinguished Professor of Classics at Grantham—liked to have his wife, Beatrice, make his martini at six. At six-thirty they dined on a meal consisting of clear soup, followed by a chop or roast chicken and overcooked green beans or, more recently, steamed kale. Everyone in her family always sat in the same chairs around the table in the small, formal dining room—her father at the head and her mother at the bottom. Her younger brother, Justin, used to slouch in the chair to her father’s left. More often than not, he would gaze out the window. Penelope had sat opposite him, her posture erect, her back to the window. This position afforded a view of an eighteenth-century map of Asia Minor that her father had picked up as a graduate student while traveling in Italy. “A steal from a small bookshop in Naples, of all places,” he would explain if a dinner guest made inquiries.
Penelope had always found this regularity comforting. But somehow when she was preparing dinner tonight she couldn’t help wondering if Nicholas Rheinhardt always sat in the same chair night after night. She doubted it. He didn’t seem the type to sit in the same dining room, let alone the same chair. That thought had made her smile. And it had also led her to act impetuously and drag her IKEA table outdoors.
Her small, whitewashed brick house was part of a faculty neighborhood close to Lake Vanderbilt. With the table moved to the terrace outside the French doors of her living room, they would be able to sit and survey the rolling lawn down to the lake. Watch the geese and canoeists and a sleek racing scull or two ply the otherwise tranquil waters.
Or rather, that had been the plan until her father and mother had shown up in their ancient Volvo station wagon. Even her brother Justin’s miraculous way with cars would be hard-pressed to do anything about the layers of rust that edged the panels. Her father knocked loudly, accompanied by a cough.
Penelope opened the door. Stanfield took one look through the French doors at the table outside and announced, “But I always have my martini in the living room.”
“Tonight we are dining outside, Father,” Penelope replied cheerfully. “But you are welcome to have your martini in the living room if you wish.”
She glided barefoot to the kitchen to take a chilled glass from the refrigerator. She already had the cocktail stirrer on the counter along with her father’s favorite gin and vermouth. She could hear him harrumph behind her, but she told herself not to take any notice. Tonight would be different. And she smiled as she used the larger jigger to mix her father’s drink.
She spied her mother through the kitchen window. Beatrice had tiptoed outside in her Birkenstock sandals to look at the table setting. An avid butterfly watcher on her husband’s sabbatical stays to Greece and Italy, her mother floated silently, much like her favorite insect. She wore two barrettes on either side of her face to keep her graying hair out of her eyes. With each dipping step, the locks fanned out like wings.
“How positively charming,” her mother cooed. “It will be like dining alfresco at Piazza Armerina in Sicily.” She pointed with her finger as she counted the place settings. “Are your brother and Lilah joining us for dinner?” she asked, raising her voice.
Penelope returned to the living room with her father’s martini in one hand and a glass of white wine for her mother in the other. “No, they are tied up with entertaining before Reunions this weekend. I’ve invited people I don’t think you know—a former Grantham student, one year ahead of me, and his daughter.”
Beatrice positively levitated through the open French doors in the direction of her drink.
“One year ahead? I wasn’t aware you were friendly with any students ahead of you, let alone your own classmates.” Her father took a sip of his drink. “No olive?”
Penelope tried not to feel hurt on both counts. “I thought lemon peel might be more appropriate for our picnic atmosphere. And, you are quite right, I don’t keep up with people I went to school with, but I’ve recently been interacting with this person at the Rare Book Library.”
“A professor?”
“No, a chef and travel critic. Perhaps you’ve read his books or seen his travel show? Nicholas Rheinhardt?” She turned to head back to the kitchen. “I’ll just get the hors d’oeuvres.”
“I don’t read what passes for popular books these days and, as you know, we don’t own a television.”
“Didn’t I see somewhere that he is the Class Day speaker, dear?” her mother asked in more mollifying tones.
“That’s correct,” Penelope said upon returning with a tray of antipasto—a colorful array of brine-cured olives, roasted red pepper and eggplant, scamorza and mozzarella cheeses and wafer-thin slices of mortadella and dried salami. “Mother, if you’d take the bowl of unsalted peanuts. I may not have Dad’s usual cocktail olives, but I did remember the Planter’s.”
“Well, I can’t imagine what someone like he wants with the Rare Book Library,” her father said. He munched on the nuts.
