The Company You Keep (9 page)

If Press didn’t know better, he’d think his father sounded worried. “I don’t know anything about meetings or dinners. And it wasn’t Lilah. It was some guy.”

“Some guy?” His father drew out the second word. “Does this guy have a name?”

“Vic. Vic Golinski—the ex-football player.”

His father arched one brow and smiled. He savored a sip of whiskey and followed it with a few puffs of his cigar. The smoke curled upward from the tip.

Then, after a long moment, he glanced dismissively at his son. “You may leave then to do whatever it is you’re so
hot
on doing.” He made it sound dirty.

Press’s lip curled. Just being in the same room as his father made him feel dirty. He didn’t waste any time crossing the carpet to the door. He reached for the brass door handle, then stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, sir.” He couldn’t resist.

His father looked up.

“Don’t bother to thank me for coming.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“SHE’S NORMALLY VERY SHY with people she doesn’t know. So don’t take offence if she tries to hide,” Vic explained protectively. They crossed the street at the Indian restaurant that always seemed to be under new management. He pointed. “I’m just parked ahead in front of the dry cleaners. Her name’s Roxie, by the way.”

“You sure it’s okay for me to meet her, then?” Mimi asked. She was looking at him like he was crazy.

Well, maybe he was. First off, he could have pretended not to recognize her in The Palace.
But, no.
Then he could have butted in line and paid his bill and hightailed it out of there.
But, no, again.
Then he could have easily waved goodbye and sauntered back into the rest of his life, with only a minor blip on the radar screen when they both served on the Reunions panel.

But, no.

Because he couldn’t. All for reasons too complicated and yet too simple to explain. He was still ticked off. He was curious. He wanted to see if she’d remembered the guy she’d humiliated in front of hundreds of people, not to mention his father at the police station. He wanted to see if she would squirm. Act remorseful. Penitent. He was running out of adjectives.

Hell, he’d just wanted to see her.

Not that he’d had any problem recognizing her instantly, and not from seeing her on TV. As far as he knew, she hadn’t been on air in months, maybe longer. No, despite the span of more than ten years, and that she now wore her hair much shorter than in college, he’d known her immediately. It wasn’t as much as her voice, or her stance or even her face, it was something about the way the air seemed charged around her.

She was like some skittish colt. With the same long, lean body that he remembered so well. Which he could recall with infinitesimal detail from the one time her body had been plastered up against him. With the same proud set to her shoulders and arching posture—a testament to good breeding as much as good genes. Still skinny, though—too little meat on her bones to be vibrantly healthy like some well-tuned athlete—the way she had been in college. And too jumpy, like she always had an eye out for someone to pounce on her when she wasn’t looking. So she looked.

And kept looking—surreptitiously—as they headed into town and past his car. He had thought he’d wanted to see her squirm with remorse, not…not anxiety. Oh, she tried to cover it up, acting as if she were simply curious about her surroundings. But come off it, how exciting was a closed bicycle shop, a religious bookstore and a phone company repair office?

He should have let her leave with her brother, or since she seemed set on walking, pretended his car was parked in the other direction. But that seemed pretty wimpy, even to his reluctant self.

Anyway, he’d been the one to insist she meet Roxie. And that one was a lot harder to explain. Oh, well. He’d make the best of it, and then move on.

“She’s a bit conscious of her ear, too,” he warned her.

“Her ear?” Mimi patted hers as if to mimic the question.

“That’s right. She had surgery during the winter to remove a tumor that luckily proved to be benign.”

“You both must have been so relieved.” She pushed the French fries in the top of the bag with her hoagie and rearranged it more comfortably under her arm.

“The doctor said that plastic surgery was an option, but I thought why put her through any more pain and suffering just for cosmetic reasons. Don’t you agree?” Why was he even bringing this all up? As if Mimi Lodge’s opinion on how Roxie looked mattered one way or another.

“As long as it isn’t disfiguring, I see no reason to bother. The world is overly obsessed with superficial beauty in my opinion.”

She actually sounded reasonable. And if the fine vertical line between her eyebrows was any indication, she practiced what she preached. Not that he thought the wrinkle was ugly. Far from it. It made her look more thoughtful than the know-it-all he’d remembered.

Then he spied his car up ahead. “That’s me. The gray Volvo station wagon.” He saw Roxie sit up at the sound of his voice. From the looks of it, she’d been snoozing in the trunk. She quickly hopped over to the backseat and squeezed her head through the opening in the lowered window. Her tail fanned enthusiastically back and forth.

“Why didn’t you tell me Roxie was a dog? I was all prepared for…I’m not sure what I was prepared for. I haven’t quite gotten my head around you.” Mimi picked up her pace and leaned down to the window.

“I wouldn’t just bend over the window like that.” Vic rushed up to her side. “It’s not like Roxie’d bite or anything, but she’s not entirely comfortable with new people…”

Too late.

Mimi already held her hand to the window, palm-side up, and was letting the dog get a good sniff. “Not bad, huh? Eau de Hoagie Palace. Tell you what. I’ll give you a small taste, but just this once.” She undid the paper around the hoagie and tore off an end.

Roxie lunged for the roll and gobbled it down. Then she sniffed around Mimi’s hands and began licking her fingertips. Then Roxie put her front paws up on the armrest on the door and forced herself farther out the window. Her tongue came in contact with Mimi’s nose.

Vic was stunned.

Mimi started laughing and threw back her head. This time Roxie’s kisses landed on her chin. Mimi squinted, still laughing. “I don’t know why you say she’s shy. She’s incredibly affectionate, aren’t you, girl?”

Mimi pulled her face away and gave Roxie a good rub around the back of her ears. Then she let her fingertips slowly travel the smooth length of her floppy ears, massaging them gently.

