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They clinked glasses. Lilah took a sip, and then coughed. “Whoa. I’m barely standing as it is. After drinking this, I’m not sure I’ll make it to dinner.”
“Not to worry. I already placed an order for takeaway. I thought we’d trip the light fantastic and dine on our favorite Grantham food.” Mimi smiled slyly.
Lilah blinked. “Don’t tell me. Hoagies from Hoagie Palace?” She patted her heart.
Mimi tipped her glass and gulped a generous mouthful. “What else? I ordered a tuna melt for you and a Cheese Steak-Fried Egg Special for me with extra mozzarella cheese sticks and hot sauce. And did I mention the two orders of fries with Ranch dressing?”
“Please, you’re killing me—and that’s before all the cholesterol.”
“Not only that. I bribed Press to pick it all up. I say, what are half brothers for after all, if not to run errands? Plus, I figure that if we’re totally blitzed when it’s time for you to crash, he can give you a lift back to campus.”
“I wouldn’t want to put him out. I can always call a taxi or, really, walk from here. What is it to campus? Half a mile? A mile at most? Heck, I could run that in under five minutes.” The mammoth, yellow stucco house was located on Singleton Street, one of the main arteries leading into town from the west—the fancy side of town. White pillars flanked the front portico. Twelve-foot-high rhododendrons lined the circular drive. The Historical Society of Grantham held their gala under a tent in the gardens every spring.
“Walk? Oh, please. Drink some more.” She followed her own advice.
Lilah took another sip and felt the alcohol go directly to her bones. The nagging ache in her right Achilles tendon from overtraining seemed to magically disappear.
Mimi smacked her half-empty glass on the counter. The ice rattled. “So, let’s get back to the really important things. Like Justin Bigelow. How does he look? Still incredible?”
Lilah took another slow sip and leaned her elbow against the center island. She used her other hand to brace herself from taking an inelegant nosedive into the fruit bowl containing an artful display of limes, lemons and pomegranates.
Pomegranates? Lilah couldn’t help thinking. What real person has pomegranates in their fruit bowl? The answer came to her quickly. She was not among “real” people.
She decided to hold off on her drink. And instead narrowed her eyes, trying to picture Justin driving his little sports car, the windows open to the breeze, the light dancing off the polished wood steering wheel and the tips of his clipped curls. “What can I say? He looked like a god—all sun-kissed and good enough to eat.” She sighed.
“You make him sound like a Florida orange.”
Lilah stared at her. “Vitamin C was the last thing on my mind when he picked me up earlier today.”
Mimi rubbed her chin. “You know, I always wondered how he got into Grantham. I mean, I know he was a terrific athlete, captain of the lightweight crew, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Lilah eyed her drink and went for another sip. Why not? She wasn’t driving.
Mimi, way ahead of her, drained what was left of hers and took that as a cue to make another. She held up the bottle of gin to Lilah.
She shook her head. “I’m not there yet.”
“I am.” Mimi fixed herself another drink. “Somehow I kind of figured that he got special dispensation being a faculty kid,” she said, her back to Lilah. “I mean, it wasn’t as if I ever heard him engage in an intellectual discussion.”
“No, that’s not true. I remember staying up late one night in his and Stephen’s suite. I was haranguing him about how the French Impressionists were overhyped, and that it was their German counterparts who really deserved the attention. He might not have known his Monets from Manets, but we had a real conversation and he made me think.”
“And what did Stephen say?”
Lilah waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, he wasn’t there, as usual—debating or editing or something.” She frowned in thought. “No, Justin wasn’t dumb, not by a long shot. It’s just that for some reason he liked to give the impression that he never studied. I don’t know why. And I’m pretty sure he was a double major—economics and music. So how dumb could he be?”
“Cheers.” Mimi clinked her refreshed glass against Lilah’s. They both took healthy sips. “So maybe I’m wrong. It’s just I always pictured him as this sexy golden retriever—great hair, sunny personality, always willing to roll over and expose his privates—adding a brain to the equation kind of dulls the fantasy.”
Lilah laughed so hard the liquid squirted out her nostrils.
“So he’s remained gorgeous.”
If Mimi only knew how gorgeous, Lilah thought and reflexively put the cool glass to her lips.
