Mimi did as she was told, then ducked her head into the backpack and pulled out an oversize envelope. “Here.”
Lilah took it. “What’s this?”
“Open it and you’ll find out.”
Lilah undid the fastener at the back and slipped out some paper. She glanced at the cover letter, then flipped to the attached document. “What the…”
“It’s four shares in the Trenton Lightning—that’s the Triple-A baseball team in Trenton.”
Lilah looked up. There were tears in her eyes.
“I figured that since Sam is named after your father, he would have liked it.”
“I’m going to cry.” Lilah sniffed loudly. “Quick, give me one of those paper napkins.” She blew her nose. “You know, there are times you outdo yourself, Mimi Lodge.”
“C’mon. It’s no big deal.”
“Yes, it is. It’s wonderful and it’s remarkably sensitive. But don’t worry—I won’t divulge your sentimental side.”
“Good. Because I’d never hear the end of it.” Mimi took the cups off the tray and passed Sam one of the little spoons. He immediately put it in his mouth. “Now, me and Vic,” Mimi went on. “It’s like this.” She explained about running into him twice, how he was funny and charming and devoted to his dog. And how he’d managed to get her to ride in a car even though she was scared silly after the kidnapping.
Lilah sipped her drink. “So you’re telling me…”
“That he’s mellowed. No, more like aged well.”
Lilah nodded. “Why is it that men only seem to grow up and get interesting when they’re older?”
“Hold on a minute. You can’t tell me that back in college—even though you were engaged to someone else—you didn’t find Justin attractive?”
“Sure I did. Any woman with a pulse practically went gaga. But that’s different.”
Mimi frowned. “How’s that?”
“That was a crush. What we have now is potentially the beginning of love.”
“So you’re saying that what’s between Vic and me is love? I don’t buy that.” Mimi shook her head.
“What I’m saying is that it’s worth considering.” She let the statement hang in the air until she asked, “So, have you made any plans to meet him again? I mean, you are seeing him again, right? Even you can’t be idiotic enough to let whatever it is just pass.”
“No, I’m not completely hopeless.” At least Mimi prayed that was the case. “I wanted to thank him…and kind of apologize for what happened all those years ago. So—” she leaned forward “—this is where I really need help. You see, I offered him dinner.”
Lilah whipped her cell phone out of the front pocket of her overalls. “For this we need the big guns. My sister-in-law.”
“Penelope? I thought she was a curator of Rare Books?”
“She is. But she’s also a goddess of the Italian kitchen.”
Mimi felt her own phone vibrate in her jeans’ pocket. She slipped it out and saw the text message. “What do you know? Noreen.” She turned the screen to Lilah. “It seems she needs to reschedule our dinner. She has to go into New York to meet my dad. He must really be throwing a hissy fit. I’ll get back to her later.” Mimi went to rest the phone on the table, but thought otherwise when she saw Sam’s eyes light up. “You boys and your gadgets. Anyway, to get back to the subject of dinner—do you think Penelope could do Polish?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JOE STUCK HIS HEAD in Vic’s office doorway. “So, look what the cat finally dragged in. No offence.”
“None taken.” Vic shuffled through the pink message slips on his desk, and when he saw nothing that required an urgent response—or at least any more urgent than the usual—he placed them on his blotter and looked up.
“I was referring to Roxie.” Joe glanced down at the dog curled up on her orthopedic foam bed.
“I was, too.” Vic tapped the edge of his desk. “So I gather from the messages—” he pointed at the pile on the desk “—that our rep from the West Coast is late—fog at Newark with storms in the Midwest backing up the flights?”
“Yeah, lucky for you. Waltzing in—” Joe glanced at his gold Rolex, a ridiculous affectation, never mind the expense in Vic’s opinion “—what, forty-five minutes late. That’s not like you, Mr. Someone’s-Got-To-Keep-the-Family-Business-Going Golinski. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had a big night last night. But then, I do know better. You probably were engrossed with something on the History Channel about King Tut’s tomb.” Joe smiled warmly.
