The Company You Keep (10 page)

“Knowing you, I can believe it,” Press teased her. He waved a hand in her general direction. “I like your hair that way, too.”

She swung her head back and forth, her thick chestnut hair skimming her shoulders. “Yeah, it’s easier with it shorter, plus I can still tie it up when I’m studying and stuff. Otherwise I end up looking for split ends the whole time.”

“That’s why I cut my hair shorter, too,” Press joked.

Amara pushed him with her shoulder. She wore a tank top and a faded jeans skirt that cupped her bottom. The bare skin of her tanned arm brushed up against his T-shirt.

Press almost groaned. Actually, Amara
had
grown up a lot in one year. And he wasn’t just saying that because of what she was wearing—though things had changed there, as well. No, she looked more confident, more cheerful. Gone were any remnants of her Goth days—the dyed black hair, the oversize black clothes dragging on the ground. Though he was glad to see she still had multiple silver hoop earrings in each ear and purply-black polish on her nails.

“I can’t believe I’m seeing you, though. I mean, I didn’t even know you were planning on coming to Reunions.”

“I wasn’t.”

Amara looked perplexed. “You suddenly got nostalgic? I can’t believe that. You were so hot to get out and see the world. I’d never thought you’d return to Grantham.”

“It’s kind of complicated. Part of it has to do with my half-sister Mimi.” He wasn’t about to talk about the other part—seeing her.

“Oh, gosh, yes. Her kidnapping was just awful. You must have been out of your mind with worry.”

Worry didn’t begin to describe the agony he had suffered through.

Amara breathed in deeply. “I made my dad promise he would never go to Chechnya for one of his shows.” Amara’s dad was Nick Rheinhardt, a celebrity chef and travel writer who had a show on cable television. After last year’s Reunions, he was also Penelope’s fiancé. “But she’s okay now, right?” Amara rattled on at lightning speed.

“I guess. I don’t really know. She just dumped me earlier at Hoagie Palace for some dude from her class at the university, so she can’t be feeling all that bad.”

“Oh, good. Hearing what happened to her made me jumpy about all the time Matt was in Congo. At least he’s going to Sierra Leone for his Peace Corps stint. He claims that’s safer, but still… He’s so dedicated, determined to make a difference in the world. You know what I mean?”

“We can’t all be saints,” Press commented. Matt might be the closest thing he had to a friend in the world, but somehow he’d be just as happy if he didn’t show up tonight. He looked around. “So where is the Albert Schweitzer of our generation anyway?”

He scanned the quadrangle. Bluestone paths dissected the grass and dogwoods sheltered against the gray stone walls of the Gothic buildings. The area was empty except for the students sticking around to work for Reunions. Black-and-orange banners with the years of various graduating classes hung from the second-floor crenellated balconies. Come this weekend, every room would be filled with returning alums.

“I thought I was the one running late,” Press added.

“Didn’t you get his text about having dinner with the Board of Sisters to Sisters?”

“No, I guess I missed that one.” How come Matt had texted Amara and not him?

“He promised to be here as soon as he could get away. But if I know Matt, he’ll stay until the last morsel, especially since Babička insisted on wining and dining everyone at her house.” Babička, the Slovak term for grandmother, referred to Matt’s stepmother’s grandmother. It was kind of complicated, but seemed to work for him.

“Babička’s an amazing cook. We’ll be lucky to see him at all.”

Amara laughed. “I know.”

“You know?”

“Yeah. When Matt was home for spring break, he invited me to eat with the whole family at her house. It was amazing. I still remember the plum cake. Oh, my God.” She gripped her stomach. “I think I gained ten pounds I ate so much. I remember I was on the treadmill like crazy the next week.”

Whereas Press remembered Matt telling him about the significance of plum cake in Slovakian celebrations—and how it played a part in getting his dad and Katarina, Matt’s stepmom, together—or so Babička had claimed.

