David Handler - The sour cherry surprise

“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.”

In 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?”