“You can thank your classmate, really.” Her mother cast a pleased glance at Justin. He was standing in the on-deck circle, talking with another classmate—Hunt Phox, a local Granthamite who was next up to bat. Hunt had rowed lightweight crew with Justin.
“Once he explained over the phone just how important the award was, and how much I would regret not being here, I knew he was right,” Daphne went on. “It was also his idea to make it a surprise. You know, he can be very persuasive—not to mention charming.” Daphne looked at her daughter with a certain twinkle in her eye that Lilah didn’t normally associate with her no-nonsense mother.
“And did I tell you how much fun it was to sit in that little backseat of his car? Your father had wanted me to sit on his lap, but I insisted,” her mother mused, a smile twitching at a corner of her mouth. “I felt deliciously young and silly wedged in sideways like a pretzel.” She stared at Lilah. “He’s quite a find, your young man.” Then she raised her eyebrows to include Mimi in the discussion.
“Not too shabby,” Mimi said with a smile on her lips.
“He’s not ‘my young man,’ Mom,” Lilah clarified, scratching her ear. She glanced away, avoiding her mother’s gaze. “So where did you guys end up staying? I know that Mimi had wanted you to stay at her dad’s house, like you did at our graduation, but there’re renovations going on.”
“I can’t tell you how much that teed me off,” Mimi complained.
Her mother patted the place next to her on the bench. “Here, have a seat and don’t fret about it, Mimi. I wanted to see you, not your father’s house anyway.”
Lilah was so proud of her mom. She might be overly earnest sometimes, but her heart was always in the right place. “You know, by the time I got around to inquiring about arrangements, the alumni association said the accomodations had already been taken care of. Did they find you some hotel miles and miles away?”
“Didn’t you know? Justin had arranged with the alumni association for us to stay at his parents’ house on Edinburgh Avenue. We thought it was a bit unusual, but Justin insisted that his parents frequently put up visiting scholars in the extra bedrooms now that he and his sister have moved out. It’s their way of extending hospitality to deserving members of the university community.”
“It’s perfect, just a few blocks from campus, just beyond the social clubs,” Lilah’s father chimed in. “That’s why we called to tell you not to bother to pick us up. We were able to walk here, which was so nice after being cooped up in the airplane for so long.”
Mimi sipped her beer thoughtfully. “The ever-remarkable Mr. Justin Bigelow. Will wonders never cease?” She gave a teasing smile over her shoulder to Lilah, who made a big show of looking toward the action.
Hunt Phox slammed a single over the second baseman’s head and moved the runner into scoring position. He stopped at first and bowed ceremoniously as everyone around Lilah clapped. Mimi added a wolf whistle.
Naturally the opposition booed loudly. “Lucky hit, gramps,” one supporter called out near the keg.
“It’s the new prescription,” Hunt shouted back, pointing to his wire-rim glasses. “Works like a charm.”
“You rock, Hunt,” Mimi shouted out, her hands cupped around her mouth. “So, Daphne, did you meet his family? Justin’s, I mean. I vaguely remember his dad—this absentminded professor type. But he did teach this popular lecture course about epic Greek and Roman literature. We nicknamed it ‘Gods and Bods.’ All the jocks took it because you were guaranteed at least a B. And then there was his mother who I sometimes saw wandering around campus with a butterfly net and a sketch pad.”
“A nature lover?” Walt asked. “Then she should pay us a visit on Orcas.”
“No, we haven’t met the mother, just his father,” Daphne provided the necessary information. “They’re actually on sabbatical this semester, but Stanfield made a quick trip back—something to do with the trustees. He seems nice enough.” She sniffed at the end of the sentence.
Lilah glanced at her sideways. It was the sniff, not the words that caught her attention.
“Didn’t Justin have a sister, too? Do you remember her?” Mimi leaned forward to look around Daphne at Lilah. When Lilah didn’t respond, she tapped her on the leg. “She was a few years ahead of us. Kind of weird, homeschooled, I think. A real brain. Valedictorian, too.”
Lilah shook her head. “I’m not sure. There were a lot of brains who went to Grantham. They scared the he—” she saw her mother raise an eyebrow “—the heck out of me,” she corrected herself.
Daphne nodded toward Justin, who had just stepped into the batter’s box. “Well, I feel totally confident with our current batter.”
“C’mon, Justin,” her father called out. “Two runs and we beat these upstarts.”
Justin glanced over and flashed a broad smile.
Lilah could feel herself blushing even though she knew he hadn’t really directed it at her, or had he?
Justin dug in with the toes of his front shoe. As he did, his hips swayed in his well-worn jeans.
A catcall could be heard from the stands. And it was decidedly high-pitched and feminine.
The pitcher wound up.
Justin left the pitch alone as it barely skimmed the dirt. “Scared to throw one over the plate, huh?” he heckled the pitcher.
Mimi put two fingers against her teeth and whistled loudly.
Walt watched her with admiration. “You know, I always wanted to be able to do that,” he admitted.
“The benefits of an underbite,” she replied. “By the way, Lilah?”
She only glanced over after the pitcher threw another ball. This one was so high that Justin caught it with his arm extended and threw it back himself.
