A Rare Find

by Kelleher, Tracy

  Penelope leaned out the kitchen door. “And be sure to ask my father what he’s teaching in the fall semester. He is really quite gifted, and I think you’ll be excited,” she called to Amara.

  Then she turned and narrowed her eyes at Nick. “That was very thoughtful of you to call Amara’s school.”

  “Only trying to heed your advice.” He passed a champagne glass to her and picked up one for himself. “Chin, chin.” He offered the traditional Italian toast as he clicked the rim of his glass to hers.

  She nodded in acknowledgment and sipped the sparkling wine. She always felt it was the epitome of summer weather. “You know, you should be careful building up her expectations about things you can’t follow through on. You barely have her trust now,” she reminded Nick.

  “You’re talking about her suggestion to go on vacation together?”

  Penelope nodded.

  He glanced out the kitchen window to the sound of voices drifting in from the backyard. “I didn’t know what to say. I mean, I’m pretty booked, what with my shooting schedule and editing.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant.”

  “Okay, I’ll look into it. See how much I value your advice?”

  Penelope took another sip of wine. The bubbles tingled the roof of her mouth, and the gentle sweetness teased her palate. She stepped toward him, the thin material of her sundress close to the cotton of his checked dress shirt. The heat wafted off his body in dry waves. She regarded his face closely, noticed he must have recently shaved because there was a small nick under his jawline, and his skin smelled subtly of menthol. He had taken out the small hoop earring in his left lobe. The tiny piercing looked vulnerable. Had he done it for her or because he was going to meet her parents?

  Either way, she smiled. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re acting the role of the good father because the lure of sex with me is a powerful motivating force?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You’re objecting?”

  She smiled slyly. “Not at all. It’s just that the more important reason for following up would be a sense of parental obligation.”

  “Excuse me, you’re looking at the man who’s always paid his daughter’s bills on time—even in the lean years. Duty is practically my middle name.”

  She twirled the stem of her glass. “But is it duty based on love or duty based on guilt? Though, I suppose even the latter is better than doing it because it gives you a sense of self-satisfaction—that you’re such a noble and caring father.”

  Nick stared at her. “You speak from personal experience?”

  Penelope shook her head. “It’s not as if I have children of my own.” Then she twisted around and placed her glass on the tiled countertop. She did the same with his.

  He slanted his head—a silent question.

  She responded by placing her hands on his shoulders. “I believe you were in the middle of something when we were interrupted earlier?” She raised her chin.

  “You know, there’s something to be said for a woman with a good memory,” he replied and lowered his head.

  “I know.” And her lips met his.

  He tasted of wine and freshness, and he applied pressure here, then a nip there with the skill of a pro, but with the heart of a true believer. With each twist and turn, each exploration of her tongue, Penelope found herself in a process of discovery. She had anticipated the expertise.

  She hadn’t counted on the depth, the complexity, the feeling.

  When they finally broke the kiss, Penelope realized she had backed up against the counter. His body was pressing into hers. The signs of his own arousal were noticeably evident.

  “Oh, wow,” he said. He exhaled through his mouth. “I think I might need a moment to regroup before we join the others.”

  She pushed back her hair from her forehead. Her skin felt hot, damp. “Yes, I know what you mean. Still, we mustn’t take too much more time. After all, the first course is waiting.” Penelope took a large breath, then picked up their wineglasses. She purposely led the way outside so as not to be tempted to pull him back into the kitchen and into her embrace.

  He took a large stride and bent down to talk into her ear. “And here I thought that was the first course.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THERE WAS SOMETHING magical about Penelope’s place, Nick thought. Take the coral-colored roses climbing up the walls of the cottage. Or the beds of blue and pink flowers, whose names he didn’t know, girding the foundation like an undulating shawl. Not to mention the emerald-green grass sloping down to the still water of the lake below. It could be rural England. Or, better yet, a fairy tale.

