“What a gentleman. Let’s see, of course we’ll be in Oxford again,” she began, tripping from the kitchen into the living room as she toddled back to the table outside.
Nick, holding the cake and a stack of dessert plates, looked over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” Penelope mouthed. She made drinking motions.
He nodded vigorously.
She smiled, then a few minutes later she joined them with another tray with a tall Italian coffeemaker, a bottle of dessert wine and three small wineglasses. “Coffee? Vin santo?” she offered as she poured. “I know you’ll have both, Father.” And then in almost the same breath, she added, “And as to your earlier comment about the opening at Berkeley, I’m not comfortable teaching in front of a class.” She handed him a cup first. “I believe the sugar and milk are on your right.”
She picked up another cup. “In fact, when I was originally asked to give a short talk during Reunions in conjunction with the exhibition, my first reaction was to refuse. But then I had an inspiration and invited my student assistant to give it instead.”
Amara perked up. “Press is talking?”
“Yes, Saturday afternoon,” Penelope answered. “You might be interested to know, Father, that the Grantham Galen has pride of place in the exhibit.”
“That’s good to hear.” Stanfield downed his coffee then tackled the dessert wine. “I still remember purchasing it at that strange antiquarian book shop in Italy, the same place I got the map that hangs in our dining room. I specifically recall negotiating the price of the map down to ten thousand lire from twenty, roughly ten dollars in those days. I said I was just a poor student and wanted to give it to my professor.” He chuckled at his ruse.
“I know you always recount that story, Stanfield, but it suddenly occurs to me that you may have bought it in Berlin, or rather West Berlin as it was known back then.” Beatrice touched her lips with her finger and frowned. “Do you remember how we took a side trip from Rome so you could work in the library? There was a little curio shop in the Dahlem district, of all places—where the American troops were housed.”
Stanfield shook his head. “No, I’m quite sure I got it in Napoli.” He used the Italian name for Naples.
Lousy accent, Nick thought.
Beatrice made an undulating dismissive hand motion. “You are probably right, dear. I’m afraid the alcohol has gone to my head. Though, I do remember the Dahlem neighborhood. How could I not? Quite leafy, with some lovely homes that the Nazis had confiscated from the Jews during the war. So sad.” She blinked with concern.
“Yes, well, history, as I know only too well from my studies, is full of distressing moments,” her husband said. “Still, it’s nice to hear that you appreciate my gift to the university. Nevertheless, Penelope, I will not be sidetracked. I wish you’d reconsider, about Berkeley, that is.”
For the first time, Nick saw Penelope sigh. But then she straightened her shoulders. “At the risk of repeating myself, I’m not gifted in the way you are, and I believe it is ill-advised for me to pursue that position,” she replied.
“You’re just gun-shy because you didn’t get tenure at University of Chicago,” Stanfield argued. “Not that they didn’t have a reasonable case, seeing as you had yet to publish your thesis.” He slapped the table with his palm.
Penelope, who was sitting at the head of the table with her father on her left, didn’t blink. “It might interest you to know that I have just signed a contract with Grantham University Press. And you should be doubly interested because it’s for an annotated monograph on the Grantham Galen.”
“My, my.” Her father seemed taken aback.
“And now I think it’s time for a celebration,” she announced, opening a small box of party candles that were on the tray. She placed them in the cake in a perfect circle, then took the box of matches and lit each one in order.
“Goodness, how sweet,” Stanfield concurred, looking quite jovial. “It’s a wonderful idea to celebrate the fact that my donation will finally get the recognition it deserves.” He leaned forward and blew out the candles.
There was silence.
Finally Beatrice, blinking rapidly, cleared her throat and turned to her husband. “Actually, Stanfield, if I remember the date correctly, I think the candles might have been in honor of Penelope’s birthday.”
“You never mentioned it was your birthday,” Nick uttered.
“It’s no big deal,” she said. “In fact, Father’s right. It really is a celebration of multiple events—the future publication of the manuscript you donated, Father, as well as Amara’s matriculation to Grantham. Besides, I don’t usually make a fuss over my birthday, but it was sweet of you to remember, Mother.”
Beatrice touched her cheek. “How could I forget? The timing, you see. I remember how worried I was that you’d be born before your father’s classes and exams were over. But as it turned out, you arrived right after he’d finished grading the last exam booklet. You were always such a cooperative child.”
Nick didn’t know whether to hug Beatrice or weep in his vin santo. Somehow Penelope’s birthday—her birth for that matter—had ended up being all about her father. And yet she handled it so calmly. If it had happened to him, Nick could have easily imagined a torrent of obscenities, coupled with some rash, if ill-timed, blows.
“Maybe you could light the candles again and we could all sing ‘Happy Birthday’?” Amara suggested.
“That’s all right.” Penelope laid a hand on the tablecloth next to Amara’s. “I think I’d prefer to celebrate by cutting the cake. And as the youngest person here, you deserve the first piece. Shall I cut a big one?” She picked up the cake knife. “You tell me where to cut.”
Amara leaned over and the two practically bumped heads as Amara murmured instructions.
