A Rare Find

by Kelleher, Tracy

  “You make me sound like a loyal bloodhound,” Penelope said archly.

  “And what does that make me? The criminal on the run?” Amara asked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  AFTER HE GAVE PENELOPE a quick peck on the cheek, Nick drove off. Penelope reasoned he had regained sufficient control of his emotions that he was not a menace to himself or anyone else on the road. To Amara she said, “Come inside. It’s late, and you must be chilly in nothing but that T-shirt.” Penelope put a hand around the girl’s shoulder and guided her up the stone walkway to the front door. A cascade of climbing roses framed the top.

  “Despite what you appear to want your father to believe, you didn’t have sex with Matt, did you?” Penelope asked, opening the door. She waited for Amara to go through first, then closed it behind them. She switched on a small table lamp. It cast a glow over the wood floors. The colors of the books on the shelves came alive.

  Amara stopped.

  Penelope stowed her bag under the table and waited patiently.

  Amara looked away. Then she returned Penelope’s stare. “No. He invited me to have dinner with his parents and baby brother at his great-grandmother’s. She lives in town, near the Engineering School. It was great. They were great. A real family. Then afterward we just sat out in her little backyard, and he told me things hadn’t always been terrific. But that he and his dad had gradually figured things out—at least most of the time. And that his stepmom and her grandmother sometimes gave him grief, but only when he deserved it. And he told me how he’s gonna be a senior at Yale, but in the summers he goes to Congo with this nonprofit organization started by a Grantham alum.”

  “Yes, Sisters for Sisters. The founder, Lilah Bigelow, is married to my brother,” Penelope responded.

  “Wow. It’s a small world. Anyway, we just talked about stuff—you know. And I kind of told him about my life and my problems, which all seemed sort of trivial compared to what’s going on in Congo, but how I still couldn’t help being worried and stuff.” Amara stopped, finally coming up for air. “Is this making any sense?”

  “I think it makes a lot of sense. You’re at a stressful point in your life, with significant changes on the horizon, including going off to college. You can’t help but feel overwhelmed. Having a shoulder to lean on, someone sympathetic to talk to at such a time would seem a real comfort. And you’re certainly not blind. Any woman could see that Press is attractive. I don’t know Matt, but he sounds as if he has his own appeal. But you have a good head on your shoulders. You are obviously bright and clearly much more sensible than I was at your age.”

  “But you heard about my screwup, right?”

  “Yes, well, we all screw up at some point in our lives. I’ve learned the hard way that it is better to screw up early on. That way you learn that life still goes on despite all. That the most important thing is to assess the problem, take responsibility and then execute the logical next steps.”

  Amara sighed. “Penelope, you are so wise.”

  Penelope laughed. “Hardly. But at least I’m trying to overcome my weaknesses. Now, what do you say to a grilled cheese sandwich?” She slipped off her ballet shoes, placed them neatly next to her purse and headed barefoot to the kitchen.

  Amara padded after Penelope. “I had a big dinner with Matt’s family. I don’t know.”

  “Come, now. The world always looks brighter after a grilled cheese sandwich, especially with fresh tomato.” Penelope opened the refrigerator.

  “I guess you’re right.” Amara leaned against the doorjamb. “Do you think my father will ever believe me if I tell him what really happened tonight? It’s not like the two of us have this outstanding track record, you know. And you heard him when he left. He was spitting bullets. Although, after the stunt I pulled back at school, I’m not really surprised.”

  Penelope looked over her shoulder as she squatted down to get the panini maker from a lower shelf. “He’ll get over his anger in the morning. He’s just tired and under a lot of stress himself. Besides, even though he’s been absent for so much of your life, I get the feeling that he’s trying to rectify that situation.”

  “I guess he did say he was going to call my headmistress to fix things up at school. It never occurred to me to ask him how that went.”

  “You’ll be able to ask him tomorrow, but I’m sure everything will be fine. As for your father, sometimes you just have to cut a person a little slack in the early phase of the learning curve. Besides, you more or less baited him, the way you mentioned Matt, now, didn’t you?” She plugged in the griddle.

  “I suppose so. But I was mad. I didn’t think.”

  “Hmm. Somehow that behavior sounds familiar.”

  “Are you telling me I’m my father’s daughter?”

  “We’re all someone’s daughter, but most of all we’re ourselves, don’t you think?” Penelope buttered the slices of bread. Then she stopped and turned around. She leaned against the edge of the tile countertop, the knife still in her hand. “Tell me, Amara, do you have an idea of why your father and I were together tonight?”

  “Duh. I can see the way he looks at you.”

  “You can?”

  Amara shrugged. “Listen, as far as I can tell, you’re both consenting adults who aren’t in another relationship. So what’s the big deal?” Amara gathered up her hair and let it fall down her back.

  Penelope squeezed the knife. “But does that bother you? I mean, it’s your father we’re talking about after all.”

  “No. I mean, it’s not like I’m used to seeing my father with my mother—so you’re not busting up anything on that front. Besides, from the way my mother talks every once in a while…you know…because my dad’s a celebrity and all, I didn’t picture him living like some monk.” She paused. “But, I gotta admit, I am a little surprised about one thing.”

