The Sour Cherry Surprise

by David Handler

  Yet here’s something he noticed as he made his way through the crowd of humanity on West 57th Street: He was a Somebody now. People recognized him. Good-looking young women checked him out with frank interest.

  And here’s a thought he couldn’t chase from his head: When Des sees me on TV she’ll be sorry she picked the other guy.

  The first thing he did was head straight for the fourth floor radio booth to tape his Nick Cage review. Then he dashed into the TV studio to be fitted with a lapel mike and earpiece for his five-minute spot on Midday Live. The studio looked every bit like a newsroom, complete with desks and computers. Beyond an artfully placed glass partition, people with rolled up sleeves were rushing around doing important, newsy things. But the studio was actually a made-for-TV newsroom that had been erected inside of the real one. Those people with rolled up sleeves worked next door in the sports department. At first, this bit of on-camera fakery had unsettled Mitch. He’d felt like an actor playing a role. But he’d done it so many times that he was used to it.

  And now the Los Angeles—based host of Midday Live, a yummy young hairdo whose most recent gig had been Miss Hawaii, was doing Mitch’s lead-in on the monitor before him. Then the green light came on and, bam, Mitch and she were on the air live, bantering like two best friends about the upcoming summer blockbuster season. She wondered him if there was a theme to this season’s crop. “I’m calling it the summer of the sequel,” Mitch replied. “Which, ironically, makes it a sequel to last summer’s blockbuster season.” Any predictions? “No must-sees until the new Brad Pitt in August.” Any recommendations? “Yes, stay home and rent a DVD of Breathless with Jean Paul Belmondo and Jean Seberg,” Mitch advised. “Then fly to Paris for a long weekend.” She asked if she could come with him. He said absolutely—if she promised to buy the escargots. She told him she wasn’t sure she was ready for that kind of commitment. He called her a chicken, flashed her his new smile and they were over and out.

  Then Mitch was on his way downstairs to meet with Shauna, who’d left word that she wished to see him. Mitch’s new editor—make that intergroup manager—was a cross between Tina Brown, Parker Posey and Satan. Previously, she’d been the brains behind a snarky entertainment webzine that had made the empire a fortune. Shauna was pale, hyper and freakishly thin. She wore a nose stud as well as a collection of heavy, clangy silver bracelets on both wrists. Purple highlights in her lank blank hair. She was dressed in a cropped pink T-shirt, skinny black jeans and Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops. On her cooked spaghetti of a left bicep was a tattoo that read: Me. Some kind of postmodern wink-wink that Mitch didn’t entirely get. For him this was not unusual with Shauna. She often gave him the impression that the two of them were in on a joke that he didn’t understand.

  Her office TV was tuned to Midday Live.

  “You, sir, are starting to pop,” she exclaimed, flicking it off as he came in her door.

  “Thank you,” Mitch responded. “I think.”

  “No, no. Popping is good. Popping is exciting.” Shauna spoke in clipped bursts. Everything with her was an exclamation. “I have awesome news. They’re giving you a half-hour show. Every Saturday morning. You’ll review the new movies, show clips, interview the stars. The suits in L.A. want you out there this week to meet. Your assistant has your itinerary. Your agent has their offer. It’s a go, Mitch. They’ve already assigned you a producer. You’re not saying anything. Why aren’t you saying anything?”

  Mitch sank into the chair opposite her, wondering how he’d find the time. He was already stretched thin. He’d have to hire another full-time assistant for sure. Maybe a Web intern to take over his online load….

  Shauna studied him across the desk, her eyes narrowing. “What do you think of L.A.?”

  To Mitch Los Angeles was the very definition of hell on earth—Levittown meets The Day of the Locust. “Why?”

  “They want you to tape out there. From now on, you’ll be L.A. based for one, possibly two weeks a month.”

  “Not a chance. I’m a New York critic.”