“You’d be surprised, Father.” The amused smile on her face grew larger.
“I’m sure you’ll be able to share your experiences traveling in the classical world, Stanfield. And a daughter, you say?” her mother asked, turning to Penelope.
Penelope stood there holding the tray. “Yes, she’s graduating from a ve
ry fine girl’s prep school and will be matriculating to Grantham in the fall.” No need to elaborate on any of Amara’s current problems. “She’s already quite a scholar of ancient Greek and Latin, Father. You shall have to talk to her about your courses.”
Her father was comfortably ensconced in the armchair by the fireplace. “It will be my pleasure.” Stanfield was at his happiest talking about his teaching and research, both of which had garnered wide recognition. “Speaking of teaching, I understand from a colleague at Berkeley that they will be advertising a position in the Classics Department next academic year. They’re looking for a Latinist, midcareer, with a proven teaching and publication record. Naturally I thought of you.”
“I’m quite happy where I am, Father,” Penelope said. “Being a curator is ideal for me. I now realize that my determination to get a master’s degree in library science while I was in Chicago was actually quite fortuitous.”
“On the contrary. It was time you could have better spent writing articles and attending conferences,” her father reprimanded her.
Penelope looked around for someplace to put the tray that was out of striking distance of her father. Stanfield maintained a trim frame, but he had an amazing way of devouring food.
“Can I help you with anything?” Her mother rested her glass on a coaster on the coffee table. “We bought you these at Alinari in Florence, didn’t we?” She pointed to the coasters.
“Yes, and I love them.” It was a conversation they had every time her mother spotted them. “If you’d like to help, you could bring this tray to the table outside while I do some last-minute fussing in the kitchen.”
“Nonsense.” Stanfield continued taking no notice of the interchange between his daughter and wife. “Working in the library is all well and good, but for someone of your talents and intellect, we all know that a professorial position is far more appropriate.”
Penelope walked to the kitchen to check on the swordfish pies cooking in the oven. She lowered the oven door and peeked at the crusts. They needed a few more minutes to turn properly golden.
Her father called out, “I didn’t tutor you all those years so that you’d become a glorified cataloger.”
Penelope closed the oven door and turned to wash the radicchio and baby greens. She had already made the vinaigrette dressing. As she opened a bottom cabinet in the tiny kitchen to get the salad spinner, she heard footsteps.
“Penelope, are you willfully trying to disappoint your mother?” It was her father. He was standing at the open door to the kitchen.
Penelope glanced over at her father and saw the empty glass in his hand. “Why don’t I make you another martini?” She reached for the tumbler. “And, you know, Mother doesn’t give any evidence of manifesting anxiety about my current employment.”
The doorbell rang.
“Shall I get that?” her mother offered.
“Please.” Penelope was busy mixing her father’s drink. She heard voices coming from the front door. Her mother had always been an enthusiastic hostess for her father’s students and colleagues.
“I believe Penelope is just busy in the kitchen,” she could be heard announcing after clucking over Nick and especially Amara.
Penelope, her heart rate beating faster than normal, looked up as she handed her father his martini.
Nick, all six-foot-three of him, leaned past her father and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
Penelope’s molars tingled. “You clearly found your way without any trouble,” she managed to say, betraying only a little nervousness.
“Not only did I find my way, I come bearing gifts.” He handed over a package wrapped in white paper. “Pork chops from Mike—who says hello, by the way.” Then he stepped to the side, nodding in acknowledgement to Stanfield. “And here is one teenage daughter with backpack.”
“Amara, I’m so glad you could join us. I’m very excited about the prospect of you staying with me. I can put your backpack in your room if you’d like.”
“I’m sure Amara can do that herself. If you just point her in the right direction?” Nick then thrust out his hand. “You must be Penelope’s father. Nicholas Rheinhardt. I actually took your survey Latin comedy course way back in the dark ages.”
Stanfield gave him the once-over. “I don’t remember you.”
“You wouldn’t. Your class met at nine in the morning, and I usually rolled out of bed at around noon, which, believe me, was not a commentary on the quality of your lectures. I was indiscriminate in my poor attendance record, I’m ashamed to say.”
“I believe you,” Stanfield said. He jiggled the ice cubes in his drink.
Penelope touched Amara lightly on her shoulder. “Why don’t I show you the way? I think it might be easier.”
