On Common Ground

But sometimes the bigger fears came from within oneself.

CHAPTER TWO

June

JUSTIN BIGELOW STOOD in the international arrivals area of Newark Liberty Airport with a sign dangling from one hand and wondered if he was making a big mistake. A seriously big mistake.

It wouldn’t be the first one, as his father, a professor of classics at Grantham University, would no doubt have reminded him. Growing up, this pronouncement traditionally came during dinner, where conversational topics were limited to his father’s research on the ancient Greek Punic Wars, with possible digressions into stories from the day’s headlines in the New York Times that were of particular interest to him.

This arrangement, with Stanfield Bigelow as the central star around which all family members orbited, had seemed to please his mother and sister. Naturally. His mother happily trekked over the remains of archaeological sites in Sicily and North Africa while painting watercolors of the landscapes—very well, as it happened. Her book, A Companion’s Guide to Sicilian Wildflowers, was a classic among aficionados.

Justin’s older sister, Penelope—named for Odysseus’s devoted wife—was equally sympathetic to their father’s passion for ancient Roman history and Latin historical authors. She had dutifully followed in his footsteps, graduating first from Grantham University before going to graduate school at Oxford on a Marshall Scholarship, then winning a Prix de Rome, and now an appointment as an assistant professor at the University of Chicago—not quite the Ivy League, but somehow more so.

On the other hand, Justin—short for the Byzantine emperor Justinian, a fact that no one, and Justin made sure ab-so-lutely no one, knew about—had been left completely out of the conversation. Sports, his passion growing up and something he excelled at, held no interest for his father. And the only show on National Public Radio that Justin listened to—“Car Talk,” the humorous call-in car repair broadcast—didn’t count as highbrow fare. A real shame, since Justin had been more than handy when it came to keeping his father’s ancient Volvo station wagon up and running. In recognition of which his father would nod silently, turn back to his books and then add while he flipped a page, “Make sure you wash your hands before you touch anything in the house.”

It used to be that statements like that hurt Justin’s feelings, and he would lash out. Now he didn’t bother. What good would it do anyway? People didn’t change. They were who they were, for better or for worse.

Justin smiled at the thought of someone better, lots better. And with that smile still on his face, he stared up at the arrivals screen.

Her plane had just landed.

Justin glanced at his watch, an inexpensive Timex with large numbers. Given the water and sand he came into contact with daily on his job, there was no point in spending more—not that he was into status-y stuff anyway. It was an international flight, so he figured it would be another twenty minutes or so before she’d appear. Enough time to check his messages.

He tucked the sign under his arm and pulled out his smart phone, juggling it with the bouquet of flowers in his hand. He had left work early to drive to the airport, and he wanted to make sure that everyone got home. Then he set about methodically answering anything that required an immediate response. As he did so, he wandered a few steps to a large rectangular pillar, tucked the flowers and sign under his arm.

“Lilah? Lilah Evans?” a female voice called out from behind a few minutes later.

Justin held up a hand and quickly finished replying to a message. “I’m sorry. I just needed to send that.”

“Is that sign for Lilah Evans?”

A woman pointed to the words on his sign. A cascade of sun-streaked brown hair fell across her face, blocking her features.

“Can I help you?” he asked, bending over to address her eye to eye.

She stood up. The hair fell away. She indicated the sign again. “Did you mean Lilah Evans?”

His mouth opened. She looked very familiar, even though he didn’t recognize her immediately.

The Lilah Evans he remembered had that kind of fresh-faced milkmaid appeal—all rosy cheeks and rosy attitude to life—an apple dumpling with a heart of gold, to mix metaphors in a really, really awful way. She’d been rounded, maybe even a little pudgy, not that Justin ever complained about a few extra pounds. If anything, they only served to enhance her womanly appeal. Anyway, she’d always seemed supremely unaware of her own attractiveness. It hadn’t mattered if she had on a sweatshirt and had her hair pulled up and anchored by a pencil, or was wearing some slinky dress and high heels, the woman had invariably produced a catch in his throat even though she’d only thought of him as a friend. Was there anything worse?

Back in college, Lilah was his roommate’s girlfriend. That made her strictly off-limits.

