The sour cherry surprise bam-6

by David Handler

  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 sauteed 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.”

&n
bsp; “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.

  “All day long I’ve been wanting to hold you in my arms,” he purred at her.

  She melted into him, her head nestled on his shoulder as they slow-danced right there in the kitchen, pausing now and again to sip their champagne and get lost in each other’s eyes. Just like it was when they first met. When she couldn’t believe this one in a million man noticed her, liked her, wanted her. Couldn’t believe how gentle he could be. How lucky she was.

  “God, you smell good.” He ran his big hands up and down her bare back. “And you are smooth all over.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, raising her mouth to his. “Just so you know, there’s steak.”

  “How can you think about food at a time like this?”

  “Why, are you thinking about something else?”

  “Girl, you are naughty. Know what happens to naughty girls, don’t you?”

  “Haven’t the slightest idea.” She put a finger to his lips before he could say another word. “Don’t tell me. Show me.”

  For starters, that dress came right off over her head. And now Brandon’s tongue was on her breasts. And now, oh, God, it was slip-sliding its way downtown. He fell to his knees, the better to devour her. She threw one leg over his shoulder and let out a groan, her breathing growing deeper and deeper… until he picked her up and carried her off to their bedroom.

  It was long past dark out, nearly ten, by the time she stirred and got up, searching for something to throw on.

  “Where are you going?” he asked her sleepily, sprawled there in bed.

  “To start dinner.”

  “Now that you mention it, I’m starved,” he admitted. “Only, wait, there’s something else I wanted to say to you. Let’s disappear from this place for a couple of days. Jump in the car tomorrow morning and head for the Cape. Find ourselves a little inn near a beach somewhere. What do you say?”

  She flashed her wraparound smile at him. “I say, what time do we leave?”

  That was when her phone rang. It was the 911 dispatcher. A call had come in from the Sullivan residence on Sour Cherry Lane. Amber Sullivan phoning to report she’d just heard some sort of a fight out in the lane. Followed by the sound of a man screaming.

  There were plenty of lights on at Kimberly and Jen’s, as well as across the lane at the Procters. But the lane appeared to be deserted as Des eased past their cottages. Until little Molly suddenly loomed before her there in the road-standing out in front of the Sullivan cottage with her eyeglasses shining in the headlights.

  Des rolled down her window and called out, “Girl, what are you doing out here at this time of night?”

  “I heard something,” Molly answered in a quavering voice. “Somebody’s hurt.”

  Des nosed her cruiser up to the pile of cedar mulch in Amber and Keith’s driveway and got out, flashlight in hand. The night air was very heavy and still. It smelled of a skunk that had been marking its territory. With her light, Des looked the girl over carefully as Molly stood there in her UConn jersey, baggy shorts and floppy socks. She seemed frightened but unharmed. “Were you up in your tree house for the night?”

  Molly nodded her head, swallowing.

  “Did you see anything?”

  She shook her head gravely.

  “Well, what did you hear?”

  “Voices. Men’s voices. They came from out there somewhere.” Molly pointed past the Sullivan place toward the utter darkness at the end of the lane.

  Des shined her light out there. Saw nothing other than wild, overgrown brush crowding both sides of the pavement. The road dead-ended at Jersey safety barriers after a hundred feet
or so. Beyond the barriers was the bank of the Connecticut River.

  “How many men did you hear?”

  “Two, I think.”

  “And you’re sure they were both men?”

  “W-What do you mean?”

  “Could one of them have been a woman?’

  “I don’t know. Maybe. One of them… he screamed.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I don’t know. I listened real hard, but I didn’t hear anything else.”

  “And you’re sure you didn’t see anyone?”

  Molly gazed up at her, mystified. “Like who?”

  “Someone running away from here. Or driving away. Did anyone pass by your place after you heard the scream?”

  “I didn’t see anybody. But I-I was…” She faltered, lowering her gaze.

  “You were what?” Des asked, hearing footsteps now. Amber and Keith were approaching them.

  “Scared to come down.” Molly let out a sob. “I hid in my tree house until I saw you coming.”

  Meaning she may not have seen someone fleeing in her direction. Des knelt and hugged the frightened girl, her thoughts on Grisky’s team in the woods. What had they seen and heard? And where in the hell were they? “You did the right thing, Molly. You were smart to be afraid. But you don’t have to be afraid now, okay?”

  Actually, Amber looked plenty scared herself. Those big brown eyes of hers were huge and shining. “Des, I really, really hope I didn’t get you out here on a wild goose chase,” she said in a frantic voice.

  Beefy, blond Keith trailed along a few steps behind her clutching a bottle of Sam Adams. He wore a T-shirt, shorts and a pissed off expression. A vibe of tension was coming off of the two lovebirds.

  The source of which tumbled straight out of Keith’s mouth: “I am totally sorry about this, Des,” he growled. “I told her not to waste your time.”