Roxie, to Vic’s surprise, didn’t budge, didn’t pull away from contact, convinced that she was about to die. Instead, she closed her eyes, her white-blond eyelashes fluttering, and purred. Yes, the same dog who was usually afraid of her own shadow was purring.

“Don’t even consider plastic surgery. Your ear looks very distinguished. It gives you character,” Mimi addressed the dog directly. “Right, Roxie?”

The dog licked her lips contentedly and rested her head in Mimi’s hand.

If Vic didn’t know better he’d say she’d fallen asleep.

Mimi turned to him, smiling. “I think your fears were unfounded, don’t you?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She didn’t bother for a reply. “What kind of a name is Roxie? Wait, don’t tell me.” She stopped him.

He wasn’t about to say anything.

“Short for Roxanna—Alexander the Great’s wife. The History Channel. It’s a guy thing.” She seemed very pleased with herself.

“Actually, it’s Edmond Rostand’s Roxane. His play Cyrano de Bergerac?”

Mimi frowned. “The beautiful woman who recognizes the love of the ugly but gifted poet Cyrano instead of the handsome other dude—I can’t remember his name.”

“Christian,” Vic supplied.

“Right, Christian. Of course you’d remember the details. As I recall, you were good with the facts.” Mimi shifted her bag of food again and went back to scratching Roxie’s wrinkled brow. “You know, Vic Golinski, from that story, people might get the impression that you are a romantic.”

He blushed.
Dammit, blushing?
“It’s more a case that I was feeling sorry for myself. I’d just been cut from my team and my future in football looked over. I needed someone or something to love me. And there’s nothing less complicated than a dog’s affection.”

“Affection’s never uncomplicated,” Mimi responded absentmindedly.

The dog leaned her head to one side, indicating she wanted more scratching in a particular place.

Mimi obliged, and Vic noticed that she’d cocked her head in the same way as the dog. She’d even closed her eyes, her own deep black-brown lashes resting on her high cheekbones. For the first time, she didn’t look brittle, like she’d crack if you touched her in just the wrong way. She looked…looked happy, secure. Loved. Pure and simple. Uncomplicated.

And then it hit Vic—why he’d insisted on Mimi meeting his dog. Unconsciously, he’d wanted to see Roxie’s reaction. To validate his own emotions.

Only, it hadn’t worked out the way he had planned at all.

Or had it? Because now more than ever, he wanted Mimi Lodge bad.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“HEY, PRESS, IT’S SO GOOD to see you.” Amara Rheinhardt jumped up from the steps in front of her dorm and rushed to envelop him in her arms. “I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve seen you. I’ve had a great Freshman year—except for organic chemistry. Not all of us were meant to be science gurus like some people I could mention. Anyway, chalk it up as a painful learning experience and definitely cross off med school as one of my career options.”

“I didn’t know it was one?”

She shook her head, her chin rubbing back and forth against his shoulder. “Well, maybe. But this course in Roman poets I took? What can I say? Ovid is my personal god—I don’t care what they say about Horace. I’m already determined to work on him for my J.P.” She referred to her Junior Paper, which was still a long ways off.

Press grinned at her bubbly enthusiasm.

“And working for Penelope—like you said, unbelievable. I mean, even though she was gone on sabbatical a lot the first semester, she still taught me so much about manuscripts and how to put together exhibits.”

“Yeah, Penelope’s great,” Press agreed, closing his eyes as Amara continued to hug him. Penelope Bigelow was the curator of the Rare Book Library at Grantham and Press had worked for her when he was an undergraduate. A lot of people might have found Penelope…well…odd. Her awkwardness in social situations and her tendency to spout highly erudite information had a way of making listeners head for the hills. But not Press.

He raised his arms and finally went to hug Amara back. Too late.

She broke her embrace and stood back to gaze at him.

Press felt a momentary loss. Which was silly, really. After all, it wasn’t like they were boyfriend and girlfriend or anything like that. They’d merely met, by accident as it turned out, at Reunions last year. And they’d had a bunch in common. She’d been finishing up prep school and coming to Grantham in the Fall. He’d been just about to graduate. She hadn’t been getting along with her father. He thought his was a jerk—and still did. They’d hung out. No big deal, even if she’d pushed for something more. There was no chance—he was going away, she was a kid. Then he’d introduced her to his friend Matt, and they’d gotten on fine—more than fine. No big deal.

So now, one year later, Press stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and acted like…like he wasn’t practically jumping out of his skin.

She gave him a glance up and down. “You look different. I thought you’d be all tan and stuff—spending all that time surfing or whatever you do in Australia.”

“I’ve been in the lab every day. It’s hard to get a tan that way. And it’s actually wintertime there, not summer.”

Amara banged herself playfully on the forehead with the heel of one hand. “Duh! What a dummy I am.” She laughed at herself.

She looked great laughing, Press thought. All giddy, and her cheeks turned kind of pinky.

“Well, if you’d ever Skype me like you said you would, then I’d know that, wouldn’t I?” she went on.

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty bad at that,” he stammered. What was he supposed to say anyway? That he liked his work but was lonely. That he missed her? That he wondered if she had met anyone special?

“Aren’t you going to say how good I look?” Amara asked him. She did a pirouette on the toe of her ballet flat—just like the ones Penelope wore, Press noticed. “Sophisticated?” she asked, and circled around in a silly dance.

Press bit back a smile. “Yeah, real sophisticated—especially The Simpsons Band-Aid.” He pointed to the bandage on her hand between her thumb and index finger.

She held it up and inspected it briefly. “They were the only ones I could find at the convenience store this morning. I’m learning how to drive one of the golf carts for Reunions so that I can take around one of the old alums, and, would you believe it, I got a blister from shifting gears.” She laughed at herself some more.