“You think?” Penelope had rummaged through her drawers and found a cream-colored fringed shawl. She’d tied two ends at the back of her neck, and twisted the rest around her body, holding the whole thing together with a piece of braided gold cord that she’d borrowed from the windows in the downstairs study. “You sure I don’t look like a reject from a Hummel factory? You know, one of those quaint gypsy figurines?” She studied her appearance in front of the mirror and jiggled the square knot on the cord, making sure it held fast.
“Believe me, nobody would ever associate you with anything made out of clay.”
“Porcelain, actually, which is made by firing clay to temperatures in excess of two thousand degrees Fahrenheit.” Penelope stopped speaking and focused on Amara’s reflection in the mirror. “You know, this is the first time I’ve ever talked to another female about, you know, girly stuff.” She twirled around.
“You’re kidding me? Sometimes I wish my mom wasn’t so concerned about the way I look or dress,” Amara admitted. “When I was little, I guess it was okay. Like the way she always picked out a new dress for me to wear the first day of school. But even then, it always bugged me the way she kept tucking my hair behind my ears. What is it with mothers and ears anyway?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t think my mother has even noticed that I have ears.”
“If you pierced them with four holes in each she would.” Amara shook her head. Her tiny silver hoops shimmied back and forth.
“However many piercings you have, I’m sure your mother would think you look absolutely lovely now. I know I’m very pleased to be able to be seen in public with you.”
Amara rose and rubbed her hand down the fine material of the tangerine-hued silk sari that Penelope had lent her.
She had bought it for the wedding of a former colleague at the University of Chicago. The bride and the groom were both from Sri Lanka, and the invitation requested traditional clothing.
“You know, with your dark coloring, you are much better suited to that. You should definitely keep it,” Penelope offered.
“Oh, I couldn’t.” Amara left her mouth open.
“Nonsense. It’s not as if I plan to wear it again.” Penelope picked up a small evening bag from her dresser. “Shall we go, then?”
“Gosh, I don’t know what to say,” Amara replied.
“Say you’re coming.”
Amara gazed down at the sari, obviously overwhelmed. “Okay, I guess. Even if it means I’ll have to deal with my dad.” The cell phone she’d left on the bedspread began playing a moody rock song. She retrieved it and looked at the screen.
“It’s my school,” Amara blurted. She bit her lip. “Maybe I should let it go through to voice mail and listen after The Parade?”
“No, take it now. We have plenty of time. I’ll wait downstairs if you’d prefer.”
Amara reached out. “No, stay. I definitely need the moral support.”
“In that case.” Penelope nodded at the phone.
Amara answered the call. “Hello,” she said meekly.
Penelope watched silently as Amara responded in monosyllables to the person on the other end of the line. She felt the urge to rush over and listen in, offer advice, encourage her to show more enthusiasm, more engagement with the caller—but she didn’t. This was Amara’s responsibility to handle. Penelope would have to trust her to know if and when she needed a concerned adult to join in the conversation. Until then…well…until then, Penelope was beginning to understand the limits of her extrastrength deodorant.
After what seemed an eternity, Amara rang off. She raised her head. Penelope couldn’t tell from her expression whether the news was good or bad. Then all of a sudden, Amara let out a whoop of joy. She raised her hands and did a little jig around the room. Then she threw herself in Penelope’s arms and hugged her fiercely.
Penelope awkwardly put her arms around Amara. She felt the teenager’s trembling shoulder blades. And she did what seemed right. She hugged her tightly. “I presume this reaction means it was good news?” she murmured.
Amara pulled back. She sniffed and wiped away the tears of joy. “It’s better than I could have hoped. They’d decided I could graduate next week. While they don’t condone how I took the car, they now seem to understand that there were extenuating circumstances. I mean, I’ll have to do some tutoring this summer at a local learning center, and the director will have to send a letter to the school, confirming I did what I was supposed to. But I don’t mind. I like kids.”
“That’s wonderful. So you can graduate?” Penelope asked.
“Yup. I mean, as further punishment I won’t be able to take part in any of the senior-year festivities going on before the ceremony next Friday, but who cares? I’m doing Grantham University stuff. That’s way cooler than any dancing around a maypole, don’t you think?” She looked heavenward and sighed.
“Way cooler,” Penelope said with a smile. “You see, you have to trust that people will do the right thing. It definitely sounds as if your father called and explained the whole situation to them, just like he promised. Once they got all the details, they were able to come to a just solution—especially because deep down, they realized what a caring person you really are.”
Amara’s eyes were bright. “You must be right. I never really thought he’d call. And here I acted like such a spoiled brat last night. I’ll have to make it up to him somehow.”
Penelope held out her hand for Amara to lead the way down the stairs. “I don’t think you need to do anything special but act yourself, which means, of course, you will thank him sincerely.”
Nick will be so pleased, she thought. Yes, he had overreacted last night, but he had clearly done the correct thing earlier in the afternoon by speaking with the headmistress. Parenthood was a learning process, but his heart was in the right place. And she knew where she’d placed hers.
Amara stopped halfway down the stairs. “I’ll give him the biggest thank-you ever. You’re right, Penelope. You have to learn to trust people—even when they’re not perfect.”
