The Company You Keep Page 7

  “Why didn’t you tell me Roxie was a dog? I was all prepared for…I’m not sure what I was prepared for. I haven’t quite gotten my head around you.” Mimi picked up her pace and leaned down to the window.

  “I wouldn’t just bend over the window like that.” Vic rushed up to her side. “It’s not like Roxie’d bite or anything, but she’s not entirely comfortable with new people…”

  Too late.

  Mimi already held her hand to the window, palm-side up, and was letting the dog get a good sniff. “Not bad, huh? Eau de Hoagie Palace. Tell you what. I’ll give you a small taste, but just this once.” She undid the paper around the hoagie and tore off an end.

  Roxie lunged for the roll and gobbled it down. Then she sniffed around Mimi’s hands and began licking her fingertips. Then Roxie put her front paws up on the armrest on the door and forced herself farther out the window. Her tongue came in contact with Mimi’s nose.

  Vic was stunned.

  Mimi started laughing and threw back her head. This time Roxie’s kisses landed on her chin. Mimi squinted, still laughing. “I don’t know why you say she’s shy. She’s incredibly affectionate, aren’t you, girl?”

  Mimi pulled her face away and gave Roxie a good rub around the back of her ears. Then she let her fingertips slowly travel the smooth length of her floppy ears, massaging them gently.

  Roxie, to Vic’s surprise, didn’t budge, didn’t pull away from contact, convinced that she was about to die. Instead, she closed her eyes, her white-blond eyelashes fluttering, and purred. Yes, the same dog who was usually afraid of her own shadow was purring.

  “Don’t even consider plastic surgery. Your ear looks very distinguished. It gives you character,” Mimi addressed the dog directly. “Right, Roxie?”

  The dog licked her lips contentedly and rested her head in Mimi’s hand.

  If Vic didn’t know better he’d say she’d fallen asleep.

  Mimi turned to him, smiling. “I think your fears were unfounded, don’t you?”

  He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

  She didn’t bother for a reply. “What kind of a name is Roxie? Wait, don’t tell me.” She stopped him.

  He wasn’t about to say anything.

  “Short for Roxanna—Alexander the Great’s wife. The History Channel. It’s a guy thing.” She seemed very pleased with herself.

  “Actually, it’s Edmond Rostand’s Roxane. His play Cyrano de Bergerac?”

  Mimi frowned. “The beautiful woman who recognizes the love of the ugly but gifted poet Cyrano instead of the handsome other dude—I can’t remember his name.”

  “Christian,” Vic supplied.

  “Right, Christian. Of course you’d remember the details. As I recall, you were good with the facts.” Mimi shifted her bag of food again and went back to scratching Roxie’s wrinkled brow. “You know, Vic Golinski, from that story, people might get the impression that you are a romantic.”

  He blushed. Dammit, blushing? “It’s more a case that I was feeling sorry for myself. I’d just been cut from my team and my future in football looked over. I needed someone or something to love me. And there’s nothing less complicated than a dog’s affection.”

  “Affection’s never uncomplicated,” Mimi responded absentmindedly.

  The dog leaned her head to one side, indicating she wanted more scratching in a particular place.

  Mimi obliged, and Vic noticed that she’d cocked her head in the same way as the dog. She’d even closed her eyes, her own deep black-brown lashes resting on her high cheekbones. For the first time, she didn’t look brittle, like she’d crack if you touched her in just the wrong way. She looked…looked happy, secure. Loved. Pure and simple. Uncomplicated.

  And then it hit Vic—why he’d insisted on Mimi meeting his dog. Unconsciously, he’d wanted to see Roxie’s reaction. To validate his own emotions.

  Only, it hadn’t worked out the way he had planned at all.

  Or had it? Because now more than ever, he wanted Mimi Lodge bad.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “HEY, PRESS, IT’S SO GOOD to see you.” Amara Rheinhardt jumped up from the steps in front of her dorm and rushed to envelop him in her arms. “I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve seen you. I’ve had a great Freshman year—except for organic chemistry. Not all of us were meant to be science gurus like some people I could mention. Anyway, chalk it up as a painful learning experience and definitely cross off med school as one of my career options.”

