The Sour Cherry Surprise (12 page)

Lisa flashed Des her gap-toothed smile. “Then go home and
be
happy.”

So Des followed doctor’s orders. Stopped off at The Works on her way home and picked up the fixings for a major romantic supper.
A thick porterhouse steak for two from Paul the butcher. A wedge of Cato Corner Farms Hooligan from Christine the cheese lady. Baby greens and fingerling potatoes from Ben the produce man. And a sinful strawberry cheesecake from the bakery, where Jen Beckwith was working the counter. Little Molly was parked on a stool at the adjacent coffee bar, basketball on the floor at her feet, her nose buried in a library book.

“How goes it?” Des asked as Jen boxed up her cheesecake, face set tight with determination.

“Molly’s all excited that her dad’s coming home today. Well, not
home
, but you know what I mean. Nana’s hired Fred to drive her to the hospital to get him.” Dorset was too small a place have a commercial taxi or car service. What it had was Fred Griswold, a retired chimney sweep who chauffeured Dorseteers to and from the airport or wherever in his Buick Regal. “Nana wanted
me
to drive her,” Jen went on, “since she paid for my car and is, like, incredibly cheap. But I have to be here all afternoon. It’ll be really great for Molly, her dad being walking distance away. And I know my mom will be thrilled.”

“Your mom? Why is that?”

“She has a major, major thing for Professor Procter. Goes into her whole cocker spaniel deal every time she sees him.”

“Her cocker spaniel deal is …?”

“Mom’s way of gazing oh-so-adoringly up at a man. She cocks her head to one side and her eyes get all huge and swoony….” Jen treated Des to a demonstration, complete with slackened jaw and shallow panting. “It’s totally embarrassing, believe me.”

“Does Professor Procter have similar feelings for her?”

“I really wouldn’t know.”

Another customer joined at the bakery counter now—old Rut Peck, Dorset’s apple-cheeked retired postmaster, who was a loyal chum of Mitch’s. Des smiled at him. Rut wouldn’t smile back.

Des sighed inwardly before she said, “Jen, why don’t you take care of Mr. Peck first? I’m in no rush.”

Jen thanked her. Rut didn’t. Just pointed a stubby, wavering finger at what he wanted.

Molly was totally absorbed in her book, which was Harper Lee’s
To Kill a Mockingbird
. Her half-eaten doughnut lay forgotten at her elbow. “This is due back at the library
tomorrow,”
she explained urgently, barely looking up from it. “I absolutely have to finish it. My dad doesn’t believe in overdue fines. He calls them the hallmark of a sloppy mind.”

Des slid onto the stool next to hers and said, “Molly, you mentioned to me yesterday that you don’t much care for Clay.”

“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.”

I
N 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.”