And now? Now that same woman—who was not the same at all—was staring at him with a critical frown. She looked older. There were lines in her forehead and around her mouth, too, and she’d tucked a pair of reading glasses into the neckband of her drab olive T-shirt. Gone were the pillowy-soft curves, replaced by a delicate frame with sinewy muscles and minimal body fat. And instead of that wide-eyed, can-do outlook, she conveyed a weary, been-there-done-that air.

He cleared his throat. “Lilah? Is that really you?” He pointed between her name on the sign and herself in person.

“Well, yes, I’m Lilah Evans, spelled L-I-L-A-H, not L-I-L-L-A.” She hooked a thumb under the strap on her backpack. “You are waiting for the L-I-L-A-H version, right?”

He shrugged off a laugh. “I never could spell. And as to waiting for the L-I-L-A-H version? To tell you the truth, it seemed like I’ve been waiting for a large portion of my adult life.”

CHAPTER THREE

“OH, DON’T TELL ME.” Lilah covered her mouth before slowly dropping her hand. “Justin? Justin Bigelow? From college?” Her voice ended in a high squeak, the kind of girlie sound that Lilah hadn’t emitted since…well…since college.

“In the flesh,” he admitted sheepishly.

Though what he had to be ashamed about Lilah wasn’t quite sure. No, check that. If Justin’s behavior was still consistent with his days in college, he had a lot to apologize for. Which, Lilah reflected, had only made him that much more attractive.

What was it about bad boys? Lilah wondered. Every woman knew they were poison, but that didn’t stop them from wanting to take a bite out of the apple.

Back in college, Lilah had found Justin incredibly attractive. Maybe it was his cherubic blond curls that should have made him seem like Harpo Marx, but somehow they just turned up the sex-appeal quotient instead? Maybe it was the long, loose-limbed body, the kind that never seemed to put on a pound despite an enormous consumption of beer and pizza? But then, he had been a lightweight rower, Lilah reminded herself—all those calories burned away in killer practices. Or maybe it was the way he didn’t mind shooting the breeze with her in the dorm rooms he shared with Stephen. Or when Stephen was off editing the Daily Granthamite, the college newspaper, the way he listened to her worry that her Junior Paper wasn’t original enough, or about the interview she was sure she had messed up for a summer internship at the Guggenheim Museum. She hadn’t, he’d assured her, and sure enough she’d gotten the job.

She studied him now. Gone were the curls. Instead, his hair was close-cropped. He still appeared trim and fit, but he seemed to have lost the red-rimmed and bleary-eyed gaze of someone who burned the candle at both ends.

I guess even a party boy has to know when to quit sometime, she thought. But talk about parties! Much of the social life at Grantham University centered around social clubs, basically coed fraternities, each with its own personality. Stephen had belonged to Contract—the elitist club for political aspirants. Their parties involved a lot of sherry. Justin had joined Lion Inn, the ultimate jock hangout where beer was the beverage of choice. Lilah, on the other hand, had declined to rush any club, claiming the Grantham experience for her was more centered around her studies, her job in the art history library and her position on the board of the film society. But the truth was, she hadn’t gone that route because she’d been afraid she’d be turned down.

Anyway, Justin. There was never any doubt that he would join Lion Inn. Or that he would have just about every woman flocking after him. And since she was Justin’s roommate’s girlfriend, she was somehow supposed to know his every personal detail for all those other women to mine.

“Is it true he’s having an affair with the dean’s wife?” they’d ask.

To which she answered, “She’s old enough to be his mother—not that that would stop him.”

Then there was, “Does he really quote one particular sonnet by Shakespeare to all the women?”

“It may be the same one over and over, but can you beat, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’”

Or her favorite: “Does he compose songs on his guitar for every woman he sleeps with?” To which she answered, “No one has a repertoire that big.”

But what they all really wanted to ask was, “Do you think he likes me?” “Does he want to go out with me?” “Does he want to sleep with me?”

Lilah didn’t worry whether Justin liked her. She wasn’t sure why, but she had always felt that he liked her in the no-pressure kind of way. As friends without benefits. Besides, she had Stephen.

Stephen. Just the thought of her ex-fiancé made her suddenly suspicious. She looked around but didn’t see him. Then she narrowed her eyes at Justin. “Someone we both know didn’t send you to get me, did he?”

