On Common Ground (Harlequin Super Romance) (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I
T
WAS
THREE
IN
THE
MORNING
, and Press was running on fumes. His back ached. The muscles in his arms throbbed. Hauling kegs was not an activity for the weak. Then there were his facial muscles. Was it possible to strain facial muscles with an excess of smiling? Probably, simply, from having to respond to the constant requests—most of them polite, but some pretty snotty.
Lesson learned,
he chalked up mentally as he bent over a toilet to clean it. Alcohol, forced bonhomie and a sense of entitlement were a lethal mixture.

This was the fourth time he’d cleaned out the basement men’s room next to the pump room, and it was really starting to get to him.
How—and why—in the world could someone take off the ceramic basin of a sink and smash it on the floor?
he wondered.

“Hey, Press,” Tony said, from the doorway. “The Grantham cops are upstairs and they want to talk to you,” he announced. Then he regarded the busted sink and shook his head in disgust. “You guys have gotta be more careful. I tell you, after Reunions are over on Sunday, I’m closing the place down for a while.”

Press dumped the scrubber he was holding into a bucket. “The cops?” He tried to figure out what the cops wanted with him. It was well-known around town that there was friction between the cops and the college kids. The police thought the university students were a bunch of spoiled rich kids who believed they could get away with anything. Which, granted, was kind of true. But maybe if the cops used a little more tact in their encounters, the students might respond more diplomatically.

So now for some unknown reason he had the cops on his back. But first he had Tony to deal with. “Hey, listen, it’s not
my
fault that some alum went crazy.” He nodded in the direction of the sink.

“Well, you and your buddy were on duty, right? How did you miss all this?” Tony stomped away, clearly ticked off.

“It’s not like I’m the one who had all the fun tonight,” Press muttered under his breath. He blew air noisily out of his mouth and trudged up the stairs to the lobby. The wood-paneled room with its faded Oriental carpet conveyed a stately collegiate atmosphere. But the smell of stale beer permeated the air. And in the corner of the room, stacks of large black garbage bags bulged with plastic cups and remnants of the platters of finger food.
Animal House
was probably a more accurate description.

Two cops stood close together by the entrance, their hands on their hips and their caps on straight—all business. They had their backs to Press as he approached them.

“Can I help you, officers?” he asked politely.

The two men turned around. One kept his hands on his hips. His feet were placed apart as if ready to go on the attack.

Press focused on him, uneasy with the aggressiveness, but then something else caught his eye. A small gap had formed between the cops when they’d turned around, and Press was able to see someone else standing behind them. Someone tall, middle-aged, and looking decidedly the worse for wear.

His father.

The one word that entered his mind was unmentionable in company such as this.

The policeman to his left smiled all folksy like. “Mr. Lodge here was trying to drive home when we stopped his car,” he explained with a down-home slowness to his words.

The good cop,
Press ascertained immediately.

“Naturally, seeing as it was Mr. Lodge, we didn’t want to cause any trouble,” the cop continued. He scratched his temple by his buzz cut.

“Naturally,” Press repeated. He tried to keep his tone neutral, but inside, he was angry. “I suppose it wouldn’t look good to have a former mayor of Grantham get in any trouble?”

When Press was still young, his father had had an uncharacteristic stirring of civic spirit and had decided to run for mayor. It was about the same time his then not-quite-young-anymore wife—and Press’s mother—had been eager to assume a more prominent role in Grantham society. A Republican hadn’t won a local election in town for more than twenty years, but then a Lodge had never run for office before. It went without saying that Conrad won.

Nineteen months later he was having an affair with the new nanny—Noreen.

Four months later, he declined to run for office again.

That may all have been ancient history, but Grantham’s finest had been well schooled never to forget just who was important in town.

Press offered a curt nod of recognition to his father. Conrad overstraightened his back with the studied carefulness of someone who’d drunk far too much alcohol.

Press focused on “the good cop.” “I take it he said that I could drive him home, Officer?”

“Mr. Lodge did say there was a college student working here who could take him, but…ah…you should know that you won’t be able to use his car. He had a bit of a fender bender—took out the bumper and a front headlight after a telephone pole got a little too close.”

