The Sour Cherry Surprise

by David Handler

  “No, I didn’t.” Molly’s eyes remained glued to the page. “I said that I hate him.”

  “He isn’t real fond of you either, is he?”

  “Which is fine by me.”

  “Has Clay ever ordered you to stay out of a certain part of the house? Told you not to go in a particular room or anything like that?”

  The child looked up from her book, studying Des curiously through those bent wire-framed glasses of hers. “Why are you asking me that?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Are you investigating a crime? Because I’ve got awesome skills, you know. I always help my mom figure out what happens next in her books. Tell me, what did Clay steal?”

  “Who says he stole anything?”

  “I do. He’s bad news. I just know he is. What are looking for, Trooper Des? Come on, you can tell me.”

  A dozen or so rambunctious, sun-browned high school boys and girls joined them at the coffee bar now, full of banter and laughter. They were lively, good-looking kids. Although one of the boys, a tall, blue-eyed blond, did wear his hair braided in exceptionally silly-looking cornrows. Glancing over at the bakery counter, Des noticed Jen coolly watching the kids as she rang up Rut Peck. This was her crowd, Des figured. The ones who’d been at her Rainbow Party. Des wondered which one of the boys she liked. Fearing it was Mr. Blond Boy from the ‘Hood.

  Molly was tugging impatiently at her sleeve. “If I tell you what I know will you promise to let me help you?”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay,” she agreed. “He ordered me to stay out of the root cellar under the kitchen. Told me there are snakes down there. Which is, duh, total bull. I’ve been down there a million times.”

  “Have you gone down there since he told you not to?”

  Molly shook her head, eyes widening with fright.

  Des looked at her in concern. She didn’t doubt that Clay would threaten this girl to keep her out of there. What else was he capable of doing? “Molly, I know things seem pretty messed up right now but it’ll all be better soon, I swear. Just promise me one thing, will you?”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t get too curious.”

  “About what?”

  “Stay out of that root cellar.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s important, that’s why. And I am not fooling around, hear? Promise me.”

  “Okay, okay. I promise you,” Molly said sullenly.

  Des patted her on the shoulder, then went back to the bakery counter. “Feel like taking a break?” she asked as Jen rang her up. “I’ll buy you a smoothie.”

  “Can’t,” Jen answered. “I’m all alone here until five. Responsible for everything.”

  While her friends goofed around over coffee, not a care in the world. Jen was still watching them, her jaw clenched, eyes wary. Such a bright and promising girl if only she’d learn to lighten up a little. But Dorset’s teenagers came in only two flavors, Des was learning. Either they cared too much or they didn’t care a goddamn about anything or anyone.

  “How are you doing, Jen? Going any easier on yourself?”

  “Why, is that what you do?” she demanded. “Go easy? Just smile and, ta-daaa, everything is all right in the world?”

  “No, that only works in old Frank Capra movies.” Damn, there was Mitch again, right inside of her head. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to go by me. I’m strictly a work in progress.”

  Jen didn’t respond. Just put Des’s boxed cheesecake in a shopping bag and handed it across the counter, her tight, narrow face a blank.

  Des tried a different approach. “I’m kind of worried about Molly.”

  “Don’t be. I totally look out for the little squirt. She’s perfectly …” Jen halted, frowning at her. “You don’t think her dad might hurt her or something, do you?”

  “No, no. It’s nothing like that.”

  “Then it’s Clay, isn’t it? You think he might do something.”

  “She just needs a friend is all I meant. The Sullivans told me she’s been sleeping in a damned tree.”

  “I thought we were going to be honest with each other,” Jen shot back, her cheeks flushing with anger.

  “Well, we are, aren’t we?”

  “Not one bit. You’re not telling me something. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Jen, I’m merely trying to—”

  “Damn, it is always that way with you people!”

  “By ‘you people’ you mean …?”

