The Bright Silver Star (11 page)

“Why, yes, right in the middle of
All My Children,
which I don’t know why I still watch. Loyalty, I guess. Not a very popular virtue anymore, is it?”

“Did you see what type of vehicle it was?”

“I absolutely did
not see
anyone,” Miss Barker said with a sudden flash of indignation. “So, naturally, I would not have the slightest idea what type of vehicle it was. How could I?”

Des peered at her in surprise. This was a lady who always butted in, never out. Why the dumb act? First Nema Acar, now her. What was this? “Well, did it sound more like a car or a truck?”

“More like a car,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation. “The pickups have those huge tires now with the big treads that make so much noise. Why do they
need
such huge tires? My daddy drove a truck his whole life, never a single accident, and his tires were just
normal, proper tires.” Miss Barker paused, her pale pink tongue flicking across her thin, dry lips. “But I really couldn’t say
anything
for sure.”

Des didn’t press her any further. Just thanked Miss Barker for her time and started back toward her cruiser, puzzled and frustrated. So much so that she could feel the beginnings of a deep blue funkadelic haze coming over her.

My job is pointless and stupid. My entire existence is pointless and stupid. I am wasting my life.

She knew the real reason why she was feeling this way. Sure she did. But knowing why didn’t make her feel one bit better.

She got back in her ride and cranked up the air conditioner and sat there glowering through her windshield at the huge old sycamore that grew in Miss Barker’s front yard. It was so splendid and lovely that it actually seemed to be mocking her with its presence. Either that or she was going totally nutso. She lunged for her cell phone and called her short-relief man. Whenever she needed a save, she reached out for him. As his phone rang, Des sat there wondering what would happen to her if Mitch Berger were not in her life right now. She would go right down the drain, that’s what.

But he must never know this—he thinks I’m the one who has it all together.

His phone machine answered. She waited, waited, waited for the beep and said, “Hi, it’s me.”

And he picked up. “I’m here,” he said hurriedly. “I’ve just been getting a gazillion calls from the media about Tito.”

“They’re making a big deal out of it?”

“Big doesn’t begin to describe it.
Brokaw’s
people called me for a quote.”

“How’s your jaw?”

“Actually, it feels very similar to that molar implant I had done last year. The only difference is that was administered by a board-certified oral surgeon.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better I just met some huge fans of yours.”

“Oh, yeah, who?”

“The Acars, Nuri and Nema.” Total silence from his end. “She said you’re just about her best customer.”

“Well, sure,” Mitch said slowly. “I fill up my truck there all the time.”

“You are so busted, boyfriend.”

“Busted,” he confessed guiltily. “I throw myself on your mercy, Des. You must be so disappointed in me.”

“No, baby, I’m not,” she said, easing up off of the gas pedal. Because he could be so much worse. He could be Brandon. “You’re my boy. All I want is you, no matter what size you are—large, extra-large, jumbo, economy. . . .”

“Okay, you made your point, Master Sergeant. I’ll tell you one thing—I’m going to get Nema for this.”

“Cut her a little slack. She’s had herself a bad day.” Des told him what had happened to their window.

“Oh my God, that’s awful. Truly detestable. You wouldn’t think . . .”

“You wouldn’t think what?”

“Nothing. I was just about to say ‘You wouldn’t think something like this could happen here,’ but I stopped myself because any time something bad happens in a small town the bystanders always say ‘This is more the kind of thing you’d expect to happen in New York City.’ And, as a New Yorker, I always get hopping mad. Things like this go on everywhere, because there are total assholes everywhere. Will you catch who did it?”

“That’s up to Hate Crimes, but if I had to guess I’d say yeah.”

“They’re a smart crew?”

“They are, plus the people who go in for these types of crimes tend to be genuinely stupid. Real, I think Nema knew more about it than she was letting on.”

“Why would she hold out on you?”

“Because her husband told her to.”

“You don’t like him, do you? You think he’s oleaginous.”

“Damn, is it that obvious?”

“Only to me, girlfriend.” From the first day they met Mitch been able to read her mind. Des had never understood how. “I’m glad you called—I was just going to call you and tell you to press your white flannels.”

“You just said what?”