“But what else? Did you find out what’s happened to him since college? Wasn’t he working to make the national team or something?” Mimi asked.
Lilah removed her glass and blinked at it, surprised that somehow she’d managed to finish it. “What’s he been up to? Well, let me tell you, you’ll never, ever guess.” She leaned forward with her chin to emphasize her words, grabbing the edge of the countertop at the last minute.
“A challenge.” Mimi closed her eyes. “What is he doing? What does your typical ex–Ivy Leaguer do once he lands in the real world? Let’s see. Investment banker?”
Lilah coughed. “Did I say Justin was typical?”
Mimi opened her eyes wide. “Lawyer?”
Lilah rolled her eyes. “Where are your vaunted investigative reporter instincts?”
“Pole dancer?”
Lilah laughed. “An interesting career choice, but no.”
“I don’t know. Dog trainer? I’m running out of ideas here.”
“Told you you’d never guess.” She raised an eyebrow. “He teaches kindergarten.”
“You’re kidding me. Mr. Sexy Labrador teaches little kids?”
The door to the mudroom off the kitchen opened. A high-pitched squeal and hushing adult tones could be heard. Then a gauzy pink tutu came whirling through the kitchen.
Lilah looked baffled as a young girl wearing a rhinestone tiara—at least, Lilah hoped it was rhinestone—with the word Princess spelled out in large loopy letters on the front of her leotard twirled around them, anointing them with a feathered wand as she did so.
Lilah looked askance at Mimi. “I take it this is not the amazing transformation that Press has undergone over the years?”
Mimi shook her head. “No, this is not Press. Lilah, allow me to introduce my six-year-old half sister, Brigid.” Mimi cocked her head to the mudroom. The sound of steps grew nearer. “And my newest stepmother, Brigid’s mom, Noreen. Noreen, this is Lilah Evans, who’s being honored at Reunions.”
Noreen was a striking woman with a shock of tamed red hair and pale skin with the texture of clotted cream. She circled the island, transferring the BMW key fob to her left hand, and held out her right. The nails had a perfect French manicure. “Of course. What an honor to have you here. I’ve followed your work closely ever since I saw Mimi’s story on you on television.” With her drawn-out vowels and slightly singsong cadence, her voice betrayed the remnants of an Irish accent.
“I’m trying to interest Conrad in giving money to your organization, and in fact, I’d love to talk to you about organizing a run here in Grantham.” She deposited her oversize Prada bag on the counter. “I know all the women in my book group and Pilates class would love to participate, and since I’m active in the PTA at Brigid’s school, I’m sure I can generate interest from other moms.”
Brigid meanwhile continued to twirl around the room, stopping periodically to touch various objects, including the bottle of gin and exclaim, “I hereby pronounce you a knight of the realm.”
Lilah looked at the woman who, on close inspection, was somewhat older than she. Whatever else the birth of a child had affected, it didn’t appear to have altered her twenty-two-inch waist, judging from the way her wide leather belt cinched the top of her pencil skirt. Normally, Lilah would have jumped to conclusions and immediately hated Noreen—her obvious self-indulgence, her unabashed display of wealth. Lilah had never seen a canary-yellow diamond before, and Noreen’s was hard to miss. And she should have hated her on principle because she was Mimi’s stepmother, and Mimi always hated her stepmothers.
But she couldn’t. Not when Noreen stuck out her hand and shook Lilah’s with the force of a longshoreman. The woman had spirit, life, enthusiasm, and clearly a seriously good manicurist.
“Sure, sure. I’m happy to talk about it,” Lilah answered, worried that she sounded less-than-professional after the G and T. “Why don’t we say sometime over the weekend? Right now I’m totally jet-lagged and a little worse for wear after letting Mimi ply me with alcohol.” She indicated her glass.
“Of course. That would be wonderful. You must be exhausted, and as to a drink—I could use a wee dram myself, as they would say in the Old Country.” Her eyes twinkled as she made fun of herself. “I deserve one anyway. Cook has tonight off so she could visit her sister in Moorestown—such a quaint place—and Conrad, as usual, is late in the City, so I took Brigid to Sustenance, the new fusion restaurant in town. All very organic and locavore. I’ve become fanatic about not allowing a single processed bit of food to pass her lips.”