She grabbed him by the arm. “Speaking of plum cake, I forgot to tell you. After I told my dad all about the meal she made, he decided to film an episode of his TV show in Slovakia. In fact, he invited me to come along as an intern on the show. Honestly, I’m not really interested in production and everything, but Penelope’s going to come along, too—apparently the library in Bratislava has this amazing collection of Islamic manuscripts that of course she knows everything about. So I figured why not? Then afterward we’ll all go down to Penelope’s house in Calabria where I’ve got my fingers crossed that maybe she will agree to marry my father sometime soon. He is
so
desperate to slip a ring on her finger before someone else steals her away.”

Press liked the idea of Amara getting out of town. “It sounds like you’ll have a pretty cool summer, then. Only I guess since you won’t be working on campus this summer, you won’t be able to see Matt before he takes off.” He tried to sound sincere.

“Actually, that’s the really cool part. Dad talked Babička into coming along, too—as an interpreter and to kind of provide a personal storyline. You know, having her go back to her ancestral roots and seeing what had changed and what hasn’t.”

A black squirrel—a species found only in Grantham—scampered across the stone molding over the archway, its nails skittering across the rough limestone. Press glanced up and watched it dive onto a nearby tree. The magnolia branch swayed precariously under the weight, but the squirrel somehow safely navigated its way down the trunk and bounded off across the grass.

Press looked back at Amara. “Good for her. But you know, all this talk about food is making me hungry. I thought we were going to Burt’s Sweets for a strawberry blend-in.” The combination of French vanilla ice cream mixed up with fresh strawberries had been attracting local residents for two generations.

“Sure, but I still haven’t told you the best part. Babička said she’d be happy to do it, but she insisted that Matt come along, as well—she thought the whole multigenerational aspect would enrich the story. For one episode, she’s even going to cook for all of us in the kitchen of an old friend. Isn’t that the greatest?”

As long as it’s not plum cake for you and Matt,
Press couldn’t help thinking.

CHAPTER NINE

THE NEXT MORNING, now already Thursday, Mimi wandered down the grand staircase of the Lodge manse, past the wall of family portraits and photos, stopping on the landing to feel the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the Palladian window. She rubbed her arms through the sweatshirt she’d worn to bed, and noticed for the first time that the window seat was crowded with needlepoint pillows. William Morris-like animals scampered joyously through stylized acanthus and lettuce leaves.

The sound of voices filtered up from downstairs, and she continued on her bare feet down the carpeted runner to the ground floor. The noise was coming from the kitchen, and she circled around to the back of the house. There was no mistaking the source—the high-pitched wailing of her kid sister, Brigid, followed by the patient lilt of her stepmother, Noreen. The woman combined the fashion sense of a Vogue editor and the maternal instinct of Mother Theresa. One day she’d win a Nobel Peace Prize and accept the award wearing Dolce and Gabbana.

Mimi cut the corner of the formal dining room and pushed open the swinging door to the butler’s pantry. Sterling silver serving dishes filled the glass-fronted cabinets. Jars of granola, organic sesame seed crackers and various legumes of high nitrogen content and unknown origin were neatly lined up on the open shelves. Mimi pushed open a matching door on the opposite wall and entered the kitchen.

That’s when she saw Brigid sitting on a stool, sprawled from the waist up over the central island. She lay facedown, her forehead resting on her upper arm. Her other arm was outstretched across a sea of dark granite, the fingers of her open hand grasping in the air.

“Is everything all right?” Mimi rushed in concerned.

Noreen turned around from the stainless-steel espresso coffee machine—imported Italian ceramic mug in hand—and sighed. “It seems Brigid is despondent because Cook made her cupcakes—all organic flour and agave sweetener, according to my instructions. And they have the lightest pink frosting decorated with rosebuds. Sounds like every young girl’s dream, don’t you think?”

Mimi nodded. She knew a cue when she saw one.

Noreen took a sip of coffee. “Unfortunately, Brigid had her heart set on daisies. Ah, the injustice of it all.”