  “You mean that your father would go out with me?” Penelope turned back and picked up the tomato. She sliced it and placed the thin rounds atop the pieces of American cheese.

  “No, that’s not it at all,” Amara said emphatically. “The surprise is that he had good enough taste to go out with you. I know it’s not very flattering to be critical of your own father, but I guess I tend to think of him as being kind of superficial. You, on the other hand? Like Press says, you’re totally cool.”

  Penelope opened the panini maker and placed the sandwiches on the griddle. It hissed on contact with the buttered bread. “I’ve never been cool in my life.”

  “You definitely are. Trust me.”

  Penelope wanted to—to trust her, that is—to get over all her old insecurities. She listened to the sizzle of the cheese melting outside the bread crusts. After a few moments, she lifted the lid and checked. The bread was toasted with chestnut-brown tracks. The cheese dripped in molten globs from the edges. “Perfect,” she announced to herself as much as to Amara.

  She reached up and got down two plates. She placed the sandwiches in the center of each plate, and cut them diagonally into perfect right triangles. “Here you go.” She passed a plate to Amara. “Why don’t we go sit outside and munch on these and watch the fireflies? You can get two napkins behind you—and maybe get a sweater if you’re chilly.”

  Amara nodded. “That’s okay. I’m fine.”

  Penelope watched the girl bend over to get the napkins, her long straight hair sliding over her shoulder to fan her cheek. She looked so young, so sweet. “Amara, you are the one who’s cool—you and Press, actually, for looking past my idiosyncrasies, shall we say.”

  Amara held out a napkin. “We clearly just have good judgment—unlike other people. Actually, speaking of other people, meaning my dad—can I just say that I’m surprised that you would even consider going out with him? I mean, he’s famous and maybe even good-looking. And he’s
done all this stuff. But, come off it. He doesn’t listen, and he makes up his mind before he gives you a chance to explain? I mean, really. How can you trust someone like that?

  Good question. Good question, thought Penelope.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  MIMI SPED DOWN THE grand staircase of her family’s home early Saturday morning. The sun streamed through the two-story Palladian window, casting oblong expanses of sunlight on the needlepoint bench on the landing and the Persian carpet runner on the stairs. In the old days when her mother was still alive, she used to slide down the polished mahogany banister, past the portraits of generations of Lodges, screaming with joy at the thrill.

  Today she barely glanced at the paintings. And the only screams came from her little half sister, Brigid, who was throwing a temper tantrum before going to The Parade.

  Mimi shook her head. She felt bad about Brigid, but she had to go. Needed to go. She glanced down at her trusty tank watch—it had seen her through wars, torrid jungles and frigid arctic temperatures. It had never failed her yet. She still had a couple minutes before the limousine would arrive—time to get a quick cup of coffee.

  She stopped next to one of the Hepplewhite chairs in the foyer. There was a certain irony to having grown up in a house that was furnished with museum-quality antiques, only to spend most of her adult years in what could only be called hellholes. And it wasn’t by accident, she admitted to herself.

  She bent down to place her small duffel bag on the floor. That’s when she saw Press pacing back and forth in the dining room. She had been hoping to avoid this encounter, but that no longer seemed possible.

  Mimi straightened up and walked over to join him, stopping at the wide entrance to the dining room. Press was texting madly on his cell phone, his face contorted in a frown. He wore khaki shorts, well-worn boat shoes, and over his white button-down shirt, his class’s jacket—a loose-fitting sports coat with rows of lions marching on their back legs and holding pennants saying Grantham. It was an eye-popping fluorescent orange.

  Mimi caught herself from sighing. To think, her little brother was graduating from college. She remembered when he was born. She had been eleven years old, still a baby herself really. His appearance on the scene, and the attention he soaked up from his mother, Adele—Mimi’s former nanny—had been an immense source of jealousy. It had taken years for her to forgive him for things he had no control over, like being born and having a mother who was a social-climbing cow.

  “Hey, Press,” Mimi called out. “Can I interrupt for a sec?”

  “Let me just finish. I was…ah…catching up with Matt.” He texted some more before pocketing the phone in his shorts. Then he glanced at Mimi’s attire. “I guess you’ve come to tell me you’re not marching in The Parade?”

  She glanced down at her usual uniform of jeans, a multipocket tan jacket, black T-shirt and a scarf draped loosely around her neck. “You’re right. Anyway, the gaucho costume that my class chose never did anything for my figure.”

  “I never figured you to be a member of the fashion police,” he scoffed. He eyed her contemptuously. “I suppose this means you won’t be coming to my graduation on Tuesday?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ll be back. I promise. It’s just this story’s come up…”

  “Yeah, I know. The Vivian Pierpoint thing. I saw it on the web. ‘Dog Walkergate,’ they were calling it.”

  Mimi rolled her eyes. “Must everything be reduced to a sound bite? And do they have to imply it was the girl’s fault? The husband’s a major sleazeball, in my opinion.”

  “It’s always the guy’s fault in your opinion.”

  She pursed her lips. “Actually this is something new. Something really big.”

