On Common Ground (Harlequin Super Romance) (7 page)

“Excuse me, there may be more to her, but as tacky as this sounds, most men would say that Noreen more than fulfills all the necessary requirements in the meets-the-eye department.” Justin jerked his head back and forth. “What? I’ve met her at parent-teacher conferences, okay?” he said.

Lilah slanted him a frown. He shrugged.

Vivian accepted his comment, though, with a sly laugh. “You’re right. Conrad, the old coot, is very lucky to have her. That’s all I can say. And between you and me—” she leaned forward “—he’ll be lucky to keep her.”

As opposed to the usual turn of events with Mimi’s dad,
Lilah thought, but she kept this evaluation to herself.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I insisted that we sit together for lunch. I wanted to hear more about your plans,” Vivian went on, changing the subject swiftly. She waved behind her at the cluster of round tables laden with silverware and draped in white damask. “Naturally, I couldn’t shake President Forsgate. But he’s not a bad sort really. Who would have thought astrophysicists could be so charming?”

“They must be somewhat romantic if they spend their days looking at the stars,” Justin observed. “At least he doesn’t pretend to be a longtime fan of Grantham football.”

Vivian laughed and studied him slyly. “Like someone we could mention from our days. I like that. Anyway, you know what they say about choosing an Ivy League president?”

“No, I can’t say it comes up in conversation on a regular basis,” Lilah admitted. She let her eyes wander to the intricately braided frog closures on Vivian’s suit, and silently wondered how many months’ rent it would take to buy the outfit.

Vivian looked at Justin. “Any thoughts?”

“This sounds suspiciously like a question that requires a drink first. Are you sure I can’t get you something stronger?” he asked Lilah, and when she shook her head, he headed off to corral the strolling waiter.

Lilah watched him from behind, admired, really. She couldn’t help it.

Vivian did, too. “This is a terribly sexist thing to say and probably very inappropriate, but just between you and me—beneath that ill-fitting blazer, he does appear to have a very nice butt, don’t you think?” She sighed and turned to Lilah. “Now, where were we?”

“Ivy League presidents?” Lilah prompted. Was that a pang of jealousy she felt?

“Yes, well, here’s someone who can answer the question, I have no doubt.” She hooked one of her long arms into the elbow of a passing gentleman who was slightly bent over, either from the first signs of osteoporosis or from sitting at a desk all day.

“Professor,” Vivian chirped, and after pinning him to her side, planted a large kiss on his sallow cheek. “I’m so happy you could make it. I insisted that you be at my table.”

She turned to Lilah. “The professor here was my advisor on my senior paper. Who knew a thesis on Helen of Troy would be such good training for business leadership? But tell me. I’m sure you know the answer to my riddle. What should an Ivy League president always be?” she asked.

“The person needs to be an alumnus
or
alumna of that particular institution. Otherwise they just don’t understand the ethos. They are doomed to feel inferior, hence the need to overcompensate,” he said with the unquestioned wisdom of the Oracle of Delphi.

“You see.” Vivian pointed a finger and her by-now empty glass at Lilah. “The classics, and a classic professor, are always relevant.”

“The classics are timeless, regardless of funding and the dwindling number of majors,” he agreed with the utmost sincerity. “As I keep trying to tell our new president,” he added with a hint of criticism. He straightened his wire-rimmed glasses, the smudged lenses only partially concealing a pair of watery blue eyes.

There was something strangely familiar about the man that Lilah couldn’t put her finger on. Maybe a ten-year-old memory of him, a distant figure traipsing across the campus, books and notes under one arm, head bent, mouth moving in silent, scholastic muttering?

“But surely Ted understands that? He did get a degree from Grantham after all. He understands the value of a liberal-arts education—there’s no question about that.”

“His PhD is from Grantham. His undergraduate degree is from Dartmouth.” The pronouncement seemed to say it all as far as the professor was concerned.

“But everyone seems so enthusiastic about his appointment, myself included,” Vivian countered.

“Don’t be won over by the lure of large government grants for scientific research.
Cave pecuniam,
” he added knowingly.

“Beware of money?” Lilah asked, frowning.

“Exactly. You studied Latin, young lady?” The professor peered at Lilah with sudden interest.

“Unfortunately, no. I just know some French,” she said modestly.

Vivian put a hand on Lilah’s shoulder. “How rude of me. Lilah Evans, our alumna of the year, may I introduce you to a fellow Granthamite, class of ’68, and the Vivian Pierpont Distinguished Professor of Classics—Stanfield Bigelow.”

“Bigelow?” Lilah asked.

Justin skirted in behind her. “Did I hear someone page me?”

Lilah stared at him and then rotated toward the older man to her right. “Actually, I was just being introduced to—”

Justin narrowed his eyes. “Hello, Father. Fancy meeting you here.”