As he watched the two women in his life, Nick sensed a very contented feeling settle over him. It was something he wasn’t accustomed to.
All of a sudden, Beatrice stood up and announced, “I’ll be back,” and she floated into the living room, returning a moment later with a canvas satchel. The words Recording for the Blind and Dyslexic were stamped in large letters on the front of the bag.
“Here you are, Penelope. A copy of my book on the wildflowers of Crete. For your birthday.”
Penelope finished cutting the next piece of cake for her father, then calmly placed the cake knife on the plate. She took the slim hardcover between her hands and glanced through the book. “Why, it’s lovely, Mother. I’ve always admired your watercolors so much. Now please, have a seat and I’ll cut you a piece of cake. The cream to go with it is somewhere on the table, I believe.” She glanced around. “Yes, I see Father is one step ahead as usual and has already located it.”
Stanfield spooned a large dollop on his serving. “This doesn’t look like whipped cream.” He sniffed at the bowl.
“How very observant.” Penelope went back to placidly cutting the rest of the cake. “It’s crème fraîche, a unique variation on the traditional recipe that I decided to try out for tonight.”
Stanfield grunted, but that didn’t stop him digging into his cream-laden portion with gusto. Then he lifted his head, unaware that there was a dab of white on the corner of his mouth. “Penelope, I still think—”
Nick couldn’t take it anymore. Penelope might have been a saint when it came to her parents, but no one had ever accused him of showing any heavenly tendencies. He pushed back his chair. “Excuse me for interrupting, Professor, but I think this wonderful meal and special occasion calls for a toast. Here, let me fill your glass again so you can join in properly.” He generously filled Stanfield’s glass to the brim before raising his own. “To Penelope and all her unique variations. She makes giving a splendid dinner party seem as effortless and as welcoming as she makes old manuscripts
seem relevant and exciting to even an ignoramus like myself.”
“Hear! Hear!” Amara bounced to her feet, as well. Only, she raised a water glass.
Penelope shyly nodded in acknowledgment to everyone around the table and raised her own glass in return. “Thank you all for coming. I know I’m not particularly good at registering people’s emotions, but I do believe that the evening has been a success.” She looked at her father. And before he could say anything, she added, “You need more dessert, Father. Another piece?”
Stanfield’s eyes brightened and his thick eyebrows waggled. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Catering to her father’s sweet tooth. Maybe that was her way of winning an argument, Nick realized.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“THEY DON’T APPRECIATE her enough. Not even remembering it was her birthday,” Amara said from the front passenger seat. Her father needed to work out the arrangements for tomorrow before he drove off. But first she just had to comment on the dinner conversation. “It was so thoughtless,” she added vehemently.
He drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel and glanced over. “You’re pretty smart for a kid, you know that? You must take after your mother.”
Amara rolled her eyes. “Why do you say things like that? I hate it. You’re the Grantham alum. I’m pretty sure the smarts come from your side of the family.”
“I’m the Grantham dropout, and don’t underestimate your mother. She successfully raised you as a single parent, went back and got her degree, a job and, by all accounts, a swell second husband. Anyway, I think that most women are smarter than men—at least they’re not as clueless.”
“Yeah, Penelope’s definitely smarter, even when it comes to people,” Amara agreed. “You know that book her mother gave her? Her drawings of flowers?”
“Yeah.” Nick put the keys in the ignition and turned on the engine. It was pitch-black outside except for a street lamp at the end of the block. With the car in Park, he turned on the overhead light. “Kind of an unusual birthday gift,” he added.
Her father’s face was cast in shadows. He was kind of handsome as dads went, Amara confessed to herself. Still, what she wanted to say wasn’t about him. “Well, when I was looking at her books in the study, I saw that Penelope already had two copies. You think her mother forgot that she’d already given them to her?”
Nick seemed to consider the question. “I think you could be right. Her mom probably has boxes of copies from the publisher. Beatrice just seems a little flaky, but I’m sure she meant well, though.”
Amara nodded thoughtfully. “Penelope was so good about it—the way she didn’t say anything. I mean, if it had happened to me, I’d have probably mouthed off about that being the only present my mom ever seemed to give me. I’d probably even go get the other two copies.”
Nick chuckled. “Yeah, I can’t see you standing silently by.”
“Penelope’s a good daughter, isn’t she, Dad?”
“You’re right about that, sweet pea.”
He hasn’t called me that since I was little, Amara thought.
He reached up and rubbed her cheek with the back of his knuckle. “But you’re a good daughter, too. You know that, don’t you?”
“Even when I screw up like getting thrown out of school?” she reminded him.
“Even then.” He hesitated as if searching to say something more. But all he said was, “You better hop out now. I don’t want you to keep Penelope up too late in there. She’s had a long evening and still has work tomorrow.”
“About tomorrow. I had promised Noreen Lodge, back when I was staying at the pool house, that I would babysit her daughter, Brigid, in the afternoon. She only has a half day of school this time of year, and Noreen has work. But if you need me to be with you…”
He shook his head. “No, why don’t you do that. It’ll be a good change from hanging around with me, bored out of your skull. Just give me a call, and I’ll come and drop you off at the Lodges’, say, eleven. That’s before this lunch thing I’m shooting.”