  “We don’t think of you as region-specific, Mitch,” Shauna countered. “You’re national. And we want you embedded within the Hollywood community. Here’s what I’d love to see you doing: Asking ten Hollywood heavy hitters to name what movie they’d choose if they could only watch one movie before they died. Can’t do that from here. Don’t have the access. Out there, you go to a red carpet premiere with a camera crew and nail all ten in nothing flat.”

  “Hold on, I don’t do the red carpet. I’m not an entertainment reporter.”

  “Which brings me to another thing—is it just me or is there natural chemistry between you and Mary?”

  “That all depends. Who’s Mary?”

  “The newswoman you were just on air with.”

  “Miss Hawaii is a journalist?”

  “They want to pair you two up. You’ll do the reviews and serious interviews. She’ll do the red carpet. She’ll look fabulous. And she’s a big, big movie fan. I hear she’s seen Groundhog Day over twenty times.”

  “Okay, I think there’s some irony buried in there if you wait for it.”

  “What do you say, Mitch?” Shauna pressed him.

  “She seems nice and I’d be delighted to work with her—provided we tape the show here in New York.”

  “She can’t. She broadcasts five days a week from Los Angeles. Plus she just got engaged to a pitcher for the Dodgers. Look, do me a favor, will you? Don’t decide anything now. Call your agent. Because this is huge.”

  “Absolutely,” he assured her. “Listen, I have the germ of an idea for my Sunday piece. Have you got time to spitball?”

  She gave him an impatient shake of her head. “I’ve told you before, you don’t have to run your pieces by me.”

  “I know, I just …” He just missed the stimulating rapport he’d enjoyed with Lacy. But Shauna wasn’t Lacy, and never would be. He had to learn to live with that. “Thank you. I appreciate your confidence.”

  “Hey, are you pumped?” she called to him as he headed out the door.

  “Totally.”

  Which he was, except for the part about spending one, possibly two weeks a month in L.A. But his concerns disappeared as soon as he went in his office and phoned his agent, who’d already been told by Business Affairs just how many thousands Mitch would be getting paid for that one, possibly two weeks a month in L.A. Not counting profit participation.

  After Mitch had hoisted his jaw up off of the floor there was nothing left for him to say except, “I hear the weather’s always spectacular in L.A. this time of year.”

  Then he had to dash to a screening of Will Farrell’s big new summer comedy, which was a genuine laugh riot provided you were eleven years old and had never seen the Marx Brothers, Abbott and Costello, the Three Stooges or Wile E. Coyote. By the time the closing credits rolled it was after six o’clock and, apart from his gym break, Mitch had been working for twelve hours straight. And his day still wasn’t done. Although he did get to go home to Clemmie. Not that she was there to greet him when he came through the door and called out, “Honey, I’m home!” Not Clemmie’s style, being a cat.

  Mitch’s new place was a brownstone floor-through. The bedroom was in front, off the entry hall, which led into the kitchen and living area in back. Someone had smacked his kitchen with an ugly stick in the ‘70s, but it was functional. And the living room had exposed brick walls, parquet flooring and French doors out to the garden. His framed poster made from a rare Sid Avery black-and-white group photograph of the cast members of the original Ocean’s Eleven seemed right at home over the fireplace. So did the leather settee and club chairs set before it.

  Clemmie had been out cold in one of the chairs. She raised her head to acknowledge his arrival, yawning hugely. Mitch went over to her and fussed over her. She got lonesome when he was gone. And definitely missed Quirt.

  He dumped the contents of his day pack on the Stickley library table that he used as his des
k and opened the French doors to let in some fresh air. On went some music—Bob Dylan’s legendary plugged-in performance at Royal Albert Hall in 1966. He changed into a sleeveless T-shirt and gym shorts. Popped open the one Bass Ale per day that he allowed himself and sat down at his computer to write his Will Farrell review, most of which he’d already composed in his head on the 1 train riding home. As he tapped away, Clemmie climbed into his lap and padded at his no-longer soft tummy, purring. Mitch polished his review carefully, trimming any and all excess. Then he filed it.