  “Adults.” Jen made it sound like the dirtiest word in the English language. “You are all such hypocrites. You came at me the other night like you wanted to be my friend. Gave me all of this blah-blah about how I can confide in you and trust you. But it’s nothing but a one-way street. You are so holding out on me. And I know why, too. Because you don’t trust me. So why don’t you just do me a humongous favor and take your cheesecake and go, okay? Because I am never going to be your friend. Not now. Not ever. I don’t make friends with anyone who is so totally and completely full of shit.”

  CHAPTER 8

  IN HIS WILDEST FILM fantasies, Mitch could not have concocted a better blind date than Cecily Naughton.

  She told him over the phone that she was tired of eating out and wanted to cook him a proper meal at his place. She insisted on bringing all the groceries. Even the wine. All Mitch had to do was be home on time to let her in. And it was a good thing he was because Lacy’s new dance critic was exceedingly punctual. Showed up at seven o’clock sharp clutching shopping bags that were filled with loin lamb chops, eggplant, onions, tomatoes, salad greens, organic whole wheat couscous, fragrant strawberries, fudge sauce and two bottles of Chianti Classico.

  Oh, and Cecily also turned out to be slender, leggy and startlingly beautiful, with long russet hair that was parted down the middle, big brown eyes, flawless milk-white skin and a devilish grin. She wore a snug-fitting sleeveless T-shirt with no bra, tight hip-hugger jeans, leather flip-flops and an interesting assortment of toe rings. And she was no bashful English rose. Charged right on in. Dumped the groceries on his counter. Pronounced his new place “utterly fabulous.” Accepted a cold Bass Ale. Declined a glass. Kicked off her flip-flops and sat on his leather love seat with her legs crossed before her, raptly attentive.

  Somehow, this gorgeous woman managed to give Mitch the impression that there was absolutely nowhere else in the world she’d rather be than right here with him.

  Clemmie immediately crept into her lap and curled up there, purring.

  Mitch sat in a leather chair facing her. For the occasion, he had chosen a powder blue single-ply cashmere crewneck over a white T-shirt, plain front khakis and suede Pumas. The sort of effortlessly casual look that had only taken him seven wardrobe changes and three calls to Sylvia Two. He’d spent another twenty minutes choosing the evening’s musical selections. He’d opened with Stevie Ray Vaughan.

  “It is such a thrill to meet you,” Cecily exclaimed, taking a thirsty swig of her ale. “You used to be my favorite of the American film critics.”

  “I’m flattered. Only why ‘used to be’? Don’t you read me anymore?”

  “I never miss one of your articles,” she responded brightly.

  Which threw Mitch decidedly off balance. “So … what brings you to New York?”

  “London was beginning to feel stale. I’ve been wanting to try America for a while. Particularly New York. I’ve always loved its energy. The streets here are like pure adrenaline. I decided if I don’t do it now I never will.”

  “Lacy told me used to be a dancer.”

  “Until I couldn’t any longer,” she confirmed, nodding. “Recurring stress fractures in my left foot. So I decided to write about it instead. I know the dance world inside and out, after all. And writing is something I’ve always had a facility for. I was very fortunate, actually. Began placing commentaries and things right away. It all just fell right into place. And then I heard from Lacy. She is such a dear. Is it true that
she once slept with Lord Snowdon?”

  “I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised. If that woman ever decides to write a kiss-and-tell memoir she’ll smash a lot of china.”

  Cecily tilted her head at him fetchingly, studying him now. “I don’t wish to be rudely personal, but she warned me that you’d had a bad breakup a while back.”

  “Is there such a thing as a good one?”

  “Excellent point.”

  “It’s true, I did. And I should warn you that I’m not looking to get seriously involved with anyone. Not for a good long while anyway.”

  “Excellent.” Cecily gazed at him over her Bass bottle. “Neither am I.”

  Definitely on the prowl, if Mitch Berger knew anything about women. Which, let’s face it, he did not.

  “Good God, what am I thinking?” she declared suddenly. “I must start dinner.” Moved Clemmie onto the loveseat, leapt to her feet and started for the kitchen. “I’m doing grilled chops with couscous, a salad and a quick skillet ratatouille of my own devising. I already roasted the eggplant this afternoon at Lacy’s. Honestly, I don’t believe she’s ever used that oven. Would you like to know what she keeps inside of it?”