“No, a minimarathon of old Law and Order episodes,” Vic corrected. He noticed Joe’s loosened tie. “And what time did you get in?”
Joe slumped into the couch. “About ten minutes ago. And let me tell you, I was up late last night, too, and it wasn’t due to some TV marathon. More personal, if you get my drift.”
Vic sat stone-faced. His brother liked to think of himself as the playboy of the Western World, or at least of central New Jersey. But Vic was pretty sure that it was more bluster than anything. Still, he didn’t want to deflate his brother’s fragile ego. His role was to be the responsible, grumpy older brother, looking disdainfully down at his ne’er-do-well brother. And in point of fact, that’s what he was.
But sometimes… Like this morning, in the rain, in the sunlight afterward… The double rainbow… Even if you didn’t believe in signs—and he didn’t—it was an unexpected backdrop to a magical moment… .
“Earth to Vic. Earth to Vic.” Joe snapped his fingers.
Vic shook his head. “Sorry. My mind was wandering for a moment.” He rested his elbows on the desk. “Now, do you really want me to ask for the gory details of your latest conquest, or can we get down to business?”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ll get to all that.” Joe studied him. “But first I want to know what’s up. You’re acting kind of bizarre this morning.”
Vic cleared his throat. “I was thinking of Mimi Lodge. I ran into her after my morning workout. Actually, she ran into me, if you must know.” He scratched an eyebrow.
“Just like that?”
“Yes, just like that. These things happen, especially in a small town.” He sat up straighter—any straighter and he’d need a chiropractor to unlock his spine.
Joe grinned but had the good sense not to push any further. “Well, all I can say is, keep up the good work. This project with Pilgrim could push our sales into a banner year, and in this economy, that’s worth a lot.” Then he rubbed his chin. “Still, you wonder—why the father tied the deal to you romancing her. Is there something wrong with her? She always looked pretty hot on camera, but then, you never know what a person is like in real life.”
“Conrad Lodge did not ask me to ‘romance’ anyone—just to serve on a Reunions panel with his daughter. It was a perfectly reasonable quid pro quo—more than reasonable from the company’s point of view, wouldn’t you say? And frankly, I don’t think it would even occur to him that a Lodge—any Lodge—would be interested in a Golinski.”
“I see what you’re saying.” Joe rose from the couch and walked to the open door. Then stopped. “Still, if you need reinforcements, you know who to call. Me.”
Vic picked up the pink slips again, looking for something to do with his hands. “Thank you for the offer, but I believe I can handle the situation. She’s invited me to dinner.” He looked up.
Joe smiled widely. “I knew it. So what do you intend to bring?”
“Bring?”
“To dinner, of course. Personally, I like to take some rich chocolate dessert. All women love chocolate, and if you bring along the whipped cream, too, you never know…”
Vic frowned. “I think a bottle of wine is a more prudent choice.”
Joe tapped on the doorjamb. “To each his own. In any case, let me know if you hear anything about the deal with her father’s firm. Things were moving quickly for a while, and now they’ve gone silent.”
“That’s not really unusual. There’s a lot of
complicated financing involved.”
“I know, but still, I’m nervous. You haven’t heard anything from the father, then…since the initial call?”
Vic scoffed. “Let me be the nervous member of the family. I’m good at that.”
“Just don’t blow it with the daughter, whatever you do,” Joe warned him. “After all, aren’t you always saying that a CEO has to pitch in wherever necessary?”
“I never thought I would say this. But there are times I wish you wouldn’t listen to me,” Vic muttered.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PRESS GRABBED A SMALL table along the wall of the Circus Diner. The brown laminate surface had two paper placemats. Silverware was bundled up in a paper napkin on the left side of each mat.
