A Rare Find
Page 25
“That sounds like a line,” Penelope answered, apparently unconvinced.
He pulled himself up out of the water. “You always did know me too well.” He paused. “So you got the DVD? Of Reunions weekend?” Was it too much to hope for total happiness? “What did you think?”
Penelope seemed to consider her reply. “In my opinion, you did enough self-flagellation that they’ll no longer keep referring to you as the person who suffered from that gruesome massage.”
Nick cocked his head. “That’s a joke?”
“It’s a joke. And it’s not a joke.”
A sign of hope, he told himself. But he wouldn’t rush it. He wouldn’t get down on one knee and dramatically profess his undying love for her, telling her that unless she reciprocated he was prepared to throw himself off the cliff.
No, he wouldn’t do all that—even though he meant it… Well, maybe not the cliff part. Instead, he’d do the right thing, not the selfish thing like he once would have done. Penelope had taught him the importance of thinking of others—that that was real love. And she deserved as much.
“I hope the crisis is over back in Grantham, with work and your father,” he inquired softly. His concern was genuine.
“Thank you for asking. Yes, the situation at work seems to have been resolved—the matter of the Grantham Galen manuscript and my father and me. It’s not totally final—the lawyers still need to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s, but at least we have the bones of an amicable agreement.”
“So he’s not going to jail, your father, that is?” Nick cut to the chase.
“We’ve all decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, especially after he acted so contritely when he met Daniel Himmelfarb. Luckily Mr. Himmelfarb was not interested in pressing criminal charges, merely establishing that the manuscript was once his father’s. The university agreed, and in something of a publicity coup, the heirs have asked for the manuscript to be part of an exhibit on recovered treasures—a way of documenting the ongoing process of restoring artwork, rare books and other antiquities to their rightful owners. As a companion to that exhibit, I was asked to write a book, showcasing the Grantham Galen, now to be called the Himmelfarb Galen.”
“Quite a mouthful,” Nick quipped.
“Indeed.” Her grim demeanor faltered slightly. Then she went on. “Naturally I plan to dedicate the study to Jacob Himmelfarb and his family, but I’m also considering dedicating it to my father. We’re still not speaking, but I think it will serve as something of a peacemaker. His role in recovering the manuscript will never be clear, but he did, after all, guarantee that it wasn’t lost forever and indirectly returned it to the rightful owners.”
“And you? What about you?” Nick asked.
“If you mean about my curatorial position? I offered my resignation in light of my failing to recognize the correct provenance of the work, but the administration refused to accept it. Apparently, since I was the one who helped Mr. Himmelfarb reclaim what was rightfully his, I am somehow considered something of a hero. I argued that I should have been more diligent, but the editor in chief of the University Press said that I would have come to the proper conclusion when I began work on the book. It was overwhelming, really—the faith they all seemed to have in me, even Mr. Himmelfarb, who really is very dear.”
“As well they should,” Nick agreed.
Penelope blinked rapidly. “The president even suggested that I take a vacation to recuperate from all the stress. Remarkable.”
Nick walked slowly across the stone patio, his footprints leaving tracks along the way. He wanted to swoop her up in his arms, but he told himself to go slowly, deliberately, just like Penelope would when she was making a decision. “So, all’s well that ends well?” he asked.
Penelope frowned. “You don’t have to recite Shakespeare to try to impress me, you know.”
“How about the bard of Hoboken, New Jersey, then? Frank Sinatra.” Nick took two steps closer, his suit dripping on the concrete. “‘I have got a crush, my baby, on you.’”
“I never questioned the scope of your erudition. You can just use your own words,” Penelope suggested.
“I’m more an action kind of guy.”
“Which means?”
Oh, screw slowness and deliberation. He brought his head to hers and kissed her deeply, letting his lips and tongue and soul speak all the words for him.
In the background, he was vaguely aware of hearing whoops and hollers of joy from Amara. Then silence. He stopped in midkiss. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he mumbled a millimeter from Penelope’s lips.
“If you mean that despite the improbabilities, we are a superbly matched couple and hopelessly in love? I would think that statement would be obvious.” She narrowed her eyes meaningfully. “But at the same time, I am compelled to voice my disagreement with the wisdom you recently proffered in a certain commencement speech. Specifically, I think there are moments when one shouldn’t think. Not only shouldn’t one think, one shouldn’t even think before speaking—”
“You really did listen to the DVD,” he said, overjoyed.
“Every word.”
“It was for you, you know.”
“I know. Now stop thinking, stop speaking and get back to kissing me.”
And that’s when Amara drenched them with a bucket of water.
* * * * *
ISBN: 9781459226487
Copyright © 2012 by Louise Handelman
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