The Sour Cherry Surprise (4 page)

“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.”

“A
ND
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 outdoor 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.

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.”