“It’s the flaws that make people interesting,” Penelope responded. “After all, think how dull life would be if we only had perfection.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
NICK NERVOUSLY RUBBED his mouth as he scanned the collective Ivy League masses for his daughter and Penelope. The staging area for The Parade was one of the large campus parking lots. According to the information packet for Reunions, everyone was supposed to group around the flags designating their classes. This directive appeared to be more of a suggestion. Alumni from one class chatted away with members of other classes, their various costumes mixing together.
“Like the look,” Clyde, the soundman, teased him. He rested his boom on his shoulder
“Anything for television, right?” Nick pretended not to care that he was dressed in orange-and-black as a low-rent toreador. He figured he was ripe for goring by any passing bull, irate or otherwise.
“Georgie is having a field day,” Clyde went on. He pulled a cigarette pack out of a vest pocket and scanned the crowd.
“Why wouldn’t he? He has color, a festive atmosphere and a whole lot of wealthy people making fools of themselves on purpose. Talk about filming the ultimate sociological experience,” Nick commented.
He watched Clyde tap the pack. “Icks-nay on the igerette-cay. The antitobacco bloodhounds will pummel you to a bloody pulp. And speaking of bloodhounds…” He nodded to their right.
Vivian Pierpoint had just descended on the throngs of Grantham alums and family members. “If anyone can carry off wearing an orange-and-black wide-stripe blazer cut for your basic blockhouse body, it’s La Vivian,” Nick observed. Supporters immediately surrounded her, and if his eyes didn’t deceive him, his erstwhile producer was leading the cha
rge.
“To be totally accurate, I believe we’re not dealing with bloodhounds here. If I know my canine breeds, she’s holding a bichon frise. One of those white, moplike dogs.”
“Hypoallergenic, I’m sure.” Nick watched Vivian lean toward Georgie and, with her hand covering her mouth and the top of the dog’s head, say something to him and him alone.
Georgie smiled sheepishly—a reaction that Nick had never witnessed before. Then he raised his eyes and, petting the dog, whispered a reply. The dog licked Georgie. And Vivian touched the base of her neck. Interesting, Nick thought.
This little interlude ended almost immediately with Georgie glancing frantically around and motioning to Clyde to hurry over. Larry, the cameraman, who even on this seventy-five-degree day wore a down parka, was already on the move.
Clyde sighed. “I believe that’s my cue.” He pocketed the cigarette pack. “Care to join the circus?”
“That’s okay,” Nick replied. “I’ll keep my distance. I learned long ago that good food and politics don’t mix. Besides, it looks like the lady has enough well-wishers.” It was true. Alums of every age, male and female, were giving Vivian hugs, shaking her hand and offering high fives. “I wouldn’t be surprised if most of them move to Connecticut and vote her into office in the fall.”
“She’s got my vote, but then, I’m a dog lover.” With equipment in hand, Clyde sashayed his way through the crowd, miraculously without injuring anyone.
“Just remember that you guys are supposed to be shooting my episode today,” Nick called out, without bothering to kick up too much fuss. He was more intent on tracking down his own lady—ladies, if you counted his daughter. He craned his neck past a line of tubas. They were warming up before the start of The Parade, making concentration a little difficult. And he would need all the concentration he could muster, he figured, after royally screwing up last night.
Out of the blue, he had become an overly protective father. That still didn’t excuse him for jumping to conclusions before he’d heard Amara’s side of the story. Besides, even if she had spent the night doing the dirty with some horny though undoubtedly overachieving boy, who was he to criticize? He had done his fair share of crazy things by the time he was his daughter’s age. And he supposed that she, too, had to learn by making mistakes.
If only they could happen on somebody else’s watch.
Um-pah-pah. Um-pah-pah. The tubas were working away.
“Nick, buddy. Oh, ruler of the Beer Pong table!” With a slap on the back, Justin greeted him from behind.
Nick held his hand to his ear to indicate the difficulties in carrying on a conversation. “I’m glad to see you’re not a sore loser,” he shouted. He gave Justin the once-over. He was dressed in an orange-and-black stretchy yoga outfit. “That getup could be very iffy if you had any kind of a paunch.” He patted his own small mound. He really would have to get a gym membership, he told himself.
“Don’t I know it!” Lilah appeared next to her husband. Her hand fondled her round belly. A gap of skin showed between the tank top and the loose pants.
“Is it possible that you’ve gotten bigger just since I saw you at Hoagie Palace?” Nick asked.
She turned to Justin. “See, I told you. It makes it even more urgent to find a bigger apartment before I get stuck trying to negotiate our narrow hallway.”
Justin squeezed her shoulder. “I’m already one step ahead of you. I emailed my sister yesterday to see if she’d heard of anyone at the university going on sabbatical in the fall semester who might want to rent their house.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to call your father? He might know more people since he’s on the faculty,” Lilah suggested.
“Please, it’s not like I’d ever call him for anything,” Justin replied.
“I’ve met your father, and no offense, but I’m with you all the way,” Nick agreed.
