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The combination of forces—the knowledge that she was holding what might be the original manuscript by the work of an ancient genius and the role that her own father had played in preserving this crucial bit of antiquity—was almost overwhelming. Excited, Penelope felt her mouth start to water.
Don’t be foolish, she chided herself.
“As anyone with even a moderate IQ knows, the overproduction of saliva is attributed to specific physiological or medical conditions. And since I am not a teething infant, nor do I have a fever…” Just to make sure, she felt her forehead with the back of her wrist. “As I thought, normal. Therefore, I can eliminate mononucleosis or tonsillitis as other possible causalities,” she explained to no one in particular.
This type of self-directed conversation was something she tended to do. Her brother, Justin, called it “Penelope’s pontificating mode.” Her father said it was yet another indication of her superior intellect and geniuslike ability to retain facts. Her mother never commented. She was too busy chasing butterflies or spying delicate wildflowers.
Penelope had her own diagnosis, which she kept to herself. Still, it didn’t keep her from lecturing herself.
She lifted her chin and considered her current state further. “The only other causes of sudden drooling that I am aware of are certain medications, poisoning or a reaction to venom transmitted in a snakebite.” She paused. “I wonder if a particularly virulent insect bite could also have a similar effect?”
A young man in a white lab coat on the other side of the exhibition space stopped pushing a cart. “Penelope, did you need me for something?” he asked.
She shook her head and turned to Press. “No, I was just contemplating whether a reaction to an insect bite could induce excess saliva.”
“We once had a chocolate Lab who was stung by a bee and started drooling in reaction,” Press answered as if it were a perfectly normal question.
“I was thinking of the reaction in humans, but I think you make a good point,” Penelope said with a pleased nod.
Conrad Prescott Lodge IV, known as Press, was a senior at Grantham University. He was majoring in biology, with a concentration in paleontology, and while his dream student job would have been to work in a natural history museum, Grantham, alas, lacked such a facility. Given his respect for the fragility, not to mention the importance, of old objects, Penelope had immediately chosen him out of all the applicants for the job of part-time assistant at the university’s Rare Book Library. She had recognized a soul mate when she had asked him about his interest in paleontology and he had launched into a passionate discourse. He eventually stopped when, embarrassed, he realized he’d gone on for almost twenty minutes.
“I’m so sorry,” he had apologized. “I guess I got carried away.”
“No need to be sorry. To be sorry is to express regret for doing something that has upset someone. On the contrary, I found your intense interest illuminating. You may set your mind at ease. The job is yours,” Penelope had announced, followed by the news that she intended to raise his hourly salary by two dollars.
“But I haven’t done anything yet,” Press had protested.
“Oh, but you will. Many things. And by paying you more I just want to ensure that very fact.”
The way he had responded to her query about insect bites just now reaffirmed her initial faith in him.
“I brought over some additional manuscripts for the show,” he said, pointing to the protective boxes lying flat on the shelves of the metal cart. “The illuminated manuscript from the Burgundy, Captain Cooke’s logbook from his voyages in the Pacific and Woodrow Wilson’s love letters to his wife.”
Penelope smiled. The show she was putting together for Grantham University’s main library was comprised of manuscripts held in the university’s Rare Book Library. The show was to run during Reunions and Commencement and, therefore, she had chosen only manuscripts that had been donated by Grantham alumni.
“Thank you, Press. Yes, they’re the ‘warhorses’ of the show, though I must admit…” She gazed at the manuscript in her hands.
Press walked over and stood next to her. Penelope also wore a white lab coat over her clothes, and her strawberry-blond loose curls were twisted to the back of her head. A No. 2 pencil held the unruly mass in place.
“The Grantham Galen?” he asked, on noting what she held. “Now I get why you were asking about bites and stuff.”
Penelope made a face. “Clearly we have been working together too long, and it’s time for you to graduate.”
“Amen,” Press agreed with a praying motion.
Penelope eyed him. “Are you teasing me?”