“We’ve been invited to the highly exclusive Dorset Beach Club for dinner tonight, lovey,” he said, putting on his best Locust Valley Lockjaw. Which was not good at all. It traveled by way of Canarsie, where his parents were from. “Esme told Dodge what happened between Tito and me. Dodge thought if he got all of us together for a cookout and a swim it would help chill things out.”

“And Tito’s down with this?”

“Esme said she’d get him there. Dodge is inviting the rest of the Mesmers so as to defuse any possible tension.”

“The Mesmers?”

“That’s the name of our walking club.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“They don’t know it either. I’m bringing corn. Will and Donna are bringing everything else. You like them, right?”

She did like Donna. Will was polite but a bit reserved. Some of the locals were like that. Hell, most of the locals were like that.

“Jeff will be there, too.”

Jeff Wachtell she could live without. Des thought he was a whiner, plus he walked like a duck. “I thought you didn’t like to socialize with movie people.”

“That’s absolutely true. But under the circumstances I think this is something I need to do. Tito and Esme are going to be around for a while. I don’t want to get into a fight with this guy every time I try to go to the store.”

Which was why Des had wanted to march the actor straight to Westbrook in handcuffs. But she held her tongue. They’d been over this already.

“So are you game? I was kidding about the white flannels—it’s casual.”

“Thanks, baby, but I don’t think I’m up for that tonight.”

“You’re still mad that I didn’t press charges against him, is that it?”

“No, no. It’s not about you. I need to draw tonight, that’s all.”

“It’ll happen, Des,” he said encouragingly. “You just have to be patient.”

“Damn it, doughboy, don’t you
ever
get tired of being so supportive?”

He didn’t respond. Just gave her back a big dose of stung silence.

Now she sat there cursing her bad self. When she was frustrated she could go bitch cakes and then some. All the more reason she should be alone tonight. “That’s exactly what Professor Weiss told me,” she acknowledged. “He said I’d get it, and that the process would make me stronger. But it’s just not happening.”

“So why don’t you talk to him some more about it?” Mitch said, his voice a good deal cooler than it was before she bit his head clean off.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Who is he, the Dalai Lama?”

“I have to figure it out myself, that’s all. I just wish I knew
how.
I keep, I don’t know, thinking this bolt of inspiration will strike me or something.”

“Tex in the stamp stalls, sure.”

“Tex in the what?”

“In
Charade,
when James Coburn is walking through the stamp stalls in the Paris park and suddenly, kerchunk, the whole plot falls right into place.”

“Damn it, Mitch, this is not some fool movie!”

“I do know that,” he shot back. “And I know something else— that I’ve already had my bellyful of childish, self-absorbed, pain-in-the-asses today, thank you very much.”

Des drew her breath in, stunned. He’d never spoken to her this way before. Not ever. “You’re right, baby,” she said. “My miss. I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.”

But she was too late.

Mitch Berger, the kindest, sweetest love of her life, had already hung up on her.

C
HAPTER 5

M
ITCH WAS NOT HAPPY
that Des wouldn’t come with him to the beach club.

In fact, he was so not happy that he decided he’d better get off the phone awfully damned now. His jaw ached. His mood was vile. And he didn’t want to say anything that he might really regret. He found it hard to believe she was so self-centered she couldn’t see that he was in the midst of a monstrous professional crisis and that he needed her by his side—not going on and on about her damned trees.

His situation could not have been more of a nightmare. The twenty-four-hour cable news channels were already broadcasting video highlights of The Fight by the time he got home to Big Sister Island. The digital photos of Tito with his hands wrapped tightly around Mitch’s throat were out all over the Internet. There was Tito astride him like a wild beast, teeth bared, ready for the kill. There was Mitch pinned helplessly underneath him, looking like some form of slow, terrified water mammal.

It was America Online’s top news story of the day. The headline on the service provider’s main screen read “Tito Lowers Boom on Highbrow Critic.”

The arts editor of Mitch’s paper, Lacy Mickerson, had e-mailed him twice and left an urgent message for him on his phone machine. Dozens of his fellow critics from around the country had sent e-mails as well, many humorous. He would respond to them at some point, but right now he was too busy fending off calls from one media outlet after another. Everyone wanted a comment, a quote, something, anything. The very same tabloid TV vans that had been following Tito and Esme all around Dorset were now pulled up on Peck’s Point at the gate to the Big Sister causeway, desperate to get
out there and film
him.
Mitch was having none of it. He did not want to comment. He did not want to appear on camera.

