David Handler - The sour cherry surprise

He reached inside the Suburban for his cell, flipped it open and speed-dialed someone. Talked into the phone. Listened. Then flipped it shut with a flourish and came back to her. “Tomorrow morning at ten in your barracks commander’s office,” he said. “And, lady, be prepared to get your ears chewed off.”

“I’ll be there. But I sure would appreciate it, one law enforcement professional to another, if you’d tell me what’s going on.”

“Not authorized to. But here’s an extreme idea-why don’t you give U.S. Attorney Stokes a nudge tonight and ask him?”

“Why, what’s Brandon got to do with this?”

Agent Grisky wouldn’t go there. Just smirked at her and said, “See you tomorrow, Master Sergent Mitry. Really dig the hat. Can I have one just like it when I grow up?”

The first time Des had seen Bitsy Peck’s immense, natural-shingled Victorian mansion out on Big Sister she’d said to herself: People who aren’t named Martha Stewart don’t actually live this way. They don’t own houses with this many turrets and sleeping porches. They don’t enjoy such views of Long Island Sound in every direction. They aren’t surrounded by such amazing gardens. But they did. They were. It was all for real. Same as Mitch’s little carriage house nestled beyond those gardens was real.

The early evening sky over the Sound was a dusty pink when she arrived. Parked cars were jammed everywhere. And fifty or so very polite people were enjoying drinks out on Bitsy’s deep wraparound porch, where she was hosting the monthly get-together of the Dorset Town Committee, a nonpartisan group of highly influential locals. Among other things, the Town Committee endorsed candidates for the State Senate, State Assembly and U.S. Congress. Tonight was a chance for its elite members to get to know Brandon. It was not a campaign fundraiser-although he’d warned Des there’d be people there from the party, not to mention photographers from the newspapers. It was simply a chance for Dorset’s People Who Matter to hang with the man who wanted to be their next congressman. The district’s current representative to D.C. had failed to carry Dorset, so for Brandon this was highly fertile ground.

And it certainly didn’t hurt to have the town’s resident trooper on hand to introduce him around and smile oh-so-adoringly at her brown-eyed handsome man.

The event was casual dress, which for the men meant madras blazers and for the women meant whatever was being featured in the current Talbot’s catalogue that was neutral-colored and dowdy. Des wore an untucked orange linen shirt, trimly cut ivory slacks and gold sandals.

She met up with Brandon when he pulled into Bitsy’s driveway accompanied by a pair of hyper, narrow-faced party operatives. He looked relaxed and ready. Also ultra-preppy in his new khaki-colored suit from Brooks Brothers. Used to be Brandon was more of an Armani man.

He smiled broadly at her as he got out of the car. “You’re not wearing your uniform,” he observed, giving her a big hug.

She batted her eyelashes at him. “You noticed.”

“Desi, I thought we decided it wouldn’t hurt to remind these good folks that I intend to be their law and order candidate.”

“I never wear my uni when I’m off duty.”

“Then why did you ask me if you should wear it?”

“Because I wanted to hear what your answer would be.”

Brandon tilted his head at her slightly. “Well, you definitely made the right choice,” he conceded, looking her up and down. “Although it’s going to be difficult for me to keep my mind on politics.”

“Brandon, we have to talk.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Only because it is.”

“We’ll find a quiet spot on the porch in a little while. Right now

…” He took her hand as they climbed the porch steps, squeezing it. “Are you ready for this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she answered, taking a deep breath.

Together, they plunged in, Brandon towering over one and all at six-feet-six. Not that he was intimidating. The man could disarm anyone with his smile and rich, burgundy voice. Des introduced him straight away to Dorset’s snowy-haired first selectman, Bob Paffin, who still wasn’t totally comfortable having a resident trooper who was so young, female and black. And to Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux, the blond, blue-blooded attorney who felt just fine about Des-and soon hoped to unseat Bob Paffin. To Arthur Lewis, president of the local chapter of the Nature Conservancy, and Emma Knight, who ran Dorset’s No. 1 real estate agency. To the Inlands Wetlands commissioner and the commissioner of the Historic District. To the head of the school board, a mother of three whose oldest girl, Shannon, played on the Dorset High basketball team with Jen Beckwith. Des found herself wondering if Shannon had been at Jen’s Rainbow Party, and if so which color lip-gloss she’d worn.

There were platters of sweaty cocktail wienies and ice cold shrimp. Potluck dishes of ham and scalloped potatoes, tuna casserole and Mitch’s perennial favorite, American chop suey. All of which looked heavy and gloppy and way too much like warm vomit.

And there was talk, talk and more talk-most of it coming from Brandon’s mouth. He told the soccer moms how much he believed in public education. The chesty Lions Clubbers how antiterror he was. The environmentalists how he intended to protect the Sound from natural gas pipelines. The realtors that he was for “quality” development. The man never came up for air. Never stopped smiling. Never stopped working, working, working the crowd. As Des watched him it dawned upon her for the very first time that Brandon Stokes wasn’t an attorney at all. He was a natural born performer. Someone who could be hip or square, funny or serious, compassionate or outraged. Whatever the person who he was belly up to needed from him at a particular moment. Then he could move right along and do it all over again with someone else-and make the transition seem utterly effortless. Truly, this porch was Brandon’s stage. And he was totally at ease on it.

Which made exactly one of them.

Des was watching her man do his thing, utter fascinated, when without warning she felt another of her damned blackouts coming on. The porch swaying under her feet. The voices and laughter growing fainter. Horrified, she groped her way out to the farthest end of the porch and slumped into a wicker chair with her head down. Breathed slowly in and out, waiting for it to pass. Which, thank God, it did. But she did not want to risk hitting the deck in front of all of these people. So she stayed put for a while, directing her mind elsewhere.

To the phone call she’d just made to Megan Chichester, Carolyn Procter’s very capable sounding sister up in Blue Hill, Maine. Megan was aware that Richard had moved out, but knew nothing of Clay Mundy. She’d been shocked by Des’s description of her sister’s physical state and by her concerns over Molly’s welfare. Promised Des she’d drive down to Dorset as soon as possible-if not tomorrow then the day after-to get Carolyn whatever help she needed. And, if necessary, bring Molly home with her for an early summer holiday. “I’ll take charge of the situation,” she assured Des. Which made it a good day’s work all in all. This was the job, Des reflected. Giving a family a chance to heal itself. Piecing together a way to keep the law out of it. She’d tried, anyhow. The rest was up to them.

As she sat there, Des found herself gazing across the gardens at Bella’s lights in Mitch’s windows. Wondering how many more months it would take before the doughboy was no longer inside of her. When he would finally, mercifully, fade away.

She heard footsteps clacking toward her now. It was her hostess, Bitsy, bringing her a goblet of white wine.