  Starved, he fired up the gas grill out on his bluestone patio. The old Mitch subsisted mainly on hot dogs, American chop suey and Entenmann’s doughnuts. But those days were as gone as his blubber. He put on brown rice to cook. Made himself a big green salad. Cut up an organic chicken and marinated it in olive oil, lemon juice, Dijon mustard and some fresh rosemary from his garden. He grilled the chicken on low heat so it wouldn’t dry out. By the time it was done the rice was ready.

  He’d bought a teak dining table and set of chairs for the patio. He lit a couple of candles and ate his dinner out there, enjoying the warm night air and the sounds of life coming from the brownstones around him. The giddy laughter of a dinner party. The Scott Joplin rag someone was banging out on a piano. The televisions and ringing phones and raised voices. The way the city positively pulsed with life. He’d missed this out on his remote little island in the Sound.

  He checked his e-mail before he did the dishes. Discovered one from his tenant, Bella, the prickly Jewish grandmother who’d been Des’s roommate until the return of Brandon:

  To: Mitch Berger

  From: Bella Tillis

  Subject: Annoying Cottage Query

  Dear Mr. Hotshot New York Film Critic—Pardon me for being blunt, but is this little house of yours haunted? I have two very good reasons for asking such a question. One is that I keep hearing very strange tap, tap, tapping noises in the walls late at night. Am I living with dozens of teeny-tiny ghosts? This is Dorset, after all. Weird, unexplained things have been known to happen here. That brings me to my second question: Do strangers typically hang around on the island after dark? Please don’t think I’m being a nutty old broad, but I keep getting the feeling that someone has been spending the night on that ratty old sofa out in the barn. And I’d swear he or she is stealing food from me. I asked Bitsy Peck next door if she’d noticed anyone hanging around, but Bitsy looked at me like I was crazy. So did little Molly Procter, who has been helping me with the cats. You remember Molly, don’t you? Her parents split up, and she is one sad, lonely little girl.

  Anyhow, does any or all of this sound like your idea of normal island life? Answers, mister. I need answers.

  I’ve had no luck corralling Quirt, though I’m certain I will soon prevail. When I do I’ll be happy to bring him to you in the city. It’ll give me an excuse to visit you. I’m sorry to say our resident trooper is unwilling to take him. Her current roommate is not a cat lover, which should tell you everything you need to know about that arrogant, manipulative bum.

  I know, I know. I promised you I wouldn’t talk about Him anymore. I’m just so accustomed to saying whatever pops into my head that I can’t help it. You’re like a son to me. And Desiree is my best friend. The fact that you two aren’t together anymore, aren’t even speaking, makes me mad enough to spit. I still can’t believe you let that man take the love of your life away from you. But I suppose I just have to deal. You’ve certainly moved on. I saw you on TV today flirting with that Polynesian high school girl. You probably don’t even think about Desiree anymore. Or Dorset. That’s what the old hens at Town and Country beauty salon are saying.

  I choose to disagree with them in my own quiet way.

  Much love, Aunt Bella

  p.s. Between you, me and the lamp post: What in the hell did they do to your eyebrows???

  To: Bella Tillis

  From: Mitch Berger

  Subject: Re: Annoying Cottage Query

  Dear Aunt Bella—You’ll be happy to know that the house is not, repeat not, haunted. That tap-tapping you hear in the walls at night is nothing more than the mating call of your friendly native powder post beetles. They are small, pill-shaped bugs that live in the chestnut beams. Every year when the weather turns warm they come out and bang their little heads (or whatever it is they have) against the wood to announce to their opposite numbers that it’s time to get busy.

  I am not making this up.

  They’re totally harmless. Well, not totally. They will, in fact, eat the house eventually. But it will take at least another 200 years, and I don’t want to fumigate. So you have housemates. Sorry I forgot to warn you. I promise you they’ll disappear back into the cracks in another few days and blessed silence will return. It’s all just part of the rich cavalcade of life on Big Sister.