He was not an entertainer. He was a critic.

Or at least he used to be.

He sat at his desk, an ice pack pressed against his jaw, and called Lacy back.

“Honestly, Mitch, I thought your review was
gentle
compared with a lot of the others I’ve seen,” she said after he’d given her his version of what happened. Among her many attributes Lacy was fiercely protective of her critics. “Hell, this film has been positively trashed by everyone. People are walking out in droves. Why did he pick on you?”

“Because I was there,” Mitch grunted, adjusting his ice pack. It didn’t help with the pain, but it gave him something to do. “He’s a genuinely talented actor. I feel sorry for him, actually.”

“Well, I don’t. I’ve seen these so-called bad boys come and go over the years.” Lacy was in her late fifties and claimed to have bedded Irwin Shaw and Mickey Mantle in her youth, not to mention Nelson Rockefeller. “They
all
have talent. It’s what they do with it that counts.”

“What do I do, Lacy? What’s my next move?”

“You shut it down,” she said firmly.

The two of them cobbled together a brief statement that would be posted immediately on the newspaper’s Web site—just as soon as Lacy ran it past someone with a larger office and, possibly, a law degree. It would also appear on the lead arts page in tomorrow’s paper. The statement would serve as Mitch’s one and only response to the attack:

This newspaper’s chief film critic, Mitchell Berger, and the actor Tito Molina engaged in a spirited creative disagreement yesterday afternoon in a popular eating establishment in Dorset, Connecticut. Mr. Berger feels the matter is fully resolved. He believes that Mr. Molina is a gifted artist with a wonderful career ahead of
him and he looks forward to his future film work with as much excitement as ever.

After he and Lacy were done Mitch swallowed three Advils and spent the rest of the afternoon ducking phone calls. His phone machine got quite a workout that day.

He did pick up when Dodge called. And was pleased that Dodge wanted to broker a peace deal at the beach club. It seemed like a genuine solution. Dodge was smart and tactful. He’d make the perfect intermediary.

As for Des, well, Mitch hoped she’d figure out what she needed to figure out—and soon—because when she was stuck in the deep muck she had a way of dragging him down there with her, whether he felt like going or not. And that could be awfully damned hard to handle sometimes.

Not that love was ever supposed to be an easy thing.

When it came time to leave he dressed in a white oxford button-down shirt, khaki shorts, and Topsiders. He had a welt on his jaw and red finger marks around his throat, otherwise he looked fit, casual, and terrific. It was a warm, hazy evening with very little breeze. The sun hung low over the Sound, casting everything in a soft, rosy glow. He threw a pair of swim trunks and a towel into the front seat of his truck, then moseyed over to Bitsy Peck’s garden with a galvanized steel bucket to pilfer a dozen ears of corn.

It was Will who’d taught Mitch the best way to cook corn—plunge the fresh-picked ears directly into a bucket of water, soak them for at least a half hour, then throw them on the grill to steam in their husks.

Bitsy was busy digging up her pea patch with a fork, dressed in cutoff overalls and a big, floppy straw hat. She was a round, bubbly little blue blood in her fifties with a snub nose and freckles, and just a remarkably avid and tireless gardener. Hundreds of species of flowers, vegetables, and herbs grew in her vast, multileveled garden. Actually, Bitsy’s garden looked more like a commercial nursery than it did somebody’s yard. When Mitch first arrived on Big Sister she
had gleefully stepped into the role of his garden guru. The lady was a fountain of advice and seedlings and composted cow manure. Mitch liked her a lot.

Although lately she hadn’t been nearly as upbeat as usual. Not since her twenty-three-year-old daughter, Becca, a ballet dancer, had come home to mom and the massive three-story shingled Victorian summer cottage where she’d grown up. Becca had gotten herself addicted to heroin out in San Francisco, and had just finished a stint at the Silver Hill Rehab Clinic in New Canaan. Mostly, the two ladies kept to themselves. Hardly left the island at all, and seldom had guests. Bitsy went grocery shopping every couple of days. Otherwise, Mitch would find her toiling diligently in her garden refuge from dawn until dusk.