“Somewhere in between, next time,” he shouted.
Lilah glanced at Mimi. “What?” she asked, her head turned away from the action.
“I hope it’s not an imposition, but I’d invited Press’s friend Matt to join us for dessert, forgetting totally about the pig roast going on now. But I don’t see why he can’t meet you here instead,” Mimi said. “The kid’s really interested in your work in Congo, and I think he could be useful to you. He’s studied international relations, so he’s got the theory under his belt. And think how you’re perennially short-handed in the main office in the capital. You know kids that age. They’re so tech savvy, he could probably update all your computer software, get it working faster and make data more easily available to help speed up diagnoses. Who knows? You might even find a use for him in the field.”
Matt. Lilah cringed at the memory of her sleepy behavior in his presence last night. “We could use someone to help with evaluating the cell phone pilot project,” she thought out loud. “Okay, tell him to come. Though I can’t promise him anything remotely resembling a paycheck—”
“No problem. From what I understand, he worked all through his first year at Yale— A student, majoring in Political Science. Like I said, no dummy. Very genuine. He’s just a bit shy about talking himself up.”
“All right, already. I’m sold. If you vouch for him, that’s good enough for me.”
Mimi pulled out her phone and texted Matt. “Good. I’ll tell him that we’re not going to a restaurant as I’d originally thought, and he’s to come by here in a little while instead.”
“All young people should be encouraged to serve a greater good,” Daphne went on with a knowing harrumph. “And talking to someone in your position will give him confidence, if nothing else. A mentor can make such a difference. I know from talking to Justin that without the influence of his mentor, a woman named Roberta Zimmerman—a real pedagogical dynamo at Bank Street School, let me tell you—he never would have gotten to where he is today.”
“What is it with you and Justin anyway?” Lilah asked.
“You’ve only just met.”
“True, but you can tell a lot about someone from first impressions.”
“And your mother’s first impressions are legendary,” her father said. He clapped after Justin hit a fly ball foul down the first baseline. “Straighten it out, and you’re golden,” he called out.
There were shouts and whistles. Lilah shifted her attention to the field. The pitcher readied with his mitt in front of his face, shielding the ball in his other hand. Then he separated his hands and lowered his pitching arm to lob the ball underarm.
Lilah held her breath.
“What I was getting at was the fact that he’s dyslexic,” her mother said.
There was a crack of the bat.
Lilah turned to look at her. “What?”
And that’s when the foul tip caught her in the side of the head.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NOREEN FINISHED DISCUSSING the problems in the guest bathroom with her contractor—the rainwater showerhead was not centered correctly and the drain was definitely not the one she had chosen…she’d asked for square holes, not round—before wishing him a good weekend putting his boat in the water on the Jersey Shore. The man lived to go deep-sea fishing. She didn’t begrudge him that. She just wished he employed a better plumber.
She waved goodbye then returned by the kitchen to the small room off the conservatory in the left wing of the house. She knew she’d find her husband there in his newly finished study. The old library was in the process of becoming a state-of-the-art entertainment room. Not that she had anything against reading. She was, after all, a member of two book clubs, one just for books in French.
No, the reason she had relegated Conrad’s study to the back of the house was that he used it for smoking his wretched cigars. True, the penetrating smell had a certain appeal, conjuring up the privileged old world of exclusive men’s clubs—nothing her late father, the struggling family doctor, would have been allowed to join, that’s for bloody well sure. “Consider your daughter’s health,” she had admonished Conrad soon after she showed him the ultrasound photo of their daughter in utero. “I will not have her lungs poisoned or elevate her risk for heart disease.”
He had agreed not to smoke anywhere near the baby.
“And I would also like my daughter to continue to have a father as she grows up into a fine young woman,” she had added.
“My other children have never shown any desire to have me watch them grow up,” he had scoffed.
Noreen could feel the tinge of sadness beneath the sarcasm, but that was a whole other conversation. Instead, she’d said, “Did you ever think that maybe I would like you to keep me company as we both watch her grow up?”
Conrad had immediately softened. Noreen remembered a particularly tender night of lovemaking and a black pearl necklace on her place at the table at the end of the week. The first had touched her heart. The second had appealed to her vanity, something she reluctantly acknowledged.
Still, he hadn’t stopped smoking. Hence, the mega insulated, jumbo filtering system that served his new study.
And that’s where she found him now, puffing thoughtfully, a tumbler of vodka in his right fist, the latest Harlan Coben novel on his lap. He had already changed clothes, his bespoke suit for work replaced by khaki trousers and a Brooks Brothers white polo shirt. On his feet, Noreen couldn’t help noticing that he wore well-worn boat shoes with no socks, just like his son. Around his waist, only slightly less trim at sixty than when he was Press’s age, he wore a needlepoint belt with the crest of Grantham emblazoned in a running pattern. She had needlepointed it for him for his birthday last year, and he had been quite taken with it. She would have made one for her stepson, as well, but she knew it was something Press wouldn’t be caught dead in. Needlepoint belts just didn’t seem to go with the tattoo of a little-known dinosaur fossil that he had on his forearm.
