Read The Sour Cherry Surprise Online
Authors: David Handler
“This was the night he and Clay got into their fight?”
“It was,” Amber confirmed. “I felt … I feel responsible.”
“You weren’t,” Keith argued. “It was all his own doing. He should never have come sniffing around you in the first place. A professor is an authority figure. A guy in his position isn’t supposed to hit on students.”
“I wasn’t his student anymore,” Amber reminded him, a defensive edge creeping into her voice. “And I’m not a child. I’m twenty-three.”
“Tell you what,” Des interjected. “We can debate that point another time. Right now, let’s talk about the night Richard died.”
“He came back,” Amber said hopelessly, her eyes puddling with tears. “We were in here washing our dinner dishes. There was a knock on that door. I opened it and there he was again, demanding that I take him back. Only this time Keith was … he was standing right here, Des. And Richard just kept on ranting anyway. I’ll never, ever forget the look on Keith’s face. I’ve never seen such disbelief. Or such total rage. He’d been drying our carving knife when Richard showed up. Had it in his hand. And he just chased after Richard and h-he—”
“I made that bastard pay,” Keith blustered angrily. In fact, he was barely holding on to his composure even now. His face was red, eyes bulging, fists clenched. “And don’t ask me if I’m sorry it happened, Des, because I’m not. I’d do it all over again. Amber’s my wife. She’s mine. He had no right to
demand
anything. He sure as hell had no right to put his hands on her. I don’t care how many frigging postgraduate degrees he had. All I’ve got is a high school diploma, but I know right from wrong. And you don’t
come to another man’s house and call out his wife. You just don’t do that to a man. Not without paying for it. Christ, what was that smug bastard thinking?”
“He wasn’t thinking,” Des responded quietly. “Not clearly anyhow.”
Despite the manly words coming out of his mouth Keith didn’t come off like a man to her. More like a jealous, possessive little boy who had anger management issues. A boy whose eyes had started flicking furtively over at the back door. He was thinking about making a run for it.
Des tensed immediately, sincerely hoping he wouldn’t. She didn’t want to have to shoot someone she had once considered a friend.
To her great relief, Keith returned to his senses and sank slowly into one of the kitchen chairs. “He had no right,” he repeated stubbornly. “Amber’s mine. And just thinking about the two of them in bed together gets my blood boiling so bad I can barely …” He ran a thick hand over his face, sighing dejectedly. “I’ve ruined both our lives for good, haven’t I?”
“And Richard’s for damned sure,” Des said. “Carolyn and Molly will never be the same. And then, of course, there’s Clay and Hector. But we won’t even go there.”
“Des, I
do
wish I could take that moment back,” he admitted. “But I can’t. It happened. I lost control. We are talking about blind rage. More than that even. It was … I was
terrified.”
“Of what, Keith?”
“Losing her. I could feel my whole world—everything I live for and pray for—all going
poof
right before my eyes. You’ve got to understand something. I didn’t have much going for me when I was growing up. I was a lousy student, a no-good athlete. Just a big, dumb oaf going nowhere. Kevin was the shining star of our family. Kevin had the brains, the personality, the get-up-and-go.
God, I wish I had a nickel for every time my parents said ‘Why can’t you be more like your brother?’ And when it came to girls, forget it. I was so bashful I could barely open my mouth—until Amber came along.” He gazed up at her lovingly, his eyes misting over. “I could say anything to Amber and she’d understand. Amber
believed
in me. She’s the best thing that’s happened to me in my whole life. I’d die without her. I guess that sounds pretty lame.”
“Not to me it doesn’t. But if you love her so much why did you panic about marrying her?”
“Because I didn’t believe it. I was convinced she’d wake up on our honeymoon and realize she’d just made a terrible mistake. And want out. I couldn’t believe my luck. Still can’t. Someone as special as Amber wanting to be with
me
. So when I found out that she and Richard, that he’d
taken
her from me … I-I went nuts. Let my emotions get the best of me. That happens sometimes, especially after I’ve had a couple of beers. Not that I’m blaming Sam Adams. It’s my own damned fault.”
Des turned back to Amber. “And then you helped him dump Richard’s body and hide the evidence.”
