The Sour Cherry Surprise
Page 3
Jen nodded her head, swallowing.
The driveway crested at the top of the hill and circled around in front of the big house, which was one of the oldest center chimney colonials in Dorset, dating back to the early 1700s. The porch light was on, as promised. Des pulled up out front and parked. From where they sat she could see the lights of Old Saybrook across the river.
“Jen, I wear a lot of other hats besides this big one. If you ever want to sit down over a cup of coffee, call me, okay?”
Jen didn’t respond. Just took the card Des offered her and stuffed it into her book bag.
Patricia Beckwith stood out on the front porch waiting for them in a blue silk robe and red and white striped pajamas, her feet in a pair of sheepskin slippers. She was a tall, straight, silver-haired woman of rigid dignity. About seventy-five, with a long, seamed face and wide-set blue eyes. It was a face unaccustomed to spontaneous laughter and smiles. It was the face that Jen had inherited.
“Real sorry about this, Nana,” the girl murmured as she slipped past her into the house.
“As well you should be, young lady.” Patricia didn’t sound angry. Her voice was surprisingly gentle.
The entry hall had an umbrella stand with a mirror. A grandfather clock that wasn’t running. A steep, L-shaped staircase that led up to the second floor.
“I’ve made up the room next to mine,” she called to Jen, who was already halfway up the stairs. “We shall have a proper talk in the morning.”
“Whatever you say.” Jen paused on the stairs and added, “Nice meeting you, trooper.”
“Make it Des. And I meant that about the coffee, you hear?”
Jen nodded her blond head. “I hear you. Thanks.” Then she went up to her room and shut the door.
“Why was she thanking you?” Patricia demanded to know.
“For listening, I suppose.”
“To what, her feverish adolescent rants? Did you know that a psychiatrist has put that girl on happy-happy pills? What rubbish. Jen’s a bright, healthy young woman who excels at anything she sets her mind to. She’s a born achiever. Has a wonderful life ahead of her. And instead of enjoying it she pops pills and sits in a room three times a week whining to a total stranger. We all have problems in this life. When you have a problem, you solve it. And if you’re unhappy, well, get used to it. Life isn’t for sissies.”
“Mrs. Beckwith, you and I need to have a talk.”
“Certainly.”
She led Des into a small, paneled parlor that was stuffy and smelled of old books and mold. The ceiling was very low in there, the beams exposed. There was a walk-in stone fireplace. One entire wall of built-in bookcases crammed with hardcover books. There was a chintz loveseat and matching wingback chair. Next to the chair was an end table that had a collection of Edith Wharton stories on it along with an open box of chocolate-covered cherries, a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry and a half-empty wine goblet.
A gray-muzzled dachshund was dozing in the chair. Patricia picked it up and sat with it in her lap, the dog not so much as stirring. Des sat on the love seat, twirling her hat in her hands.
“Now what is this all about, trooper?” There was a fixed brightness to the old lady’s gaze that was meant to intimidate, and did. “And kindly do not pander to me. I cannot abide people who treat me like a doddering old fool. Speak plainly and accurately and we shall get along fine.”
“Jen was throwing a party at her house. There was alcohol. And no adult supervision on the premises.”
“An obvious failure on my part,” Patricia conceded readily. “Jen is studious and sensible—nothing at all like her mother. I had no idea she was planning any such party.” She took a small sip of her sherry. “Tell me, was there sexual activity?”
“Of a sort, yes.”
Patricia’s gaze turned icy. “Just exactly what sort?”
“That’s something I’d prefer to discuss with her mother.”
“And you shall. I have the phone number of the inn where Kimberly is presently shacked up with her married chiropractor. She will return to Dorset on the very first ferry tomorrow morning if I have anything to say about it. And believe me, I do. I allow her to live in their cottage rent-free. I provide health insurance for her and Jen both. I paid for Jen’s car. I intend to pay for her college education. Furthermore, it is I who you’ve phoned at two a.m. So you will kindly provide me with the details.”
Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “There’s a game the kids play. They call it a Rainbow Party. It’s, well, think of it as an X-rated version of Spin the Bottle.”
Patricia reached for a chocolate-covered cherry and popped it in her mouth, chewing on it slowly before she said, “Please elaborate.”
“Each of the girls wears a different color of lipstick. Whichever girl leaves her mark on the most boys wins.”
“They perform fellatio on them, is that it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I can certainly understand what the boys get out of it, but what would possess a group of bright, self-respecting young women to debase themselves in such a fashion?”
“A combination of alcohol and peer pressure. For what it’s worth, Jen told me it was her first such party. And it appears she got cold feet.”
“You’re saying that’s why she called the Jewett sisters?”
“It would appear so.”
“Please thank them for me if you happen to speak to them before I do. And thank you for attending to Jen.” The old lady shook her head. “It’s as if the women’s movement never even happened. If only these girls knew how hard it was for those of us who came before them to get up off of our knees. But for them it’s ancient history. The sad truth is that they don’t even care.” She studied Des carefully for a moment, as if she were trying to decide something about her. “I worked my entire adult life, you know. I was not about to be one of those ladies who play bridge and conduct meaningless affairs out of utter boredom. My late husband was involved in international banking in Brazil, Portugal, Singapore. Wherever we went, I taught English at a school for the underprivileged. After John left the bank and we returned here, I taught at the women’s prison in Niantic.” She reached for another of her chocolates. “Jen’s father was raised here. Johnny was never a strong boy, physically or emotionally. He lacked decisiveness and drive. Had a difficult time finding a career. Intelligent young women saw him as a poor choice for a husband, despite his wealth and good name. All of which made him easy prey for a conniving little gold digger like Kimberly. I insisted that he find work. I cannot abide slackers. So my boy was selling suits in the Business Casuals section of the Mens Wearhouse in Waterford when he dropped dead of a brain aneurysm three years ago last month. He was thirty-eight years old. I also insisted that Kimberly sign a prenuptial agreement when they married. Consequently, she got very little after Johnny passed. The bulk of his assets are in a trust fund that Jen can’t touch until she graduates from college. Although she’s already displaying a good deal more emotional maturity at age sixteen than her mother has ever possessed. Running off to Block Island with a married man, the little fool. And he’s an even bigger fool.” Patricia stroked the sleeping dog in her lap, gazing down at it fondly. “Has it ever occurred to you that the reason we can’t live forever is that we know too much?”
“About what, ma’am?”
“What pathetic frauds we all are. Only the young can be taken in by the false promises of others. When you get to be my age you can see right through everyone. And believe me, that is one hopeless way to exist. I sleep very little now.” The old lady had become so chatty it occurred to Des that she might be lonely. “Mostly, I read. Are you a reader?”
“When I have time.”
“And how up are you on the village gossip?”
“I hear what people tell me.”
“I’m wondering about one of my other tenants. Perhaps you know them.”
“I know the Sullivans.”
“So they tell me.”
“Actually, I was wondering about Richard and Carolyn Procter. They rent the house directly across the lane from Kimberly and Jen. They’ve been hoping to purchase it should I ever decide to sell—which I haven’t. Their little girl is named Molly.”
“Don’t know them, I’m afraid.”
“Richard is a very distinguished historian at Wesleyan,” Patricia went on, practically glowing at the mention of him. “There is no one alive who knows more about the early economic and social structure of the Connecticut shoreline than Richard Procter. He’s written numerous volumes. And Carolyn is a noted author of children’s literature herself, as well as a tremendous beauty. Comes from a fine old Massachusetts family, the Chichesters.” Now Patricia’s face dropped. “But it seems they have split up. Richard has moved out and Carolyn has taken up with some sort of a tradesman.”