“No, you can rest assured. I’m here on my own accord as your official welcoming party.”

“An official welcoming party that’s busy texting instead of keeping an eye out for me? That’s some kind of welcome.”

“This is New Jersey. Give me a break. Though in my defense, I wasn’t expecting you through the doors so fast. But to make up for my grievous faux pas, these are for you.” He reached for the bouquet and handed it to her.

As Lilah reached for the flowers their fingers brushed. She felt the roughness of the pads of his fingers. She wondered if he still rowed, recalling the thick calluses he had built up in college. Then she pulled apart the patterned paper and stopped. Tulips—dozens of Rembrandt tulips, the striated, white-and-red, white-and-orange, and white-and-purple flowers depicted by the Flemish master.

“They’re your favorites, right?” he asked.

She looked up. “I’m amazed. How did you remember?”

“You didn’t think Stephen kept track of those kinds of things, did you? I may not have graduated magna like some people I know—” he tipped his chin down as he eyed her “—but I’ve got a pretty good memory for details.”

Lilah pressed her nose to the flowers. The waxy petals were just starting to open, and their faint perfume was intensely fresh. She closed her eyes for a moment, and felt transported back to a simpler time when her worries consisted of studying Old Masters, not worrying whether she could help yet another woman get proper obstetrical care rather than risk death in childbirth.

She opened her tired eyes. “You always did remember the details—especially when it involved women.” Irony was the only emotion she seemed able to muster.

“I’m not sure that’s entirely a compliment, but I’ll just assume it is.” He looked around, then pointed to her backpack. “Is that all you’ve got?”

“That and my laptop.” She held up the case for him to see. “I prefer to travel light. It’s just easier, faster. I’m all about streamlining.”

He nodded uncertainly. “I can imagine the advantages. Well, let me take your pack.” He didn’t bother to wait and moved to take it off her shoulders. He slipped his long fingers between the padded strap and the thin cotton of her T-shirt.

Lilah felt her skin prickle. She blinked. I really must be tired after the flight from Spain, not to mention the hard work getting the race all sorted out. The race… That’s right. Her muscles were still sore.

Yes, she was tired, but even Lilah couldn’t deny the ego boost of having a good-looking male in his absolute prime touching her body—even if it was strictly on a practical level and wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination accompanied by smoldering looks. Ah, the imagination…

Lilah watched Justin sling her pack over one shoulder as if it contained only a fistful of Ping-Pong balls instead of the forty-pounds-plus of clothing and paperwork stuffed into its bulging sides. Relieved of the weight, she felt as if her spine had decompressed and she’d grown an inch. And she would have felt even more relieved if she didn’t still feel the residual tingle of Justin’s touch.

“Shall we go find the car, then?” he asked with a nod of his head.

That tingle she was feeling just got even more annoying because it appeared that Justin was totally oblivious to the same hypersensitivity. Lilah frowned. The decision to return to Grantham appeared to promise additional obstacles. At least, maybe she could find out about the obvious one that had been bugging her ever since she’d heard about the award. “I was wondering. I know you said you weren’t Stephen’s emissary, but do you know if he’s planning on coming this weekend?” She tried to sound oh-so-casual. She practically had to hop to keep up with Justin’s long strides.

“As far as I know, he’s not coming to Reunions. So you’re safe,” he said, waiting for her to go through the revolving door first.

Lilah stopped. “Safe? I think the embarrassment factor is still pretty high. I can’t begin to remember the number of times I poured out my soul to you. About the only thing I do remember is that it was way more than to Stephen.”

“And you never thought that was one of the problems with your relationship?” He scooted in behind her into the slowly turning segment of the revolving door.

She was conscious of his legs coming perilously close to the back of her thighs. Lilah cleared her throat. “Let’s leave that evaluation aside for now, okay? I don’t need you to lecture me on how I wronged your good buddy. Besides, for all I know, as soon as you’re alone, you’ll immediately contact him to let him know my rear end is bigger than ever.”

Finally, the slowly revolving door deposited them on the sidewalk, and she stumbled out on the pavement. The fresh air should have been a relief, but this was Newark, and fresh air was a relative concept given the bus and taxi fumes.

