Читать книгу The Company You Keep - Tracy Kelleher, Tracy Kelleher - Страница 15

CHAPTER SIX

CONRAD LODGE SAT in his usual leather armchair in the study of the Lodge mansion on Singleton Road, the thoroughfare that led into the “right” side of town. One-hundred-year-old sycamores shaded the sidewalks. Tall brick and stone walls and wrought-iron fences with security boxes guarded the magisterial homes, including the residence of New Jersey’s governor.

“So how does she look?” Conrad asked. He cupped a cut-crystal tumbler with the finest single malt whisky, resting on a coaster featuring the Grantham University crest. In his other hand, he held a newly lit cigar. A red circle of flame shone around the gray ash center.

“How does she look?” Press repeated wearily. How about how do I look? This was the first he had laid eyes on his father since coming back to Grantham. His flight had gotten in around three in the afternoon. And by the time he had caught the train down and gotten a taxi home, it was after five. After five—but still several hours before Conrad’s train was due in from Manhattan.

He had no sooner gotten home than he’d received a message from his father’s assistant to pick up Mimi at Grantham Junction station.

So, there Press stood, zonked out from jetlag and the crazy fourteen-hour time difference between the U.S. and Australia, enduring a cross-examination from his father. Did the old man think to ask how his flight was? If his planes had been crowded? On time? Let alone how his work was going in Melbourne?

Of course not.

His father had never asked him about anything that Press cared about. Business and Grantham—that’s all he could talk about. “Why don’t you go out for football at Grantham, the way I did?” his father had instead asked critically. “Why don’t you talk to my friend at such-and-such investment firm about a summer internship? Do something real with your life.”

All his life, Press figured he’d been a failure to his father’s way of thinking. No, it was worse than that. It was more like his father didn’t think of him at all.

Though Press had never gotten the impression that Dear Old Dad cared one whit for Mimi, either. Still, it had been on his father’s marching orders that Press had returned for Reunions and to come and visit his sister. Truth be told, he would have returned anyway, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his father. One, because Press didn’t like to give him any satisfaction that they might be thinking along the same lines. God forbid! And two, this way his father had paid for the flight. Considering the cost of living in Australia, not to mention the sky-high price of the airfare, Press would have had to forego food in order to pay for the trip.

So he just rubbed his bloodshot eyes and mumbled, “She looks like you’d expect.” Press might not be a “real Lodge man,” but he had learned over the years that mouthing off provided only temporary satisfaction at best.

“Speak up, Prescott,” Conrad ordered.

Press looked up. “She’s kind of jumpy, but otherwise not too bad.”

Conrad rested his cigar in a green Venetian glass ashtray. “No outbursts of anger?”

Press shrugged. “No more than usual. Mimi’s never been exactly nonconfrontational.”

“She didn’t mention difficulties sleeping, eating, show difficulties concentrating, did she?”

“If I had known that my job involved making clinical observations, I would have taken notes.”

“There’s no need for insolence. You don’t seem to grasp the severity of the traumatic situation your sister’s been through.”

“I know she had it pretty rough. I’m not totally insensitive, you know.” He dug his hands in his jeans pockets. He felt his phone, a reminder that he was already late to meet Amara and Matt.

Anyway, like he’d ever admit to his father how he’d scoured the internet during his half-sister’s captivity. He’d even joined chat groups with Eastern European members with the hopes of obtaining some inside information that didn’t make it to the regular news media. That involvement, though, had scared him more than anything.

Just before his graduation last year, Mimi had told him that she was setting up an interview with some Chechen rebel. He’d known it was important to her—even more important than the other stories she’d covered. This one had been personal. Family. Her mother’s family.

Then he had waited—for her to return from her interview. Only, she hadn’t. He’d been worried sick for her. But he’d also felt sorry for himself. He knew it was selfish, but he couldn’t help it. Because he realized—if he lost Mimi, he’d lose the only touchstone he had to a real sense of family.

Now, standing in his father’s dark paneled study, he caught his father gazing off into space. If he didn’t know better he’d say the man appeared consumed by his own demons. Though the more likely explanation was indigestion or alcoholic haze.

Whichever, he wasn’t about to stick around. “So, if there’s nothing else? I came home to grab a shower before I meet up with some friends.” Press fisted his hands.

Conrad took a healthy swallow from his drink and returned his gaze to his son. “God forbid we get in the way of your social life. So, if I may be so bold as to ask—where is your sister?”

“We stopped off at Hoagie Palace because Mimi wanted to, and she ran into someone she knew from college who lives in town.”

“Not Lilah Evans? Noreen told me this morning that she and Lilah were involved in some kind of Board meeting today for Sisters for Sisters, their nonprofit organization, and then a dinner afterward. That’s why I have made arrangements to eat at the Grantham Club this evening.” He hesitated. “Though perhaps Noreen got her dates confused, in which case I wonder where she might be.” He nervously turned his cigar in the glass tray, knocking off the burnt ash.

If Press didn’t know better, he’d think his father sounded worried. “I don’t know anything about meetings or dinners. And it wasn’t Lilah. It was some guy.”

“Some guy?” His father drew out the second word. “Does this guy have a name?”

“Vic. Vic Golinski—the ex-football player.”

His father arched one brow and smiled. He savored a sip of whiskey and followed it with a few puffs of his cigar. The smoke curled upward from the tip.

Then, after a long moment, he glanced dismissively at his son. “You may leave then to do whatever it is you’re so hot on doing.” He made it sound dirty.

Press’s lip curled. Just being in the same room as his father made him feel dirty. He didn’t waste any time crossing the carpet to the door. He reached for the brass door handle, then stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, sir.” He couldn’t resist.

His father looked up.

“Don’t bother to thank me for coming.”