Читать книгу A Rare Find - Tracy Kelleher, Tracy Kelleher - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

June

Grantham

NICK©RAISED©HIS©GLASS of red wine. “To old college ties,” he toasted. “With an emphasis on the old.” He took a large sip of the Australian shiraz.

“Speak for yourself,” his host, Justin Bigelow, replied. Justin and his wife, Lilah Evans, who was also a Grantham University classmate, lived in a modest one-bedroom apartment in the center of Grantham. They called it home when they were in the States, but spent much of their time in Africa on behalf of Lilah’s nonprofit organization. Back in her senior year at Grantham, Lilah had founded Sisters for Sisters to help women and children in the central African country of Congo. Now, eleven years later, it was going strong, providing health-and-educational services in rural settlements.

“Lilah and I are as youthful as ever,” Justin chided him.

“Speak for yourself,” Lilah piped up.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with getting older. I earned my gray hairs,” Nick announced grandly.

“If you’re going to claim they’re a mark of hard-earned maturity and wisdom, don’t even try. No one with even a smattering of fully functioning brain cells would have submitted to that crazy massage.” Justin chuckled. “I loved that episode.”

“Glad to oblige.” Nick took another sip. He had lived to regret that episode in more ways than one. Not only was his neck perpetually out of whack, but people who met him for the first time inevitably brought up the massage debacle. The price of being semifamous, he told himself.

“Even back in college when you were my Residential Advisor, you were not exactly a role model. Not that I didn’t enjoy myself, of course. I still remember you orchestrating all us freshmen advisees in stealing the clapper from Grantham Hall.”

It was a well-known tradition for students to try to steal the clapper from the bell tower atop the administration building in the center of campus. This centuries-old battle between the students and the administration had led to some epic adventures and even more epic tales.

“Excuse me. I did a good job. Did you guys get caught? Hell, no. Not on my watch,” Nick boasted, and took another gulp. He really should slow down, but then, hey, he wasn’t driving. He barely needed to roll down a gentle hill to get back to his hotel.

Then there was the irritating fact that despite the easy manner with which Justin had invited him to dinner on his first night back to Grantham, he wasn’t feeling all that relaxed. There was something about returning to the scene of his first big screwup—not finishing college—that had a disquieting effect. All those parental dreams that he had squashed without a second thought.

Lilah, seated across the wooden table, shook her head. “I like that. Your definition of morality is that it’s all right as long as you don’t get caught.”

“I bet you never considered stealing the clapper, did you? I have vague memories of you being always on the forefront of whatever good cause was going around, and from the looks of things, you’ve made that your life’s work.” Nick poured himself another glass of wine and held the bottle out to Lilah. “Drink?”

Lilah laughed. “No wine for me, thanks. I’m three months pregnant.”

Nick eyed Justin. “As I recall, you always were a fast worker.” Then he turned to Lilah. “And I guess congratulations are in order. If anyone could reform a party boy, it’s you.” He picked up a fork and dug into the pasta that Lilah had just served. It followed an absolutely superb appetizer of marinated grilled eggplant.

“Yum. This is good.” Nick nodded after a large forkful. “Actually, speaking of great food, my producer’s been laying the groundwork around town for this show I’m filming, but frankly, I’ve got my number-one priority—Hoagie Palace.”

Justin passed the freshly grated Parmesan. “Oh, yeah, you gotta go to The Palace.” He used the student slang for the beloved greasy spoon in town.

“And I was hoping you’d both accompany me on my pilgrimage,” Nick said. “You know, some nice on-camera interplay of how the food conjures up certain episodes of our wild college youth.”

“Speak for yourself. The Palace for me was strictly late-night fare when writing papers,” Lilah said.

“For me it was the place to go after practice,” Justin remarked. He’d been captain of the lightweight crew.

“You know, comments like that are perfect,” Nick agreed. He took another bite. The pasta was good. More than good.

“I’m not sure I’d be the best person for your show, though,” Lilah admitted sadly. “The way my stomach is now, just the thought of all that grease is enough to make me queasy.”

“Bummer, I was viewing it as a family moment,” Justin teased her. Then he patted her arm. “Not to worry. I’ve got a great idea for somebody else. Press Lodge,” Justin announced.

“Is this someone I should know?” Nick asked.

