Penelope pursed her lips. Perhaps she should just watch an episode after all?
* * *
“WHERE©THE©HELL©IS©SHE, and why doesn’t she answer her phone?” Nick threw his cell phone on the dashboard of the rental car.
Georgie, who was driving, glanced over. “Hey, watch it. That’s genuine plastic. And besides, what are you getting all worked up about? It’s only eight in the morning. Amara’s probably fast asleep with her phone turned off. My kids at that age used to sleep past noon when they didn’t have school.”
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? She should have been in school,” Nick replied.
The traffic inched forward on Main Street only to grind to a halt when the light turned red. “So why’d she get kicked out?” Georgie asked. He tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel.
Nick stared at him. “You know, I didn’t even ask. What kind of a father doesn’t even ask his kid the reason for being thrown out of school?”
“I don’t know. A total screwup?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Nick glanced past Georgie at a small movie theater on the corner. The marquee displayed the title of some esoteric foreign flick. “Maybe Amara would want to take in a film? She seems like the artsy-fartsy type.”
The light changed and the traffic sputtered forward. Georgie eased his foot on the gas pedal. Three cars advanced. Then a car wanting to turn left held up everybody behind it. Naturally the light turned red again.
Georgie shook his head. “If I had known traffic would have been this bad in this two-bit town, I would have suggested walking. I hate being late. Maybe we should give this Penelope lady a call?”
Nick reached for his phone on the dashboard and checked the time. “Nah, we still have five minutes.”
Georgie looked unconvinced. “You’re really sure this is worth it? I mean, we’ve already got that Hoagie joint set up for tonight.”
Nick held up his hand. “Which reminds me. I’ve got to text Mimi Lodge—”
“The war correspondent?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Definitely get her to come. She’d be fantastic for ratings. Plus, I’ve never known any other woman to do quite so much for a kuffiyeh—you know, those Palestinian scarves all the correspondents wear?”
Nick tapped away as he texted. “Glad to know you’re such a fashion maven. Anyway, she promised to have her kid brother there, too. A nice…ah…sort of quasi-multigenerational thing.”
Georgie nodded.
The light changed. “Finally we have action.” Georgie gunned the engine so they didn’t waste any more time. “According to the GPS we’re within spitting distance. Hey, isn’t that the Hoagie Palace?” He pointed to the left. The building’s trim was painted a combination of orange and black, Grantham University’s colors, so it was virtually impossible to miss.
Nick sighed. “My heart is already going pitter-patter.” He fluttered his hand on his chest. In deference to meeting a librarian type, he’d traded in his usual frayed souvenir T-shirt for an open-neck oxford-cloth shirt and a blue blazer. Only the quest for the Holy Grail—homemade ’nduja—could bring out this sartorial condescension. “Trust me, this library gig will be worth it. We’ll go through the whole food-manuscript charade, and then get down to the real meat and potatoes, so to speak.”
“Okay, supposedly just a right at the next light, and we’re practically there,” Georgie said.
The next light changed to red.
Nick laughed. “That’ll teach you to be optimistic.”
Georgie nodded in agreement. “Why do I even try?” he joked. Then his face turned more serious. “You know, Nick, I wouldn’t beat yourself up about your relationship with Amara.”
“You mean my lack of relationship—totally my fault, by all stretches of the imagination.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I really had anything to do with bringing up our kids—not with the constant travel. It was all Marjorie, really.” He bit down on his bottom lip.
Georgie’s wife, Marjorie, had died two years ago of an aneurism. Nick knew that the suddenness had rocked him, but through it all, Georgie had insisted on working. “It’s my therapy,” he had said at the time in an unthreatening voice that was so not Georgie.
“She was a great lady,” Nick answered now.
“She was,” Georgie agreed. “But you know, even she had her moments with the kids, especially Sallie, our second, when she was Amara’s age. Kids are kids. They talk tough and give you all sorts of grief. But deep down you can’t imagine life without them.”
“You promise?” Nick asked.
* * *
AMARA©LAY©IN©THE©QUEEN-SIZE©BED in the pool house staring at prints of America’s Cup sailboats artfully arranged on the walls. On the nightstand, the glass eye of a sculpted seagull stared back at her. She blinked, grateful that she hadn’t noticed it last night before she’d fallen asleep.
It was about the only thing she had to be grateful about. Mostly she was scared stiff that by getting kicked out before graduation she’d blown her acceptance to Grantham University.
The headmistress had informed her that her guidance counselor would be letting Grantham know about her changed status. “In light of that news, do you have anything further you’d like to say about the incident?” she’d asked, her half-glasses sliding down her nose. Photographs of the woman shaking hands with an Academy Award-winning actress and a prominent female senator, both graduates of the Edwina Worth School for Girls, had been prominently displayed.
Amara had silently shaken her head. She wasn’t about to rat out anyone else. She was already something of an outsider. Not only was she a day student among mostly boarders, her mother also worked in the development office. A double strike against her.
True, having a father who had a TV show counted in her favor. But the positives of being Nicholas Rheinhardt’s daughter stopped there, as far as she was concerned. He was a nonentity who, when she was younger, didn’t always send monthly checks. In more recent years, though, he was far more generous where the money was concerned.
As for any personal interaction? Did one week a year in Manhattan count as father-daughter bonding time? When she mostly ended up going to museums by herself or sitting in his production offices reading? Sure, he seemed cool and all—some of her classmates said that, for an old guy, he looked sexy.
But to Amara he remained someone she was supposed to love, who she wanted to love but who had hardly shown any interest in her love.
So screw him.
Yet, here she was. With him.
Her so-called father might have noticed the black fingernail polish and the purple streak in her dark hair. And if he had—a big if, in Amara’s opinion—he might have assumed that they were signs of subversive behavior. Truth be told, these affectations were more an indication of boredom. After all, there wasn’t a lot to do at an all-girls private school in what had to be the dreariest town in upstate New York.
And as she mulled her sorry state, Amara heard a splash in the pool outside. She got out of bed and peeked through the white sailcloth curtains. It was a guy. A couple of years older than she. The cutest guy ever, swimming laps. He was strong, fit. And he had shoulders, actual shoulders, and real abdominal muscles just like in the ads.
She pulled open the door