The Company You Keep (17 page)

Maybe it was better that it was just the two of them anyway, Press thought. That way he’d have a better chance of finding out what exactly was going on between Matt and Amara. Maybe he’d even ask him about getting a new baby brother or sister when you were old enough to have a baby yourself. Matt’s dad and stepmom, Katarina, had had a baby boy when Matt was in college, after all.

“Coffee?”

Press looked up. A girl about his age, her blond hair pulled back in a loose braid, her face devoid of any makeup except for what looked like Vaseline on her lips, held up a glass coffee beaker.

“Coffee?” she repeated again.

“Sure,” said Press. He watched as she hustled over to a nearby waitress station and filled a heavy white ceramic mug. Then she returned to the table with the mug and a small saucer with little packets of cream.

“Sugar and Sweet ’N Low are on the table. Menu?” She slipped a laminated menu out from under her arm.

Press took it. “I’m waiting for another person, but I’ll look it over in the meantime.”

“Sure, no problem. You can order whenever. The kitchen’s kinda backed up right now anyway. The Rescue Squad is having their monthly meeting—they’re always big on pancakes and fried eggs
and
hash browns and bacon. At least if someone goes into cardiac arrest, the others should know what to do.”

Press laughed and watched as she sashayed her way to the large group in the center of the cavernous room. A bunch of them sported zip jackets with the same logo. The EMT guys, he figured.

Then he wondered why he’d never seen the waitress before, especially because she looked about his age. Not that he was a regular patron at the Circus. Come to think of it, he’d been there maybe all of two times. He definitely remembered once—when he was nine and the Grantham Youth Soccer League had held its end-of-season pancake celebration for the winning team. Press had always been on the winning team. That’s what Lodges were supposed to do.

He picked up the mug and swallowed a mouthful of tepid, bitter coffee. Bean World it wasn’t, but Press figured after four free refills, he’d have the caffeine equivalent for a third of the price. For someone on a budget, he’d learned to develop budget tastes. Basically, he’d become a vegetarian—not for philosophical reasons but because meat was so expensive.

Then he saw a familiar face pull open the door and trip over the rubber threshold. Yup, that was Matt.

“Hey there. You been waiting long?” Matt slid into the chair opposite him.

“Long enough,” Press replied.

“Ouch, someone’s grouchy this morning,” Matt said.

Press glanced at his friend. Matt never seemed to change—tall, gangly, brown hair sticking out over one ear. Well, not quite. “You working out?” he asked.

Matt lifted his right arm and made a muscle. “Yeah, I started lifting weights this year—but I’m still pretty pathetic.”

“You got that right. Though don’t tell me you can actually grow a beard now?” He pointed to the scraggy shadow on Matt’s cheeks.

Matt laughed silently, bobbing slightly in the chair. “Yeah, hope springs eternal, I guess. Now that graduation is over and I don’t have to look beautiful for photos, I thought I’d give it a go. The mustache doesn’t want to cooperate, though.” He ran his index finger along his upper lip.

Press took another sip of coffee. It was really the pits, but the caffeine seemed to be doing the job. “What about Amara? She like it?” he asked casually.

“Amara? I’m not really sure.” Matt appeared oblivious to the underlying inquiry.

“You guys hanging out a lot, then?” Press kept at it.

Matt straightened the container of jelly packets on the side of the table. “On and off. Too bad she’s tied up today with babysitting and some kind of orientation for working at Reunions. It would have been great for the three of us to get together like old times. Though I guess we’ve still got the rest of the weekend.”

Press gripped the edge of the plastic folder that held his menu. “You sure that’s what Amara wants?”

“Why not? I mean—” Matt interrupted his reply when he saw the waitress approach the table.

She handed over a menu. “Can I get you coffee, too?”

“No, just milk.’

Press dropped his head and shook it. “No wonder you can’t grow a mustache,” he said.

Matt made a face. “Don’t listen to him,” he said to the waitress, and then he held up his hand. “Hey, didn’t you go to Grantham High School? You look kind of familiar.”

She rested her hand on her hip. “We live in town now, but back in high school we were still in Hamilton, so I went to school there.”

“Hmm, maybe it’s just seeing you on the street, then. I’m Matt by the way. And this is Press. We both grew up here.”

“I’m Basia,” she answered with a smile.

“Cool. Is that Russian? I always wanted to learn Russian,” Matt said eagerly.

Press rolled his eyes. Matt was so pathetic.

“No, Polish. It’s the nickname for Barbara, which always sounded like some old woman’s name to me.”

Matt laughed. “I definitely like Basia a lot better, too.”

She smiled shyly, sinking her neck into her shoulders. “Thanks. I’ll just get your milk, then, and when I come back you can give me your orders.” She smiled again and went off.

“She’s kind of cute, don’t you think?” Matt watched her from behind.

Press raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you’ve got enough on your plate?”

“What? You mean, with going away soon with the Peace Corps?”

And somehow the conversation got steered away onto other topics, like having to get all these shots for rural Sierra Leone, where Matt would be based. Or how his graduation went and what was going on with his family. And Matt’s asking him all about Australia and trying to figure out if maybe Press could come visit him before he came back to the States when he finished his master’s degree.

It was all well and good—more than good, Press realized. It was the kind of easy talk that he’d been lacking for almost a year. “You know, I hate to say this, but I actually missed you,” he admitted. He pushed back his chair. “And, God, I feel sick now. I ate so much.” They’d both ordered double French toast, and Press’s stomach was pushing against the waistband of his khaki shorts.

“Talk about a wimp.” Matt rose and stumbled around the leg of his chair. “It’s good seeing you, too,” he said as they walked to the cash register to pay. “I mean, I’ve got friends from college and everything, but there’s something different about talking to somebody who knows you from way back when.”

