On Common Ground (Harlequin Super Romance) (21 page)

He’d wait and figure something out, take the summer to reevaluate and try to land a job in the fall. Anyway, he’d see Roberta tonight, and he would talk to her then. One thing was for sure, though—he wasn’t going to say anything to Lilah. He didn’t want to burst the blissful bubble the two of them seemed to be operating in now. It was too fragile, too new. He didn’t want to jeopardize something that was almost…almost unreal.

“
S
O
,
SHE
’
S
A
DOLL
.” R
OBERTA
snapped a lid on a plastic container of leftover kugel from dinner. Lilah was on the top floor studio with Roberta’s husband, Oscar, who had offered to show her the paintings he was currently working on. That meant that Roberta had Justin all to herself.

“Yeah, she’s terrific—everything I remembered.” Like one of the family, Justin was loading the dishwasher.

“But I thought you said a few days ago that she wasn’t the same?”

He looked over while he held a dinner plate. “True, there was a bit of awkwardness when we met, but now that we’ve gotten past that—it’s like going back in time, only more. Look. I get to live out my fantasy.” He leaned over and put the plate in the bottom rack.

“And that’s good?” She put the leftovers in the refrigerator.

“Excuse me—what man doesn’t want to live out his fantasies?”

Roberta laughed as she filled the sink with hot water and dishwashing liquid to clean the pot from the brisket. “Tell me, then, if your dream world’s intact, why do I sense there’s something wrong with the real one?” She donned rubber gloves and plunged the casserole dish into the soapy water. “It’s your principal, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, earlier today—he’s put the screws to me even more. I was going to talk to you about it if I had the chance.”

“So here’s your chance.”

Justin looked around for any more dirty dishes and spotted a lone wineglass on the dining room table. The ground floor of the house was an open plan, with the living room area up front, the large dining room table, and then an island separating the new kitchen from the back of the brownstone. The tall white walls were covered with Oscar’s monumental figurative paintings, and by the front bay window a music stand stood at the ready for when their violinist daughter returned for visits.

He retrieved the goblet and walked back, taking his time to think. “You know, maybe now’s not the best time after all. I think I’ll mull over the situation a little more.”

Roberta rinsed off the pot and put it in the drying rack. Then she drained out the water. “Well, you know,” she said over her shoulder, “I’m always here for you when you’re ready.”

The sound of footsteps coming down the wooden staircase could be heard.

“See, now wouldn’t have been enough time anyway,” Justin said. He glanced to the opening from the hallway and waited.

Roberta looked up. “What? You two don’t talk about these things?” She sounded perplexed. “It’s not good to hide your emotions.”

“Yes, yes, I know. It’s just…just that I don’t want anything to mar the fantasy right now, you know? It’s all so new.”

Roberta didn’t say anything.

When she still didn’t respond, Justin looked at her askance. “What? I know you’re dying to say something.”

Roberta cocked her head as her husband’s voice could be heard discussing the portrait hanging in the stairway that he’d done more than twenty-five years ago of a gardener in the Tuileries in Paris. Then she directed her gaze at Justin. “You want to know what? Well, all I can say is I’m not the artist in the family—not by a long shot—but I have learned over the years how to be a good observer. And it seems even to me that the most creative things—painting, music, literature, even life—deep down, are based on reality. Unvarnished reality. Fantasies? They tend to disappear over the long haul.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

T
HERE
WAS
NOTHING
LIKE
municipal court to dispel any sense of fantasy. Lilah had spent most of the past two weeks since Reunions in the safe cocoon of Justin’s apartment, keeping up on business, but also getting the chance to read a book and go for a run, just for fun. She hadn’t wanted anything to mar the perfection, and had even been a bit distracted when she’d gotten a call three days ago from Mimi, who’d arrived just before Noreen and Matt took off for Congo. Her friend had wanted to get together for dinner. If Mimi had been put out that she’d had to share her friend with Justin, she’d done a good job of keeping it under wraps.

When she’d offered a good-night hug after pizza, Mimi had whispered, “I’m so happy you’re happy—really.”

And Lilah had relaxed. Until today.

Grantham Borough Hall was located at the end of Main Street, a sixties stone box elevated to some grandeur by placing it up a shallow span of marble steps. In front was a public sculpture commemorating some Revolutionary War heroes, a massive bas-relief that romanticized and sanitized the action. Below, a tasteful border of perennials offered abeyance, and a wide lawn stretched to the road. Grantham residents might have to pay for water and garbage pickup, and their fire department was strictly volunteer, but for their local property taxes they got a picture-perfect municipal space.

Justin was able to accompany Lilah to the afternoon session on the Thursday because school was only a half day, in anticipation of graduation on Friday.

They passed through the metal detector outside the entrance to the courtroom, then went inside, circling around a false wall that partitioned off the rows of seating.