A breakfast joint that offered bacon and eggs and waffles and all the usual morning fare at all time of the day and night, the Circus was another Grantham establishment—not so much for the university student crowd but for the townies. The Volunteer Fire Brigade always gathered there for breakfast on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Several local lawyers had their standing orders of two eggs scrambled with hash browns as they glanced over their briefs before heading into the office. And a core group of retirees gathered for oatmeal and stewed prunes and talked about property taxes and parking problems.
Nobody ever seemed to comment on the yellowing posters of Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey, or the cracked clown masks affixed to the paneled walls. The Circus would never be cool and have Cirque du Soleil paraphernalia or Big Apple programs. It was hopelessly dated—just the way everyone wanted.
Press pulled out his phone and glanced at the time. Eleven-thirty. Matt had finally contacted him that morning, after that whole surprising thing with Noreen. Press still couldn’t believe it. He wondered what Mimi would think, but she hadn’t shown up before he had to leave for town.
Anyhow, after failing to show last night, Matt had suggested they get together for breakfast-lunch at the Circus. Amara wouldn’t be able to make it because she had this babysitting thing for Lilah Evans.
Maybe it was better that it was just the two of them anyway, Press thought. That way he’d have a better chance of finding out what exactly was going on between Matt and Amara. Maybe he’d even ask him about getting a new baby brother or sister when you were old enough to have a baby yourself. Matt’s dad and stepmom, Katarina, had had a baby boy when Matt was in college, after all.
“Coffee?”
Press looked up. A girl about his age, her blond hair pulled back in a loose braid, her face devoid of any makeup except for what looked like Vaseline on her lips, held up a glass coffee beaker.
“Coffee?” she repeated again.
“Sure,” said Press. He watched as she hustled over to a nearby waitress station and filled a heavy white ceramic mug. Then she returned to the table with the mug and a small saucer with little packets of cream.
“Sugar and Sweet ’N Low are on the table. Menu?” She slipped a laminated menu out from under her arm.
Press took it. “I’m waiting for another person, but I’ll look it over in the meantime.”
“Sure, no problem. You can order whenever. The kitchen’s kinda backed up right now anyway. The Rescue Squad is having their monthly meeting—they’re always big on pancakes and fried eggs and hash browns and bacon. At least if someone goes into cardiac arrest, the others should know what to do.”
Press laughed and watched as she sashayed her way to the large group in the center of the cavernous room. A bunch of them sported zip jackets with the same logo. The EMT guys, he figured.
Then he wondered why he’d never seen the waitress before, especially because she looked about his age. Not that he was a regular patron at the Circus. Come to think of it, he’d been there maybe all of two times. He definitely remembered once—when he was nine and the Grantham Youth Soccer League had held its end-of-season pancake celebration for the winning team. Press had always been on the winning team. That’s what Lodges were supposed to do.
He picked up the mug and swallowed a mouthful of tepid, bitter coffee. Bean World it wasn’t, but Press figured after four free refills, he’d have the caffeine equivalent for a third of the price. For someone on a budget, he’d learned to develop budget tastes. Basically, he’d become a vegetarian—not for philosophical reasons but because meat was so expensive.
Then he saw a familiar face pull open the door and trip over the rubber threshold. Yup, that was Matt.
“Hey there. You been waiting long?” Matt slid into the chair opposite him.
“Long enough,” Press replied.
“Ouch, someone’s grouchy this morning,” Matt said.
Press glanced at his friend. Matt never seemed to change—tall, gangly, brown hair sticking out over one ear. Well, not quite. “You working out?” he asked.
Matt lifted his right arm and made a muscle. “Yeah, I started lifting weights this year—but I’m still pretty pathetic.”
“You got that right. Though don’t tell me you can actually grow a beard now?” He pointed to the scraggy shadow on Matt’s cheeks.
Matt laughed silently, bobbing slightly in the chair. “Yeah, hope springs eternal, I guess. Now that graduation is over and I don’t have to look beautiful for photos, I thought I’d give it a go. The mustache doesn’t want to cooperate, though.” He ran his index finger along his upper lip.
