Press groaned. “You make it sound so inviting.”
“It’s not…well, sometimes it is. Anyway, you’ll find out.” She reached up and touched his shoulder. “I’m proud of you, you know.”
Press squinted. He could tell she was finding this conversation difficult. He swallowed. “Thanks, thanks for coming.”
She nodded.
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. “So you’re coming to the party?”
Mimi shook her head. “I have to take off right after the ceremony tomorrow.”
“Your interview?”
“Yeah, it looks like it’s going to happen.”
“You’ll be careful. I mean, you’re the only big sister I’ve got—even if you are a royal pain most of the time.”
Mimi laughed. “Don’t worry. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
“Yeah, but I have it on good authority that it’s a cold, cruel world out there.” Somehow, he didn’t feel much like laughing.
* * *
IT TOOK A LOT LONGER than Nick would have wished for his day in the spotlight to be over. There was the handshaking and the photo ops and the autographing. But when they were all done, when Clyde and Larry were packing up and Georgie had removed his earpiece, and when the patter of big and small feet had left the grassy area, Nick slumped his shoulders.
The sun had begun to dip beneath the spire of Grantham Hall, and happy hour had commenced for the vast majority of revelers. But he still had a lot of work to do…a lot of fences to mend. He walked over to the producer. “Anything more you want to add?”
Georgie held up his hand. “Only that, once this episode is in the can, you’re losing me.”
Nick stood there, stunned. “What did I do to deserve this?”
“It’s not always about you, Nick. Vivian’s gonna need me to help with the media side of her campaign.”
Nick bit down hard on his bottom lip. He wanted to feel the pain. He wanted to draw blood. Then he breathed in slowly, knowing what he had to do. “Well, Georgie, you may be going off to become an ace-politico and, from the looks of it, a possible contender to replace Vivian’s soon-to-be-ex, but for now you’re still on company time.”
This time, Nick was the one to hold up his hand. “Tonight, tomorrow, maybe the next day, I need you to get a rough cut put together ASAP of this episode.”
“What, no ‘please’? Don’t you think you’re being a little selfish? This from the man who just stood up and preached the importance of love and selfless dedication?”
“It may sound selfish, but trust me, I have two other people in mind.”
CHAPTER FORTY
The next Friday
NEAT ROWS OF FOLDING CHAIRS lined the triangle of grass in front of the school chapel. Family and friends filled every seat. Nick stood at the back. In his hand, he held an engraved graduation invitation.
Amara had sent it to him. It arrived after he’d sent by FedEx a DVD of the rough cut of the Reunions episode.
He looked like crap. He’d barely slept and just about forgotten about eating. He couldn’t remember when he’d touched a drop of alcohol. Probably that was a good idea.
On the stage in front, three rows of young women sat in long white dresses. Their hair was shiny and healthy, their faces filled with excitement and their ankles neatly crossed. If they weren’t so visibly happy, Nick would think it was the sacrifice of the vestal virgins, though undoubtedly there might be some technical disputes regarding the virgin part.
No matter. His daughter had invited him to her graduation despite his worst efforts. The rest of this upstate New York town might be slowly decaying into the remnants of its nineteenth-century manufacturing glory, but here inside the stone-and-wrought-iron walls and gates, amid an impressive array of Gothic buildings, forty of the fairest maidens were graduating from the Edwina Worth School for Girls.
Life was grand.
Nick spotted his ex seated in the audience. She looked older. Who didn’t? She sat next to a boring-but-solid-looking guy wearing a blue blazer and exhibiting male-pattern baldness. Nick watched him pass Jeannine a snowy-white handkerchief. She took it with a grateful smile. He smiled back in acknowledgment.
Still, if his ex had aged, she’d aged well. She clearly kept herself in shape, had a great haircut and—Nick had to admit it—appeared to be happy. He was glad. Jeannine deserved to be happy. The two of them had made a hash of their marriage, but they’d produced something wonderful—Amara.
And this was Amara’s graduation. Right after he’d opened the invitation in the morning, Nick had hopped on an Amtrak train to Albany and rented a car at the station. Even with GPS, he’d gotten lost twice. But now he was here.
The headmistress, the one who had been so officious on the phone, was actually giving a halfway decent speech. My jokes were better, though, he congratulated himself. He was trying to buck himself up even though things had looked pretty bleak these past few days.
And then they called the roll to hand out diplomas. It went alphabetically, and Nick cursed the fact that Amara’s name came toward the end. Also, where was Larry when he needed him to take a picture of something that really mattered for a change?
“Amara Kristina Rheinhardt,” the headmistress announced. “Degree awarded cum laude.”
That’s my girl, Nick thought. Amara was admitted to the honor society representing the top ten percent of her class. Why wasn’t he surprised? After all, she’d been admitted to Grantham University, which had one of the most competitive acceptance rates in the country. He beamed.
Jeannine turned around, as if sensing his presence. For once, he didn’t feel the instant tension that usually characterized their rare face-to-face encounters. Instead she nodded her head, as if to say We did it.
