David Handler - The sour cherry surprise

“About what, ma’am?”

“What pathetic frauds we all are. Only the young can be taken in by the false promises of others. When you get to be my age you can see right through everyone. And believe me, that is one hopeless way to exist. I sleep very little now.” The old lady had become so chatty it occurred to Des that she might be lonely. “Mostly, I read. Are you a reader?”

“When I have time.”

“And how up are you on the village gossip?”

“I hear what people tell me.”

“I’m wondering about one of my other tenants. Perhaps you know them.”

“I know the Sullivans.”

Patricia nodded her head. “Very nice young couple. Keith is so amiable and helpful. He’s done any number of electrical repairs for me. Plows my driveway, installs my air conditioners. The man won’t ever take a nickel. And Amber is a terribly gifted scholar, I’m told. You wouldn’t think they would be happy together, being so different. But there’s just no telling with love, is there?”

“So they tell me.”

“Actually, I was wondering about Richard and Carolyn Procter. They rent the house directly across the lane from Kimberly and Jen. They’ve been hoping to purchase it should I ever decide to sell-which I haven’t. Their little girl is named Molly.”

“Don’t know them, I’m afraid.”

“Richard is a very distinguished historian at Wesleyan,” Patricia went on, practically glowing at the mention of him. “There is no one alive who knows more about the early economic and social structure of the Connecticut shoreline than Richard Procter. He’s written numerous volumes. And Carolyn is a noted author of children’s literature herself, as well as a tremendous beauty. Comes from a fine old Massachusetts family, the Chichesters.” Now Patricia’s face dropped. “But it seems they have split up. Richard has moved out and Carolyn has taken up with some sort of a tradesman.”

“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.”

“And 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.