On Common Ground (Harlequin Super Romance)

by Kelleher, Tracy

  Justin debated telling his father that a bit of custard had caught on the corner of his mouth. The recalcitrant child in him—there seemed to be no limit to his childishness today—had him holding his tongue. “I’ll be sure to call Mother,” he said instead, knowing he’d probably forget.

  “I spoke to your sister, Penelope, last week on Skype. Amazing this new technology and how it simplifies overseas communication.”

  Justin interpreted that tidbit of information as veiled criticism of his own lack of communication with his parents. “I’m glad to know she stays in touch.” His sister and father probably traded insights into their latest research into Plutarch or Thucydides. Penelope had followed in their father’s footsteps and was an assistant professor of classics at the University of Chicago. He debated whether a third cup of coffee was overkill.

  “How’s the…ah…t-t-time you spend with our local youngsters going?” Stanfield asked. His one-year postdoctoral appointment at Oxford had left him with the rarified stutter that characterized the dons and students from that esteemed place of higher learning.

  Justin viewed that statement as less-than-veiled criticism. Anyone who was involved with learning at a preuniversity level simply didn’t make the grade in his father’s opinion, he figured. “You’re not working hard enough, not concentrating. Anyone should be able to read,” Stanfield used to lecture Justin when he was in elementary school.

  Even back then Justin knew “anyone” meant “anyone who is a son of mine.”

  “If you spent half the time you do biking up to Antonelli’s Garage in Easton and hanging out with those grease monkeys…”

  Justin knew his father would have denied all accusations that he was a social snob.

  “If you gave the same effort to your books as you do to the rowing club…”

  His father’s idea of athletic exertion was to pull out the push lawn mower on arbitrary occasions, and mow their patch of front lawn wearing dark socks with old blue sneakers.

  “I don’t understand it. Your teachers claim that you are of above-average intelligence, but as far as I can tell…”

  What do mere elementary school teachers know? was the underlying translation.

  And by inference now, what did he know in his current job as a kindergarten teacher?

  Justin finally responded to his father’s question about his work. “It’s called teaching, Father,” he said simply.

  Across the table, Justin became immediately aware of Lilah folding her napkin.

  “You must understand that I didn’t—”

  Then he saw her push back her chair. “Hold it, Father,” Justin said out of the side of his mouth.

  His father lifted his spoon. “But I wanted to pass on some information about Penelope.”

  Justin looked down at his father, pleased with the vantage point. “I tell you what, Father. When you get back to Rome, Skype me. You’re such a fan of it. In the meantime, duty—and Lilah—calls.”

  LILAH SLIPPED HER BAG OFF the back of her chair and stood. The luncheon had not been nearly as painful as she had anticipated. Vivian was larger than life, literally—but in a good way, full of enthusiasm for Sisters for Sisters and brimming with suggestions for potential donors. Lilah should have felt pumped. She didn’t.

  She felt overwhelmed and guilty—guilty at being overwhelmed. Guilty that she was letting down Esther and all the other Congolese women she’d met or who needed her help.

  And right now they probably deserved someone better and less jaded than she was.

  Oh, she was a good girl. She always had been—doing all her homework on time, standing when older people came into the room and paying all her bills on time—when she had the cash, that is. She hated to think about the balance on her credit card at the moment.

  So, no matter how deep her funk, she would trudge on and do the right thing. Write the grants, fight the good fight, not let on to her daily fears that the job was just too big for her and that she would fail her parents, all the Esthers of the world, and never meet the expectations of others, like Vivian, who believed in her.

  If only they knew…

  “You’re not going to have your tiramisu?” Professor Bigelow waggled an index finger toward her untouched portion.

  “Unfortunately, I really have to get going. I’m supposed to pick up my dad at Newark Airport. But it’s a shame to have it go to waste.” She picked up the saucer with the parfait cup and passed it in his direction. “Surely, I can tempt you.”