“Remember Mimi Lodge, who was a classmate?” Justin asked. “She’s now a foreign correspondent.”

“You mean, have-war-will-travel Mimi Lodge?”

“That’s the one. Well, she has a half brother, Press, who’s a graduating senior.”

“And he’s practically been adopted by the owners,” Lilah added. “Not surprising, given his family situation.” Then she covered her mouth. “I shouldn’t be gossiping.”

“Don’t worry. Other shows deal with family strife. I’m after the food scene, and the idea of having a true insider in artery-clogging food is better than perfect. You think he’ll do it?” Nick asked.

Justin shrugged. “I don’t see why not, especially if it means publicity for Hoagie Palace.”

“I know Mimi came in today for Reunions. I’ll call her, and she’s sure to twist Press’s arm.”

“Ask her if she’ll come, too. The more the merrier.” Nick rested his fork on the edge of his plate. The pasta had been so delicious he had gobbled it down in record time.

Justin reached for more bread from the wicker basket by his elbow, then held it up. “Anyone else?”

Nick shook his head. “No, thanks, but I gotta tell you. This pasta is truly to die for. What’s in it? I mean, I can see there’s sausage—though it’s like no other sausage I’ve ever had. But what’re the greens?”

Lilah furrowed her brow in thought. “I can’t remember.” She looked to Justin. “What did Penelope say she put in it?”

“Wild fennel. She said something about foraging it somewhere near the Delaware Water Gap,” Justin explained.

Nick tipped his chair on the back two legs and craned his neck from side to side. “So where are you hiding this Penelope? This place doesn’t seem big enough to accommodate a golden retriever, let alone another person.”

It was true. The quaint apartment had lots of Victorian charm, including the bay window with a window seat and the original molding, but square footage was at a definite premium.

“It’s more like Penelope hides herself. She doesn’t exactly socialize,” Justin explained.

Lila touched her chin. “Penelope is definitely her own person.”

Justin looked at Nick. “Penelope’s a little weird. As her younger brother, I should know.”

“So she’s your sister.” Nick narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute, didn’t she go to Grantham, too? Like a year behind me? I have this fuzzy recollection of her always going around campus with her face buried in a book.”

“That would be Penelope.” Justin chuckled. “She was born almost legally blind. Even with glasses, she had to read with the book an inch from her nose. The miracle is that she’s had laser surgery, and now she doesn’t need to wear glasses anymore.”

Nick held his bloated stomach. “As far as I’m concerned, anyone who makes pasta this good can be blind as a bat. The woman’s a genius in the kitchen, that’s for sure.”

“Well, she actually happens to be a genius,” Lilah said. “And please, have some more.” She indicated the large ceramic bowl.

“I know this is the wrong thing to do, but since when have I ever turned down an opportunity to eat myself silly?” Nick reached across the table and grabbed the serving utensils. “So your sister’s become a chef?”

“No, it’s more a…a…” Justin searched for the correct word. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a hobby, but a…a…”

“It’s more a passion,” Lilah finished his sentence. “When Penelope takes an interest in something, it’s total immersion.”

“She’s into southern Italy. You know, Calabria?”

Nick started on his second portion. “Not personally, but I know the region you’re referring to.”

“Anyway, somebody left her a house there, in this dot-on-the-map town called Capo Vaticano. It’s all a bit of a mystery, especially for someone on her salary. Though I guess she rents the place out.”

Lilah rested her chin on her hands. “Well, I for one am not complaining. She let us stay there for our honeymoon. The house is in the private garden on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean.”

“And don’t forget the infinity pool.” Justin’s eyes clouded over. “When I die and go to heaven, I hope it looks like that infinity pool.”

Nick set his fork down—for him, a real concession. “From what you’re all saying, Penelope’s passions have led to some pretty good things—the house, this food…” He pointed it out. “That type of passion I can deal with. In my experience, indifference is a lot harder to cope with, believe me.”

He didn’t elaborate, nor did they ask. If they had, Nick supposed he could have made some snide remark about his ex-wife. Heaven knows, for years after their divorce he hadn’t had any problems commenting on her faults. Now, those faults had become dimmer with time, and mostly what he felt was moderate disdain or worse, nothing, when he thought about her. Which, granted, he tried to do as little as possible.