CHAPTER TEN

J
USTIN
SAT
AT
THE
SMALL
TABLE
silently nodding and smiling only when necessary. Inside, he was having a regular hissy fit. But immature anger wasn’t the only emotion. Insecurity. Inferiority. All those lovely juvenile neuroses that you were supposed to grow out of sometime after the advent of facial hair.

Justin stared at the tiramisu parfait confronting him and decided to pass in favor of two cups of tepid black coffee.

After his phone conversation with Roberta, he had actually been feeling pretty good about himself. Convinced that the run-in with his principal was nothing to stew about. He reminded himself that, after all, he was free for a few days, free to forget about work and teaching. He could concentrate on what had been his plan all along—to rekindle…no, that was the wrong word…
kindle
was more accurate—yes, kindle a relationship of some sort with the engaging and enthusiastic woman he had remembered so clearly. In fact, he could have described her in detail with his eyes shut.

Now his eyes were open. And even though Lilah sat across from him at the round table, she wasn’t the woman of his memories. The politely attentive Lilah that he now saw sat ramrod-straight in a charcoal-gray suit and had both feet, shod in leather flats, firmly on the floor. He could overhear as she forcefully articulated stories about her work, but gone were the wild hand motions of her younger, more passionately involved days, replaced instead by the occasional open palm a discreet inch away from her water glass.

Still, he couldn’t let go of that memory. Surely it was buried beneath the professional demeanor just waiting to burst forth. Maybe if she could loosen up? He could tell she was under a lot of pressure to make things happen for her foundation. She had already made it clear that that was the only reason she’d come back to Grantham. And coming back, well, it probably brought back her own memories of Stephen. What a shnook. Didn’t he know that in Lilah he’d lost the best thing to ever happen to him?

Well, if there was one thing Justin knew, it was how to make a woman relax and enjoy herself. Sure, he was a bit rusty. But how different could it be from getting five-year-olds to stand in line without kicking each other or fighting over exchanging the latest Silly Bandz? Reaching for his water glass gave him an excuse to lean forward to try to catch what Lilah was saying to Vivian and the university president so that he might enter the conversation with some witty rejoinder.

That’s when he noticed that he still had a few of the brightly colored rubber bracelets, or Silly Bandz, stretched around one wrist. His usual solution to fighting over “nonsharing” as he euphemistically called it, was to temporarily confiscate the materials until both parties apologized. As surreptitiously as possible he slipped them off.

“Part of your new fashion statement?” the critical-sounding voice to his left asked him.

Justin looked across to his father as he stuffed the bracelets in his jacket pocket. “Just something left over from school,” he said. There was no point in trying to explain about the latest children’s fad because his father’s idea of fun was limited to memorizing reams of ancient texts.

“Frankly, I’m surprised to find you here at lunch,” his father said.

“Almost as surprised as I was to see you, too,” Justin replied. “I thought you and Mother were on sabbatical in Rome now that the Vatican Library had reopened after renovations. And I was working under that miconception when the alumni office told me that Lilah’s parents were planning on coming to the ceremonies, but that there were no more hotel rooms available. Given the desperate circumstances, I volunteered to let them stay at your house—my place is so small. But now that you’re back, I can change the arrangements.”

They shared a silence while the chatter went on at the other side of the table.

“Don’t be silly. I am only back for a few days at the invitation of Vivian. The development office is anticipating a large donation on her part, and they wanted a show of hands, so to speak. In any case, we will return in late July after a small side trip to Oxford. At that time, I’m sure your mother would love to see you for dinner,” Stanfield said. He dug his spoon into the Italian dessert, spearing a large piece of ladyfinger and a mound of cocoa and creamy pudding center. Swallowing with relish, he dug in for another bite. Dinners at the Bigelow manse were never a relaxed occasion.

Justin debated telling his father that a bit of custard had caught on the corner of his mouth. The recalcitrant child in him—there seemed to be no limit to his childishness today—had him holding his tongue. “I’ll be sure to call Mother,” he said instead, knowing he’d probably forget.

“I spoke to your sister, Penelope, last week on Skype. Amazing this new technology and how it simplifies overseas communication.”

Justin interpreted that tidbit of information as veiled criticism of his own lack of communication with his parents. “I’m glad to know she stays in touch.” His sister and father probably traded insights into their latest research into Plutarch or Thucydides. Penelope had followed in their father’s footsteps and was an assistant professor of classics at the University of Chicago. He debated whether a third cup of coffee was overkill.

“How’s the…ah…t-t-time you spend with our local youngsters going?” Stanfield asked. His one-year postdoctoral appointment at Oxford had left him with the rarified stutter that characterized the dons and students from that esteemed place of higher learning.

Justin viewed that statement as
less
-than-veiled criticism. Anyone who was involved with learning at a preuniversity level simply didn’t make the grade in his father’s opinion, he figured. “You’re not working hard enough, not concentrating. Anyone should be able to read,” Stanfield used to lecture Justin when he was in elementary school.

Even back then Justin knew “anyone” meant “anyone who is a son of mine.”

