A Rare Find

“I hope so.” Justin ripped his hunk of bread into smaller pieces. “Penelope had been groomed by our father to be another Classics professor, and…well…that didn’t quite work out.” He munched thoughtfully. “For the past year, she’s been a rare-book librarian.”

“Here at the university,” Lilah added. “Which means we get lucky sometimes and get some of her cooking.”

“Well, if this pasta’s any indication of her culinary prowess, all I can say is wow.” Nick pointed at his empty plate. “Take the sausage she used. Only someone truly into cooking would take the pains to track down something that good.”

“Actually she makes it herself,” Lilah said. “But if you liked this, you should taste this other spreadable kind she makes. I can’t remember the name exactly, but it’s smoky and hot.”

“I think it’s called N-something,” Justin said. “It’s some unpronounceable word in a Calabrian dialect.”

“You don’t mean ’nduja?” Nick pronounced it instead like “endooya.” “My accent sucks, but you get the drift.”

Justin nodded. “That’s it!”

“That stuff’s legendary in southern Italy, you know. Supposedly the Calabrians concocted it in the eighteenth century while the French kings were ruling over that part of Italy. It’s essentially their version of the French andouille—you know, smoked pork sausage?”

“I learn something new every day. I guess it pays to invite a food expert to your place,” Lilah remarked. “In all sincerity, I’m glad you could come over tonight. Having said all that, can I get you to sign a copy of your book? I’ve got it right here.” She pointed to the wall of shelves and rose to get it. “And I want you to know I paid full price—no discounts.” She walked in her bare feet to the front of the room, all of five paces.

“I’d be happy to. This is what an author lives for—that, and the royalty checks.” Nick opened to the title page and began writing. “So, tell me, if I want to get in contact with your sister, Justin, what do I need to do? I presume she lives nearby.”

“Right here in Grantham,” Justin answered.

“So you think she’d be interested?” Nick handed the signed book to Lilah. “I mean, I’ve never heard of anyone being able to get ’nduja in the States, let alone make it.”

“Interested in what?” Lilah smiled as she read the message written in her book.

“You mean you want to meet her?” Justin asked. He pushed back his chair and beckoned his wife over.

“Well, that—”

“You mean for your show, don’t you?” Lilah said. She sat on Justin’s lap, squirming to get comfortable.

“Of course.”

Justin shook his head. “I’m not sure that would work. Penelope isn’t exactly a people person. Listen, I’m no professional, but from my experience teaching kindergarten, she seems to show a lot of the symptoms of Asperger’s—the mild form of autism. Not that she’s ever been diagnosed.”

Nick leaned on his elbows and opened his palms to the air. “I may not know your sister, but anyone who spends this kind of time and effort cooking a masterpiece like this—” he waved at his empty dish “—and then gives it to you no questions asked? You want my view?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “That person is definitely interacting with you on a fundamental basis. So she likes to be by herself. Hey, I’ve met a lot of people, and frankly, I can understand that. And that she doesn’t make chitchat in the normal superficial ways that, say, you or I do? In my case, that’s probably a good thing.”

He rose. “I tell you what. Why don’t you both think more about how I can get her to meet with me, and in the meantime I’ll clear and wash up. I may not be trusted to cook in a fine restaurant anymore, but I can still be counted on for my busboy and dishwasher abilities.”

Justin watched as Nick expertly lined multiple plates along the length of his arm without stacking. “Are you trying to show up my KP skills?”

“You’re just jealous,” Nick spoke over his shoulder as he turned toward the kitchen.

His cell phone started to chime in the back pocket of his jeans. He looked down. “Damn.” He juggled the dishes.

“Here, let me,” Lilah volunteered, hopping off Justin’s lap. “It’s not every day I get to come into close contact with a celebrity.”

Nick crooked his hip to offer up his back pocket.

Lilah slipped her fingers in gently.

“Now I’m jealous,” Justin kidded.

“Nothing wrong with a little jealousy.” Lilah slid the bar across the screen to activate the phone.

He cocked his head sideways against the screen. “Hello,” he answered the call, still juggling the plates.

“Daddy? I’m ba-ack!”

CHAPTER FOUR

IT©WAS©A©SMALL©MIRACLE that Nick hadn’t dropped the plates. Maybe it would have been better if he had.

Then he’d have an excuse to disconnect the phone and regroup before responding to the caller. Instead he looked up. “I better take this call.” He eased the plates into the sink and stepped out of the kitchen into the hallway. He figured he needed as much privacy as possible where his seventeen-year-old daughter was concerned.

“What’s up, Amara? I got your email about your graduation, but unfortunately I’m shooting an episode right now, so there’s a possibility that I won’t be able to make it.” He glanced out the arched window over the landing to the traffic below. Across the street the Grantham Public Library was ablaze with light. Maybe there still were people who read books, Nick mused.

“Well, it’s not like I really expected you to come. Since when have you made it to any of the important moments in my entire existence?” a sarcastic, high-pitched voice complained. “Anyway, Mom was the one who told me to tell you.”

Well, I was there at the moment of your conception, Nick could have said. But he wisely kept that remark to himself.

“Anyway, there’s no need for you to interrupt your busy schedule on my account,” Amara went on.

“I really want to,” Nick insisted ingenuously. Hanging out at the snotty prep school Amara attended in upstate New York—and where his well-mannered, maturely sensible ex-wife happened to work in the development office—was not high on his list of favorite activities.

“Don’t even pretend, Daddy.” She made the word sound ugly. “Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be there anyway.” The last remark was almost a throwaway.

Nick was immediately suspicious. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re not graduating? I thought you were supposed to be some hotshot student?”

“Have you ever seen a single one of my report cards?” she snapped back.

“No, but, somehow I remember you or maybe your mother…”

“Forget Mother.”

Gladly, thought Nick.

“She’s out of the picture, on her honeymoon in Tahiti with Glenn.”

“Honeymoon? Tahiti? And wait a minute. Glenn?”

Nick heard a sigh of exasperation on the other end of the line.

“God, you’re so lame. Don’t the two of you ever talk? I don’t know why I even bother to ask. Anyway, I blamed it all on defective genes, inherited from you.”

Now Nick was really suspicious. “Back up there, Tonto. Blame what on me?”

“My getting kicked out. I figure I’m just keeping up the family tradition.”