  “I’ll go with you then,” Justin offered.

  Lilah glanced over the centerpiece of orange gerberas and saw him standing. She noticed for the first time that the tiny repeated pattern on Justin’s tie was orange flowers, too. What kind of a man wore ties with flowers on them and still looked so…so…manly? She averted her eyes from his tie and concentrated on his chin. She saw he had a tiny nick on the underside from shaving. It was a very nice chin, slightly indented, firm jawline....

  “I’d take the tiramisu, if I were you,” Vivian announced to Stanfield.

  Lilah shook her head. “No need to come. I’ve made arrangements for a rental car already.”

  “Then at least let me drive you to the agency,” he insisted.

  Vivian liberated the plate from Lilah’s hand to pass to Justin’s father.

  “I could almost do with a second helping myself,” President Forsgate said with a chortle.

  Lilah refocused on Justin. And noticed for the first time that his eyes were a smudged, smoky gray, the color of pussy willows. She opened her mouth, closed it, then started to speak again. “There’s no need for you to go out of your way. I’ll just get—”

  “A taxi? Don’t even think about it. As your host—” Justin added.

  “You’ve already provided—” she continued.

  “On second tasting, interestingly, it makes me think this dessert may actually be zuppa inglese, the Tuscan dessert as opposed to a tiramisu, which is a Venetian confection,” Stanfield said, studying his spoon.

  “Not nearly enough assistance,” Justin finished her words.

  “I always wondered what the etymology of zuppa inglese was,” Vivian admitted with a frown.

  Lilah looked around the table. President Forsgate, Vivian and Justin’s father all seemed deep in conversation while peering at their dessert cups. She saw Justin take in the scene, as well.

  “I didn’t touch mine, either, if you’re still hungry?” he offered.

  The other three looked up. “What does this mean when neither of the young folk eat dessert?” his father asked.

  “Or is it just these two particular young folks? After all, we don’t have a statistical sampling,” President Forsgate noted.

  “Trust a scientist to make that observation. You’re right, of course,” Stanfield had to agree.

  “Well, I’m happy to have it.” Vivian held out her hand. “And as to their similar habits, I can add further information. You see, he’s a friend of a friend,” she explained, pointing her spoon from one to the other.

  The president tilted his head. “And here I thought there might be something more.”

  It was all getting too confusing. Lilah quickly offered her hand to say goodbye. “Not in the least. And you can tell there’s nothing between us because he didn’t even clean out his car before picking me up.”

  Justin’s father looked up from dissecting his second dessert. “On the contrary. It’s quite significant that he let you in his car at all.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “ARE YOU SURE YOUR FRIEND there can lift a full keg?” Tony, the manager of the Lion Inn asked skeptically. Like the other social clubs at Grantham University, Lion Inn was located on the edge of campus, but it was actually an independent organization open to st
udent members and run by a board of alumni members. Members, alumni who were members as undergraduates and their guests were welcome at all events.

  Press and Matt had joined Tony by the club’s side entrance next to the basement keg room. It was around two o’clock in the afternoon, and they were there to get their instructions for working at Reunions, starting that night.

  “Sure, no problem,” Press assured him with an easy smile. “He may look puny, but he’s tough. You wouldn’t know it, but he wrestles for Yale at the one-hundred-thirty-two-pound weight class.”

  Tony smiled with a look of incredulity. “You’re right. I wouldn’t know it. But, hey, if you say he’s okay, then that’s good enough for me.” Tony stamped out his cigarette butt on the pavement, and like the good manager that he was, he picked up the butt and deposited it in a plastic baggy that he carried in the back pocket of his jeans along with his trusty Bic lighter. “So, why don’t you come inside now, and I’ll show you where to stow the kegs.” Since the two were nominally only shifting the supplies around and not manning the open taps, the club didn’t need a special license for them to work.

  They tromped in through the side door off the driveway while Tony lectured them on putting kegs in the cooler, bringing them out at the right time and working the taps. “So, is that all clear now?”