“If you spent half the time you do biking up to Antonelli’s Garage in Easton and hanging out with those grease monkeys…”

Justin knew his father would have denied all accusations that he was a social snob.

“If you gave the same effort to your books as you do to the rowing club…”

His father’s idea of athletic exertion was to pull out the push lawn mower on arbitrary occasions, and mow their patch of front lawn wearing dark socks with old blue sneakers.

“I don’t understand it. Your teachers claim that you are of above-average intelligence, but as far as I can tell…”

What do mere elementary school teachers know?
was the underlying translation.

And by inference now, what did he know in his current job as a kindergarten teacher?

Justin finally responded to his father’s question about his work. “It’s called teaching, Father,” he said simply.

Across the table, Justin became immediately aware of Lilah folding her napkin.

“You must understand that I didn’t—”

Then he saw her push back her chair. “Hold it, Father,” Justin said out of the side of his mouth.

His father lifted his spoon. “But I wanted to pass on some information about Penelope.”

Justin looked down at his father, pleased with the vantage point. “I tell you what, Father. When you get back to Rome, Skype me. You’re such a fan of it. In the meantime, duty—and Lilah—calls.”

L
ILAH
SLIPPED
HER
BAG
OFF
the back of her chair and stood. The luncheon had not been nearly as painful as she had anticipated. Vivian was larger than life, literally—but in a good way, full of enthusiasm for Sisters for Sisters and brimming with suggestions for potential donors. Lilah should have felt pumped. She didn’t.

She felt overwhelmed and guilty—guilty at being overwhelmed. Guilty that she was letting down Esther and all the other Congolese women she’d met or who needed her help.

And right now they probably deserved someone better and less jaded than she was.

Oh, she was a good girl. She always had been—doing all her homework on time, standing when older people came into the room and paying all her bills on time—when she had the cash, that is. She hated to think about the balance on her credit card at the moment.

So, no matter how deep her funk, she would trudge on and do the right thing. Write the grants, fight the good fight, not let on to her daily fears that the job was just too big for her and that she would fail her parents, all the Esthers of the world, and never meet the expectations of others, like Vivian, who believed in her.

If only they knew…

“You’re not going to have your tiramisu?” Professor Bigelow waggled an index finger toward her untouched portion.

“Unfortunately, I really have to get going. I’m supposed to pick up my dad at Newark Airport. But it’s a shame to have it go to waste.” She picked up the saucer with the parfait cup and passed it in his direction. “Surely, I can tempt you.”

“I’ll go with you then,” Justin offered.

Lilah glanced over the centerpiece of orange gerberas and saw him standing. She noticed for the first time that the tiny repeated pattern on Justin’s tie was orange flowers, too. What kind of a man wore ties with flowers on them and still looked so…so…manly? She averted her eyes from his tie and concentrated on his chin. She saw he had a tiny nick on the underside from shaving. It was a very nice chin, slightly indented, firm jawline....

“I’d take the tiramisu, if I were you,” Vivian announced to Stanfield.

Lilah shook her head. “No need to come. I’ve made arrangements for a rental car already.”

“Then at least let me drive you to the agency,” he insisted.

Vivian liberated the plate from Lilah’s hand to pass to Justin’s father.

“I could almost do with a second helping myself,” President Forsgate said with a chortle.

Lilah refocused on Justin. And noticed for the first time that his eyes were a smudged, smoky gray, the color of pussy willows. She opened her mouth, closed it, then started to speak again. “There’s no need for you to go out of your way. I’ll just get—”

“A taxi? Don’t even think about it. As your host—” Justin added.

“You’ve already provided—” she continued.

“On second tasting, interestingly, it makes me think this dessert may actually be zuppa inglese, the Tuscan dessert as opposed to a tiramisu, which is a Venetian confection,” Stanfield said, studying his spoon.

“Not nearly enough assistance,” Justin finished her words.

“I always wondered what the etymology of zuppa inglese was,” Vivian admitted with a frown.

Lilah looked around the table. President Forsgate, Vivian and Justin’s father all seemed deep in conversation while peering at their dessert cups. She saw Justin take in the scene, as well.

“I didn’t touch mine, either, if you’re still hungry?” he offered.

The other three looked up. “What does this mean when neither of the young folk eat dessert?” his father asked.

“Or is it just these two particular young folks? After all, we don’t have a statistical sampling,” President Forsgate noted.

“Trust a scientist to make that observation. You’re right, of course,” Stanfield had to agree.

“Well, I’m happy to have it.” Vivian held out her hand. “And as to their similar habits, I can add further information. You see, he’s a friend of a friend,” she explained, pointing her spoon from one to the other.

The president tilted his head. “And here I thought there might be something more.”

It was all getting too confusing. Lilah quickly offered her hand to say goodbye. “Not in the least. And you can tell there’s nothing between us because he didn’t even clean out his car before picking me up.”

Justin’s father looked up from dissecting his second dessert. “On the contrary. It’s quite significant that he let you
in
his car at all.”