On Common Ground

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“It says here,” Matt read on, “that you’re in Bayard Hall, room 421.” He looked up.

Lilah blinked once. “Could you repeat that again?”

Matt reread the location.

Mimi looked at Lilah. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“Because that was where Stephen and Justin lived senior year. They’ve gone and put me up in their old suite,” Lilah squeaked.

Mimi whistled.

Press and Matt looked at each other, obviously unsure of the importance of the information.

“Is that kismet or what?” Mimi asked.

Lilah was still shaking her head. “The question is, is it good fate or bad or what?” She pursed her lips. “You know, maybe I will have that hoagie, after all.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

AFTER DIALING THE PHONE the next morning, Justin switched it to speaker mode so he could look in the mirror to check to see if his tie was straight. The noise of the dial tone permeated the sunny one-bedroom apartment. It was early enough—around eight on a Friday morning—so the sound of commuting traffic was still at a minimum.

Justin lived in a large clapboard Victorian with a wraparound front porch, which in its original state had housed a single upper-middle-class family and their devoted household servant. All very Andy Hardy with Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland ready to put on a show in the barn. Now the house was broken up into three separate apartments, one on each floor, with Justin occupying the top floor. And the “barn” out back held his vintage sports car, a Toyota Prius from the first-floor tenant—an assistant professor in the chemical engineering department—and an artificial Christmas tree of unknown ownership.

The best thing about the place in Justin’s view—besides all the light and the relatively modest rent—was the fact that it was located directly downtown in Grantham, a stone’s throw from the cemetery, where he could stroll among the burial plots of Revolutionary War heroes and former U.S. Presidents, and across the street from the public library.

Justin realized all too well the irony of this last convenience since any place with books had once been a source of frustration and embarrassment during his childhood. Now, however, he could think of nothing better than heading out on a Saturday morning, first to get coffee at Bean World, Grantham’s ever-so-chic coffeehouse, before heading to the library to scout out the bestsellers and laze away a few hours reading magazines and newspapers from all over the world.

Justin stared in the mirror and gave his half Windsor knot a tug to the right. He rarely wore a tie, so it took a few tries to get it right. It was important to look properly attired for the luncheon. The university president would be there, after all.

And so would Lilah.

Truth be told, the reason he had debated wearing a blue shirt or a white shirt with his blazer and gray trousers—he’d finally gone with white—was because he wanted to look good, not just proper—good. For Lilah. Even though he was still trying to figure out who this Lilah was.

The Lilah he had remembered from college had been serious about her studies and what she thought was important, but she’d also been bubbly—quick to laugh—an effervescent personality. The new Lilah, the one he had picked up from the airport yesterday, seemed older, wiser. Well, they were both older and hopefully wiser, he thought. And she was probably exhausted from the long flight and the killer schedule she put herself through. And if she lacked the kind of cuddly, rounded body she once had, who was he—a man, after all—to complain about how she’d been transformed into this fit, sinewy presence? Except, he kind of missed the old Lilah, the one who never seemed to judge him, the one he could tease and she could tease back without either ever taking offence. She’d been a pal. More than a pal. Undemanding, yet never taking him for granted. Unavailable, yet constantly alluring. The ripe fruit that begged to be picked but was always out of reach.

In short, a fantasy. And now?

“Hello?” The familiar female voice with a distinct Brooklyn accent answered.

Justin smiled. It was a voice that invariably wrapped around him with the comforting warmth of a favorite afghan. “Roberta,” he answered and picked up the cell, switching back to regular Talk mode. “I just wanted to touch base with you again after our conversation last night.”

“So are you still smarting from the principal calling you into his office yesterday?” she asked good-naturedly. Roberta Zimmerman had been Justin’s professor and guiding light at Bank Street College of Education, where he’d gotten his degree in early education.