“Funny about those telephone poles,” Press responded.

His father seemed unaffected by the news of the accident. “I’m sure this young man will be happy to help out,” Conrad announced, his patrician lockjaw accent laid on thick.

So the hired help doesn’t even get a name, let alone an acknowledgment as being his son,
Press thought.

Tony entered the room and dropped a couple of garbage bags onto the growing pile.

Press turned to him. “Listen, Tony, I’m going to have run a quick errand.” He nodded toward the gathering at the front door.

“Yeah, well, you do that. But then you better hightail it back here to help clean up.”

Press could have easily stormed out then and there. Here he was the one doing the work—for Matt, for Tony, and helping his pathetic dad—and at the same time having to suck up to the cops. He set his jaw. “Fine. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Let me just get my car.”

“Hold on. Not so fast.” The young cop stepped up close.

Too close, as far as Press was concerned.

He sniffed loudly. “Is that alcohol I smell?”

“I haven’t been drinking. I’ve been cleaning up after everybody else who has. That’s why my clothes smell,” Press protested. He couldn’t hide his irritation.

The young cop rolled his shoulders. “Would you be willing to take a Breathalyzer test?” he asked pugnaciously.

Press counted to ten to get his temper under control. “I’m happy to take the test—now, here, wherever.”

“The kit’s in the patrol car. This way.” The cop indicated with a shake of his head. He led with his chin.

Press noticed his father, who’d propped himself up by leaning against the heavy wooden side table.
He can’t even stand up, and I’m the one who has to take the test,
Press thought with disgust.

“Do whatever you need to, Officer,” Conrad said with a tip of his head. “Meanwhile, if you don’t mind.” He indicated a chair next to the table.

“Of course, sir.”

Which only irritated Press further. Still, like a good soldier, he trotted out with the second patrolman while Mr. Mayberry RFD stayed to amiably keep his father company.

They stopped next to the squad car that was parked in the club’s driveway. In a matter of minutes, Press breathed into the tube and waited as the reading came back that he had an alcohol level of 0.0.

“I guess you’re okay—for now.” The young cop snapped out his warning.

Press didn’t bite. “If I’m going to drive Mr. Lodge home, then you’ll need to move your car.” He didn’t bother to wait for a response, but turned and headed back to the club’s small parking lot. He fished the car keys out of his pants’ pocket as he passed the line of recycling cans next to the Dumpster.

He eyed the mounds of empty wine bottles, evidence of just how good a time everyone had had that night. Everyone but him. Disgusted, Press pulled back his foot and kicked a can, kicked it hard, really hard. The plastic bin tipped over. The empty bottles clunked to the asphalt and spread across the driveway. The clatter echoed through the stillness of the wee hours.

He heard footsteps come running. Press turned. And saw the young cop take in the mess, then reach for his side. “Whoa!” Press immediately held up his hands. “I’m going to pick it all up, no problems, okay?”

The patrolman reached around behind him. And pulled out a long, thick pad. Then he started writing.

Press blinked.
What the…
“Listen, I said I’d pick everything up,” he sputtered in disbelief. And to prove his point, he bent down and righted the plastic container. That’s when he noticed that the top edge was cracked where it had banged against the pavement.

The policeman lifted his head, eyed the can a beat later and with a smirk started to write some more.

“Name? I’ll need some ID.”

Press stared at him, baffled. “Sure, sure.” He reached for his wallet in his back pocket and handed him his driver’s license.

The cop shone his flashlight on the card. He hesitated for a moment. “Lodge? Conrad Lodge III?” he asked.

Press shrugged.

The cop finished taking down the information and ripped off a sheet from the pad. He handed it to Press along with the license.

He could barely make out the faint writing under the spotlight anchored to the side of the building. “Creating a public nuisance? Destroying public property? I don’t get it. All I did was kick a garbage can.” Press looked up, holding the ticket out.

“You’ll receive a summons to appear in court in the mail,” the policeman said, his eyes narrowed. “The court date’s in two week’s time—it’s on the bottom of the ticket.”

“And my father?”

“I wouldn’t go running to daddy, if I were you.” The cop raised his chin, the beak of his cap tilted upward. The harsh light fell on his badge and the straining buttons of his uniform.