“I owed him that much,” Amber acknowledged, her voice cracking. “I’m the one who cheated. I-I let Richard love me. I should have just come clean about it when we got back together. But Keith was
so
happy. We both were. So I buried it deep inside and I hoped it would go away. Only it didn’t. It was my fault, Des. I’m responsible for Richard’s death, not Keith.”
“So you phoned it in,” Des said. “And when I showed here you two handed me a made-up story, hoping you could live happily ever after. Except it doesn’t work that way, does it? You can’t build your life on something rotten. You have to pay the price. It’ll be better this way, hard as that is for you to imagine right now.”
“What happens now?” Keith sounded more like a sorrowful little boy with each passing moment. “Are you going to arrest us?”
“No, Lieutenant Tedone and Sergeant Snipes will do that.” Des heard them pull up outside right on time. She’d phoned them before she left home. Went to the front door now and let them in.
Then Des Mitry strode back up Sour Cherry Lane to tell the Sullivans’ landlady, Patricia Beckwith, that she was going to have herself another vacancy.
To:
Mitch Berger
From:
Molly Procter
Subject:
Hey
Greetings from way up here in beautiful Blue Hill, Maine, where it still goes down into the 40s at night even though, duh, it’s July. It’s pretty okay here on the farm. I miss Big Sister and all of Bella’s kitties but Aunt Meggie has let me adopt a golden retriever puppy. He is big footed and sweet and kind of doofusy. I’ve named him Mitch. Hope you don’t mind. And if you do, well, too bad. He already knows his name!
My mom is doing okay with her Work Farm Rehab, as she calls it. She’s doesn’t smile or laugh as much as she used to. But she looks much better, and puts in what Meggie’s partner Susan calls “an honest day’s work.” Here in Maine, that’s what passes for high praise, mister! Mom is even talking about starting a new Molly book, which would be great because we could use the money. Farmers are really poor. Did you know that?
She’s not the only one who does “an honest day’s work” around here. I’m now milking the goats like an old pro. We sell their milk to a cheese maker down the road. I also take care of the chickens and help tend the garden. Our veggie garden is huge. Everything is organic. Susan takes what we grow to a green market twice a week where chefs from all kinds of fancy restaurants in Portland and even Boston buy it.
You’d like it here, Mitch. Lots of really weird neighbors. A few kids my age. One really annoying boy named Connor who lives on the farm next to ours and just won’t leave me alone. He has a crush on me that is so totally not mutual. I’m at least eight inches taller than he is. Seriously, I can drive to the hoop on him at will. But I let him score a bucket or two on me every once in a while just so he won’t give up.
I still work on my game for one hour every day. Coach Geno has recruited girls from as far away as Alaska (check out Jessica Moore’s bio if you don’t believe me). So I’m not off of the UConn radar screen even if I am a million miles away. If there’s talent out there, Geno will find it. And I’m the real deal. I know
this
.
We don’t have a TV. Meggie and Susan don’t believe in it. But I should be able to download your new show from your Web site. So be careful what you say. I’m going to be watching you, mister!
Anyway, I just wanted to say hi and tell you not to worry about me. I’m fine. I think about my dad an awful lot even though he’s gone. But Meggie says that’s an okay thing to do. He would want me to remember him, and I shouldn’t fight it. So I’m not.
I think about you a lot, too. Can you come and see me some time? Alone? Don’t bring what’s-her-face with you, if you don’t mind. Your English girlfriend. See, I still believe that you and Trooper Des are supposed to be together. I will believe this for as long as I live.
Your pal, Molly
p.s. It’s only summer training camp and your Knicks already
suck
.
The early morning fog hung low over Santa Monica, totally obscuring the ultra-expensive view of the Pacific from Mitch’s
twelfth-floor balcony. In the heat of the day the dense fog would gradually morph into a gassy, sepia-tinted haze that smelled of rotten peaches. Just another spectacular day in paradise, Mitch reflected gloomily as he stood there in his complimentary Four Seasons terry cloth robe, sipping his coffee. He had yet another production meeting scheduled for this morning. This after huddling for hours and hours yesterday with the network suits—who had then taken him to dinner at some fashionable place in Malibu with Miss Hawaii and her Dodger soon-to-be husband. He felt bleary-eyed, sluggish and flabby today. Too many meetings. Too much rich food. He needed to hit the health club downstairs. Instead, he padded back inside his suite and started poring over his notes for today’s meeting.