“We can’t all be scholars,” she heard her father go on.
Nick laughed. “Probably a good thing for the academic job market, too.”
No, she didn’t need to worry. He could hold his own against her father.
She left Amara to unpack in the study, then returned to the living room. “I’d thought we’d eat outside. It’s such a sublime evening.”
Nick rubbed his hands together. “What a great idea. But first, let me help make some drinks. I see Professor and Mrs. Bigelow are already served. At least allow me to do my part for the chef and Amara. And, Mrs. Bigelow, be sure to save me a seat next to you. I want to hear all about raising Penelope.”
“Please, call me Beatrice,” she said.
Penelope swore she heard her mother giggle. She shook her head and headed for the kitchen. Time to remove the swordfish pies.
She was bent over, derriere in the air.
“The view out back may be lovely, but this is far superior.”
Penelope turned her head. Nick was lounging against the doorjamb. She stood up, holding one of the pies between oven mitts, and carefully placed it on a nearby trivet. She repeated the motion for the second, rather enjoying his attention.
He stepped toward the countertop to inspect her handiwork.
“You’re quite large and this kitchen is quite small,” she commented as the side of his body brushed up against hers.
He turned. “Professional chefs are used to working in tight quarters. People are usually surprised to see the limited space that five-star chefs have to work with.”
“I’m not a chef, five-star or otherwise.”
Nick looked at her openly. “No, you’re much more appealing. Mainly because you’re not swearing like a drunken sailor, and let me tell you, no chef I know has legs like yours. And I say that not in a sexist way but as an appreciative gentleman.”
Penelope was wearing a pale, floral sundress, and she’d pulled the top of her hair back in a small braid that hung down the back of her floaty locks. Her toenails were painted shell-pink.
“My descriptive capabilities seem to have abandoned me for the moment, so…so…I’ll just say that you look lovely.” He leaned in closer to her neck.
She thought he planned to kiss it. Penelope tilted her chin to make the move easier.
Then Amara barged into the kitchen unannounced. “Wow, Penelope, I can’t believe the number of books you have.”
Penelope and Nick jumped apart.
“Your father was just helping me take the dinner out of the oven,” Penelope said. And as if to show the evidence, she pointed with an oven mitt at one of the swordfish pies.
Nick bent dutifully. “It looks and smells delicious.”
“I thought you said you were going to make the drinks?” Amara asked suspiciously.
“So I did. Thank you for reminding me.” Nick rubbed his hands together. “What can I get you ladies?”
“There’s a bottle of Prosecco in the refrigerator and champagne glasses on a tr
ay on the counter.” Penelope shifted the oven mitts to one hand and moved to turn the oven off.
“Definitely what the doctor ordered.” Nick opened the refrigerator. “Right, Amara? After all, we need to celebrate your graduation.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.” She wore a hangdog expression.
“Never fear. Nicholas Rheinhardt is here. I put in a call to your headmistress this afternoon, and while her schedule was full today, I have an appointment to speak with her Friday—that’s tomorrow.”
Pleased, Penelope smiled. Her eyes met Nick’s.
“You called? I can’t believe it.” Amara seemed amazed.
Nick wet his upturned lips, then turned to his daughter. “I haven’t worked my magic yet, but at least I’m not a total do-nothing dad. Who knows, maybe this summer we can even spend more time together?”
Amara was visibly excited. “That would be great. I mean, I’m going to spend time with Mom and Glenn and maybe take a language course later in the summer. But that still leaves some time for us to take a trip together, maybe to someplace exotic?”
Nick popped the cork on the Prosecco, the Italian version of champagne. It spewed out the top of the long-necked bottle, but he deftly caught the bubbly foam with the tip of a champagne flute. “We’ll see about that, kiddo.”
Penelope noticed he deflected answering Amara’s question as expertly as he poured the drinks. “Amara, why don’t you invite my parents to the table outside so we can begin with the antipasto? You can have a little Prosecco, too. This is a celebration after all.” She handed the girl a glass.
She watched Amara hold her drink aloft, looking very pleased at being treated like a grown-up. Penelope also noticed that she had abandoned full-mourning clothing for a short white skirt and an orange print top with matching orange flip-flops. Aside from the neon-pink highlights, she looked exactly like a typical Grantham college girl. Interesting…
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