David Handler - The sour cherry surprise

“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.”

“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?”

“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.