  “I didn’t know it was one?”

  She shook her head, her chin rubbing back and forth against his shoulder. “Well, maybe. But this course in Roman poets I took? What can I say? Ovid is my personal god—I don’t care what they say about Horace. I’m already determined to work on him for my J.P.” She referred to her Junior Paper, which was still a long ways off.

  Press grinned at her bubbly enthusiasm.

  “And working for Penelope—like you said, unbelievable. I mean, even though she was gone on sabbatical a lot the first semester, she still taught me so much about manuscripts and how to put together exhibits.”

  “Yeah, Penelope’s great,” Press agreed, closing his eyes as Amara continued to hug him. Penelope Bigelow was the curator of the Rare Book Library at Grantham and Press had worked for her when he was an undergraduate. A lot of people might have found Penelope…well…odd. Her awkwardness in social situations and her tendency to spout highly erudite information had a way of making listeners head for the hills. But not Press.

  He raised his arms and finally went to hug Amara back. Too late.

  She broke her embrace and stood back to gaze at him.

  Press felt a momentary loss. Which was silly, really. After all, it wasn’t like they were boyfriend and girlfriend or anything like that. They’d merely met, by accident as it turned out, at Reunions last year. And they’d had a bunch in common. She’d been finishing up prep school and coming to Grantham in the Fall. He’d been just about to graduate. She hadn’t been getting along with her father. He thought his was a jerk—and still did. They’d hung out. No big deal, even if she’d pushed for something more. There was no chance—he was going away, she was a kid. Then he’d introduced her to his friend Matt, and they’d gotten on fine—more than fine. No big deal.

  So now, one year later, Press stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and acted like…like he wasn’t practically jumping out of his skin.

  She gave him a glance up and down. “You look different. I thought you’d be all tan and stuff—spending all that time surfing or whatever you do in Australia.”

  “I’ve been in the lab every day. It’s hard to get a tan that way. And it’s actually wintertime there, not summer.”

  Amara banged herself playfully on the forehead with the heel of one hand. “Duh! What a dummy I am.” She laughed at herself.

  She looked great laughing, Press thought. All giddy, and her cheeks turned kind of pinky.

  “Well, if you’d ever Skype me like you said you would, then I’d know that, wouldn’t I?” she went on.

  “Yeah, well, I’m pretty bad at that,” he stammered. What was he supposed to say anyway? That he liked his work but was lonely. That he missed her? That he wondered if she had met anyone special?

  “Aren’t you going to say how good I look?” Amara asked him. She did a pirouette on the toe of her ballet flat—just like the ones Penelope wore, Press noticed. “Sophisticated?” she asked, and circled around in a silly dance.

  Press bit back a smile. “Yeah, real sophisticated—especially The Simpsons Band-Aid.” He pointed to the bandage on her hand between her thumb and index finger.

  She held it up and inspected it briefly. “They were the only ones I could find at the convenience store this morning. I’m learning how to drive one of the golf carts for Reunions so that I can take around one of the old alums, and, would you believe it, I got a blister from shifting gears.” She laughed at herself some more.

  “Knowing you, I can believe
it,” Press teased her. He waved a hand in her general direction. “I like your hair that way, too.”

  She swung her head back and forth, her thick chestnut hair skimming her shoulders. “Yeah, it’s easier with it shorter, plus I can still tie it up when I’m studying and stuff. Otherwise I end up looking for split ends the whole time.”

  “That’s why I cut my hair shorter, too,” Press joked.

  Amara pushed him with her shoulder. She wore a tank top and a faded jeans skirt that cupped her bottom. The bare skin of her tanned arm brushed up against his T-shirt.

  Press almost groaned. Actually, Amara had grown up a lot in one year. And he wasn’t just saying that because of what she was wearing—though things had changed there, as well. No, she looked more confident, more cheerful. Gone were any remnants of her Goth days—the dyed black hair, the oversize black clothes dragging on the ground. Though he was glad to see she still had multiple silver hoop earrings in each ear and purply-black polish on her nails.