His bedside phone rang. It was the concierge calling from down in the lobby. “Mr. Berger, I’m sorry to disturb you so early but there’s a young lady here at the front desk who says you’re expecting her. A Miss Naughton?”
“I certainly am,” Mitch exclaimed, brightening instantly. “Send her right up, please.”
Cecily had finally made it down from San Francisco for a little full frontal pas de deux. Perfect timing on her part. Hurriedly, Mitch gathered up the newspapers and clothes that were strewn everywhere. The place was halfway presentable by the time he heard her tapping at the door.
“Welcome to L.A., luv!” he called out, flinging it open.
It wasn’t Cecily.
Des Mitry stood out there in the hall, a leather shoulder bag thrown over one arm and an 18-by-24 inch drawing pad tucked under the other. She wore a pale yellow linen shirt, jeans and an exceedingly wary look.
“What are
you
doing here?” he demanded, staring at her in shock.
“I was on my way to Disneyland. Thought I’d pay you a visit. Bella told me where I could find you.”
He shook his head at her, dumfounded. “Des, what is this?”
“Okay so there’s something I wanted to say to you,” she confessed. “I flew in on the red-eye to say it. May I come in or do I have to do it out here?”
Mitch let her in, eying her up and down. He hadn’t gotten a real good look at her the night he rescued her from that root cellar. “You’ve gotten awfully skinny, you know.”
“Back at you, relatively speaking.”
“I’ve been working out with a trainer a little.”
“You’ve been working out with a trainer a lot. I guess this means I don’t call you doughboy anymore. What’ll I …?”
“You can make it Armando, if you’d like.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
“Can I order up some coffee or anything for you?”
“No, I’m fine,” she said, standing there before him.
Yet again his skin started to tingle all over that way it did whenever he was near her. It never did that when he was around Cecily. Mitch didn’t wonder why. He knew why. “Bella told me you’d given that up,” he said, glancing at the drawing pad under her arm.
“I just started up again on the plane. Got me some crime scene photos of Richard Procter that I’m working from. It feels good, although the stewardess sure did give me some funny looks.”
“I hear you nailed the Sullivans for killing him. Which I still can’t believe.”
“Believe it.”
“Good job, master sergeant. I guess this means you don’t need my help anymore.”
“Not true. You’re the one who cracked it.”
“I did? How so?”
“It was something you said—about how you can’t turn your feelings on and off like a faucet. Richard kept babbling some words at me on the beach that made no sense. Nor did his behavior. Not until you said that. Then the whole case fell right into place. Couldn’t have done it without you. So give yourself a big pat on the back.” She paused to clear her throat before she added, “It dawned on me that I never thanked you for saving my life.”
“You flew all of the way out here to say thanks?”
“Some things you don’t say over the phone.”
“It was no big deal.”
“It was a huge deal.”
“Molly was the real hero.”
Her face broke into a smile. “How is Molly?”
“I just got an e-mail from her. She’s great. Des, have you got a place to stay while you’re out here? I can call the concierge if you’d like.”
“Not necessary. I’m flying right back. Just came to say what I came to say.”
“How’s your head?”
“Better. I’ve stopped answering phones that aren’t ringing.”
“And how about those fainting spells of yours?”
She bristled instantly. “Bella
told
you?”
“Naturally. She’s worried about you.”
Des turned his desk chair around and sat, her chest rising and falling. “Actually, that’s something of an ongoing situation. It seems my blood pressure and resting pulse rate skew dangerously high when I’m with Brandon. I also lose my appetite for solid nourishment almost completely. Hence the slimming regimen. Long story short, Brandon is hazardous to my health.”
Mitch responded with one simple word: “Bullshit.”
“What did you just say to me?” she demanded, her pale green eyes widening.
“Brandon has nothing whatsoever to do with your health. Hell, he’s a perfectly decent guy if your taste runs to chiseled, amazingly handsome alpha males. But it so happens that yours doesn’t. The awful truth is that you made the biggest mistake of your life when you nuked our relationship—and you know it and now you have to live with it.
That
is what your body’s been telling you.”
“Mitch, are you purposely trying to make this difficult for me?”
“Why would I want to make it easy?”
“No reason,” she said softly.
“Des, I appreciate you coming out here. It was a classy move. But you chose Brandon. And I’m with Cecily now. What’s done is done.”
