“Nor am I,” Bella chimed in.
“Got to have a glass of beer with your Hoppin’ John, Daddy,” Des insisted. “I’ll go get it. You guys hang. Take a ride with me, Bella.”
“I’d rather hang with them,” Bella said.
“And I’d rather look like Halle Berry,” Des shot back. “Come on, girl.”
And with that the two women were out the door, leaving Mitch certain that Des had purposely forgotten the beer so that he and the Deacon could spend some time alone together.
The Deacon immediately began to pace Mitch’s small living room. He seemed caged and restless. Briefly, Mitch wondered if Des’s towering, commanding father was as uncomfortable about this as he was. “I’ve been sitting at a desk all day, Mr. Berger,” he said suddenly. “Mind if we stretch our legs?”
“Not at all,” Mitch said. “Provided you start calling me Mitch.”
“Very well… Mitch.”
He left a note for Des on the kitchen counter, grabbed his flashlight and jacket and they headed out, the Deacon pausing to fetch his topcoat out of his car.
“I understand you used to be a baseball player,” Mitch spoke up as he led them down the path to the beach. The man’s stern silence was making him incredibly nervous.
“That’s correct,” the Deacon affirmed, striding along with his shoulders back, chin up. “I was in the Pirates’ organization before I joined the state police.”
“There’s a former player mixed up in this murder case,” Mitch said. “The victim’s sister, Takai, used to be married to a catcher named Dirk Doughty.”
“Sure, I remember Doughty from his American Legion days,” the Deacon said. “Best young player to come out of this area since Jeff Bagwell. The Tigers thought he was going to be the next Johnny Bench. Never happened, though-just like it never happened for me,” he added without regret.
“How do you deal with that?” Mitch asked. “The disappointment, I mean.”
“You turn the page, Mitch. Same way you do when you bury a loved one, as Desiree told me you’ve had to do.”
“You move on,” Mitch acknowledged. He hadn’t particularly wanted to talk about Maisie, but at least they were talking. “You must.”
“Absolutely. What’s Doughty doing with himself?”
“Teaching baseball to kids. He’s a private coach.”
“That’s not moving on,” the Deacon said with flinty disapproval.
They had reached the island’s rocky little beach now. The tide was moving in. Rain was expected overnight, but right now the stars were out, a gibbous moon low over Fisher’s Island. They started along the water’s edge, heading east. The Deacon seemed terribly out of place in his topcoat and shiny dress shoes. Mitch found himself remembering the gang of topcoated young slackers striding the beach in Fellini’s I Vitelloni, which inspired Barry Levinson’s vastly inferior Diner.
“Lovely spot you picked here, Mitch.”
“It picked me. And I feel very lucky.”
“What are those lights out there?” he asked, gazing at a boat that was making its way back toward the mainland. “Lobstermen?”
“That’s the Plum Island workboat. They take the workmen out every morning at seven-thirty. Bring them back home right around now.” Mitch found he was starting to puff for air. The Deacon had the same long, tireless stride as his daughter. “I was going to get you a birthday gift, but Des said not to.”
“My daughter knows me pretty well. And I thought I knew her. But lately, she’s been thoroughly confounding me. Mind if I ask you your advice, Mitch?”
“Not at all.”
“This art thing that she’s pursuing… Do you think it’s something she’ll stay with?”
“I really don’t know the answer to that. You can never tell with artists.”
“So you believe she is an artist.”
“Oh, definitely. She’s very, very gifted, Mr. Mitry. She can go as far as she wants, if she has the desire and the dedication.”
“Will that make her happy?”
“Well, artists aren’t happy people, as a rule.”
The Deacon walked along the rocks in thoughtful silence for a moment, considering this. “And why is that?”
Mitch glanced over at him, frowning. It was just beginning to dawn upon him how little the Deacon understood about his daughter’s new life. Art was something totally outside the realm of his personal experience. “Artists are people who live up inside their own heads,” Mitch answered slowly. “They’re trying to make some sense out of this spiky little pinball that’s careening around up there, driving them to that blank canvas. In other words, there’s something inside of Des that’s trying to come out, and she doesn’t necessarily know what it is or even what it means, because she’s not in control of it. She simply has to surrender herself to it, wherever it takes her. And that can be pretty scary. It would be safer and saner to never go there, but then she wouldn’t be fulfilling her destiny.”
“So you believe in destiny?”
“Why do you ask me that?”
“Trying to figure out what you believe in.”
“I believe it’s a sin to waste a gift. And she has one. Right now, she’s trying to figure out how best to use it. Which she will-she’s a very smart person, Mr. Mitry.”
“From where I stand, resident trooper is the road to nowhere.”
“I’m sure she has misgivings,” Mitch conceded. “Like with this murder investigation-she wants to be in charge, and she isn’t, and that’s tearing her apart.”
They had made their way to the lighthouse now. They stopped, gazing out at the moonlit water.
“Desiree is my only child,” the Deacon said. “And she’s always made me proud of what she’s accomplished. She graduated from West Point with honors. Served her nation proudly. Rose through the ranks of the state police faster than any woman of color in history. Brandon was a fine young gentleman, a Yale Law School graduate. Yet, somehow, none of it quite worked out the way she planned. It occurs to me that what may be happening now is that Desiree is simply floundering a bit.” He paused, clearing his throat. “What I mean to say, Mitch, is that you might be her walk on the wild side.”
“No, no. That can’t be. I own no motorcycle. I wear no goatee. I’m no one’s walk on the wild side.”
“Nonetheless, she’s doing things she’s never done before. Taking these art classes. Dating a white man- which is fine with me, by the way. I’m not troubled by that at all. We’re all learning as we go along. Finding out new things about ourselves. My own wife, for instance, recently discovered that she was still in love with her high school sweetheart. And now I live alone, which I-”
“You aren’t lonely? I’d be lonely.”
“I’m quite all right,” the Deacon answered crisply. “I’m fine. What I’m trying to say to you, Mitch, is that the life you two are building down here may simply be a phase Desiree is going through. She may want back on Major Crimes in another few months. You may not be in her plans. I wondered how you would feel about that.”
“I’d be very unhappy,” Mitch replied. “But you have to accept what the people you love want to do. Otherwise it’s not love.”
“Is that what it is?”
“Absolutely. I’m totally gaga over her.”
“And how does she feel?”
“You’ll have to ask her that.”
“I already did.”
“And what did she say?”
“She told me to mind my own damned business.”
“Yeah, that sounds like her.”
The Deacon let out a short laugh. “You don’t worry about the differences?”
“When I’m with her, I don’t worry about anything.”
