The Company You Keep

CHAPTER SIX

CONRAD LODGE SAT in his usual leather armchair in the study of the Lodge mansion on Singleton Road, the thoroughfare that led into the “right” side of town. One-hundred-year-old sycamores shaded the sidewalks. Tall brick and stone walls and wrought-iron fences with security boxes guarded the magisterial homes, including the residence of New Jersey’s governor.

“So how does she look?” Conrad asked. He cupped a cut-crystal tumbler with the finest single malt whisky, resting on a coaster featuring the Grantham University crest. In his other hand, he held a newly lit cigar. A red circle of flame shone around the gray ash center.

“How does she look?” Press repeated wearily. How about how do I look? This was the first he had laid eyes on his father since coming back to Grantham. His flight had gotten in around three in the afternoon. And by the time he had caught the train down and gotten a taxi home, it was after five. After five—but still several hours before Conrad’s train was due in from Manhattan.

He had no sooner gotten home than he’d received a message from his father’s assistant to pick up Mimi at Grantham Junction station.

So, there Press stood, zonked out from jetlag and the crazy fourteen-hour time difference between the U.S. and Australia, enduring a cross-examination from his father. Did the old man think to ask how his flight was? If his planes had been crowded? On time? Let alone how his work was going in Melbourne?

Of course not.

His father had never asked him about anything that Press cared about. Business and Grantham—that’s all he could talk about. “Why don’t you go out for football at Grantham, the way I did?” his father had instead asked critically. “Why don’t you talk to my friend at such-and-such investment firm about a summer internship? Do something real with your life.”

All his life, Press figured he’d been a failure to his father’s way of thinking. No, it was worse than that. It was more like his father didn’t think of him at all.

Though Press had never gotten the impression that Dear Old Dad cared one whit for Mimi, either. Still, it had been on his father’s marching orders that Press had returned for Reunions and to come and visit his sister. Truth be told, he would have returned anyway, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his father. One, because Press didn’t like to give him any satisfaction that they might be thinking along the same lines. God forbid! And two, this way his father had paid for the flight. Considering the cost of living in Australia, not to mention the sky-high price of the airfare, Press would have had to forego food in order to pay for the trip.

So he just rubbed his bloodshot eyes and mumbled, “She looks like you’d expect.” Press might not be a “real Lodge man,” but he had learned over the years that mouthing off provided only temporary satisfaction at best.

“Speak up, Prescott,” Conrad ordered.

Press looked up. “She’s kind of jumpy, but otherwise not too bad.”

Conrad rested his cigar in a green Venetian glass ashtray. “No outbursts of anger?”

Press shrugged. “No more than usual. Mimi’s never been exactly nonconfrontational.”

“She didn’t mention difficulties sleeping, eating, show difficulties concentrating, did she?”

“If I had known that my job involved making clinical observations, I would have taken notes.”

“There’s no need for insolence. You don’t seem to grasp the severity of the traumatic situation your sister’s been through.”

“I know she had it pretty rough. I’m not totally insensitive, you know.” He dug his hands in his jeans pockets. He felt his phone, a reminder that he was already late to meet Amara and Matt.

Anyway, like he’d ever admit to his father how he’d scoured the internet during his half-sister’s captivity. He’d even joined chat groups with Eastern European members with the hopes of obtaining some inside information that didn’t make it to the regular news media. That involvement, though, had scared him more than anything.

Just before his graduation last year, Mimi had told him that she was setting up an interview with some Chechen rebel. He’d known it was important to her—even more important than the other stories she’d covered. This one had been personal. Family. Her mother’s family.

Then he had waited—for her to return from her interview. Only, she hadn’t. He’d been worried sick for her. But he’d also felt sorry for himself. He knew it was selfish, but he couldn’t help it. Because he realized—if he lost Mimi, he’d lose the only touchstone he had to a real sense of family.

Now, standing in his father’s dark paneled study, he caught his father gazing off into space. If he didn’t know better he’d say the man appeared consumed by his own demons. Though the more likely explanation was indigestion or alcoholic haze.

Whichever, he wasn’t about to stick around. “So, if there’s nothing else? I came home to grab a shower before I meet up with some friends.” Press fisted his hands.

Conrad took a healthy swallow from his drink and returned his gaze to his son. “God forbid we get in the way of your social life. So, if I may be so bold as to ask—where is your sister?”

“We stopped off at Hoagie Palace because Mimi wanted to, and she ran into someone she knew from college who lives in town.”

“Not Lilah Evans? Noreen told me this morning that she and Lilah were involved in some kind of Board meeting today for Sisters for Sisters, their nonprofit organization, and then a dinner afterward. That’s why I have made arrangements to eat at the Grantham Club this evening.” He hesitated. “Though perhaps Noreen got her dates confused, in which case I wonder where she might be.” He nervously turned his cigar in the glass tray, knocking off the burnt ash.

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.”

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