“And are you having trouble collecting the rent?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I simply wondered if you’d heard where Richard has ended up. He used to stop by regularly to drop off books that he thought I might like. I’d read them and then we’d discuss them over tea. I haven’t many friends left, to be frank. Stimulating ones, anyhow. The village hens mostly wish to talk about their aches and pains. Richard shares my passionate love for the novels of Henry James. He’s also keenly interested in the Beckwith family history. The Beckwiths were this area’s earliest industrial settlers, you know. Operated the very first sawmill right up the road on Turkey Neck. Old Cyrus himself built this very house back in 1725.” Her sherry goblet was empty. She poured herself some more and took a sip, staring into the big stone fireplace. “The last time Richard came by he promised he’d drop off a novel called Time and Again by someone named Jack Finney. It’s about a modern day fellow who travels back in time to old New York. Richard was positive I’d adore it.” She glanced at Des challengingly. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever …”
“Know it and love it.” The book had been a favorite of Mitch’s. She still had his dog-eared old paperback around somewhere.
“My point is that Richard hasn’t brought it by or so much as called. He’s always been so thoughtful that I suppose I’m worried about him.”
“Have you asked Carolyn where he’s living?”
The old lady’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, that would be inappropriate. I did try the phone company, but they’ve no new listing for him in Dorset or in any of our neighboring towns. Yesterday I placed a call to Professor Robert Sorin in Moodus. He’s Richard’s closest friend in the history department. But the lady with whom I spoke, his dog sitter, said Professor Sorin’s away at a seminar in Ohio and won’t be back for a couple of days.” Patricia hesitated, her thin lips pursing. “You no doubt think I’m being clingy.”
“Not at all. He’s a friend and you’re concerned. Perfectly understandable. I’ll ask around,” Des said, climbing to her feet. “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you.” Patricia relinquished her chair to the dog and led Des back to the front door. “Trooper, there’s one thing you haven’t told me that has left me exceedingly puzzled. The girl who ‘wins’ one of these lipstick contests of theirs … What does she get?”
“Do you mean beyond unlimited social cachet? She gets payback.”
“Payback?”
“The boy of her choice has to return the favor—in front of everyone.”
“Why, that’s d-disgusting,” the old lady sputtered.
“It’s the world we’re living in.”
“Well, I don’t care for this world.”
“Sometimes I don’t either, ma’am. But it’s the only one we’ve got.”
CHAPTER 2
“AND FOUR AND FIVE. Do not wimp out on me now, Berger! And six. Come on, feel that weight lifting off of the earth!”
As Mitch lay there on the pressing bench, straining to push the barbell toward the ceiling, he could feel his shoulder sockets about to explode. His arms shook; sweat poured off of him.
“And seven. Give me one more, Berger!”
Somehow, he did—spurred on by the high-octane encouragement of the bodacious Liza Birnbaum, who happened to be a New York State kickboxing champion when she wasn’t working as a personal trainer here at the Equinox Fitness Center in Columbus Circle.
“You are kicking ass!” she whooped as she helped him cradle the barbell, which he was about to drop on his windpipe. “Now go hit the cycle for a twelve-minute cardio cooldown and you’re done. Come on, shake your booty! Shake it!”
Gasping, Mitch staggered over toward a Lifecycle.
“Damn, you are one stone fox,” Liza exclaimed, heaping the flirty on him now. “I’d do you myself if you weren’t a client.” She never got busy with her clients, which meant she hadn’t done the likes of Harry Connick Jr., Matt Lauer or Sarah Jessica Parker.
Mitch pedaled, amazed by his reflection in the mirror. He still couldn’t believe how much progress he’d made in three months. A whopping thirty-six pounds of blubber gone. His man-boobs replaced by a high, solid ridge of pectoral muscles. He had a flat stomach, bulging biceps and a ton of pep. All thanks to working out five times a week with Liza and following a supervised diet.