Lilah nodded blankly and out of the corner of her eye saw Mimi push the gin in her direction.
Noreen glanced at the alcohol but shook her head. “I probably shouldn’t. I have yoga first thing in the morning, and I like to feel fresh even before I start.” She glanced over at her daughter who was counting the door pulls on the cupboards and smiled. “Now what was I talking about before? Oh, yes, so there we were in Sustenance, and I started remembering how I grew up on a solid diet of fish and chips, and somehow I managed to survive. That’s when I decided to let Brigid have a hot-fudge sundae.”
Lilah noticed Brigid’s tutu fan over her head as she did a series of somersaults across the kitchen. Ah, yes, signs of a sugar high. Then she glanced back to Noreen, who was nervously strumming her fingers on the granite. “I take it you shared?” she asked.
“Why, yes, how did you know?” She became aware of her strumming. “I’m not usually this much of a motormouth, either. I swear on my grandmother’s Bible.” Then she hooked her arm through her bag. “Brigid, dear, why don’t you give your sister, Mimi, a kiss good-night before we go upstairs for your bath and a bedtime story?”
Brigid closed her eyes and fluttered her arms.
“Brigid O’Reilley Lodge. There will be no bedtime story if you don’t stop that and come now.” Noreen’s voice was firm.
The little girl opened her eyes and inhaled loudly. Then she swiveled on the toe of her Mary Janes and tromped inelegantly to Mimi.
Mimi abandoned her drink and bent down, awkwardly offering her cheek.
Brigid gave her a loud smack, then twirled around to Lilah. “You, too,” she announced. She walked over and raised her chin.
Lilah knelt down, her Achilles tendon smarting despite the infusion of gin, and reached out and gave the six-year-old a hug and kiss. She smelled of ketchup, hazelnuts and baby powder.
Brigid seemed very pleased. She looked at her mother. “I want her to read to me,” she said, pointing with her wand. “You’re beautiful, you know.”
Lilah blinked, amazed at the self-possessed child. “No, I didn’t know. Thank you.”
“But your sneakers are dirty. You should get Mommy to buy you new ones.”
Noreen shook her head. “The scourge of living in an affluent community like Grantham, I’m afraid.”
Lilah laughed. “We should all have such problems.” She looked seriously at Brigid. “I don’t need new ones. I can just wash these.”
“Your next lesson will be how to use the washing machine,” Mimi cracked.
Lilah glanced over. Mimi would never admit it, but Lilah thought she looked jealous. “And I’m sure your big sister, Mimi, will be happy to show you.”
“A worthy idea.” Noreen pried her daughter from Lilah. “Lilah will read to you another night, maybe. Tonight she’s seeing her best friend, Mimi, who she hasn’t seen in a long time.”
“I don’t mind,” Lilah said, painfully standing up.
Noreen clasped Brigid’s small hand. “Don’t be silly. She gets a story every night, so there are plenty of opportunities another time. In fact, because of her fantastic teacher, she won’t go to bed without one. It’s just amazing—to have someone who’s a real proponent of the Reggio Emilia model of early childhood education.”
Lilah and Mimi nodded with a complete lack of comprehension.
“I’m sure my mother would be very intrigued. She’s an elementary school principal,” Lilah said.
“How interesting,” Noreen said and she actually appeared to mean it.
“Anyway, in addition to understanding the importance of play, they read the most wonderful books, lots of the old classics. And then they start doing other things because of the reading. Like building castles after hearing chapters from The Wizard of Oz.”
Brigid wrapped an arm around one of her mother’s legs, clinging to the tight black leggings. The effects of the sugar seemed to be wearing off.
“Naturally there’re those parents who are skeptical because they’re so used to the emphasis on testing even at such a young age. It’s so competitive out there now.” Noreen ruffled Brigid’s fine hair, removing the tiara that was already slipping over one ear. “But I believe that the Reggio Emilia system works better in the long run, producing natural readers and ones with fewer social problems. And even the critics can’t deny that the teacher is good at picking up any learning disability.”
She shook her daughter’s hand playfully. “C’mon, munchkin. Time for bed. It’s late for a school night. You want to be up bright and early for Mr. B tomorrow, don’t you?”