“Things look a whole lot different in the light of day.”
“Different how?”
“For starters, I’ve asked Brandon to find himself a new place to live, not to mention a new running mate. Someone more cut out to be a politician’s wife than I am.”
“What did Brandon say?”
“That he didn’t understand.”
“I don’t think I do, either.”
“The love isn’t there,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “He’s not my man.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he didn’t try to save me. If he was my man then wild horses couldn’t have kept him away.”
“Hold on a second. So the guy didn’t go charging in there like the cavalry. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. It just says to me that he isn’t completely crazy.”
“What, you’re taking his side?”
“No, but I do think you’re employing movie logic instead of real life logic. Which surprises me, quite frankly.”
“You’ve rubbed off on me. What can I say? Except hold on because I’m just getting warmed up. For the past couple of weeks I’ve been thinking very seriously about transferring out of Dorset to a different town. Somewhere I could start over fresh without all of the emotional baggage. I’ve gotten so tired of everyone owning my private business. But this Sour Cherry experience has changed my mind. I’m finally beginning to understand those people. Or as much as anyone can who isn’t actually one of them. I’m doing good work there. I can make a difference. So I’m staying.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear it.”
“Are you really?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason,” she said quickly, her eyes darting away from his. “How’s everything going with your new TV venture?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“You don’t sound real pumped.”
“No, I am. And the network is real excited. We just have some creative differences to iron out.”
“Creative differences? Exactly what does that mean?”
“It means I want to be creative and they want something different.”
She nodded her head. “And it’s their network so you have to toe the line. Sure, I get you.”
“Actually, it’s not like that. Nobody has said the word
No
to me. It’s more like we’re speaking a different language. Whenever I talk about the stories I want to do everybody’s eyes start to glaze over. It reminds me of when I had this idea a while back for an epic Hollywood novel. Sort of a
What Makes Sammy Run?
meets
The Godfather
meets
The Big Lebowski.”
“You never told me that.”
“I never wrote it.”
“Why not, Mitch?”
“Because every time I told people about it their eyes would glaze over.” Mitch paced his way out to the terrace and back again. “Can I tell you something crazy?”
She looked up at him and said, “You can tell me anything.”
“I don’t care about being rich and famous. This isn’t me. Before you knocked on my door I was seriously thinking about chucking this whole deal and going with Lacy’s new e-zine instead. Cecily wants me to. She thinks this whole move is a big mistake.”
“Are you planning to mention her a lot?”
“I haven’t set an exact number yet. I’ll keep you posted. My point is I’d be able to write whatever I want. Spend time on Big Sister again. Walk on the beach. Putter in my garden. Play my music and … Did I just say something funny?”
“Why, no. Not at all.”
“Being back there the other night made me realize how much I miss the place. I was happy there. Of course, it would mean a lot less money coming in.”
“On the plus side, you could let your eyebrows grow back.”
“There is
nothing
wrong with my eyebrows.”
“Whatever you say, Armando.”
“I’d have to ask Bella to find another place.”
“She can bunk with me again. Although she’ll need to establish her own address soon.”
“Why is that?”
“You’re going to love this—she’s talking about running for Congress against Brandon. Where on earth would she get a fool notion like that?”
“I can’t imagine. You said you were just getting warmed up. Is there anything else that you flew out here to tell me?”
“Ask you. And I have no right ask it. Not after everything I put you through. But I need to know the answer.”
“To what?”
“You once told me that elephants and Jewish men never forget.”
“Yeah, that sounds like me.”
She swallowed hard and said, “Do you forgive?”
He gazed at her, getting lost in her eyes for a long moment. “It’s too late, Des. What we had together in Dorset, that was something magical. But we can never get it back. It’s gone for good. You’re wasting your time here. I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” she said, her voice heavy with regret. “But, hey, thanks for an honest answer.”
His bedside phone rang, startling them both. It was the concierge again. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Berger, but there seems to be some confusion. There’s
another
young lady down here who claims to be Miss Naughton.”
“It’s true, she is. They’re sisters. Very long story. Would you … Oh, hell, I’ll be right down.” Mitch hung up, grabbed a Mets T-shirt from the dresser and dashed into the bathroom. Shucked his robe. Put on the shirt and the jeans that were hanging from the back of the door. Found his Pumas on the bedroom floor. Stepped into them and started out the door.