“Well, if you don’t want the cupcakes, I’m happy to eat them instead. I can’t think of anything nicer than rosebuds.” Mimi stepped up next to her half-sister and rested her palms on the edge of the island.

Brigid shot upright. “No, they’re mine.”

“Brigid, there are more than enough to share.”

Brigid screwed up her face. A sprinkling of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. “Okay, but only one.” And just to make sure she got her fair share, the eight-year-old scooped one off the plate and placed it in a small Tupperware container. She snapped the lid shut and carefully loaded it into her Hello Kitty lunchbox.

“That’s very generous,” Mimi noted. “But, you know, I think I’ll save mine until lunch. In the meantime, how about a hello kiss? I bet one from you is even sweeter than a cupcake.” Mimi bent down and offered her cheek.

Brigid wrapped her thin arms around Mimi’s waist then stretched her neck to plant a kiss on her cheek. “You smell yucky.”

“Brigid, your manners. That’s no way to greet your big sister.” Noreen put her mug down on the countertop and readjusted the scrunchie holding back her ponytail. Dressed in form-hugging black yoga pants and a tight sleeveless shirt with a crisscross back, she looked ready for the gym.

Mimi lifted the arm of her sweatshirt close to her nose and detected the lingering odor of meatballs and hot sauce. Then she looked down at the front. There was a stain just below the “n” in Grantham—remnants of the hoagie she’d finished off while checking her email. Brigid might deem her ready for the trash heap, but Mimi actually took heart. After months of obsessive-compulsive behavior, she took it as a sign that she was finally beginning to chill out.

“I am so not yucky,” she rebutted Brigid’s comment. “That’s the telltale aroma of the food of the gods. And if you’re a good girl today, after school, I will spirit you away from this world of low-fat-low-carb-absolutely-nothing-artificial and introduce you to
real
world cuisine.”

Brigid looked at her with horror. “Will it make me look like you?”

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Mimi found herself smiling. Her facial muscles strained from the unfamiliar effort.

Noreen shook her head. “As a devoted believer in good nutrition and the benefits of honest local fruits and vegetables, I could plead with you not to interfere with my methods. But I must confess, there’s something about Hoagie Palace’s French fries that could make the most devoted health food nut question her beliefs.”

Mimi leaned toward Noreen and whispered loudly, “Tell you what. I’ll get a large order and bring them back. That way it won’t be as if you were really indulging—just making sure I don’t overdo it.”

“I’m so glad that I’ll be able to save you from yourself.” Noreen smiled and clapped her hands. “All right now, my sweet lassie. Time to get going. Otherwise you’ll miss the school bus. My Pilates class starts promptly at eight, so I don’t have time to drive you. And your father is already on the train into the City, so you can’t look to him, either.”

Brigid hopped off her stool and wrapped her arms around Mimi’s legs. “You could drive me, though, couldn’t you?”

Mimi was about to say yes—who could resist a kid with red hair and missing teeth, who also thought you were the greatest person in the world after her mother and father, and even maybe her big brother, Press?

“No, she couldn’t,” Noreen answered for her. She picked up her daughter’s lunch box and L.L. Bean knapsack and held them out. “Mimi is tired after her trip coming down here. You’ll have plenty of time to see her when you get home.”

Mimi got the message. There would be no spoiling her half-sister. At least, not at the moment. “Anyway, it’s a lot cooler to take the bus to school with all the big kids,” she informed Brigid.

Seemingly easily appeased, Brigid stepped back and slipped the straps of her backpack over her tiny shoulders—the navy blue coordinated with her striped blue-and-white shirt and blue cropped pants that were flared at the bottom. She stopped to kiss her mother, and then one more hug for Mimi, before she skipped to the mudroom and toward the back door. The final bang of the screen door followed as Brigid raced out.

Suddenly it was quiet.

And just as suddenly, an unexpected pang of anxiety gripped Mimi. She felt her heart race, her upper lip become moist. “Don’t you…don’t you worry that something might happen—her just taking off on her own?” Mimi turned to Noreen.