“Okay, sounds good.” Amara squeezed her lips together. Did he expect her to kiss him good-night? she wondered. But then he flicked the light off, and she figured it was her cue to leave. No kiss. She was surprised it bothered her a little.
She pushed down on the handle and opened the car door. Then she jumped down and turned to close it shut. She hesitated. “I’m glad you’re letting me stay with Penelope, by the way. I’ll appreciate her. You will, too, right? I mean, you’ll figure out something to give her for her birthday? It’s only fair.”
“I’m gonna try, sweet pea. I’m gonna try.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“SO, DID YOU CATCH the six o’clock news, then? The segment I filmed with Mimi Lodge and Vivian Pierpoint?” Georgie buttonholed Nick as he opened the door to his hotel room. Georgie’s own room was right next-door, and he stood there in bare feet, pajama bottoms and a Knicks T-shirt that stretched across his round stomach. Without waiting for an invitation, he padded into Nick’s room.
Nick threw his key card on the console table and turned down the thermostat to kick the air-conditioning up a notch. He was still thinking about how awful Penelope’s father was to her. Stanfield seemed to think that Penelope had done nothing her whole life but please him, including when she was born.
And what did she get in return?
A third copy of her mother’s book on wildflowers and criticism from her father that she wasn’t his clone. All Stanfield wanted was a professional Mini Me as justification for his own existence.
What an ungrateful bastard. He should be dancing for joy that he had such a talented and loyal daughter. If Nick had had a daughter like that…
Nick paused that thought in midsentence. Hang on. He did have a daughter like that. Amara was smart and sensitive. And even when she screwed up it was with good intentions in mind. She just fouled up on the details. But then, she was a kid.
And as Penelope had pointed out, he was the adult. And he was the one who regularly screwed up—and it wasn’t just in the details. He didn’t remember Amara’s birthdays, he never went to see her in school plays. He didn’t know who her friends were. Had never read her bedtime stories. Hadn’t taught her to swim or ski, let alone how to drive.
So the question was, what had he ever done to deserve her?
Nick tapped on the thermostat dial. “What’s that?” he asked Georgie, only half-aware that his friend had said something.
“Jeez, Nick. I ask you about something that’s important to me, and you can’t even pretend to pay attention? I thought spending time here with old friends and Amara and even that wacky librarian lady—”
“Penelope’s not a wacky librarian lady. And you can think what you want, but for a change, I wasn’t being self-absorbed—more like self-eviscerating.” Nick turned. “So tell me, what’s so important?”
“This segment I shot for the evening news with Mimi and Vivian Pierpoint? You know, the woman who’s running for governor of Connecticut?”
“Oh, yeah, the hoagie lover. She’s a big mover and shaker at the University, too. Mucho successful, obviously. Those diamond earrings she wears—she practically needs scaffolding to hold them up they’re so big.”
Nick saw the scowl form on Georgie’s face and realized he had overstepped in his comments. Apparently Georgie thought highly of La Pierpoint. Somehow he didn’t think that it was a shared vision of cutting healthcare costs that was driving this closeness.
“Sorry,” he apologized, plopping on the end of the bed. The chambermaid had already pulled it down for the night. A complimentary chocolate waited for him on a pillow.
“It’s been a long evening,” Nick confided. And since his daughter got to be Penelope’s sleepover buddy and not him, it was a long evening no
t culminating in any benefits. “What about Ms. Pierpoint? You mentioned something big? I hope she’s all right?” Nick’s inquiry sounded lame even to his ears. But just making the effort seemed to mollify his producer.
Georgie sat in the desk chair and rolled it closer to the bed. “You know she’s married, right?”
Nick dredged through his memory. In general, he took no notice of political machinations. If he was being honest—which he seemed to be at the moment, finally—it was because he had always been too selfish to think about the common man and what he could do to make any difference. He was ashamed to say that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d voted.
But now, with Georgie sitting there in obvious distress, he closed his eyes and willed himself to recall what he could. “Isn’t her husband some bigwig French businessman who’s also an animal-rights activist? Saving porpoises or something?”
Georgie gripped the arm of the chair. “He’s Belgian. And it’s bears. Saving bears in Russia. Problem is, his efforts closer to home aren’t so tremendous. It seems the bum was shtupping the live-in dog walker—who is not of legal age, to boot.”
“What? The louse was doing it with a minor? That must be illegal in any number of states—even Connecticut.”
“Especially Connecticut, but apparently not in France where the two were headed when Vivian notified the girl’s parents, who in turn notified the authorities. Can you say, ‘Stop this flight from taking off in the name of the law’?”
Nick shook his head. “No, but apparently, federal officers can. So Ms. Pierpoint must be devastated?”
“I’d say she’s moved beyond the stunned stage. I’d say that white-hot anger is more apt.”
“So she’s not planning on standing at her husband’s side during his arraignment?”
“Are you kidding? No, that’s why I was called in to film the interview with her and Mimi Lodge. It was preemptive.”
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