Press held up his hands. “Would I do that?” He shrugged. “Well, probably. Anyway, you know, you should really give a talk to the alumni about the show, especially the Grantham Galen, what with your book contract and everything,” Press suggested.
“That may be so, but I think it’s better that I don’t. Interaction with people has never been my strong suit.” Penelope was sure that Press knew all about her being terminated as an assistant professor at the University of Chicago when she didn’t get tenure. That career low point had eventually led to her current position as the curator of Grantham’s Rare Book Library.
Penelope laid the priceless manuscript in the display case, locking it and her memories away. Then she glanced at her watch. “Goodness, it’s practically six o’clock. You should get going, or you’ll miss dinner at your Club.”
Press shrugged. “Somehow, I think Lion Inn will go on without my presence for one night.” The Social Clubs at Grantham were the bulwark of the college students’ social life, providing dining facilities besides a continual round of parties and sports leagues. “There’s still a lot of work to be done, and I don’t want you to have to do it all.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure you want to spend your remaining time with your friends. Pretty soon you will graduate, and you will all be going your separate ways.”
Press shrugged. “I guess I’ll miss some people, and I’m sure I’ll enjoy the graduation activities. You remember them, right?”
Actually Penelope couldn’t recall any festivities when she graduated from Grantham, but that was because she hadn’t attended any.
Press carried on without waiting for an answer. “To tell you the truth, though, a part of me is so ready to get out of here. Four years is a long time to be in one place. On top of which, I grew up in Grantham anyway. So even though I’ve lived in the dorms the whole time, it’s really kind of like I never left home. All I want to do now is to get out of here—far, far away.”
At one point, that had been Penelope’s ambition. After all, she, too, had grown up in Grantham. But here she was, back again, doing a job that her family never would have thought was in her future. Not that she didn’t find fulfillment in her current position. But life, as she had found out, didn’t always proceed as planned.
She was about to impart this pearl of wisdom to Press when he blurted out, “I can’t wait to take off for Mongolia. It’ll be amazing, don’t you think? Especially going out into the countryside.”
Penelope smiled and answered, “I think it will be a fascinating venture, especially the sites of recent paleontology discoveries. You must contact the relevant academics in the field. Perhaps I can help? I know a bit of Mongolian, as it turns out.” She recognized what appeared to be astonishment on his face. “What?” she asked. She was never quite sure if she was gauging body language correctly.
“You know Mongolian?” Press asked.
“Just a smattering. I was interested in languages written in the Cyrillic alphabet at one point. Standard Khlakha Mongolian, the dialect spoken in Mongolia proper, as opposed to the autonomous Inner Mongolian region of China…” Penelope stopped, noticing a certain fog settle over Press’s expression.
She waved her hand dismissively. “There I go, off in my own little world. I told you I was no good with social interactions. Now, as for staying—there’s absolutely no need. I’ll be working on the installation for several days. Furthermore, I am very keen for you to go to Lion Inn tonight because, if memory serves me correctly, it is Beer Pong night. You must promise to give me a full rendition of the competition. I am very much interested in the sociological aspects of the game, with the idea of establishing an anthropological link to Roman drinking games.”
Actually she had almost no interest in Beer Pong. But perhaps in telling this little white lie she was exhibiting a certain sensitivity to social interactions. At least she was trying.
CHAPTER THREE
June
Grantham
NICK©RAISED©HIS©GLASS of red wine. “To old college ties,” he toasted. “With an emphasis on the old.” He took a large sip of the Australian shiraz.
“Speak for yourself,” his host, Justin Bigelow, replied. Justin and his wife, Lilah Evans, who was also a Grantham University classmate, lived in a modest one-bedroom apartment in the center of Grantham. They called it home when they were in the States, but spent much of their time in Africa on behalf of Lilah’s nonprofit organization. Back in her senior year at Grantham, Lilah had founded Sisters for Sisters to help women and children in the central African country of Congo. Now, eleven years later, it was going strong, providing health-and-educational services in rural settlements.