Nick pointed toward her. “No, you did it,” he mouthed, giving full credit where credit was due. They’d never be a happy ex-couple. They’d spent too many years fighting to bury the hatchet. But at least today they could both act like adults and make it about Amara’s achievement and happiness.
And when the student orchestra played the final notes of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons as the graduates processed down the center aisle, Nick breathed a sigh of relief. But he still held back—held back as he watched Jeannine embrace Amara, then the new husband with a hug showing pride and awkwardness. Nick secretly enjoyed witnessing the awkwardness. He was competitive enough that it mattered.
Only then, when Nick saw Jeannine point him out to their daughter, and he saw Amara’s reaction—a cautious smile—did he risk a step forward. Take whatever you can get, he lectured himself.
Amara navigated around the clumps of parents and graduates and moved toward him.
He met her halfway. “Congratulations, sweet pea. I’m so proud of you.”
Amara hugged her diploma to her stomach. The ribbon circling the empire waist of her dress drifted over the blue leather case. “I see you got my invitation.”
He jammed his hands in the pants pockets of his charcoal-gray suit. For her, he’d even worn a tie. “I figured it meant that you watched the rough cut I sent you.”
Amara nodded. “You were really hard on yourself in it, Dad.”
“As well I should have been. I nearly lost what was most important to me. It just took me longer than most to figure it out.”
“But, you did it in the end,” she reminded.
Her words were precious. Still, she didn’t fling her arms around him in abject joy, Nick noticed. Take what you can get, he repeated to himself.
Nick raised his head in the direction of his ex. She was chatting with some other parents. “Your mom seems to know a lot of people,” he commented, searching for something neutral to say.
“She does work at the school,” Amara po
inted out.
Nick winced. “You’re right.” That was a stupid comment. “Is that your mom’s new husband?” He nodded in their general direction. The guy stood dutifully by Jeannine’s side, occasionally shaking hands and what looked to be accepting congratulations. “He’s seems nice enough.” It was the truth. Think before you speak. Always speak the truth.
Amara glanced over at her stepfather, then back at Nick. “Yeah, Glenn’s a nice guy.”
Glenn was also sunburned from the honeymoon, Nick noticed. His nose was peeling badly. “He looks like someone who’d never forget to call his daughter’s school.”
“Yeah, that’s true. But he can’t make an omelet.”
Nick stared down at his daughter. He pressed his lips together and smiled. “You listened to the part with my speech, then?”
She nodded.
“It’s just the first cut, you know. It will be better when it’s all finished.”
“Relax, Dad. Of course I watched it and listened to every word—a bunch of times over. And don’t worry. Glenn may be a great guy, but you’ll always be my dad.” She looked down at the diploma in her hand. “It meant a lot what you said, you know.” Then she raised her eyes. “Thank you and I love you.”
Nick felt a weight lift off his shoulders.
“I also sent an invitation to Penelope,” Amara said.
Nick immediately searched the crowd for the telltale mass of red curls.
“She’s not here, Dad,” Amara said, quickly answering his question. “She sent her apologies, saying that the university lawyers and all the people involved had an important meeting today.” Amara frowned. “I hope she’s okay. Penelope is too nice to be unhappy.”
Nick nodded a troubled smile. “Penelope is too nice for a lot of things, probably me included.”
“She sent me a present, you know,” Amara added. “A first edition of Runaway Bunny, signed by the author Margaret Wise Brown. It’s this classic children’s book.”
“I’ll have to read it one day.”
“You should.”
Nick hesitated. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Speaking of Penelope doing things—she sent me this envelope asking me to give it to you.”
Amara held out her hand. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t open it. It was addressed to you.” He watched Amara tuck her diploma under her arm and rip open the heavy-paper envelope. A key dropped out.
Nick bent and picked it up. Amara blindly took it as she silently read the contents handwritten on several cream-colored pieces of paper. When she finished, she looked down and stared at the key in her hand.
“I don’t believe it. It’s the key—” then she pointed to the letter “—with directions to Penelope’s house in Calabria. She says that it’s a graduation gift—the use of her house in Capo Vaticano for two weeks—just you and me. She goes on… Hold it, I need to find the place.”
She flipped through the pages and dropped her diploma.
Nick picked it up. That seemed to be his job at the moment. But then he supposed a parent frequently had to pick up after his child—at the right times, at least.
“She goes on to say that we have to visit the Riace bronzes in Reggio di Calabria and the Byzantine church in Stilo.” Amara pronounced the words slowly. “I’m sorry. I know my accent’s terrible.”
“It’s fine.” For the first time in days, Nick’s insides were starting to relax.
Amara’s head moved back and forth as she read on. “‘Then you must dine on the sweet red onions of Tropea and of course have the local ’nduja on crusty bread. When you’ve accomplished all that, then you must celebrate with a dip in the pool at sunset and watch the sea turn blood-orange-red as it dips behind the island of Stromboli.’”
Amara raised her eyes. “She writes just like she speaks, doesn’t she?”