  For someone who professed to have zero social skills, she was a natural hostess who seemed to know how to make everyone feel comfortable and important. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find tame animals shyly venturing forth from the woods to partake of the food. Snow White had met her match in Penelope.

  It was pure magic, but then, he was purely smitten.

  And, boy, did her food contribute to his bliss. The antipasto with the thin slivers of salami goodness and the tangy dark olives? Then there was the swordfish pie, a delectable Sicilian mixture of sweet and sour with raisins and olives again. The crust? Talk about flaky. And one slice through its buttery goodness released an aroma as heady and sensual as the finest perfume. And, hey, you could eat it—no, savor it to your heart’s content. As a food writer he could have gone on forever. As someone totally captivated with Penelope, he wanted to get up out of his chair at the foot of the table, push away the plates, dash aside the candlesticks and the centerpiece of flowers from her garden and crawl animal-like across the white tablecloth, only to ravish her on the spot.

  But seeing as Amara was sitting to his left and Penelope’s parents to his right, that scenario might prove a bit awkward.

  Speaking of awkward, did her father have to tell everybody what a hotshot professor he was? About all his awards and grants and books? Several times, no less?

  Amara, bless her impressionable soul, lapped up Stanfield’s stories. He could tell that she was entranced that she—not even a college undergraduate—was able to talk directly to a bigwig Grantham professor. Correction—that she occasionally was able to get in a word or brave a question before Penelope’s father launched into a soliloquy about yet another in the list of wonders that he’d achieved.

  Nick wanted to pull his innocent daughter aside and explain that there was more to a person than the number of publications he had or how many students he’d taught who were now CEOs or professors themselves. Sure, it was great to be smart and all. But things like decency and humility and caring were so much more important. Things that Penelope possessed in spades and her father never would.

  Of course, until a few days ago, Nick had never considered trying to emulate these qualities. If only he could.

  Penelope wasn’t a tiny, lesser chip off the old paternal block, as Stanfield kept insinuating with his sly, underhanded digs. She was on a pedestal that stood far above him. And Nick wanted Penelope and Beatrice, but mostly Penelope’s father, to recognize that.

  “You know, your mastery of Italian cooking is really quite remarkable,” Nick said.

  “Coming from a professional chef, that’s really quite a compliment, dear,” her mother noted. She launched into her second serving of swordfish pie.

  Nick quickly filled Beatrice’s wineglass again. He had learned a happy Beatrice was a slightly tipsy one. “It tastes highly authentic,” he added.

  “Thank you. You’re overly kind,” Penelope replied. “I was lucky enough to live in Rome for two years after I finished graduate school. I was on a fellowship, and in between doing research at the Vatican Library and taking their paleography course, I managed to pick up a few pointers from acquaintances,
” Penelope said modestly.

  Amara leaned toward her father. “Paleography is the study of old handwriting,” she told him knowingly. “That’s why Penelope can read all those ancient manuscripts.”

  Nick smiled at his daughter. She understood how special Penelope was, after all.

  “Not just any fellowship—you won a Prix de Rome from the American Academy,” her mother gushed. Her cheeks were turning a rosy-pink from the wine. “That’s very prestigious.” She nodded at Nick and Amara.

  “We were all very pleased,” her father chimed in.

  For once, Nick thought the old man might be giving his daughter her due.

  “Especially since I’ve been a Fellow of the Academy for years. So it’s essentially as if she continued my tradition,” Stanfield added.

  No, the guy was an unmitigated schmuck, Nick reevaluated. He wasn’t about to let Penelope be pushed to the side. “And your interest in southern Italian food? I seem to recall Justin or maybe it was Lilah saying that you had a house in Calabria?”