  As to your question about strangers hanging around in the night: Sometimes high school kids sneak out there to get high and engage in recreational boinkage, particularly when it gets warm (see above re: powder post beetles). This is why the lighthouse is always kept locked. But they don’t usually stay over. And they for sure aren’t welcome to come in our houses and help themselves to food. If you think someone is doing this then you should definitely contact our resident trooper. Her name and number are listed in the phone book.

  For the record, Brandon didn’t “take” Des from me. She made the decision that was right for her and I have to respect it. It’s nobody’s fault. In the immortal words of that great philosopher Donald Rumsfeld, “Stuff happens.”

  I’d love to see you any time you can make it into the city. But I must warn you that I can’t take Quirt. He is a roamer, not an apartment cat. He belongs out there. I don’t mean to sound cold and heartless, but he would not be happy here.

  Molly’s a terrific kid. One hell of a first step to the hoop, too. I e-mailed her recently but never heard back. Tell her I said hey. And I’m sorry to hear about her folks.

  Best regards, Mitch

  p.s. Honestly, I have no idea what you mean about my eyebrows.

  It was past midnight when he finished his dishes, by which time Clemmie decided she was in the mood to frolic. Mitch tossed her mousy toy up and down the hall and she chased after it with murderous intent until she’d tired herself out. Then she padded into the bedroom, jumped up on the big brass bed and waited there for him. She liked to sleep on his chest.

  He smiled at her and said, “Clemmie, old girl, we are doing pretty damned good, know that?” Because it was true. Hell, if he’d had a sword, Mitch would have launched it triumphantly into the ceiling just like Tyrone Power had in The Mark of Zorro. But Mitch had no sword. So instead he wept.

  CHAPTER 3

  IT FELT VERY STRANGE to be easing her cruiser thumpety-bumpety over the narrow wooden causeway out to Big Sister again. Des couldn’t help recalling the very first time she’d set eyes on this private Yankee eden with its choice handful of Peck family mansions scattered across forty acres of meadows and woods. That snug little carriage house where she’d first met a certain pudgy, sad-eyed widower named Mitch Berger. She’d driven down from Central District headquarters in Meriden that day to investigate the body he’d found. She was still a homicide investigator on the Major Crime Squad then. A lieutenant. One of only three such women in the state. And the only one who was black. She’d been hot stuff all right—until she stepped on the wrong toes.

  Seeing the place once again, Des realized that Big Sister felt a lot like home. There was that strip of private beach where she and Mitch had walked together for the very first time. And the sandy, twisting path they took home the night they went skinny dipping in the moonlight. And the lighthouse where he’d proposed marriage to her.

  It all seemed so long ago now. And yet it was still right there inside of her heart. She could feel her chest tighten as she pulled into the driveway next to Mitch’s plum-colored 1956 Studebaker pickup. He’d left it behind for Bella. Had no use for it in the city.

&n
bsp; Quirt came running across the garden toward her when she got out, rubbing up against her leg and yowling in outrage over her prolonged absence. She bent down and picked him up. He wouldn’t let her hold him. Just squirmed in her arms until she released him. When Bella came out the front door to greet Des he darted inside the house.

  “Oh, thank god!” Bella said excitedly. “I’ve been trying to get him inside for weeks. Quick, quick, close the door….”

  Des shut the door behind them. “What are you going to do with him?”

  “Find a good home for him—unless you want him.”

  “Bella, you know I can’t take him.”

  “I don’t know anything anymore,” Bella blustered, standing there in her ratty, ancient black ERA–YES sweatshirt and black stretch pants. She looked like an angry Jewish bowling ball. “I used to, but those days are over.”

  Des let her rebuke slide on by. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” she said, glancing around.

  Bella had opened up Mitch’s drop-leaf dining table and moved it in front of the bay windows, which gave the room a much homier air. There was a bowl of fruit on it. Also her laptop computer. Mitch’s sky blue Fender Stratocaster and stack of amps were stashed in a corner by the door. Des was surprised he hadn’t taken it all with him to New York.