They grabbed two seats toward the front, and Lilah scanned the room. In front on a raised dais was the seating for the judge, recording secretary and various members of the police department. A low fence separated that area from several tables. Again, there was another policeman—Lilah recognized the younger eager-beaver cop in her case—as well as what appeared to be the prosecutor. He had a stack of files in front of him and a line of people waiting to speak to him.

The rows of seats were more than two-thirds full with stunned-looking people, most holding a summons. Some were chatting softly with well-dressed men sitting next to them. Municipal Court appeared to know no boundaries when it came to the type of people there: young, old, poor, well-to-do, white, black, Asian, moms and business-types. Lilah felt as if she was in an alien world, that even though she spoke the same language and nominally knew her rights, she didn’t quite know the rules.

Then she saw the older man who hit her car standing in line to talk to the prosecutor. Next to him was a younger woman—the family resemblance was unmistakable—dressed in a business suit and carrying a briefcase.

“I wonder if I should have gotten a lawyer,” she said over her shoulder to Justin.

“Why? You were the one who was rear-ended. For the life of me, I can’t even figure out why they wanted you to come,” he said. He was content to stretch out his legs and close his eyes after an intense morning of teaching. Justin had explained that by the end of the school year, the kids were totally wired, ready for summer vacation to begin.

Lilah continued to note the crowd. Her attention came to rest on an unexpected face. She blinked, then nudged Justin. “Hey, isn’t that Press Lodge sitting to the left, at the end of our row?” she whispered and nodded in Press’s direction.

Justin glanced over his shoulder. “That’s him.”

Lilah leaned forward to stare at Mimi’s half brother again. He had on a blue blazer, standard white shirt and tie. His jaw was set rigidly, his eyes darting around the front of the room.

“Try not to be so obvious, okay? It doesn’t look like it’s the kid’s best day,” Justin admonished her.

Lilah sat up straight. “You’re right. I wonder what’s wrong. And did you happen to see the two people sitting next to him? I swear they look familiar.”

Justin was looking straight ahead and didn’t respond.

Lilah nudged him again with her elbow.

He ducked his head down. “Oh, all right.” He reached for the bottom ribbing of his crewneck sweater and pulled it over his head, leaving his wrinkled Oxford cloth shirt exposed. He twisted around to lay it over the back of his chair and sneaked a peek. Then he straightened around and said softly to Lilah, “Those are the owners of Hoagie Palace—Angie and Sal.”

“You’re kidding me.” Lilah went to turn around again, but Justin rested his hand on her leg. In honor of going to court and not completely sure what it would entail, she’d dressed for the occasion in her dark blue pants suit.

“Okay, I get it,” she said at the feel of his hand. “I just hope he isn’t in any real trouble.”

“I doubt it,” Justin responded. “If he were, don’t you think his father would have come, too?”

“I
CAN
’
T
THANK
YOU
ENOUGH
for being here,” Press said to Angie. Her husband, Sal, sat on Press’s other side. “Coming here in the middle of the afternoon must have been a big inconvenience.”

Angie patted his leg. “You’re family. Family always comes first,” she assured him. “And it’s good you got the lawyer like Sal told you. You should never come to court without a lawyer.” An old man, sinewy trim, in a well-cut blazer and orange-and-black rep tie sat on Sal’s other side.

“Yeah, I got his name from some other members of Lion Inn. Apparently, Mr. Costen has a lot of experience defending Grantham students in cases around town.” Press leaned forward to speak with the attorney. “I brought my checkbook with me to pay you,” he said.

“No need until this is all over, Press.” Bruce Costen gave him a friendly smile.

“And put that checkbook away,” Angie scolded him in a friendly way. “We’ve already been through this. Sal and I will cover you, and then you’ll pay us back later on. The city is very expensive, and I don’t want you starving in New York this summer on your internship.” Her New Jersey accent stretched out the
o
in New York and swallowed the
r.

“Press, just to bring you up-to-date,” Bruce politely interrupted. “I’ve already met with the prosecutor, given him your résumé and the list of community activities you’ve participated in. Very impressive, I must say. In my day at Grantham, we didn’t do much besides go to class and have a good time.” He winked at Sal. “But those were the old days, right?”

Sal nodded philosophically. He sat with his arms crossed, his upper arms bulging in his short-sleeved shirt. Sal didn’t do much of the short-order cooking anymore, but he still had a stevedore’s body from years of hauling boxes and crates of produce. “Press is a good boy. I still don’t think he should plead guilty to the charges just because some punk cop wants to throw his weight around.”

“It’s a no-win situation, as I explained earlier,” Bruce said. “It boils down to his account of the incident versus Press’s version, and the court—no matter how unfair it may seem—invariably sides with the police. In any case, I’ve already worked out a community service deal with the prosecutor, and I’m pretty sure we should be able to waive a fine. This judge is pretty straight. Then, when Press has completed the hours, I’ll move to get the whole thing expunged from your record. That way everyone will save face and Press shouldn’t suffer any long-term circumstances.”

Sal shook his head. “What a way to run a system.”

“I’m a little concerned about the community hours if I’m in Manhattan this summer,” Press confessed in a low voice.