“Lilah and I are as youthful as ever,” Justin chided him.
“Speak for yourself,” Lilah piped up.
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with getting older. I earned my gray hairs,” Nick announced grandly.
“If you’re going to claim they’re a mark of hard-earned maturity and wisdom, don’t even try. No one with even a smattering of fully functioning brain cells would have submitted to that crazy massage.” Justin chuckled. “I loved that episode.”
“Glad to oblige.” Nick took another sip. He had lived to regret that episode in more ways than one. Not only was his neck perpetually out of whack, but people who met him for the first time inevitably brought up the massage debacle. The price of being semifamous, he told himself.
“Even back in college when you were my Residential Advisor, you were not exactly a role model. Not that I didn’t enjoy myself, of course. I still remember you orchestrating all us freshmen advisees in stealing the clapper from Grantham Hall.”
It was a well-known tradition for students to try to steal the clapper from the bell tower atop the administration building in the center of campus. This centuries-old battle between the students and the administration had led to some epic adventures and even more epic tales.
“Excuse me. I did a good job. Did you guys get caught? Hell, no. Not on my watch,” Nick boasted, and took another gulp. He really should slow down, but then, hey, he wasn’t driving. He barely needed to roll down a gentle hill to get back to his hotel.
Then there was the irritating fact that despite the easy manner with which Justin had invited him to dinner on his first night back to Grantham, he wasn’t feeling all that relaxed. There was something about returning to the scene of his first big screwup—not finishing college—that had a disquieting effect. All those parental dreams that he had squashed without a second thought.
Lilah, seated across the wooden table, shook her head. “I like that. Your definition of morality is that it’s all right as long as you don’t get caught.”
“I bet you never considered stealing the clapper, did you? I have vague memories of you being always on the forefront of whatever good cause was going around, and from the looks of things, you’ve made that your life’s work.” Nick poured himself another glass of wine and held the bottle out to Lilah. “Drink?”
Lilah laughed. “No wine for me, thanks. I’m three months pregnant.”
Nick eyed Justin. “As I recall, you always were a fast worker.” Then he turned to Lilah. “And I guess congratulations are in order. If anyone could reform a party boy, it’s you.” He picked up a fork and dug into the pasta that Lilah had just served. It followed an absolutely superb appetizer of marinated grilled eggplant.
“Yum. This is good.” Nick nodded after a large forkful. “Actually, speaking of great food, my producer’s been laying the groundwork around town for this show I’m filming, but frankly, I’ve got my number-one priority—Hoagie Palace.”
Justin passed the freshly grated Parmesan. “Oh, yeah, you gotta go to The Palace.” He used the student slang for the beloved greasy spoon in town.
“And I was hoping you’d both accompany me on my pilgrimage,” Nick said. “You know, some nice on-camera interplay of how the food conjures up certain episodes of our wild college youth.”
“Speak for yourself. The Palace for me was strictly late-night fare when writing papers,” Lilah said.
“For me it was the place to go after practice,” Justin remarked. He’d been captain of the lightweight crew.
“You know, comments like that are perfect,” Nick agreed. He took another bite. The pasta was good. More than good.
“I’m not sure I’d be the best person for your show, though,” Lilah admitted sadly. “The way my stomach is now, just the thought of all that grease is enough to make me queasy.”
“Bummer, I was viewing it as a family moment,” Justin teased her. Then he patted her arm. “Not to worry. I’ve got a great idea for somebody else. Press Lodge,” Justin announced.
“Is this someone I should know?” Nick asked.
“Remember Mimi Lodge, who was a classmate?” Justin asked. “She’s now a foreign correspondent.”
“You mean, have-war-will-travel Mimi Lodge?”
“That’s the one. Well, she has a half brother, Press, who’s a graduating senior.”
“And he’s practically been adopted by the owners,” Lilah added. “Not surprising, given his family situation.” Then she covered her mouth. “I shouldn’t be gossiping.”
“Don’t worry. Other shows deal with family strife. I’m after the food scene, and the idea of having a true insider in artery-clogging food is better than perfect. You think he’ll do it?” Nick asked.
