so she can have privacy.”
Nick turned as he sponged off the silverware. “If she’s sure? I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Lilah repeated his words into the phone, then looked up. “She says it’s no problem.” Then she listened to the phone again, nodding, before hanging up. “So, it’s all settled then. Mimi even said that if your daughter—”
“Amara,” Nick supplied.
“Amara, nice.” Lilah smiled. “Anyway, if Amara wants to help out, she can probably provide some free babysitting for Mimi’s little half sister, Brigid. She’s adorable. Seven going on forty. Here, I think I even have a photo of her on my phone from last year’s Reunions.” She quickly pressed the screen on her cell phone, scrolling through her photos. “Here she is. Doesn’t she look cute with the ribbons in her hair? I think she even insisted that Mimi put them in.” She held out her arm so that he could look.
Nick passed the forks to Justin. “Cute,” he said, barely glancing at the photo. That seemed to be the thing one said in these circumstances.
“She looks a little like Mimi, but really, I see a lot of Noreen in her. Noreen’s her mother, and she works with me at the nonprofit.” She began flipping through more photos. “Wait, here’s another.” Lilah thrust out her hand again. “You’ve got to see this one.”
Nick stopped washing the large serving bowl and squinted. He saw a little girl laughing as she sat on the shoulders of a young guy. She seemed to have lost one of her ribbons, not that it bothered her. But it was the guy that really got Nick’s attention. His mussed-up blond hair looked sun bleached from high-class stuff like sailing or polo. He wore an orange polo shirt that hugged his slim body. Could you say negative body fat? His large hands gripped the girl’s small ankles. A row of perfect white teeth seemed to shine as his smile pierced his cheeks, the sunburned skin showing nary a blemish. The gods would not allow it.
Nick’s nose started to itch and he rubbed it with the back of a soapy hand. “And he’s?” Nick asked, pointing but careful not to drench the phone.
“Oh, Mimi’s half brother, Press. The one we talked about earlier? He graduates from Grantham in another week.”
Nick’s felt a sense of dread well in the base of his throat. “But he lives in the dorms, right?” Please, pretty please, a little voice inside begged.
“Sure, just like we all did.” Lilah kept her eyes on the phone’s screen as she went through some more pictures, a smile curving her lips. “Though maybe with exams and everything over, he’s moved back home.”
CHAPTER FIVE
PENELOPE©GLANCED©DOWN at the watch on her wrist. The appointment had been for eight o’clock. It was now eight-oh-six. Exactly. Penelope knew it was correct since every morning she set her watch to official U.S. Time, using the government website.
Justin had called her around seven in the morning, knowing she was an early riser, to let her know that the celebrity chef and author Nicholas Rheinhardt was in Grantham to speak at Class Day ceremonies and also to shoot an episode about local cuisine. Penelope remembered him from her college days, not that he would remember her. He had been Justin’s Residential Advisor, and as far as she could tell, he spent most of his time avoiding anything resembling advising, let alone remaining in residence. He had appeared to be more interested in taking the train to New York City to hear grunge bands, only to return to campus toting several Peking ducks, heads and all.
And now it seemed that he had mentioned to Justin an interest in filming some scenes in the Rare Book Library. Something to go along with a more scholarly approach to food and society.
Penelope found this odd. Not that someone would be interested in the library. Grantham University, after all, had one of the finest collections in the country, if not the world. Research scholars, museums, other libraries, and film and television people asked to use specific works, or to borrow manuscripts for all kinds of scholarly and commercial endeavors. The process for approval varied from object to object, with the standard legal, financial and insurance hoops to jump through.
Mr. Rheinhardt apparently preferred not to do any jumping.
So, she had reluctantly agreed to meet him, assuming nothing would come of it in the end. “All right, Justin, you may tell him that I’ll be here. I’ll go in early and pull a few texts relevant to his particular field. But this meeting is strictly preliminary. No cameras.” She’d cringed at the idea of cameras.
“Of course, of course,” Justin had agreed in his usual easygoing fashion. Somewhere in his prenatal development he had acquired a mutant “no worries” gene that was not a normal part of the family mix. “I’ll let Nick know. He’ll be very happy.”
Unconvinced, Penelope had hung up. But like the conscientious person that she was, she had arrived at the library forty-five minutes early to search for manuscripts pertaining to food and its preparation—not that she didn’t know the entire extent of the holdings already, but one could never be too careful. Then she’d pulled the material and put it on display in a locked conference room off to the side of the main reading room. The whole procedure had taken twenty-six minutes.
That had still left nineteen minutes to check her email, make a cup of coffee and do some deep-breathing exercises.
Now as she stood sentry at the front double doors to the modern building, she looked at her watch again. If she had known Mr. Rheinhardt would be late, she would have used the extra time to watch one of his old episodes online, to perhaps gain some insight into his character since his college days.
And then what? They’d discuss the street food of Penang Pen? She thought not.
But then she remembered an episode she’d accidentally caught while flipping channels. Yes, much to her father’s dismay, Penelope owned a flat-screen television—a small one, mind you. “The nature shows on public television are quite fascinating,” she had argued, appealing to her mother’s interests. Her father had coughed dismissively.
Nature shows weren’t the only things fascinating, Penelope thought as she cooled her heels. Nicholas Rheinhardt had definitely aged in the seventeen years since she’d last seen him in college. But at least on-screen, those years appeared to have provided real-life knowledge—as opposed to the book-learning variety—and a sense of mocking self-deprecation that only someone truly confident in his skin possesses. Not that she personally had ever experienced such a sensation.
Penelope pursed her lips. Perhaps she should just watch an episode after all?
* * *
“WHERE©THE©HELL©IS©SHE, and why doesn’t she answer her phone?” Nick threw his cell phone on the dashboard of the rental car.
Georgie, who was driving, glanced over. “Hey, watch it. That’s genuine plastic. And besides, what are you getting all worked up about? It’s only eight in the morning. Amara’s probably fast asleep with her phone turned off. My kids at that age used to sleep past noon when they didn’t have school.”
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? She should have been in school,” Nick replied.
The traffic inched forward on Main Street only to grind to a halt when the light turned red. “So why’d she get kicked out?” Georgie asked. He tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel.