Believe it or not, Mitch Berger, roly-poly lead film critic for New York City’s most prestigious daily newspaper, was now a fitness freak. Partly this was out of professional necessity. The camera made everyone look ten pounds heavier. First time he’d seen himself on TV he thought he bore way too close a resemblance to the young Zero Mostel. Partly this was how he was getting over the green-eyed monster named Desiree Mitry. Mitch was not the man he’d been when Des had accepted his proposal of marriage and then dumped him all in the same week. He was a stronger man. She’d blown him away, no question. But he’d already withstood the death of his beloved wife, Maisie, and he would survive this. Des had made a choice. You accept the choices that people make and you move on. And so he had.
He relaxed in the sauna for a few minutes, then showered and toweled off. Ran his fingers through his newly styled short hair, which was camera ready without combing…. “All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close up….” He also had camera ready teeth (whitened), eyebrows (waxed, which hurt like hell) and an engaging new on-camera delivery, thanks to Sylvia One, the media coach who had de-ummed his delivery and taught him to embrace the camera like a good friend. And he embraced it in an entirely new Ralph Lauren wardrobe courtesy of Sylvia Two, his personal stylist (for some unknown reason, all of the people in New York who did this kind of thing were women named Sylvia). Today Mitch was dressed in a dazzling white oxford cloth button-down, cashmere single-breasted navy blazer, Polo jeans that were four sizes smaller in the waist than he used to wear and black penny loafers. Basically, it was the same outfit he used to schlump around in except much nicer. Plus he was no longer shaped like an avocado. Actually, here was how Sylvia Two had put it: Mitch now owned his look.
Energized by his workout, he bounded out the front door of the club into the bright sun beating down on Columbus Circle, a buoyant spring in his step that was like Astaire walking on air. Equinox had two other branches downtown but Mitch no longer lived downtown. His old apartment on Gansvoort in the now impossibly chic meat-packing district was being converted into an impossibly chic French bath and bedding emporium. He’d just moved into a ground floor apartment on West 105th Street with a wood-burning fireplace and a deep, narrow garden where he could continue to grow herbs and Sungold tomatoes like he had out on Big Sister. Clemmie, his snuggly Dorset house cat, had happily gone Manhattan with him. But Quirt, his lean outdo
or hunter, had run and hid in the woods. So Bella Tillis, who’d rented his carriage house, had inherited Quirt when she took over the place. Quirt was really more Des’s cat anyway.
It was 11:30, but by no means the start of Mitch’s day. He’d been up since dawn writing his review of the new Nick Cage film and generating fresh content for his Web sites and polishing up his proposal for Ants in Her Plants, the new film reference guide that he hoped would do for screwball comedies what his first three bestselling guides—It Came from Beneath the Sink, Take My Wife, Please and They Went That-a-Way—had already done for sci-fi, crime and the western.
Mitch’s feet still wanted to take him to Times Square, but the newspaper had relocated to a new complex on West 57th Street and Ninth Avenue when a giant media empire gobbled it up earlier that year. Lacy Nickerson, the distinguished, old-school arts editor who’d lured Mitch to the paper from a scholarly journal, had been ousted in favor of Shauna Wolnikow, age twenty-eight, who went by the title of intergroup manager, not editor. Shauna’s mandate was to platform Mitch’s career, which meant turning him into a multimedia content provider for all of the empire’s outlets. He was now a highly visible on-camera personality for its twenty-four-hour cable news network. Contributed film reviews and on-air chat time to its talk radio network. Hosted a weekly online interactive chat group. Maintained a daily blog. And ran an advertiser-supported Web site tied in with his reference guides, where he provided capsule reviews, DVD picks, movie trivia and all sorts of amusing video downloads. Thanks to Mitch, cineastes across the globe could now, with a mere click, catch Troy Donahue singing the theme song to Palm Springs Weekend. Shauna had also taken to flying him around the country for speaking engagements before college film societies in places like Houston and Columbus—where the empire happened to own television stations that were just dying to have Mitch appear on their local morning news shows.
Even though Mitch had always been much more at home in a darkened screening room than in the limelight, he was throwing himself into his new career with enthusiasm. But it was a bit of whirlwind. He was so busy he barely had time to watch the movies he was reviewing. He definitely had no time to play the blues on his beloved sky blue Stratocaster anymore.