Press shifted his shoulders. “I suppose you ticketed him for DUI, too?”

The cop opened his mouth but didn’t offer a comment. Instead, he adjusted his cap and turned to get his partner.

Press watched him go. “Fantastic. My dad gets away with drunk driving while I’m arrested for nothing,” he mumbled under his breath. His only hope was that the cop was worried about his job, having issued a ticket to the Great Man’s son.

Speaking of the Great Man. Time to rescue the One and Only. Justin strode toward the parking lot. Well, Mr. I’ve-Got-A-Major-Stick-Up-My-You-Know-What policeman could rest easy. Press wasn’t about to let the old man know what had happened to him. He’d probably get
more
grief.

He started up the Beemer, and in the sanctuary of a locked car with the windows rolled up, he could finally say what he’d been thinking the whole time. “Family is more f-ing trouble than it’s worth.” Then he said a whole lot more one-syllable words not fit for family consumption.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

L
ILAH
WOKE
ON
S
ATURDAY
with a sense of dislocation—and a nagging buzz in her ear. Lying on her stomach, she lifted her head and focused with one eye. Next to her were broad shoulders and the back of a head with the sexiest bed-head hair she’d ever seen.

Oh, ri-ight,
she thought with a pleased smile. It was all coming back to her.

Unfortunately, so was the insistent tinny noise.

The shoulders next to her shifted, and she could hear a grunt. “Who would call this early?” Justin asked. He blindly fumbled for his cell phone on the side table. When he didn’t locate it, he lifted his torso and scanned the floor.

His pants. They lay in a heap just beyond fingertip reach. He stretched and hooked the waistband. Then he trolled them back to the bed like a fisherman reeling in the day’s catch.

The buzzing continued as he fumbled in his pocket and located his phone. Eyes almost closed, he pulled it out. Nothing.

And then the buzzing stopped.

He squinted at his phone and pressed a few buttons. Then he glanced across the bed. “You’re still here?” he asked with a felinelike smile. He threw his phone to the foot of the bed and rolled over, snuggling up against her.

“Yeah, you just can’t get rid of me.” She nuzzled her chin against the hollow of his neck. His skin had a divine, almost sweet smell. “Who was that?” she asked lazily.

He shook his head and she could feel his chin move back and forth over the top of her head. “Nobody. It wasn’t my phone. Come to think of it, it wasn’t even my ring tone. Probably just some random street noise.”

He shifted and pulled her up so that their heads were level. “There. That’s better.”

“Wait a minute. That must have been my phone.” Lilah started to squirm away.

He pulled her back. “Can’t it wait?”

She wiggled out of his grip and sat up on the side of the bed. “It’s just that very few people have this number, and it could be an emergency.”

“And you claim you’re worried that you’ve lost your passion for your work? I don’t think so,” he said, spreading his arms out.

He looked very tempting, but she still got up and hunted around the room, unaware that she was naked until she saw a pile of her clothes on the floor. “Oh, right.” She picked up her shirt and held it across her chest, a display of modesty that was really crazy considering what they’d done and that he had an uninterrupted view of her behind.

She tripped over her sneakers and walked through the open bedroom door to the living room. “Ah, ha,” she called out, then scampered back and scrambled into bed. She sat cross-legged and checked her voice mail, pulling the top sheet up to her neck. She relaxed immediately when she heard the message, and then pressed Reply.

“Mom, did you ring earlier?” she asked. “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up but I was in the shower.” She noticed Justin raise his eyebrows at her white lie. She shrugged.

“Yes, Lilah, I just wanted to let you know that Justin’s father is driving us to The Parade. Stanfield is going to march, too, and since he has a faculty parking sticker, we’ll be able to park on campus. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Wonderful.” What else could she say?

“And when you see Justin, could you tell him how delighted we are that he thought to get us your class outfits to wear, too?”

She glanced over at Justin. “Justin got you class outfits?”

He shimmied up next to her and tugged on the sheet.

She batted his hand away.