“You should be able to fit it in on weekends,” Bruce reassured him. “And I’ll make sure the judge gives you enough time.”

As if on cue, the bailiff announced, “Court is in session. Everyone rise for the Honorable Judge Helen Freyman.”

There was a general shuffling of feet, some murmurs, and when everyone had sat down again, the judge ran through the procedures and rights. “Luckily, today, we don’t have a completely full afternoon docket, so we should be able to get everyone done,” the judge announced. She looked to the bailiff, and he called the first case.

Press stared down at his hands. When he’d glanced around the room, he was pretty sure he spotted Mimi’s friend Lilah Evans. Great. That was all he needed—to have word get back to his old man. Maybe he could catch her before she left and explain how he wanted to keep this quiet.

Press knew he had screwed up, and he was determined to handle it himself. But when Angie had caught him down in the dumps last week when he’d come in for a hoagie, he hadn’t been able to hold back. And being Angie, she’d immediately phoned Sal and they sat down and talked to him. “Yes, it’s stupid, Press, but we’ll get through this. It will be a good story to tell your grandchildren.”

Like he was ever going to have children, let alone grandchildren. Not when he knew how messed up families really were.

And when he’d gotten the name of a lawyer, they’d let him deal with him directly—“It’s your responsibility, son,” Sal had said. “We’re just here for you.” In the same way they had insisted on paying the fee, a godsend truly since while Press might come from a well-to-do family, his allowance was miserly at best. “Having to stretch a dollar builds character,” his father liked to say. This as he sat in his custom-made suit smoking one of his fancy cigars.

Whatever. Now he sat there and listened as the judge introduced each case, followed by the attorney for the defendant, and then the prosecutor having his say. It was like a well-rehearsed dance, and it would have been even more interesting if he wasn’t as nervous as hell.

“I
NEVER
KNEW
YOU
COULD
argue away a speeding ticket,” Lilah said to Justin.

He glanced at her. “You get many speeding tickets?”

“Never.”

“Then I don’t think you have to worry.”

“But why don’t they tell you these things? If more people knew, don’t you think they’d come to court to get the charges lowered and make sure they didn’t get points on their license?”

Justin stared glassy-eyed at the front of the courtroom where the umpteenth traffic case was dispensed of. “I get the feeling more people know than you think,” he said.

Press’s case was called, and Lilah listened to the proceedings with rapt attention. “Oh, my God, that’s the same idiot cop who’s made me come to court,” she whispered.

Justin looked at her askance. “What did you expect? Grantham is a small town and the police force only so big.”

She moved closer. “Poor Press. I can’t believe he was charged for kicking a can.”

“It’s not fair, but nobody ever said the law was fair.”

Lilah was shocked. “But it’s unjust. I can’t believe it. How can you?”

He gave her a jaded look. “This is New Jersey…anything’s possible. And students versus the cops in Grantham…well…we all know there’s no love lost on either side. If his attorney recommended he plead guilty, he probably thought it was the most painless way to end the whole incident.”

“But we’re supposed to have a justice system that other countries look up to. Painless shouldn’t be the criterion for decision-making,” she protested.

“Well, consider this. At least he can afford a lawyer. A lot of people in this room can’t.”

Another naive balloon had just burst. “It’s eye-opening, that’s all I can say.” And why wasn’t Justin more outraged, she wondered. He seemed to accept what was doled out as a given, accept the rationalizations inherent in the system. If she were Press, she would have pleaded not guilty and argued her case.

P
RESS
AND
HIS
LAWYER
stood at the railing in front of the judge. Bruce had already explained the events and entered a plea of guilty.

When he finished, the judge looked perplexed. “I’m confused. Is the recycling bin destroyed?” She turned to the officer in question.

“It sustained a crack in the top,” he replied formally.

Press struggled to keep quiet.

“But it’s still in use, then?” she asked again.

Bruce spoke softly to Press, who gave him the information. “Yes, Your Honor, it is.”

The judge rested her chin on her hand. She had short curly hair, and beneath her robes she wore a bright pink top. “In any case, Mr. Lodge is still responsible for whatever damage was incurred.” She paused before looking at Press’s lawyer. “Could you explain one other thing that seems to be absent from the testimony? Was there a reason the police approached Mr. ah—” the judge looked at her paperwork “—Lodge in the first place?” She looked up over her half glasses.

“If it please the court, I think I can shed light on the reason.” A magisterial male voice spoke up from the back of the room.

The judge raised her chin. Everyone else turned around to gawk at the source. Press didn’t need to turn to know who had spoken.

Conrad stepped forward. “I’m Conrad Lodge III.”

“Certainly we all recognize our former mayor,” the judge responded.

“And the reason the police were at Lion Inn was because they had brought me there. I was intoxicated and in no shape to drive. I informed them that I’d be able to get a ride from someone in the building. It was quite late, and it was clear that Press had been working very hard all evening. The last thing he needed was to be his father’s babysitter.”