Conrad looked up when she came in and smiled appreciatively. She had showered and changed into impeccably fitting designer jeans and a crisp white shirt, the cuffs expertly rolled up and the tail tucked into her trim waist. It had been a real struggle to regain her figure after Brigid’s birth, but one she had refused to give up on. Her large yellow-diamond engagement ring, four carats, Tiffany setting, gleamed on her left hand. A single gold bangle rubbed comfortably with her Patek Philippe watch on her wrist.
They had been married for eight years already, and she knew without question that his joy at seeing her was still genuine. Just as she knew that she found his healthy, but somewhat jowly, face and shock of white-gray hair still as attractive as ever.
“And how are the renovations going? Still burning up my hard-earned money?” he asked, not totally facetiously.
“Not as quickly as I would like, and not without issues. I won’t bore you with the shower mix-up in the guest bath.”
“For which I am eternally grateful.” He smiled and closed his book, shifting it to the side table. Then he patted the arm of his leather club chair, a signal for her to join him.
She readily slipped on the rounded arm of the chair and scooted around to face him. Their eyes were almost level. “It’s just the process can get frustrating, especially since I’m in the house much of the day. Sometimes I wonder why I obsess about it so much. In any case, the contractor is one of the few ‘green’ builders in Grantham, and since I think it’s important to practice what you preach, I’m not about to let him go.”
How the builder reconciled building “green” with burning gallons and gallons of fuel every weekend on his boat was a contradiction she had never quite figured out. But then Noreen had discovered long ago that almost everyone was a mass of contradictions.
“Well, tonight you can put all that aside,” Conrad said. He picked up one of Noreen’s hands and brought it to his lips, offering a tender kiss.
“Tonight?” she asked. Her brain went to mush as he nibbled on her fingertips.
He brought her hand to his chest and covered it with his own. “Reunions? The gathering at Lion Inn? Some of my classmates were members there. Hadn’t I mentioned it?”
“You may have said something vaguely about it, but I don’t think so. Otherwise I would have put it on my calendar.” Like most mothers, Noreen lived and died by her calendar. “Unfortunately, tonight’s out of the question. Don’t you remember this morning? Brigid and her friend are going to the new Pixar film, and then afterward she’s invited her here for a sleepover.”
“Can’t Cook watch them for you?”
Noreen got up off the chair, letting his hand slip away, and walked over to the French doors. “No, Cook has the weekend off.” She undid the latch and opened the doors wide. The high-powered air cleansing system was handling the odor of the Nicaraguan tobacco all right, but she needed the separation. It was typical of Conrad that he assumed her schedule would mesh seamlessly with his at a moment’s notice.
“I don’t know why you don’t get a nanny like all of our friends,” Conrad said.
“We’ve been through this before,” Noreen said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. Conrad enjoyed picking fights over nothing, she knew, not because he was argumentative by nature, but because he was spoiled. Anything that distracted those around him from giving him their absolute fullest attention he found annoying.
Still, despite all that, he adored her. As—despite the objections of her friend Vivian—she did him. Moreover, she refused to go along with Vivian’s armchair psychology that Conrad represented a father figure for the father she had lost at a transitional stage in her own life. As far as she was concerned, love was another of those things that was a mass of contradictions.
So with a patience borne of love, she went through the litany of rejoinders that she brought up whenever he broached the subject of child care. “I enjoy raising our daughter
myself.” That was the selfish answer. “I feel it’s important.” The moralistic response. “When she grows up and sees a psychiatrist, I want to be the subject of her complaints, not a series of strangers whose names she can’t even remember.” An homage of sorts to Woody Allen.
Of course there was always the other obvious reason—the possibility that her husband would repeat his pattern and take up with the next nanny to come along. She knew that others thought this the reason for her reluctance to have help. She had once heard Mimi say it to Press when she thought Noreen was out of earshot. They can believe what they like, Noreen thought. Unlike everyone else, she actually gave Conrad credit for being able to love her and remain faithful.
“I wanted to keep Brigid all to myself, especially when she was so small and defenseless. So, you see, I was and am just being selfish, dear,” she said, wrapping up her argument.
“No, you’re not. You’re terribly loving, selfless even. I don’t deserve you.” And as if to reaffirm his affection, Conrad made the ultimate sacrifice and put out his cigar.
Noreen circled back to his chair and kneeled in front of him. “You know, now that she’s no longer a baby, you might find it enjoyable to stay in and play with Brigid and her school chum. I’m planning on making homemade pizzas and then playing Candy Land.” She took his hand in hers.
“I’m not sure if I’m the best role model. I always cheat at board games.”
She cocked her head. “Maybe your daughter could be your role model and show you a gentler side to life?”
“I think it’s rather late, don’t you?”
“It’s never too late.” Or at least she hoped. “You know, one of these days I’m going to ask you to contribute to your…our daughter’s upbringing.”
“Didn’t I pay for that expensive nursery school? I never knew that Quakers could be so mercenary.”
Noreen shook her head. “It was a terrific environment that instilled Brigid with a sense of cooperation and confidence.” She had often wished she could send her husband there, as well. “I’m not talking about money, and you know it.”
On Common Ground (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 12