  Penelope seemed to pause. “Yes, one of my classmates in the paleography program owned a house in Capo Vaticano. That’s a promontory in the deep south that juts out into the Tyrrhenian Sea. Very spectacular and undeveloped, unlike much of what’s happened along the coastline.” She looked down at her empty plate—the fork and knife neatly laid side by side at a forty-five-degree angle. Then she raised her head. “He died rather unexpectedly and, quite surprisingly, willed the house to me. At the time, dealing with the Italian bureaucracy was rather interesting.” She looked around the table. “Anyone for seconds or thirds? I warn you, there’s dessert.”

  Nick figured there was more to that story than she was letting on. He was sure of it. He was curious about “the classmate.” No, dammit, he was jealous, and he intended to get to the bottom of it. But not now. He’d bide his time. “It was delicious, but even I couldn’t stuff any more in—especially with the prospect of dessert.”

  “But, Dad, I thought you didn’t like sweets?” Amara commented.

  “Seeing as Penelope has made it, I’ll make an exception.” And that’s when Nick realized his daughter knew his eating preferences, but he didn’t have the faintest idea about hers. For someone who placed a premium on eating and food, that was a sorry comment. He racked his brain for a memory, something he could link Amara with. Eureka! Pleased, he looked at his daughter.

  “I seem to recall an incident with you and several slices of cheesecake at Carnegie Deli. Topped with blueberries, I believe,” he said. Carnegie Deli was an institution on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

  “Da-ad,” Amara wailed like only a child could, making her seem every one of her tender years. “I was ten at the time. And it was cherries, not blueberries.” Then she turned to Penelope and ventured, “I don’t mean to pry, but your house in Calabria? I saw a photo in the study, when I put my stuff down. Was that taken there?”

  “Why, yes.” Penelope looked pleased, even relaxed as she cocked her head. “I took it from the pool on the hill above the house. You can see the tiled roof of the house, then the edge of the cliff and the private beach below. In the distance is the island of Stromboli.”

  “Stromboli? Like the Rossellini film with Ingrid Bergman?” Nick had a thing for Ingrid Bergman, and now as he looked at Penelope, he could almost see a resemblance. Not the features, per se, though her nose had the same long line and slightly flared nostrils. The real similarity came when she smiled. Her mouth turned up with the same mixture of innocent gaiety and wily seduction. Then there was the way the light of the setting sun ringed her head and gave her this luminescence. Her wonderful, crazy-colored eyes almost glittered and her pale skin glowed.

  Jeez, he was a goner.

  “Did you know that the volcano of Stromboli was mentioned back in ancient times?” Stanfield broke through Nick’s reverie. “In fact, the name Stromboli is actually a corruption of the ancient Greek strongule, meaning a round, swelling form.”

  At the mention of round, swelling forms, Nick found himself staring at Penelope’s breasts. Embarrassed, he lifted his cloth napkin and patted his lips. He furtively glanced around the table to see if anyone had noticed. Stanfield seemed to be engrossed in himself. Beatrice was slowly sipping wine and gazing out over the lawn. Amara was dutifully stacking the dirty dishes. Then he turned to Penelope.

  Penelope rose slowly from her chair. He could tell that she was aware of where his eyes and thoughts had strayed. And he could see she wasn’t flustered, nor did she pretend to be embarrassed. Instead she breathed in and out slowly and evenly, her chest rising and falling. She wasn’t shrinking away by any stretch of the imagination.

  “The house sounds fantastic,” Amara prattled on, oblivious to the sexual tension. She stood to carry the plates inside. “It would make a great vacation, don’t you think?” She looked at Nick.

  He shook his head, breaking the spell, and focused on his daughter. “We’ll talk about it later. For all we know, Penelope is staying there herself or has booked it for the summer. By the sounds of it, she must have plenty of takers, with that spectacular location.”

  “And don’t forget the open-air shower in the center of the house,” Penelope added.

  She was killing him. And from the glint in her eye she was enjoying it.

  Stanfield cleared his throat dramatically.