Justin shrugged. “I don’t see why not, especially if it means publicity for Hoagie Palace.”
“I know Mimi came in today for Reunions. I’ll call her, and she’s sure to twist Press’s arm.”
“Ask her if she’ll come, too. The more the merrier.” Nick rested his fork on the edge of his plate. The pasta had been so delicious he had gobbled it down in record time.
Justin reached for more bread from the wicker basket by his elbow, then held it up. “Anyone else?”
Nick shook his head. “No, thanks, but I gotta tell you. This pasta is truly to die for. What’s in it? I mean, I can see there’s sausage—though it’s like no other sausage I’ve ever had. But what’re the greens?”
Lilah furrowed her brow in thought. “I can’t remember.” She looked to Justin. “What did Penelope say she put in it?”
“Wild fennel. She said something about foraging it somewhere near the Delaware Water Gap,” Justin explained.
Nick tipped his chair on the back two legs and craned his neck from side to side. “So where are you hiding this Penelope? This place doesn’t seem big enough to accommodate a golden retriever, let alone another person.”
It was true. The quaint apartment had lots of Victorian charm, including the bay window with a window seat and the original molding, but square footage was at a definite premium.
“It’s more like Penelope hides herself. She doesn’t exactly socialize,” Justin explained.
Lila touched her chin. “Penelope is definitely her own person.”
Justin looked at Nick. “Penelope’s a little weird. As her younger brother, I should know.”
“So she’s your sister.” Nick narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute, didn’t she go to Grantham, too? Like a year behind me? I have this fuzzy recollection of her always going around campus with her face buried in a book.”
“That would be Penelope.” Justin chuckled. “She was born almost legally blind. Even with glasses, she had to read with the book an inch from her nose. The miracle is that she’s had laser surgery, and now she doesn’t need to wear glasses anymore.”
Nick held his bloated stomach. “As far as I’m concerned, anyone who makes pasta this good can be blind as a bat. The woman’s a genius in the kitchen, that’s for sure.”
“Well, she actually happens to be a genius,” Lilah said. “And please, have some more.” She indicated the large ceramic bowl.
“I know this is the wrong thing to do, but since when have I ever turned down an opportunity to eat myself silly?” Nick reached across the table and grabbed the serving utensils. “So your sister’s become a chef?”
“No, it’s more a…a…” Justin searched for the correct word. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a hobby, but a…a…”
“It’s more a passion,” Lilah finished his sentence. “When Penelope takes an interest in something, it’s total immersion.”
“She’s into southern Italy. You know, Calabria?”
Nick started on his second portion. “Not personally, but I know the region you’re referring to.”
“Anyway, somebody left her a house there, in this dot-on-the-map town called Capo Vaticano. It’s all a bit of a mystery, especially for someone on her salary. Though I guess she rents the place out.”
Lilah rested her chin on her hands. “Well, I for one am not complaining. She let us stay there for our honeymoon. The house is in the private garden on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean.”
“And don’t forget the infinity pool.” Justin’s eyes clouded over. “When I die and go to heaven, I hope it looks like that infinity pool.”
Nick set his fork down—for him, a real concession. “From what you’re all saying, Penelope’s passions have led to some pretty good things—the house, this food…” He pointed it out. “That type of passion I can deal with. In my experience, indifference is a lot harder to cope with, believe me.”
He didn’t elaborate, nor did they ask. If they had, Nick supposed he could have made some snide remark about his ex-wife. Heaven knows, for years after their divorce he hadn’t had any problems commenting on her faults. Now, those faults had become dimmer with time, and mostly what he felt was moderate disdain or worse, nothing, when he thought about her. Which, granted, he tried to do as little as possible.
He quickly forked down another mouthful and gulped. There was definitely something about the pasta that was incredible. “So why is your sister doing whatever she’s doing instead of cooking professionally?” He looked up. “It’s gotta be another passion, right?”
“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.