“Yes, they’re just wonderful!” her mother exclaimed. “We feel absolutely in the Grantham University spirit. Can you believe it from a pair of aging hippies? Stanfield didn’t buy his class blazer, but we forced him to don an orange tie as a way to show off his school colors. So we’ll meet up with you at the start of The Parade.” There was some noise in the background. “Just a minute.”

Lilah nodded in singsong fashion as she waited while her mother spoke to someone in the room with her.

Justin slipped under the edge of the sheet.

Lilah stilled.

“Lilah? Lilah? Are you there?” Her mother came back on the phone.

“Yes, Mother.” Lilah squeaked when Justin rested his hand atop one of her exposed thighs and began a slow two-finger march upward. “You’re killing me,” she whispered.

“Stanfield says to meet where your class is supposed to congregate. There’ll be some sort of sign or flag apparently.”

“No problem. See you then.”

Justin cupped his fingers between Lilah’s legs.

She rang off without waiting to hear any more. “That was my mother,” she said, closing her eyes as he rubbed gently.

He surfaced. “I gathered.” He kept rubbing until he hit a particularly sensitive spot.

“She wanted to let you know that your father is taking them to The Parade.” She breathed in deeply as a ticklish warmth traveled to her core.

“That’s nice. It leaves more time for us.” He angled her head to kiss her at the same time.

But she pulled back and covered her mouth. “I didn’t brush my teeth last night.”

“You think I really care?” He kissed her, dipping his tongue into her mouth, a subtle exploration that mimicked the resumed motion of his fingers.

The kiss ended but Lilah remained with her mouth open. “Oh, wow.” She went to put her hands behind his head when she realized she still had her phone in one hand.

She arched her back to stretch for a side table.

“Perfect positioning.” He nuzzled between her breasts.

She looked over her shoulder and somehow located the table on her side of the bed. She fumbled the phone down, and the jostling lit up the screen.

She bolted upright. “Oh, geez. It’s nine-thirty. The Parade begins at ten. I hate to be late. In fact, I’m never late.”

“Don’t worry. It never begins on time. Get a group of Ivy League graduates together, people more used to leading than following, and they find it next to impossible to line up behind each other.” He pulled her back. “Besides, a little morning frolic will only help to get us in the Old School spirit.”

“You think?” Still, she didn’t object. Far from it.

And while neither said I love you, their lovemaking was more than a culmination of animal urges, even human ones. It was more a communication that was…well…just perfect.

“
Y
OU
WERE
RIGHT
ABOUT
THIS
thing not kicking off on time.” Lilah held on to Justin’s arm for dear life. They’d arrived at the campus parking lot south of the ice-skating rink at around ten after ten. The Parade marshals were still working hard to get the classes together. She craned her head, looking for the pennant that proclaimed their class year. The oldest classes were nominally stationed up front, with the remaining classes descending in order—a loose term—all the way down to the seniors who would graduate in a few days.

Absolute bedlam was an understatement.

More than just the graduates marched. There were their families—older, younger, siblings, spouses and pets. Then there were the marching bands, a few tacky floats and some golf carts decked out in orange and black crepe paper to carry the older alums who were unable to walk the distance around campus.

Finally, she spotted their class banner and pointed it out to Justin. They pushed their way through the noisy throng. People from her class who she didn’t even remember recognized her and stopped to congratulate her.

Lilah leaned her head to Justin to speak under her breath. “Wow. Now I know what it’s like to be the belle of the ball.”

Justin squeezed her hand. “And you’re the belle-est of them all.” He raised his arm and waved. “I see them over there,” he said to Lilah, smiling, and parted the waves of people with his wide shoulders.

“Hey, kiddo. Don’t you look cute!” Her father leaned over to give her a peck on the cheek.

Lilah was convinced that he would be able tell that she and Justin had had sex, but his expression seemed sunny and uncomplicated when he straightened up.
Thank goodness.
Relieved, she gave her parents the once-up-and-down, then flapped her arms to the side and looked down at her getup.

“I never thought I’d be caught dead looking like a ninja, but I guess the rule is never say never,” she joked. Each Reunion class adopted its own uniform as a sign of solidarity. For her year the outfit consisted of loose orange pants and a matching martial arts jacket tied with a black belt.