  “No, I really wouldn’t.”

  “I’ll need a large skillet, Mitch. Cast iron if you have one.”

  He fetched her the biggest of his Lodge pans. “There’s rosemary, mint and thyme growing out in my garden, if that’s of any interest.”

  “My god, the perfect man!”

  He went out onto the patio to cut some for her and fire up the grill. When he returned, the onion and garlic were sizzling in the pan and Stevie Ray had slammed his way into “The House is Rockin’,” a rollicking Texas toe-tapper that had Cecily Naughton shaking her hips, her butt, her everything as she sautéed away. She was no Des Mitry. Hadn’t the green-eyed monster’s moves. Or booty. But she could get down pretty well for the daughter of English royalty.

  Watching her at that moment, Mitch was very happy to be alive.

  “Dance with me,” she commanded him, grabbing him by the hand and swinging him around.

  “No, wait, I don’t dance.”

  “Nonsense,” she scoffed, bumping hips with him. “Move to the music. Come on, show me what you got! Give it to me, boy! Get down and let your …” Abruptly, she released his hand. “You really don’t dance, do you? Not a problem, the only good male dancers I’ve ever known were gay. You I have other plans for.”

  “Such as …?”

  “You can set the table, for starters,” she replied, her eyes twinkling at him.

  They ate out on the patio by candlelight. The night air was soft and warm, the food delicious, wine perfect.

  “What did you mean about my work?” he asked her as he cut into his lamb chop.

  Cecily tilted her head at him fetchingly. “Sorry?”

  “You said I ‘used to be’ one of your favorite critics.”

  She took a sip of wine before she said, “I’m not entirely certain you wish to have this conversation with me, Mitch. I’m known to be rudely caustic.”

  “I’m plenty thick-skinned. And I want to hear what you have to say.”

  Cecily dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and sat back in her chair. “As you wish. At the risk of sounding like an overt bum licker, you were one of my heroes when I first set out to write about dance. I idolized you, actually. Chiefly because of the way you absolutely refused to accept what the film community was doing. You established high standards of your own and you stuck to them. Wrote about the movies not as they are but as they should be. Demanded more. Held the bastards to account. You stood for something, Mitch. Go back and look at some of your Sunday pieces from two or three years ago. Then look at last week’s quote-unquote reappraisal of Brian De Palma.”

  “I simply said that not all of his films are outright terrible,” Mitch responded easily. “The guy’s career goes way, way back to Carrie in ‘76. He’s been making movies for over thirty years. A lot of them bad movies, yes, but you have to admire his perseverance. Besides, I’ve actually enjoyed a couple of them. Scarface is wonderfully kitschy. And Sean Penn slays in Carlito’s Way, which is actually a terrific movie if you can get past Penelope Ann Miller.”

  “Why, what’s wrong with Penelope Ann Miller?”

  “Aside from the fact that she can’t act? Not a thing.”

  Cecily held her ground. “You’ve given in, Mitch. You used to rage against the machine. Now you’re merely another cog in it. Someone who spends his time operating a Web site devoted to cute, diverting trivia. Lacy told me you’re even launching your own television program out in Los Angeles.”

  “They’ve given me a twelve-week commitment.”

  She shook her head at him gravely. “That’s not you.”

  “Sure it is. I’m just using a new delivery system, that’s all. I’m still the same me.”

  “So you’ve always waxed your brows, have you?”

  Mitch opened his mouth but no words came out. Glanced down at his hands and discovered that his fists were clenched. “You think I’m becoming a total media whore, is that it?”

  “I do, Mitch. And it upsets me terribly to see you doing this to yourself. I admire you more than you can imagine.” She reached for her wine glass and took a sip. “I warned you that I can be rude.”

  “Quite all right. That’s your opinion and I respect it. But this is simply a new career challenge, that’s all. I’ll rise to it.”

  “How, by striding the red carpet with Miss Hawaii?”