Justin followed closely behind. “I won’t text, let alone communicate with Stephen in any form. I should let you know, I haven’t kept up with him since graduation.”

Lilah raised her eyebrows. “You’re kidding me.”

“So you’ve nothing to worry about on that score.” He held his arm out toward the street. “We need to cross here. I’m parked in the lot across the way.”

“But you two were practically joined at the hip in college.”

“Except where you were concerned,” he reminded her. “And by the way, I don’t know where you get off saying your butt is too big. Anyone can see you’re incredibly fit and trim.” He started to cross the street when the light changed. “In fact, if anything, you could probably afford to gain a few pounds.”

She shouldn’t have felt pleased, but she was. It was the inner-anorexic in all women who were once overweight. “Well, I run a lot these days—the job kind of requires it. So, it’s hard to gain weight.”

“You could try eating more.”

“Eating? Who has time for eating?”

“Lots of folks do. It’s called three square meals a day.”

“I know. It’s something we try to make happen in the villages.”

He slanted her a glance. “And you don’t practice what you preach?” He kept up a steady pace as they passed the rows of cars.

Lilah frowned. Why did he seem angry with her? She took a few giant strides to catch up. “Wait a minute. I don’t get it,” she called out after him.

Justin stopped. He fished some keys out of his pocket and waited.

She jogged to his side. “Tell me this. If you’re not here because Stephen sent you to escort me, why are you here?”

A giant SUV pulled out of the row near them, and the driver gunned the engine as he raced off.

“Why am I here?” he repeated. “To tell you the truth, I don’t usually get too involved with Reunions stuff.” He wet his top lip. “I’m here because of you.”

“Me?” Lilah stopped while Justin opened the trunk of a green sports car. She looked down. “And this…this…little car is yours?”

“This is not just a little car. It’s a fully restored…well, partially restored—I still have some body work to do—Triumph TR4, a British classic.” He gazed at it lovingly.

The rust around the back fender didn’t exactly induce confidence. “Is it roadworthy?” she asked.

He narrowed his eyes. “Careful, or I’ll change my mind.” He shut the trunk lid and gave it an extra push to make sure it closed. Then he turned to her. “I was the one who recommended you for the Paine Prize, and as a result, I have the enviable task of serving as your personal chaperone for the duration of the Reunions festivities. How can I put this?” He rubbed his chin philosophically. “We’ll be like two peas in a pod.”

“In this thing we will, that’s for sure,” she joked, then from his silence, realized she may have gone too far. “That’s very nice of you,” she said quickly to make up for her insensitivity, “but you know, it’s really not necessary. I’m sure I can find my way around.”

Justin walked over to the passenger-side door and held it open. “You’d deny me the pleasure of your company? Besides, if you don’t toe the line, I’ll be the one to get in trouble. And who knows, on top of all the trouble I caused in my undergraduate days, they might just take away my diploma retroactively.”

Lilah had to laugh. “You didn’t get in that much trouble—okay, you did. But it wasn’t as if you ever flunked a single course—even if I never saw you study.”

“Ah, I had my secret ways.” He pointed to the open door. “Are you going to get in?”

“Are you changing the subject?”

His smile was a little too charming.

“Okay, we’ll let that pass—for now.” She slipped into the seat without further complaining. Until it collapsed under her weight. “I think you need to do some internal renovation in addition to the bodywork,” she said, watching him circle the car.

He slipped into the driver’s side. “Be careful of the loose spring on the right side.”

Lilah shifted closer to the gearshift. “Now you tell me.” The bucket seats were really quite close and the gap separating them, not that wide.

“I’ve been concentrating on working under the hood so far.”

“So you fix cars for a living?”

“It’s just a hobby. And my work is nothing nearly as exciting as yours, that’s for sure.” He turned the key in the ignition and put the car in Reverse, looking over his shoulder before he pulled out.

“No, I’m curious. I mean, what does someone end up doing who spent most of his college years seducing every woman in sight and giving parties that are possibly still talked about in some quarters.”

Justin grinned slyly. “Not possibly. Definitely.”

He still had terrific dimples, Lilah noticed.