  “I can’t believe I’m seeing you, though. I mean, I didn’t even know you were planning on coming to Reunions.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Amara looked perplexed. “You suddenly got nostalgic? I can’t believe that. You were so hot to get out and see the world. I’d never thought you’d return to Grantham.”

  “It’s kind of complicated. Part of it has to do with my half-sister Mimi.” He wasn’t about to talk about the other part—seeing her.

  “Oh, gosh, yes. Her kidnapping was just awful. You must have been out of your mind with worry.”

  Worry didn’t begin to describe the agony he had suffered through.

  Amara breathed in deeply. “I made my dad promise he would never go to Chechnya for one of his shows.” Amara’s dad was Nick Rheinhardt, a celebrity chef and travel writer who had a show on cable television. After last year’s Reunions, he was also Penelope’s fiancé. “But she’s okay now, right?” Amara rattled on at lightning speed.

  “I guess. I don’t really know. She just dumped me earlier at Hoagie Palace for some dude from her class at the university, so she can’t be feeling all that bad.”

  “Oh, good. Hearing what happened to her made me jumpy about all the time Matt was in Congo. At least he’s going to Sierra Leone for his Peace Corps stint. He claims that’s safer, but still… He’s so dedicated, determined to make a difference in the world. You know what I mean?”

  “We can’t all be saints,” Press commented. Matt might be the closest thing he had to a friend in the world, but somehow he’d be just as happy if he didn’t show up tonight. He looked around. “So where is the Albert Schweitzer of our generation anyway?”

  He scanned the quadrangle. Bluestone paths dissected the grass and dogwoods sheltered against the gray stone walls of the Gothic buildings. The area was empty except for the students sticking around to work for Reunions. Black-and-orange banners with the years of various graduating classes hung from the second-floor crenellated balconies. Come this weekend, every room would be filled with returning alums.

  “I thought I was the one running late,” Press added.

  “Didn’t you get his text about having dinner with the Board of Sisters to Sisters?”

  “No, I guess I missed that one.” How come Matt had texted Amara and not him?

  “He promised to be here as soon as he could get away. But if I know Matt, he’ll stay until the last morsel, especially since Babička insisted on wining and dining everyone at her house.” Babička, the Slovak term for grandmother, referred to Matt’s stepmother’s grandmother. It was kind of complicated, but seemed to work for him.

  “Babička’s an amazing cook. We’ll be lucky to see him at all.”

  Amara laughed. “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Yeah. When Matt was home for spring break, he invited me to eat with the whole family at her house. It was amazing. I still remember the plum cake. Oh, my God.” She gripped her stomach. “I think I gained ten pounds I ate so much. I remember I was on the treadmill like crazy the next week.”

  Whereas Press remembered Matt telling him about the significance of plum cake in Slovakian celebrations—and how it played a part in getting his dad and Katarina, Matt’s stepmom, together—or so Babička had claimed.

  She grabbed him by the arm. “Speaking of plum cake, I forgot to tell you. After I told my dad all about the meal she made, he decided to film an episode of his TV show in Slovakia. In fact, he invited me to come along as an intern on the show. Honestly, I’m not really interested in production and everything, but Penelope’s going to come along, too—apparently the library in Bratislava has this amazing collection of Islamic manuscripts that of course she knows everything about. So I figured why not? Then afterward we’ll all go down to Penelope’s house in Calabria where I’ve got my fingers crossed that maybe she will agree to marry my father sometime soon. He is so desperate to slip a ring on her finger before someone else steals her away.”

  Press liked the idea of Amara getting out of town. “It sounds like you’ll have a pretty cool summer, then. Only I guess since you won’t be working on campus this summer, you won’t be able to see Matt before he takes off.” He tried to sound sincere.

  “Actually, that’s the really cool part. Dad talked Babička into coming along, too—as an interpreter and to kind of provide a personal storyline. You know, having her go back to her ancestral roots and seeing what had changed and what hasn’t.”