  “Bigger than your brother graduating from college?” He dismissed her gesture when she went to object. “Don’t worry. I understand. It’s not like this family is known for being there for one another. You get used to it, you know?”

  Upstairs, Brigid’s wails could be heard even louder. They both looked up.

  “What gives?” Press asked.

  “Oh, Brigid’s throwing this fit because I won’t be there to hold her hand during The Parade. I let her have my sunglasses—Oakley’s, no less—thinking that would mollify her. She’s been bugging me about them ever since I got home. Anyway, she threw them on the ground and would have stomped on them if Noreen hadn’t picked her up and told her to have a time-out.”

  “She might as well learn early on that she shouldn’t always count on members of this family. Though, I gotta admit, Noreen seems a lot more savvy about dealing with her than my mom ever was with me.”

  Absent from his statement was any mention of their mutual father, Mimi noted. Noreen, Brigid’s mother and their father’s third wife, for some reason loved the bastard. And miracle of miracles, he appeared head over heels in love with his younger bride. In fact, in deference to Noreen’s demands, he had slowly become more of a factor in Brigid’s life—certainly more than he’d ever demonstrated with his two older children.

  The sound of his firm voice carried downstairs. “Five minutes, young lady,” he declared. The sound of a closing door followed. Brigid’s cries grew more muffled.

  Mimi whistled softly. “Gee. In the old days, he would have spanked me, come down to his study to have a scotch then headed out without waiting. Times have changed.”

  Press looked at her. “For some of us maybe.”

  “I thought he actually came to your aid after your court appearance last year, admitting it was all his fault.” An overly ambitious local policeman had charged Press with disorderly conduct for kicking a garbage can. He’d been pissed that after working his butt off all day and night at last year’s Reunions, he’d been forced to drive his drunken father home.

  “True—thanks to you, I discovered from Noreen,” Press replied.

  “And he did his community service, right?”

  “Kind of. You should have seen the way he carried on ladling out food at a soup kitchen for a few nights—like it was more than a high-flying finance king should have to endure.”

  Mimi pressed her lips together. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Which is why we’re both screwed up, I guess.” She paused, debating how much to say. In the end, she figured Press deserved some explanation for why she was skipping out. “Listen, this is all pretty hush-hush…”

  “Like I would say anything to anyone?” Press asked.

  “No, of course you wouldn’t. I know I can trust you.” Mimi believed that Press was one of the few people she could trust. “I’m going to New York to set up a contact—for a big story in Chechnya.”

  “Chechnya?” Press repeated the name of the remote region of Russia. It was the scene of ongoing fighting between the Russian military and local revolutionary groups who wanted independence. “Isn’t that where your mother was from?” he asked.

  Mimi nodded swiftly.

  Neither mentioned the fact that Mimi’s mother had committed suicide shortly after their father divorced her to marry Press’s mother.

  After an awkward moment of silence, Mimi stepped toward him. She raised her arm as if to touch his shoulder, but stopped short. The Lodges were not big on displays of affection. “You’re a good kid, you know,” she said, dropping her hand.

  Press shrugged. “I don’t know about that.” Upstairs, the sound of a door being opened and the murmur of voices could be heard. He turned his head to listen. “I guess peace has once more been restored to the household and we’ll be able to get to The Parade after all—only twenty minutes late.”

  “It never starts on time anyway. You know that.” Mimi glanced down at her watch to check the time. “Besides, you’re still early. I don’t even have ten o’clock.”

  Press pulled out his phone. “I don’t think so.�
�� He showed her the time on the display.

  That’s when Mimi knew that her trusty watch—the one that had never let her down through thick or thin? The one that had belonged to her late mother?

  It had stopped.

  Mimi didn’t believe in omens. She believed in dead batteries. The obvious, short-term solution was to get an intern in the news department to run out and get a new one.

  The long-term solution? Mimi studied the older watch. She wasn’t ready to give up on it quite yet. Not when she was about to get closure on the part of her life that seemed to haunt her on a daily basis.

  She glanced out the long windows of the dining room. The limo was waiting in the circular driveway. See, I might be a psychological basket case, and my watch might be kaput, but some things still functioned without a hitch.

  Mimi shook her head. Nah. She didn’t believe in omens.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “I STILL DON’T KNOW WHY I have to go to The Parade anyway, especially after what Dad said last night,” Amara complained. She sat on the bed in Penelope’s bedroom. Dormer windows placed between the slanted rafters bathed the attic room in morning sunlight.

  Penelope finished tying an orange scarf in her hair and turned from the mirror to face Amara. “Not to go would be childish. I expect greater maturity from you. And along with maturity comes forgiveness.”

  “You sound like a fortune cookie. Some trite suggestion for how to live a better life.”

  “Really? I’ve never been called a fortune cookie before.” Penelope didn’t take offense. She smoothed the side of her hair that billowed out behind the rolled scarf. “So do I look all right?”

  Amara cocked her head. “Just move the bow a little to one side… .” She indicated with her finger. “Yeah, that’s good. Anyway, not that it makes a big difference. You look terrific. You should wear bright colors more often.”