  Both boys nodded.

  “We didn’t get into college on our good looks alone, Tony,” Press reminded him.

  “I think you got in on your silvery tongue,” Tony wisecracked back. “And how you work the taps is clear?”

  “No problem. It’s easier than milking a cow.”

  “Which you do about as frequently as your buddy here goes ten rounds on a mat, I’ll wager.” Tony searched the top of the bar. “I thought I had left the order forms here, but they must be in my office. You’ll need them to keep track of deliveries. Listen, I’ll be right back.” He lifted the flap to the bar top and headed upstairs.

  Matt watched him go, and then nudged Press. “Hey, why’d you make up all that stuff about me being a wrestler? You didn’t need to do that?”

  Press ignored Matt and prowled the wood-paneled, dark room. Once upon a time, the keg room had been a bastion of good ol’ boy camaraderie, its wooden countertop scratched with the engraved initials of future male captains of industry and government leaders. Then Grantham had gone coed in the seventies, and Lion Inn’s women members had added their names to the handiwork. Coed or single sex, by now the place could best be described as beloved shabby chic—with the emphasis on shabby.

  “I’m really stoked about working Reunions,” Press said in between checking the flood of text messages on his phone. “It will be great just to relax after busting my butt all school year. Plus I could really use the cash.”

  “You? Need cash? Can’t you just borrow from your dad?”

  “I’m not sure my father would recognize me if he saw me. We don’t cross paths that often.”

  “Maybe you could send him your résumé to refresh his memory? There’s always your mother I suppose.”

  “I don’t think Mother’s in town. I think she might have mentioned something about going to La Quinta to work on her backhand. Or maybe it was Pebble Beach, to perfect her putting. Besides, the way she’s spending her alimony, she’ll be the one hard up for cash pretty soon. Oh, goody-goody—perhaps I’ll have a new stepfather.”

  “At least you’ve got Noreen.”

  “Yeah, she’s pretty cool besides being ama-zing-looking.”

  “Is it me, or is there something wrong to think your stepmother is hot?” Matt asked.

  “It’s you. Anyway, you got to hand it to Noreen. I figure she’s the first woman to ever have my father by the balls. He’d do anything for her. Heck, he might even make it to my graduation next year—keep up the old family ties and everything.”

  “Does that mean he goes to his class Reunions, too?” Matt wandered from the taproom to the basement hallway and peered up the stairway, waiting for Tony to come down again.

  “Yeah, I think so. I’m pretty sure he still marches in The Parade—when I was little and he and my mom were still getting along, we all marched one year.” Grantham alums and family members were famous for their annual parade during Reunions through the campus and down Main Street, complete with marching bands, a few flimsy floats and everyone decked out in gaudy class outfits—special orange-and-black costumes that screamed big fashion mistake.

  Finally, the sound of footsteps and someone talking on a cell phone could be heard.

  “At least if I’m working, I shouldn’t run into him. Besides, Lion Inn is the locale this year for the Tenth Reunion parties. So I doubt he’ll show up here.”

  “Isn’t the Tenth your sister’s reunion year?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So it’s Lilah Evans’s, too? Maybe I’ll still have another chance to get to talk to her, then?”

  Press approached his friend and, pointing his index finger, he looked him squarely in the eyes. “The question is, are you man enough to talk to her, or are you just going to stammer and get all nervous when you come face-to-face while drawing her a tall glass of Yuengling?”

  Matt balled his fist. “I’ll do it. I promise.”

  “If you don’t, I will personally beat up that one-hundred-and-thirty-two-pound puny body of yours.” Press playfully pounded his friend on his back and shoulders. What he didn’t say was that he figured he could always talk to Mimi on Matt’s behalf. Talk about scary! But, hey, he’d risk it for his friend.