  A black squirrel—a species found only in Grantham—scampered across the stone molding over the archway, its nails skittering across the rough limestone. Press glanced up and watched it dive onto a nearby tree. The magnolia branch swayed precariously under the weight, but the squirrel somehow safely navigated its way down the trunk and bounded off across the grass.

  Press looked back at Amara. “Good for her. But you know, all this talk about food is making me hungry. I thought we were going to Burt’s Sweets for a strawberry blend-in.” The combination of French vanilla ice cream mixed up with fresh strawberries had been attracting local residents for two generations.

  “Sure, but I still haven’t told you the best part. Babička said she’d be happy to do it, but she insisted that Matt come along, as well—she thought the whole multigenerational aspect would enrich the story. For one episode, she’s even going to cook for all of us in the kitchen of an old friend. Isn’t that the greatest?”

  As long as it’s not plum cake for you and Matt, Press couldn’t help thinking.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE NEXT MORNING, now already Thursday, Mimi wandered down the grand staircase of the Lodge manse, past the wall of family portraits and photos, stopping on the landing to feel the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the Palladian window. She rubbed her arms through the sweatshirt she’d worn to bed, and noticed for the first time that the window seat was crowded with needlepoint pillows. William Morris-like animals scampered joyously through stylized acanthus and lettuce leaves.

  The sound of voices filtered up from downstairs, and she continued on her bare feet down the carpeted runner to the ground floor. The noise was coming from the kitchen, and she circled around to the back of the house. There was no mistaking the source—the high-pitched wailing of her kid sister, Brigid, followed by the patient lilt of her stepmother, Noreen. The woman combined the fashion sense of a Vogue editor and the maternal instinct of Mother Theresa. One day she’d win a Nobel Peace Prize and accept the award wearing Dolce and Gabbana.

  Mimi cut the corner of the formal dining room and pushed open the swinging door to the butler’s pantry. Sterling silver serving dishes filled the glass-fronted cabinets. Jars of granola, organic sesame seed crackers and various legumes of high nitrogen content and unknown origin were neatly lined up on the open shelves. Mimi pushed open a matching door on the opposite wall and entered the kitchen.

  That’s when she saw Brigid sitting on a stool, sprawled from the waist up over the central island. She lay facedown, her forehead
resting on her upper arm. Her other arm was outstretched across a sea of dark granite, the fingers of her open hand grasping in the air.

  “Is everything all right?” Mimi rushed in concerned.

  Noreen turned around from the stainless-steel espresso coffee machine—imported Italian ceramic mug in hand—and sighed. “It seems Brigid is despondent because Cook made her cupcakes—all organic flour and agave sweetener, according to my instructions. And they have the lightest pink frosting decorated with rosebuds. Sounds like every young girl’s dream, don’t you think?”

  Mimi nodded. She knew a cue when she saw one.

  Noreen took a sip of coffee. “Unfortunately, Brigid had her heart set on daisies. Ah, the injustice of it all.”

  “Well, if you don’t want the cupcakes, I’m happy to eat them instead. I can’t think of anything nicer than rosebuds.” Mimi stepped up next to her half-sister and rested her palms on the edge of the island.

  Brigid shot upright. “No, they’re mine.”

  “Brigid, there are more than enough to share.”

  Brigid screwed up her face. A sprinkling of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. “Okay, but only one.” And just to make sure she got her fair share, the eight-year-old scooped one off the plate and placed it in a small Tupperware container. She snapped the lid shut and carefully loaded it into her Hello Kitty lunchbox.

  “That’s very generous,” Mimi noted. “But, you know, I think I’ll save mine until lunch. In the meantime, how about a hello kiss? I bet one from you is even sweeter than a cupcake.” Mimi bent down and offered her cheek.

  Brigid wrapped her thin arms around Mimi’s waist then stretched her neck to plant a kiss on her cheek. “You smell yucky.”

  “Brigid, your manners. That’s no way to greet your big sister.” Noreen put her mug down on the countertop and readjusted the scrunchie holding back her ponytail. Dressed in form-hugging black yoga pants and a tight sleeveless shirt with a crisscross back, she looked ready for the gym.