“Excuse me, you had a very active imagination as a little girl, and you used to play dress-up and devise all kinds of imaginary scenarios,” her mother corrected. “I distinctly remember how fond you were of this particular pirate’s costume. You used to go around exclaiming, ‘Shiver me timbers,’ when anyone talked to you.” She looked at her husband, and they chuckled at the recollection.

“So you like to dress up?” Justin whispered into her ear.

“Hello, hello, hello,” Mimi swooped in. On her, a bright orange ninja outfit actually looked menacing. She surveyed the general scene before turning back to the group. “So I presume everyone was waiting for me to arrive? I’ll have you know that I have an excuse—a very good one, mind you. I came with my dad, Noreen and little Brigid, who insisted I braid her hair and attach little orange and black ribbons to the ends. Do you know how slippery little ribbons are? And then there was the production of getting out the door—making sure to go to the bathroom first, kiss every doll goodbye—you name it. And did you know that kids who are eight and under eighty pounds have to have a car seat? I remember how my mom just threw me in the trunk of the station wagon.”

“Yes, children can be a handful sometimes,” Stanfield responded.

Lilah noticed Justin clench his jaw. She slipped a hand behind him and rubbed the small of his back. She could feel the tension in his muscles. Then she shot an interested smile at Mimi. “So now you’re an expert on children?”

Mimi rolled her eyes. “Hardly—more like forced into being aware of the under-three-feet set for the first time. It’s all very puzzling, but I’m not complaining as much as I would have thought.” She frowned at this self-realization.

She held up her wrist. “Did I show you the bracelet Brigid made me?” At the same moment, her eyes drifted to Lilah and the position of her arm.

Lilah saw Mimi give her a look, then raise her eyebrows when Justin leaned closer.

“So that’s the way it is, huh?” Mimi asked Lilah.

“You can draw your own conclusions,” Lilah gave her a nonanswer. She noticed her parents and Stanfield were busy chatting about vitamin D of all things.

“Earth to Lilah,” Mimi called out.

Lilah looked at her askance. Meanwhile Justin leaned back to greet another long-lost classmate.

“This is Mimi here, sugarplum.” Mimi sidled up close. “At the risk of using a vocabulary I would never be caught dead using on camera—may I say that you two are adorable together?”

Lilah pondered how much to divulge, especially in public, even if her parents seemed oblivious to the situation. There were times—most of the time—when Mimi was not exactly tactful. She tapped Justin on the sleeve for assistance, but Stanfield got in first.

“Walt and Daphne were wondering how many seniors at Grantham High School are accepted as undergraduates each year,” Justin’s father asked him. “I don’t get involved in these matters, and I thought perhaps you could provide some perspective?” He sniffed, narrowing the nostrils of his aquiline nose.

“I can only comment on my entering year,” Justin answered. He shifted his stance to better engage in conversation with Lilah’s parents, thereby turning his back to Lilah. As he did so, he brushed her hand with his pinkie.

Mimi quickly noticed all. “So? Now that your escort is otherwise occupied, we have a moment to ourselves.” She waited.

Lilah stepped closer. “Could you keep your voice down, please?”

“Sure, sure, whatever.” Mimi lowered her voice a notch or two.

Lilah breathed in. “Okay…it’s like this. Last night, when we went to Lion Inn? By ourselves?”

Mimi nodded rapidly.

“We managed to find a quiet spot to talk.”

“There was a quiet spot at Lion Inn during a Reunions party? I can’t believe it.”

Lilah opened her eyes wide. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

Mimi rubbed her hands together. “Definitely.”

“One thing led to another. And to make a long story short, I spent the night at his place.”

Mimi whistled. “So you got lucky.”

Lilah frowned. “I really wouldn’t characterize it that way.”

“What do you mean?” Mimi homed in on her. “How else could you characterize successfully nailing the heartthrob fantasy of the Class of 2002? Good on you, girl—that’s all I can say.” Mimi bobbed her head emphatically.

“But that’s not what it’s about,” Lilah protested. That term,
nailing?
It was so not what had happened. “You know, I like to think we’ve all moved beyond the kind of scoring we did back in college,” she replied.