  Tony stepped back into the room and flipped his phone shut. “Okay, sorry to keep you guys waiting. That was the liquor store on the phone. They want to pick up the empty kegs tonight and not wait until tomorrow morning since there’s so much stuff going on on campus. That means you guys need to stay here until closing—normally 2:00 a.m., but you never know. You got it?”

  “Since when have I ever left before a party was over?” Press boasted.

  Matt nodded earnestly. “I got it. But listen, Tony. There’s something I gotta tell you. About this whole wrestling thing?” Matt had a concerned, I-need-to-confess look on his face.

  Tony dismissed him. “Don’t worry, kid. I know Press is full of it. That’s part of his charm. Besides, I also know that whatever the job is, he’ll pull his end and yours. Press always comes through—in spite of himself.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AFTER FIDDLING WITH THE dials at the stoplight, Lilah ended up turning off the radio in the rental car. All she’d wanted was a little classical music to soothe her brittle nerves. But with all the stop-and-go traffic on Route 206, she needed to keep both hands on the wheel and eyes forward instead of being tied up with distractions.

  Talk about distractions. Justin had insisted on standing in line with her at the Enterprise office.

  “This is boring, trust me. I’m sure you must have other things to do,” she had tried politely. Being around Justin was just too confusing at the moment, too unsettling. And, really, was she supposed to make a move in a car rental agency? Then again, did she really want to?

  “Besides, we’ll see each other tomorrow at the ceremony in the afternoon, not to mention all the wining and dining through the night, right?” she added, attempting to send him on his way.

  “Actually, tomorrow’s festivities begin in the morning with The Parade. And it’s not just tomorrow that you’re stuck with me. We’re scheduled to be together for the annual Reunions softball game this afternoon, followed by the pig roast.”

  “Softball? But I’m supposed to pick up my father. Then I’m going out to dinner with him and Mimi,” she protested.

  “You didn’t read your schedule, did you? The game doesn’t start until around five, five-thirty, so you should have plenty of time to make it back.
”

  Lilah gritted her teeth. “Well, I guess I’ll try to make it, but if my father’s plane is late, I can’t guarantee anything.” Really, the last thing she wanted to do was run around a softball field.

  Justin pulled his iPhone from his pocket and tapped on the screen. “Not to worry. I have this handy app, keeps me completely up-to-date on flights. See—your father’s plane is actually scheduled to come in a few minutes early.” He held the screen up to her face.

  Lilah squinted to read the unwelcome news. She nodded, and Justin hit the Sleep button. She saw a photo of a bunch of kids, probably his class, she guessed. Her first impulse was to say, “Aw-w,” but she swallowed it. If she reacted emotionally like that, would he take that as an offer of interest? And was he interested? She thought so, but her antennae were not exactly functioning at top speed. Argh-h.

  “Well, that’s good to know,” she said instead. “But I think it would be kind of rude just to drop my dad off where he’s staying and then rush out to play some softball game, especially when I haven’t seen him for months, almost a year even.”

  “This is not just some softball game!” Justin said with the right amount of righteous indignation. “Besides, when I told him about it, he was all excited about playing. I didn’t realize that he played baseball for the University of Washington?”

  Lilah took one step closer to the car rental counter. She hung her head, accepting the inevitable. “Yeah, Dad played center field. He was the batting champ for two years running. What was I thinking? Obviously he would want to play. He’ll probably bring his mitt.” She stopped and turned to Justin. “Hey, wait a minute. You talked to my father?”

  The man in front of her in black shorts and an orange T-shirt moved to the side, fumbling with his rental form and keys. A picture-perfect family of one blonde wife with toned upper arms and two perfect towheaded children—the boy with a cowlick and the girl with pigtails and a missing front tooth—swarmed around him.

  That could have been me—me and Stephen, Lilah thought ungrammatically. But what made her wistful was not the thought of Stephen but the two kids and the toned arms. Yes, her memory of Stephen seemed to be rapidly dimming in the reality of Justin.