  All heads turned. It would have been impossible not to.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “PENELOPE, BEFORE WE GET sidetracked with things like infinity pools and vacation homes—mind you, our family has never been acquisitive in terms of property, so the whole idea of a vacation home is quite a mystery to me—I think we need to get back to our conversation from before this dinner,” Stanfield insisted. “I’m referring of course to the search for an associate professor at Berkeley.”

  “Let me just finish clearing the dishes, and then I’ll bring in the dessert and coffee, Father,” Penelope responded in an even-tempered tone.

  The woman was a saint, Nick thought, and he followed her into the kitchen along with Amara. “Where do you want these?” He looked around the limited counter space.

  “Just put the dishes and silverware in the sink. I’ll rinse them and load the dishwasher.”

  “I think I can handle that.” He looked at his daughter. “Why don’t you bring in whatever else is left on the table—and don’t forget the salt and pepper shakers.”

  “Gee, you act like you own a restaurant or something.” Amara headed back outside.

  “Cheeky little thing,” he said to her back.

  “She’s a wonderful girl. You should be very proud,” Penelope declared.

  Nick twisted the water spigot on and held a plate under the faucet. “You know, I am. It’s a work in progress, but I am actually a proud father. And you’re a very good influence on me.” He bent down and lowered the door to the dishwasher.

  He’d never seen a more meticulously organized space in his whole life. He whistled. “This is incredible. You’ve separated the forks and spoon and knives into separate baskets. I’ve never seen that.”

  “It’s one of my peculiarities. You’ll also observe that I separate the dessert and dinner forks into two different compartments, as well as the soupspoons from the teaspoons.” She moved next to him and pointed.

  He investigated further. “I notice that the front basket holds serving utensils.” He glanced up at her. “Even though they’re all serving pieces, doesn’t it bother you to mix the forks with the spoons?”

  “You’re right. Unfortunately there aren’t enough baskets to separate them,” she explained frankly. As he bent upright, their noses practically touched. “Oh, you’re making fun of me?” She didn’t seem hurt nor particularly surprised.

  “Only a little, and in the nicest way possibl
e.” If he moved an inch, he’d be able to kiss her. Again.

  She handed him a spatula. “Please, wipe the plates down first in the garbage can under the sink before you rinse.” She straightened up.

  He got the cue, and straightened up himself. Still, there was a broad smile on his face. “You know, I would have loved to have filmed this dinner for my show.”

  She boxed up the leftovers and put the containers in the refrigerator. From a top shelf, she removed a bowl of crème fraîche and took off the plastic wrap. “No, you wouldn’t have, not with my father.”

  “You’re right.”

  In companionable silence, they worked side by side. He scraped and loaded the rest of the dishes. She filled a creamer and placed it on a tray along with a sugar bowl and several neat rows of demitasse cups. A small vase held the tiny spoons.

  Amara returned with the basket of bread, with Beatrice close on her heels.

  Penelope took the basket. “Oh, thank you, Amara. If you’d just bring this tray to the table, I’ll be out as soon as I put up the coffee.”

  “My goodness, what have you made for us?” Beatrice stuck her nose close to the dessert and sniffed. She poked one of the pieces of fruit in the golden-colored cake with her index finger.

  “It’s a torta alle prugne, a cake with prunes,” Penelope answered. “The dried prunes are poached in a syrup of red wine. Speaking of which, Mother, do you think you and Father would like some vin santo to go with dessert?” She referred to the sweet dessert wine.

  “Not for me, dear. I’ve probably drunk enough.”

  Not nearly enough, Nick thought.

  “But I’m sure your father would enjoy a glass. Meanwhile, I’ll take the cake out for you,” Beatrice offered. She wobbled a bit as she reached for the cake stand.

  Penelope shot Nick a glance behind her mother’s back.

  Nick put down the dishcloth and rushed to Beatrice’s side. “Why don’t I do that, Beatrice? That way you can tell me all about your plans for this summer,” he said deftly.