Press took another sip of coffee. It was really the pits, but the caffeine seemed to be doing the job. “What about Amara? She like it?” he asked casually.
“Amara? I’m not really sure.” Matt appeared oblivious to the underlying inquiry.
“You guys hanging out a lot, then?” Press kept at it.
Matt straightened the container of jelly packets on the side of the table. “On and off. Too bad she’s tied up today with babysitting and some kind of orientation for working at Reunions. It would have been great for the three of us to get together like old times. Though I guess we’ve still got the rest of the weekend.”
Press gripped the edge of the plastic folder that held his menu. “You sure that’s what Amara wants?”
“Why not? I mean—” Matt interrupted his reply when he saw the waitress approach the table.
She handed over a menu. “Can I get you coffee, too?”
“No, just milk.’
Press dropped his head and shook it. “No wonder you can’t grow a mustache,” he said.
Matt made a face. “Don’t listen to him,” he said to the waitress, and then he held up his hand. “Hey, didn’t you go to Grantham High School? You look kind of familiar.”
She rested her hand on her hip. “We live in town now, but back in high school we were still in Hamilton, so I went to school there.”
“Hmm, maybe it’s just seeing you on the street, then. I’m Matt by the way. And this is Press. We both grew up here.”
“I’m Basia,” she answered with a smile.
“Cool. Is that Russian? I always wanted to learn Russian,” Matt said eagerly.
Press rolled his eyes. Matt was so pathetic.
“No, Polish. It’s the nickname for Barbara, which always sounded like some old woman’s name to me.”
Matt laughed. “I definitely like Basia a lot better, too.”
She smiled shyly, sinking her neck into her shoulders. “Thanks. I’ll just get your milk, then, and when I come back you can give me your orders.” She smiled again and went off.
“She’s kind of cute, don’t you think?” Matt watched her from behind.
Press raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you’ve got enough on your plate?”
“What? You mean, with going away soon with the Peace Corps?”
And somehow the conversation got steered away onto other topics, like having to get all these shots for rural Sierra Leone, where Matt would be based. Or how his graduation went and what was going on with his family. And Matt’s asking him all about Australia and trying to figure out if maybe Press could come visit him before he came ba
ck to the States when he finished his master’s degree.
It was all well and good—more than good, Press realized. It was the kind of easy talk that he’d been lacking for almost a year. “You know, I hate to say this, but I actually missed you,” he admitted. He pushed back his chair. “And, God, I feel sick now. I ate so much.” They’d both ordered double French toast, and Press’s stomach was pushing against the waistband of his khaki shorts.
“Talk about a wimp.” Matt rose and stumbled around the leg of his chair. “It’s good seeing you, too,” he said as they walked to the cash register to pay. “I mean, I’ve got friends from college and everything, but there’s something different about talking to somebody who knows you from way back when.”
“If you’re not careful, you’ll start sounding like all those loyal alums who come back every year to their reunions and reminisce about the good old days.”
“Well, Yale class reunions are only every five years, so maybe I’ll grow out of all that.”
“I sure hope so—otherwise this friendship is history.” He leaned over the counter. “Could we get the check?” he asked Basia.
She was bent over, studying something spread out on the counter. She was tapping with her foot and moving her finger along as she read.
Matt arched his neck to see over the ledge. “Hey, is that a musical score?”
She looked up. “Oh, sorry. Sometimes I get distracted. Let me get your check.” She flipped through the pages of her order pad and found theirs.
“So you’re studying music?” Matt asked.
“Performance. Violin, actually. At Rutgers. But I’m also doing a degree in accounting. I mean, I’d love to be a professional musician, but what are the odds? So, I have something to fall back on, which is kind of necessary for someone like me.”
Press assumed she meant someone who didn’t have parents who’d support her once she was out of school.
Matt was off on a completely different subject. “Wow, what a coincidence. I played violin in the high school orchestra, and for one year in the Yale orchestra. When I stopped my sophomore year, my parents practically had a fit.”
The Company You Keep Page 12