  “Wait one second….” Mitch said, shaking his finger at her. “Now I get it.”

  “Get what? And don’t do that with your finger. It’s very rude.”

  “Lacy put you up to this, didn’t she? She sent you here to coax me into leaving the evil empire for her new e-zine. That’s what this whole evening has been about, hasn’t it? The gourmet meal and wine. The tight jeans. Your nipples. You’ve come here to twist my arm.”

  “Mitch, I haven’t the slightest idea what Lacy’s designs were. As for my own …” Cecily gazed at him through her eyelashes. “I assure you that they involve twisting an entirely different part of your anatomy.”

  Mitch swallowed hard. “Are you always this shy?”

  “Actually, I’ve demonstrated admirable restraint considering that I’ve wanted to jump you since the moment I walked in that door. The only thing that’s held me back has been my acute sense of propriety.” She studied him seriously. “One thing does concern me, however.”

  “And that is …?”

  “Do you have something against my nipples?”

  “Not a thing. They seem very nice. I’d like to get to know them better.”

  Cecily yanked her T-shirt off over her head and flung it in the general direction of Mitch’s Sungold tomato plants. “So what the devil are you waiting for?”

  CHAPTER 9

  “I DON’T MAKE FRIENDS with anyone who is so totally and completely full of shit.”

  The bubble bath felt heavenly after the punishing hour in her weight room capped off by a five-mile run through the hills around Uncas Lake. Des’s body was good and relaxed now. All muscle tension gone.

  If only her mind would ease off, too.

  She could not stop obsessing about her encounter with Jen Beckwith at The Works. Replaying their conversation. Wondering how she might have handled it differently. Teenagers were just so damned hard. Trust was hard. Hell, Dorset was hard. It always got tricky when she waded into the lives of these people. Sometimes, as much as Des hated to admit it, she missed the moral clarity of a nice, clean gunshot wound to the head.

  She shaved her long fine legs. Rubbed them with baby oil after she’d rinsed off. Dabbed some perfume behind her ears and between her breasts. Put on her tiny, low-cut red mini with not a stitch underneath. Barefoot, she set the table with her good china and silver and wine goblets. Lit the candles. Got the Reverend Al Green going on the stereo, feeling tingly and girlie-girl all over.

 
; Brandon arrived home at six on the dot bearing a dozen long-stemmed red roses and two chilled bottles of Dom Perignon. “My god, Desi!” he gasped, gaping at her from the front hallway. “You look so foxy you’re going to throw me completely off my game.”

  She sashayed over to him, worked his tie off and draped it around her own neck. “Which game is that?”

  “I … had this speech all worked out.”

  “This isn’t a courtroom, baby,” she said, gazing up at him. “It’s just us. Talk to me.”

  “Fair enough,” he began, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I understand why you were upset last night. It was wrong of me to shut you out of Operation Burrito King. I should have told you what was going on. You had every right to know. I simply let work get the best of me. I have to do a better job from now on, and I promise you I will. I’ve already lost you once, Desi. Lord knows I don’t want to lose you again. I’m nowhere without you. I really mean that. And I-I … Damn, this was all going to sound fine until I saw you in that little dress.”

  “It sounded plenty fine,” Des assured him. “Besides, it’s not all on you. They told you to keep it quiet. You were being a professional. It was wrong of me to judge you. Sometimes I get a little turfy about this place and these people. I feel responsible for them.”

  “I know that.” Brandon’s eyes gleamed at her. “And it makes me so proud.”

  She glanced over at the champagne he’d brought. “Are you planning to open one of those or are they just for show?”

  He went to work easing a cork out while she fetched their goblets from the tablet. He poured. They clinked glasses. They drank, gazing at each other as Reverend Al crooned smooth and silky on the stereo.

  “So how awful was your meeting at the barracks?” he asked her.

  “Let’s just drop that, okay? I’ve punched out. Don’t want to talk about work anymore.”

  “Well, what do you want to talk about?”

  She put her arms around his neck. “Who wants to talk?”

  They kissed, her heart pounding so hard she felt weak in the knees.