Justin held up his hands. “No offense taken at all. Anyway, I must have had some ESP thing going because Penelope got back to me earlier this morning, saying there was a possibility that we could rent her place next semester. I’m sure she’ll give us a deal.”
Um-pah-pah. Um-pah-pah. The tubas kept it up.
Was she already thinking of moving in with him? Nick wondered. If any other woman had sent out a signal like that, it would have sent him scurrying to a distant country with no means of reliable communication. But this time, the thought that Penelope could…or would… He found himself smiling. So this is what love is all about? he couldn’t help musing.
“Everyone, please gather at your respective stations,” a voice boomed over the loudspeaker.
Um-pah-pah.
“Oops. Better follow orders,” Justin said and waved goodbye. He grabbed Lilah’s hand, and the two wandered toward their fellow classmates, Justin greeting one and all, Lilah stalwartly at his side.
Um-pah-pah. Um-pah-pah.
“Oh, when the saints. Oh, when the saints…”
The blare of the tubas now competed with a Dixieland jazz band on a float that was billowing suspicious gray smoke. The march at last got underway.
“Where the…” Nick was nervous. Penelope did say that she and Amara would join him, right? He pressed the tip of his tongue against the inside of his top teeth and craned to look around the growing melee.
“Da-ad! Da-ad! Here we are!” Amara pushed through the crowd that was slowly working its way up a campus road toward Main Street.
Amara launched herself at her father. “I’m sorry I acted like such a brat last night. I let you jump to all the wrong conclusions. I should have just been honest with you.” She hugged him tight.
He closed his eyes, savoring her warmth, her energy—her love. Life didn’t get much better than this.
“I’m sorry I blew my stack last night, too,” he apologized. Here, he’d been prepared for a long and drawn-out exchange where he’d have to regain Amara’s confidence in him while still reaffirming the importance of parentally established limits. One of those grown-up talks that no one liked giving or hearing, but apparently were essential for a family to survive.
And now? All that angst that he had built up about it? Poof. Gone. He’d have to learn not to question the good times and just accept that life was indeed wonderful sometimes.
“It’s okay, Dad. I get it now. You have a lot on your plate, me included,” Amara continued. “And before you say anything, I know I shouldn’t have taken off last night without telling you where I was going. And, yes, I’ve already apologized to Penelope for taking her bike.”
“Which was completely unnecessary because you’d had my permission,” Penelope said from off to the side.
Nick slanted her a grateful look.
She returned it with a dazzling smile.
Yup, life couldn’t get any better than this.
After she gave her father one more tight squeeze, Amara stepped back. “So, aren’t you going to say anything about how we look?” Amara held her hands out to her sides and stepped next to Penelope.
They looked like exotic birds—Amara in a dazzling mandarin-orange sari that somehow went with her fuchsia highlights. And Penelope. Ah, Penelope. He wondered what would happen if he pulled on one end of the gold braid at her waist. Would all that fringe slither down her body, leaving her standing delectably naked?
“Well, what do you think?” Amara prompted him, doing a quick twirl.
He picked his jaw up off the ground. “I think you look fantastic, both of you. I was just worried when I didn’t see you earlier.”
“I know. I was a bit concerned about how long it took us to walk here—there was no point in driving since there’s no place to park,” Penelope admitted. “But Amara convinced me that it was okay to arrive fashionably late. It’s a first for me, you realize, an
d I have your daughter to thank.” She gave a nod of her head to Amara and a knowing smile to Nick.
“It seems like we all have a lot to be thankful for.” He stepped between them and reached for their hands. He leaned toward Penelope and whispered, “Thanks, I couldn’t have done it without you.” He kissed her lightly on the lips until he remembered that his daughter was there, too. “Oops.” He pulled back.
“That’s okay, Dad. Penelope and I talked about that, too, and I’m all right with it,” Amara assured him. She took his hand in hers and swung their arms. “Shall we?” she offered as his class gradually swelled forward to join the others.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
EACH CLASS MARCHED IN ORDER, with the oldest first and the year’s graduating class bringing up the rear. The alums and families, including numerous pets, celebrated the gigantic display of kinship with their alma mater and each other. It was an orgy of colors with the costumes, banners and balloons waving in the breeze. The motley assortment of loud bands and dubious floats added to the festivities as the marchers made their way through the campus. All along Main Street, townspeople lined the sidewalks. Some were even waiting in beach chairs. The sale of Grantham University pennants and fake lion tails was big business. That and a bilious orange-colored cotton candy.
The whole thing was corny as hell. But the thing of it was, Nick actually found himself enjoying it immensely. Celebrations were good, he recognized, whether it was for the birth of a child or a wedding or winning the Super Bowl. There was something fundamental about people needing to get together in a common bond of goodwill and good memories. These were the moments that helped lessen life’s problems that invariably touched everyone in some fashion.
The pace of the march was slow enough that he could easily look around and think these grand philosophical thoughts without worrying. In fact, he didn’t worry at all—a rarity when he was filming. One, because he caught sight of Georgie on the rampage, orchestrating Clyde and Larry to catch as much good stuff as possible. And two—a big number two—why worry when he had his girls on either side?
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