“And I didn’t seduce every woman, as you personally can attest to.” He reached across, his forearm almost skimming the front of her shirt. “Excuse me.”

Lilah swallowed with difficulty.

He flipped down the glove box and pulled out a ticket. “Your job is to guard this with your life,” he said and held it out for her.

“And if I don’t?”

“You don’t want to know what the Port Authority will do to you,” he joked.

“Oh, for a minute, I thought you had plans.”

He swung into the lane that led to the payment booths. “Oh, I have plans, but they’ve got nothing to do with parking fees.”

Lilah rolled her eyes. “So what do you do if you’re not in the business of fixing cars? Provide escort service, because I gotta tell you, your pickup lines are getting a bit old.”

He pulled to a stop behind a Cadillac Escalade. “You think? No one’s been complaining lately.”

“Then the women where you live have pretty low standards. Where do you live anyway?”

“In Grantham.” He put the car in first and inched his way up to the booth.

“In Grantham! You’re joking?”

He shook his head. “Ticket, please.” He held out his hand.

Lilah slowly placed the stub in it, careful to avoid skin-to-skin contact. “So you work at the university? Doing what? Coaching crew?”

He paid for the parking and pulled away, smoothly shifting up to second. “No, I gave up rowing a year out of college. I teach.”

Lilah leaned away from him to get a broader view. “You’re kidding me?”

He shook his head and concentrated on the signs.

“You mean at the university?” she asked.

“I have a much higher caliber student.” He deftly avoided a semi crossing three lanes at once. “The turnoff for the turnpike comes up sooner than you think, so I need to get in the far lane.”

“I don’t get it. Higher caliber? What do you mean?”

“Ah, ha! There it is.” He put on his signal and took the sharp exit to the right. “I told you it came up quickly.” He glanced over, obviously pleased with himself. “What do I mean? Isn’t it obvious?”

She shook her head.

“I teach kindergarten.”

CHAPTER FOUR

MIMI HAD HER HEAD BURIED in the refrigerator at her father’s house when she announced loudly, “Well, I for one wouldn’t mind having Justin Bigelow pick me up from the airport—or any place, for that matter.” She shut the stainless-steel door. “Dah, da-ah!” She held a jar of peanut butter triumphantly aloft. Then she spied the label and her enthusiasm diminished. “Wouldn’t you know it? Organic peanut butter with no salt and no sugar. No wonder it was in the fridge.”

“Since when has your dad become all health food conscious?” Lilah asked. She sat on a stool in the Lodge’s sprawling kitchen. Her entire studio apartment could have fit into the center island—with room to spare. The surface gleamed with acres of polished granite.

“It’s not Daddy. People who raid beleaguered companies don’t do organic, or so I’ve been told. It’s the preoccupation of his latest wife, the lovely Noreen, by way of Limerick. It seems no processed food is allowed to touch the lips of my little stepsister Brigid. Noreen even sent Cook to a health food cooking school for further instruction.”

Mimi seemed to think nothing of having “Cook” as part of the household. Ah, the prerogatives of privilege, Lilah thought. Not something that had been part of her upbringing, that was for sure

She watched Mimi unscrew the lid to the peanut butter and stick her finger in. Then she swallowed a glob and gagged. “Oh, yuck,” Mimi howled. “It’s like having sex without an orgasm.”

It had been way too long since Lilah had had sex, let alone an orgasm, for her to comment. Which probably also explained why her next thought was of Justin. She cleared her throat and moved on to the obvious—not about sex. “Noreen? Last I heard your father was married to Adele.”

Adele had originally been Mimi’s nanny before she pushed aside Mimi’s mother to become the second Mrs. Lodge. That was also before Mimi’s mother had committed suicide, a forbidden subject at all times.

“Boy, are you behind the times. After Adele and Daddy had a son, they hired Noreen as a nanny. That son would be my half brother, Conrad Prescott Lodge IV, known to one and all, yourself included, as Press.”

“Which would not have been my first choice for a nickname,” Lilah quipped.

“Be that as it may, Noreen then replaced Adele in the wife department. Daddy, as you may have gathered, seems to focus on the household help when he’s looking for a new mate. It doesn’t require too much legwork, I guess.”