“If you’re not careful, you’ll start sounding like all those loyal alums who come back every year to their reunions and reminisce about the good old days.”

“Well, Yale class reunions are only every five years, so maybe I’ll grow out of all that.”

“I sure hope so—otherwise this friendship is history.” He leaned over the counter. “Could we get the check?” he asked Basia.

She was bent over, studying something spread out on the counter. She was tapping with her foot and moving her finger along as she read.

Matt arched his neck to see over the ledge. “Hey, is that a musical score?”

She looked up. “Oh, sorry. Sometimes I get distracted. Let me get your check.” She flipped through the pages of her order pad and found theirs.

“So you’re studying music?” Matt asked.

“Performance. Violin, actually. At Rutgers. But I’m also doing a degree in accounting. I mean, I’d love to be a professional musician, but what are the odds? So, I have something to fall back on, which is kind of necessary for someone like me.”

Press assumed she meant someone who didn’t have parents who’d support her once she was out of school.

Matt was off on a completely different subject. “Wow, what a coincidence. I played violin in the high school orchestra, and for one year in the Yale orchestra. When I stopped my sophomore year, my parents practically had a fit.”

“I can’t imagine stopping. To me, playing is essential—kind of like oxygen and strawberry blend-ins from Burt’s.”

“Aren’t they the greatest?” Matt asked.

Press crossed his arms and just stood aside, a silent spectator.

“I understand what you mean about music,” Matt went on. “I still love it, but I guess other things kind of took over. You know, I still haven’t gotten the nerve to tell my old violin teacher. She was this amazing musician—went to Juilliard, got a Ph.D. and everything. She’s crazy and was really tough, but she was fantastic.”

“You don’t mean Tina Chang, do you? She’s my teacher—I mean, I still study with her.” Basia held out the check.

Press took it unnoticed.

Matt started doing his quick hopping thing. “Wow, talk about a small world. You know, maybe that’s why you look familiar. We must have crossed paths coming and going at her place. Did you have lessons on the weekend? Evenings?”

“Saturday, late afternoon.”

Matt bobbed his head.

Press reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. It was time to get the show on the road. He supported his friend, he really did, and this Basia kid looked pretty and clearly was talented and all. But how come Matt, with his lame conversation and dorky ways, was able to attract two cute girls, huh?

Do I have bad breath? Dandruff? Body odor? Am I just that unappealing to women? No, certain women,
he modified.
Amara…
Not that he was interested in her. After all, in less than a week, he’d head back to Australia.

“Are you planning on coming to any of the Reunions activities?” he heard Matt ask. “Press, here, usually gets me in. I’m sure he can get you in, too, if you want.”

For the first time in the conversation, Basia seemed to notice him standing there, too. “Oh, thanks,” she said, taking the check and the money. She rang up the bill on the cash register. “I know my brother’s on some panel on Saturday, so I suppose I’ll try to go to that. He’s a Grantham grad. I’ll have to change my schedule around, though, which might not be that easy.”

“Oh, you got to. What’s he talking about? The energy crisis? Diplomatic relations with China?”

“No, actually it’s some college sports thing, something about equal rights.”

Press turned back. Something struck a cord. “Hey, your brother? He wouldn’t be—”

“Vic Golinski.” She handed Press the change.

“No. keep it.” Press shook his head. “My sister’s talking on the same panel—Mimi Lodge.”

“Oh, my God. She’s the one who…”

Press nodded knowingly. “Yeah, I see the story’s famous in your family, too.”

“What? What’s so famous?” Matt asked.

Press turned to him. “It was before you moved to Grantham. I was maybe ten or eleven.”

“Yeah, I was twelve, I think. I still remember this huge fiasco. If you’ve got a minute?” Basia asked.

Matt nodded.

She closed her score with a grand thump. The swoosh of air sent a photo flying out that had been tucked inside the cover.

Matt reached in the air to rescue it before it tumbled over the ledge. Naturally, being Matt, he made several futile attempts, which left Press to deftly catch it on the downswing. He passed over the three-by-five snapshot. “Hey, cute kid. Your nephew?” Press looked at the photo, tilted it so Matt could see, then handed back the photo.

“Actually, my son, Tommy.” Basia admitted with a proud smile.

“You know, on second thought, I think I better get going,” Matt announced.

And before Press could get him to pay his share of the bill, his good buddy was out the door and gone.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE WARM BREEZE BATHED her skin like a dry lotion. The buzzing of cicadas filled the air. And the newly mown lawn smelled with an “Our Town”-like sweetness. All was right in the world, especially judging from the sound of chomping.

“I’m so glad those dog treats were a big hit. The bag said it was wholesome chicken, whatever that means. So I figured I couldn’t go wrong…even if it isn’t strictly picnic fare.” Mimi knew she was rambling, but she couldn’t help it.

Vic lay sprawled on his side, propped up on his elbow, a glass of red wine in his hand. He was watching his dog seriously chewing away at one of Mimi’s treats. “I think Roxie believes that chicken jerky is appropriate for any dining occasion,” he answered, looking very content himself. “And you know, at this very moment, in this particular setting—” he spread his arm wide, wineglass in hand “—with this particular company, I might add—” he nodded at Mimi, who nodded back “—even I wouldn’t turn down chicken jerky.”

What more could she ask for?

Mimi had absconded with one of Noreen’s ultra-chic, ultra-expensive wicker picnic baskets. The kind that contained real silverware, cut crystal wineglasses and bone china, a monster candelabra and a wool tartan blanket no doubt handwoven by faithful serfs at some laird’s castle.