“The early bird catches the worm. But I don’t like worms. I want to catch butterflies.”
“Well, your bird can catch butterflies,” her mother announced and guided her to the door.
“Wait a minute. This Mr. B?” Lilah called out.
“Mr. B, Tweedle B. Tweedle B and Tweedle Bum,” Brigid recited bowing her head back and forth. She pulled on her mother’s arm.
“That’s right, dear.” Noreen didn’t bother to correct her.
“How many six-year-olds know Lewis Carroll?” Mimi asked.
Lilah was almost convinced she detected some sisterly pride.
“Oh, that’s par for the course in Mr. B’s class,” Noreen said over her shoulder. “I’ll catch you later this weekend, then.” She waved.
Lilah pushed away from the island. “Before you go. One question—Brigid’s teacher? Mr. B? His full name wouldn’t be…”
“Justin Bigelow.” Mimi supplied the answer.
“How did you know?” Noreen bent down to pick up Brigid and carried her upstairs.
Left alone in the kitchen, Mimi lowered her chin and looked over her nose at Lilah. “You think she’s in love with him?”
“Brigid or Noreen?” Lilah asked.
“Either one. Both.”
Lilah pursed her lips. “Maybe I will have another drink.” She reached for her glass, and asked casually, a little too casually, “This love thing? You think it’s contagious?”
Mimi raised her eyebrows. “Why? You think you feel symptoms coming on?”
CHAPTER FIVE
“SO, TELL ME AGAIN WHO we’re picking the food up for?” Matt Brown asked as he opened the drinks case at Hoagie Palace. It was a Thursday evening, and the Grantham take-out institution was packed with high school and college students, and Matt, a local kid home for summer vacation after his freshman year at Yale, fit the profile. The smell of hot sauce, fried saturated fat and hormonal imbalance hung in the air.
“My half sister Mimi and a friend of hers from college,” Press Lodge explained as he held out money to the cashier. “She’s this woman named Lilah Evans—the head of a nonprofit in Africa or something.” As he waited for his change, he spoke to Angie, the woman behind the counter who owned the popular food spot with her husband, Sal. “Hey, Angie, I gotta satisfy the hoagie fix for the returning alums in the family. Otherwise they get ornery.”
“That’s what we count on,” Angie said with a laugh and passed the coins and bills to Press. “But if anyone gets ornery with you, hon, you send ’em to me. You’re like family.” Angie beamed over her shoulder at a wall of photographs. Press followed her gaze. Front and center was one from Press’s graduation from his prep school in Connecticut.
He’d invited Angie and Sal, never expecting they’d make the trip. Not only had they come, Sal had handed him an envelope on the side. “If you ever need anything, you know who to call,” Sal had offered with a swift handshake. “We’re proud of you.” Then he’d taken the picture of Angie with her arm around Press, a proud smile on her face, a dopey one on his. In the corner of the photo, slightly out of focus, stood his mother, glancing down at the Rolex on her wrist, probably checking how much time she had before her tennis match. His father—surprise, surprise—was nowhere in sight.
Press blew a kiss to Angie and led the way through the organized throng, asserting himself with one of his wide shoulders. His father had been disappointed that he hadn’t gone out for football at Grantham—he’d been heavily recruited. Just another disappointment in a long line, Press figured. Anyway, practices interfered with his job as a research assistant in his advisor’s lab, and he wasn’t about to give that up.
He waited outside of the store for Matt. The two of them had worked together at Apple Farm Country Club last summer, Matt manning the cash register in the pro shop and Press as a teaching pro for kids. Sometimes when they got in early and before the kids’ Swedish and French au pairs swarmed around Press, they’d go to the driving range and hit a bucket of balls. Matt was hopeless, but Press was a natural, hitting three hundred yards every time. It didn’t matter much because the point was really just to talk—about school, music, their parents, life. A bond had formed, and the two kept up on Facebook during the school year when Matt started Yale and Press finished up his junior year at Grantham.
Press watched as Matt stumbled out the front step and onto the sidewalk. He had tried to open his can of Arnold Palmer iced tea and walk at the same time. “Focus, Matt Brown, focus. How many times do I have to tell you,” he ribbed his friend.