He quickly forked down another mouthful and gulped. There was definitely something about the pasta that was incredible. “So why is your sister doing whatever she’s doing instead of cooking professionally?” He looked up. “It’s gotta be another passion, right?”

“I hope so.” Justin ripped his hunk of bread into smaller pieces. “Penelope had been groomed by our father to be another Classics professor, and…well…that didn’t quite work out.” He munched thoughtfully. “For the past year, she’s been a rare-book librarian.”

“Here at the university,” Lilah added. “Which means we get lucky sometimes and get some of her cooking.”

“Well, if this pasta’s any indication of her culinary prowess, all I can say is wow.” Nick pointed at his empty plate. “Take the sausage she used. Only someone truly into cooking would take the pains to track down something that good.”

“Actually she makes it herself,” Lilah said. “But if you liked this, you should taste this other spreadable kind she makes. I can’t remember the name exactly, but it’s smoky and hot.”

“I think it’s called N-something,” Justin said. “It’s some unpronounceable word in a Calabrian dialect.”

“You don’t mean ’nduja?” Nick pronounced it instead like “endooya.” “My accent sucks, but you get the drift.”

Justin nodded. “That’s it!”

“That stuff’s legendary in southern Italy, you know. Supposedly the Calabrians concocted it in the eighteenth century while the French kings were ruling over that part of Italy. It’s essentially their version of the French andouille—you know, smoked pork sausage?”

“I learn something new every day. I guess it pays to invite a food expert to your place,” Lilah remarked. “In all sincerity, I’m glad you could come over tonight. Having said all that, can I get you to sign a copy of your book? I’ve got it right here.” She pointed to the wall of shelves and rose to get it. “And I want you to know I paid full price—no discounts.” She walked in her bare feet to the front of the room, all of five paces.

“I’d be happy to. This is what an author lives for—that, and the royalty checks.” Nick opened to the title page and began writing. “So, tell me, if I want to get in contact with your sister, Justin, what do I need to do? I presume she lives nearby.”

“Right here in Grantham,” Justin answered.

“So you think she’d be interested?” Nick handed the signed book to Lilah. “I mean, I’ve never heard of anyone being able to get ’nduja in the States, let alone make it.”

“Interested in what?” Lilah smiled as she read the message written in her book.

“You mean you want to meet her?” Justin asked. He pushed back his chair and beckoned his wife over.

“Well, that—”

“You mean for your show, don’t you?” Lilah said. She sat on Justin’s lap, squirming to get comfortable.

“Of course.”

Justin shook his head. “I’m not sure that would work. Penelope isn’t exactly a people person. Listen, I’m no professional, but from my experience teaching kindergarten, she seems to show a lot of the symptoms of Asperger’s—the mild form of autism. Not that she’s ever been diagnosed.”

Nick leaned on his elbows and opened his palms to the air. “I may not know your sister, but anyone who spends this kind of time and effort cooking a masterpiece like this—” he waved at his empty dish “—and then gives it to you no questions asked? You want my view?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “That person is definitely interacting with you on a fundamental basis. So she likes to be by herself. Hey, I’ve met a lot of people, and frankly, I can understand that. And that she doesn’t make chitchat in the normal superficial ways that, say, you or I do? In my case, that’s probably a good thing.”

He rose. “I tell you what. Why don’t you both think more about how I can get her to meet with me, and in the meantime I’ll clear and wash up. I may not be trusted to cook in a fine restaurant anymore, but I can still be counted on for my busboy and dishwasher abilities.”

Justin watched as Nick expertly lined multiple plates along the length of his arm without stacking. “Are you trying to show up my KP skills?”

“You’re just jealous,” Nick spoke over his shoulder as he turned toward the kitchen.

His cell phone started to chime in the back pocket of his jeans. He looked down. “Damn.” He juggled the dishes.

“Here, let me,” Lilah volunteered, hopping off Justin’s lap. “It’s not every day I get to come into close contact with a celebrity.”

Nick crooked his hip to offer up his back pocket.

Lilah slipped her fingers in gently.

“Now I’m jealous,” Justin kidded.

“Nothing wrong with a little jealousy.” Lilah slid the bar across the screen to activate the phone.

He cocked his head sideways against the screen. “Hello,” he answered the call, still juggling the plates.

“Daddy? I’m ba-ack!”