David Handler - The Bright Silver Star

“What can I do for you, buddy?” Jeff called to him encouragingly.

“I-I was just wondering if the new Codfather book came in yet,” he stammered, his voice soaring several octaves.

“I don’t sell that garbage in my store,” Jeff snarled in response. “Try Borders. Try Amazon. Anywhere but here, got it?”

Which sent the little kid scurrying out the door in bug-eyed terror.

“I can see you’re really working on your people skills,” Mitch observed.

“Ab-so-tootly,” Jeff responded with great sincerity. “The old me wouldn’t have mentioned those other outlets at all.” On Mitch’s doubtful look he added, “Mitch, we have to measure our progress in inches. I learned that from my dear sweet mother, right along with another heartwarming chestnut: ‘You’ll never amount to anything.’ That’s why Abby dumped me, you know. She thinks I want to fail because deep down inside I think I deserve to. Didn’t want to be around my vibe anymore. Said it was contagious. What do you think?”

“I think that you have a beautiful shop and you should be very proud.”

“You really think so?” he asked Mitch imploringly.

Needy. That was the word to describe Jeff Wachtell.

“I really do,” Mitch assured him.

Pleased, Jeff began moving Mitch’s signed books to a prominent spot by the front door. Mitch browsed a bit. Among Jeff’s Store Picks he spotted a paperback copy of Horseman, Pass By, the slender firstnovel by Larry McMurtry that Martin Ritt had made into the movie Hud. Mitch had lost his copy and had been meaning to reread it, so he brought one up to the counter and paid Jeff for it.

As Jeff rang it up he started sucking his cheeks in and out again, peering at Mitch uncertainly. “Mind if I ask you something else? I just scored Abby’s tour itinerary from her Web site, and she’s making her way straight through Connecticut this week on her way to Boston. She’s already stopping at C. C. Willoughby and Company in Sussex, right? And her publicist, Chrissie Huberman, is here in town with Esme and Tito, right? Would it be out of line for me to ask her if she’d maybe schedule Abby to stop here? Abby sure would bring in the customers.”

“Jeff, you don’t carry any of your wife’s books, remember?”

“I could have fifty copies of The Codfather of Sole here by noon tomorrow,” he said in a determined voice. “All I have to do is pick up the phone.”

Mitch raised his eyebrows at him. “This is a tectonic shift for you.”

“Dead on,” he acknowledged, adjusting his glasses. “But I need to make certain allowances if I’m going to survive in this business. What do you think?”

“I think this is a very healthy development.”

“No, I mean about me approaching Crissie.”

“Why don’t you just talk to Abby?”

Jeff shook his head vigorously. “We only speak through our lawyers-at a cost of three hundred and fifty bucks an hour. Saying ‘Hi, how are you?’ runs me twenty-nine ninety-five.”

“I guess it couldn’t hurt. The worst thing Chrissie can do is say no, right?”

“Right,” Jeff agreed, a bit less than convinced. “Thanks, man.”

Mitch headed back out to the food hall with his book. It was lunchtime and the place was teeming with hungry Dorseteers, the din of their voices rising up toward the skylights. A lot of them were lined up at the deli counter. Mitch took his place at the end of the line, watching Donna merrily take phone orders, chat up customers, and move the line along with a smooth assist from Rich Graybill, theyoung chef they’d brought in to help manage the place. Will was busy horsing a huge basket of baguettes over from the bakery. All three of them were moving at an astonishing speed. It takes superhuman energy to work in the food trade, Will once told Mitch. Mitch believed it.

As he got closer to the counter, Mitch carefully studied the enticing platters and bowls on display in the refrigerated case, his stomach growling.

Now Donna was serving the young woman in line ahead of him. “What can I get you, Marilyn? God, I love your hair. Who did it? I’ve got to go see her. Mine looks just like a Brillo pad… Shut up, it does so.”

Mitch liked Donna a lot. She was peppery and funny, and she held nothing back. Always, her pink face was lit with a warm, genuine smile. She liked being who she was. Donna was a bit on the short side, nearly a foot shorter than Will, and more than a bit on the chubby side. And her hair did look like a Brillo pad, frizzy and black with streaks of premature gray. She wore a blue denim apron with The Works stitched across it, as did everyone who served food there.

“Hey there, stretch, what can I get for you today?” she asked, squinting at Mitch through her wire-rimmed glasses with feigned astonishment. “Time out, Berger, is that you? My God, you’re nothing but skin, bone, and wrinkled khaki.” Donna had a pronounced Boston accent, the flat, Southie kind. “How much weight have you lost this summer, fifteen pounds?”

“Ten pounds… well, nine.”

“That’s a lot, Mitch,” Will said, unloading his basket of baguettes.

“Not enough to satisfy a certain resident trooper.”

“Oh, what does that scrawny gazelle know about poundage?” Donna shot back. “Me, I like a full-bodied man. A man whose ass is bigger than mine. That’s all any woman wants.”

“So that’s it,” Will joked. “I always wondered.”

“Okay, I’m getting mixed signals here,” Mitch told her. “You and Des have to get on the same page.”

“Not a chance. She’s the one who sees you naked. I just sell you food. Not that I wouldn’t like to trade places.”

“Donna, are you making a play for me in front of your husband?”

“It’s okay, Mitch, I’m used to it,” Will said, smiling at her.

Mitch studied their playful banter closely, wondering if Will was cheating on her with Martine. He had no idea. None.

Donna said, “If you’re not going to whisk me away to Bermuda on your yacht then you’ll have to place an order. This is a business, Berger. I can’t just stand here all afternoon talking dirty.”

Mitch went for the grilled shrimp Caesar salad, an onion minibaguette and a fresh-squeezed orange juice. He placed it all on a tray and ambled over toward an empty table, pleased to see that people at three different tables were intently reading his review of Dark Star in that morning’s paper. Mitch enjoyed watching people read his work. He was not alone in this-it was just about every journalist’s guiltiest pleasure. He sat and opened his book, keeping an eye on the big glass doors to the street.

Des came striding through them a few minutes later and made her way lithely across the bustling food hall, a supremely relaxed smile on her face as her eyes alertly took in everyone and everything in the place. She was becoming an exceptionally good resident trooper, Mitch felt. She was confident, helpful, and straight with everyone. People in town genuinely respected her. Plus there was a refreshing absence of head games with Des. She didn’t try to bully or intimidate anyone. She didn’t need to. Whatever came along, she knew she could handle it.

Mitch loved the way her face lit up when she caught sight of him seated there. Loved the special smile that she reserved for him and him alone. As she started toward him he wondered what would happen to him if she were not in his life right now. He would go right down the drain, that’s what.

But she must never know this-she thinks I’m the one who has it all together.

They did not kiss when she got to his table. Des had an ironclad rule about Public Displays of Affection when she was in uniform. But there was no avoiding the way they glowed in each other’s presence. Just as there was no missing the curious glances that they got from neighboring tables. Because they were a different kind of couple, no question. And when you’re different people wonder about you. The glances didn’t bother either of them one bit. They knew how happy they were together.