“I’m much better. That’s what I wanted to let you know. Besides, there’re only a few weeks left to the school year for public schools in New Jersey, so I might as well chill out—especially since I’ve got a sub covering for me for these few days. I mean, I know that I overreacted last night. Geez, you’d have thought after all the trouble that I’d gotten into as a kid I would have been better prepared. It was just the tone of his email—demanding that I see him as soon as possible and that he’d wait around his office specifically for me. To say the least, it kind of shook me. I mean, I know there’ll always be some parents who’ll grumble about my teaching methods—”

“That’s because you do things differently. Anyway, I don’t understand all the emphasis on testing, testing, testing these days—even before kids get to kindergarten! If I have one more parent ask me if her child is ready for kindergarten, I’m going to scream. I’m not surprised you were upset.”

“I guess it kind of blindsided me because the day before in class had been so terrific.”

“Tell me.”

Justin could practically hear her rub her hands together. That’s what he loved about Roberta—her enthusiasm, her heart. Things he always used to find so great in Lilah…

He smiled and then remembered he was still on the phone. “After I read them a book about the Brooklyn Bridge, there were whole groups of kids building bridges of blocks. They even labeled the tollbooths and made money for the cars to hand in. You should have seen it. There’s even one kid making a GPS system to help drivers get over the bridge back to Grantham. And they did it all on their own.”

“They wouldn’t have done it without you. And that’s because you’re a terrific teacher, Justin. So don’t doubt your abilities just because a new administrator comes through who’s got his own agenda about how to teach. Besides, your kids score very well on these standardized tests—am I right?”

“Are you ever wrong?”

Roberta chuckled. “Whatever you do, don’t ask Oscar that question.” Oscar was her husband.

“Oscar would probably agree that you’re always right.”

“True, but then he is a good man. He married me, after all, but then he always said I was quite a babe back in those days.”

Justin grinned. He remembered seeing photos of the two of them taken at Coney Island. Oscar was indeed a lucky man. “Okay, okay. What can I say?” Justin replied. “You’re right. It’s just that the way he told me, saying there’d been complaints, just threw me for a loop—especially when he wouldn’t say who’d been complaining. He claimed confidentiality or something, making me smell a setup.”

“Now you’re being paranoid.”

“Am I?” Justin frowned. “Maybe you’re right. It’s just that when someone questions my abilities, my old insecurities rise to the forefront.”

“Justin,” Roberta said firmly over the line.

“I know, I know. No whining.” He laughed, then looked in the mirror again, pleased that his tie was indeed straight.

“Now, tell me something.”

“Yes?” Justin immediately turned away from his reflection. He had a feeling that Roberta was peering over his shoulder.

“You’re calling on a Friday morning, when you would normally be teaching. You haven’t told me something else that I should know about?”

Justin sighed, knowing he would have to come up with an answer. “I’m taking a personal day. As it turns out, I’m hosting a prizewinning alum for Reunions weekend at Grantham.”

There was a slight pause. “Is that alumnus or alumna?” Roberta asked, differentiating between the male and female varieties.

Justin laughed. “Alumna. And my classics professor father would be proud of you.”

“It’s you he should be proud of.”

“Let’s not go there,” Justin said.

“Tell me, the reason you’re hosting this prizewinning person is because…?”

“Because I was the one who nominated her for the prize.”

“And you did that because…?”

“Because she does fantastic work in Africa and is totally self-sacrificing.”

“I get the picture. She’s a saint. So why do I get the impression that there’s something more than what you’re telling me?”

“Well, this is purely coincidental…”

“Excuse me, Dr. Freud. Nothing is coincidental.”

Justin didn’t bother to refute her statement. “She also happens to have been the ex-fiancée of my senior year roommate.”

“Ex? Now this I got to hear more of. Have you seen her yet? Is she everything you’d hoped for?”

Cupping the phone under his chin, Justin strapped on his watch and looked at the time. He hurriedly slipped his wallet into the back packet of his trousers and grabbed his blue blazer off his unmade bed. “Listen, I don’t have much time because, as a matter of fact, I’m just on my way to do some errands, then pick her up to take her to lunch with the university president.”