He nodded, unable to form words. Was it premature to start to feel happy again? Maybe he should aim for partially happy?
Amara lowered the letter and studied him through narrow eyes. “You know, you’re not completely redeemed just because Penelope gave us this present.” She glanced down at the key in one hand and the letter in the other. When she looked up, a smile spread across her face. “But on the other hand, I’d be a fool to turn down a vacation like this.”
“It would seem so,” he mustered.
“So, can we go? I realize there’s airfare involved.”
“Forget the airfare.” Then he stopped and did the right thing, the mature thing. “You’ll have to ask permission from your mother first.”
“Oh, right.” Clearly she had forgotten that. “Is it okay if I ask her now?”
“Go, go.” He pushed her encouragingly and watched her scamper over, display the letter and key to her mother and have what seemed to be an endless chat.
Finally—finally—Amara came skipping back, a huge smile on her face. Still, she got waylaid hugging several of her friends.
Nick itched to have his daughter put her arms around him, too. “So?” he ventured when she made her way back.
“She said I can go if I go now—before my lifeguard job starts at the lake and the tutoring and the language class at the community college. The whole commitment thing. You know, I’m not to back out of responsibility.” Amara rolled her eyes.
Nick wanted to laugh. But he attempted to keep a straight face for Jeannine’s benefit. “No, I think your mother’s absolutely right. It’s important to follow through on your promises.”
“But are you free? I mean, to just take off like that?”
Nick could easily have said that he really needed to get this episode in the can, or that he needed to sit down with his story team to finalize the next episode after that and go over the shooting schedule—not to mention start scouting next season’s shows.
But he didn’t. “I’m all yours,” he said simply.
“I don’t believe it.” She jammed the letter against her breast.
All that grief just last week, and now it’s forgotten, Nick thought.
“Am I the luckiest person or what?” she asked, squeezing her eyes shut.
“No, I am,” Nick corrected.
Then Amara opened her eyes and flung herself into her father’s arms. The letter, the key and her diploma embedded their outlines into his chest. It felt so good. Nick didn’t care if he was tattooed for life.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THE CICADAS WERE BUZZING in the tall grass. Pale ocher-colored butterflies flitted around the mounds of rosemary that billowed over the pebbly way. She had parked the car under the arbor of wisteria halfway down the driveway and taken the rest of the journey on foot. Now, as she rounded the crest in the hill, she stopped, breathing in the smell of late spring in southern Italy.
The heat at the end of the day seeped into her bones. She welcomed it, especially after the night flight to Rome, followed by the daylong drive southward. In the near distance, she could hear the splashing of water from the pool and the sound of high-pitched chatter. Amara. Then a few lower-toned mumbles. Nick. Then more splashing, more laughter.
She gazed past the citron trees and the oleanders to the sea beyond. The sun, partway into its descent, rimmed the prominent peak of Stromboli across the stretch of salty water. She had read online that the volcano was manifesting minor activity. But on this side of the water, peace appeared to reign.
She removed her flats and stepped carefully up the stone steps to the pool. Twin blue-glazed pots of happy succulents stood sentry on either side.
And then she saw them. Amara was doing the breaststroke, her head above water. She swam toward the deep end of the pool where her father rested with his elbows propped up against the white mosaic tiles of the gunnels.
She stepped up on the surrounding patio and stopped. That’s when Nick saw her. Amara was talking away. But she stopped midstroke when she noticed her father’s focus turn elsewhere. She twirled around, water splashing.
“Penelope,” Amara shouted. “You came.”
* * *
AMARA IMMEDIATELY SWAM over to the side of the pool closest to Penelope. “We’ve done everything you told us to do in your letter.”
“You did?” she asked.
“We drove on these tiny winding roads over the mountains to the little church, La Cattolica, at the town at Stilo. It took us forever to go over the mountains with all those tiny villages half falling down and with people who looked like they had never seen strangers before.”
“They probably hadn’t,” Nick said quietly, swimming up behind her.
“But we made it,” Amara said triumphantly, bobbing up and down in the water. “And today we went to Reggio—I’m still not sure how we survived the crazy streets and drivers. I mean, at one point we even drove right through a gas station like it was a perfectly normal thing to do.”
“I was just following the car in front of us,” Nick spoke softly again.
Amara continued speaking at a rapid pace. “Anyway, we got there after I asked directions from this one old man—in Italian, no less.”
“He wasn’t that old,” Nick qualified.
Penelope smiled. “I’m so glad you’re able to use your Italian.”
“You bet. So we saw the Riace bronzes. Oh, my God. I couldn’t believe how amazing they were,” she gushed, barely stopping for air. “And now after going to the trattoria up the road and having pasta with sweet onions, we’re having a sunset swim in the pool—just like you said to do in your letter.” As if to prove her point, Amara did a lazy backstroke toward the deep end.
Penelope lifted her chin and stared at Nick. “What? No, ’nduja?”
“I was waiting—hoping, really—for you.” Who was he kidding? He hadn’t thought he’d had a chance in hell of seeing her here or elsewhere.
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