The three of them jumped into Stevie and Donnie’s van, Stevie behind the wheel. The van wouldn’t start the first three times Stevie tried it. It finally kicked over amidst a whole lot of flatulent rumbling, then stalled as they were backing out of the driveway. Stevie cranked it up again and they finally took off, leaving behind a billowing cloud of putrid exhaust.
“I’d better put some ice on this eye,” Bement said, flexing his right hand. His knuckles were swelling, too. He went inside, leaving the two women alone.
“You go with Mitch Berger, am I right?” Justine asked her.
“Why, have you got some smart remark for me? Because I’m really not in the mood right now.”
“No, I’ve got this…” She handed Des a fat 9x12 manila envelope, gulping nervously. “No big, but he’s kind of expecting it, okay?”
CHAPTER 7
“Boyfriend, I’m about to pay you a huge compliment but you have to shut up while I’m doing this or it’ll come out all wrong. Deal?”
“Deal,” agreed Mitch, who was standing in his kitchen chopping up a mountain of Vidalia onions, a cold Bass Ale at his elbow.
Des was searing the pork chops in a cast iron skillet over high heat, a denim apron over her uniform. In the living room, a fire was roaring in the fireplace and Otis Redding was crying on the stereo. Clemmie and Quirt were dozing on the sofa. His seedlings were germinating under their growlit domes. Life was good.
“So don’t interrupt.” She stirred the stoneground grits, which took forever to cook. “Don’t make fun of me. Don’t gloat. Don’t do any of those other totally annoying things you always do, okay?”
“Gee, this sounds so promising I’m already getting puffed up.”
“Okay, here goes,” she said, taking a deep breath before the words came flooding out. “Claudia Widdifield told me today that when the going gets tough all men run and hide under mommy’s apron. And I realized that you don’t. Emotionally, you’re a very brave person. You’re special that way. And I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate it. Appreciate you.” Des exhaled now. “There, I’m all done.”
Mitch narrowed his eyes at her sternly. “Do you actually think you can just show up here and dump that on me? Get over here right now.”
She slipped into his arms, long, lean and supple, her pale green eyes shining at him.
He hugged her tightly, grazing her lips with his, feeling that same incredible charge of electricity he always felt. “I appreciate you back, Master Sergeant,” he said, his lips moving northward to her ear.
She let out a little whimper. “Are you trying to get busy with me?”
“Can’t help it. It’s spring fever.”
“I thought that was mythical. You know, like leprechauns.”
“Give me your hand. I’ll show you my little leprechaun.”
Des slapped at him playfully. “Sir, I am making you dinner. Behave or I’ll handcuff you to the refrigerator door.”
In fact, dinner was unexpected. She’d arrived without warning, groceries in hand, which was not her usual deal. Not that Mitch minded. It sure beat the hell out of what he’d been planning-a big bowl of his famous American Chop Suey and a DVD of The Three Stooges Meet Hercules. But she usually gave him a headsup. Not tonight. She’d simply shown up with complete dinner fixings and a bottle of Moet amp; Chandon Brut Imperial. Also Justine Kershaw’s manuscript. Des had just broken up a scrape between Bement and Donnie at Justine’s house. Apparently, the fight was nothing serious. But Mitch could tell Des was bothered by it.
“I think you should let me reimburse you for the champagne,” he offered.
“No way.”
“But Moet amp; Chandon costs a fortune. I don’t like you blowing your hardearned paycheck on me. Wait, what am I saying? Yes I do. Only, what’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” she said firmly, her eyes avoiding his. “I just wanted to make us dinner. Can’t I do that?”
“Any time you’d like-if it involves your smothered pork chops.”
She rested the seared chops on a plate now and dumped the heap of onions into the pan. When the onions were good and caramelized she’d put the chops back in with them, along with some chicken stock, white wine and a sprig of fresh rosemary. This would simmer on low heat, covered, until the meat was practically falling off the bone.
“What is with you and my pork chops?”
“I had a deprived childhood.”
“Your mom didn’t serve them?”
“No, she did. But out of respect for the Jewish dietary laws, she made sure we wouldn’t enjoy them. They were so dry they tasted remarkably like the sports section of the New York Post.”
“Baby, I’m going to need a splash of cider vinegar.”
“Haven’t got any.”
“Sure you have. It’s under the sink-right next to your Cocoa Puffs.”
“Des, is there anything you don’t know about me?”
“God, I sure hope not.”
“How was your day?” he asked as he fetched it for her.
“Way confusing. Claudia Widdifield thinks her mother is losing it, mental healthwise.” Des filled him in about the candy bars in the attic, and Poochie’s refusal to see a doctor. “I’m not a doctor, Mitch. I don’t know whether the lady’s in serious trouble or not. I do know this is about who controls the family fortune. And that Eric seems to think she’s fine.”
“Yeah, like he’s a poster child for emotional security.” Mitch told her how Eric had braced him about Danielle at the Food Pantry. “He practically accused me of being her lover. Can you imagine that?”
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”
Mitch polished off the last of his Bass Ale, swallowing it thoughtfully. “You don’t suppose Claudia is trying to gaslight the old lady, do you?”
“I don’t take your meaning.”
“Do you think Claudia could have planted that stuff in the attic herself?”
“What, to make Poochie appear crazy? Possibly, although some of it’s been up there for years. And I’m still not hip to your ‘gaslight’ reference.”
“You never saw Gaslight? Charles Boyer tries to convince Ingrid Bergman that she’s losing it by dimming the lights on her and then telling her it’s all in her imagination. She won an Oscar for that movie. I’ll have to put it on top of our towatch list, right after The Monolith Monsters.”
Des scooped the chops back into the pan with the fragrant mound of onions, put a lid over the pan and removed her apron. “I’m going to change,” she announced, starting for the bathroom. “Want to open the champagne?”
First, he lit the candles on his little dining table over by the fireplace, and put two more logs on the fire. Then Mitch fetched the champagne out of the fridge and gently worked the cork loose until it popped open. He filled two wine glasses.
By then, she’d emerged from the bathroom wearing that unbelievably sexy little yellow dress of hers. Out of uniform, the resident trooper’s figure was a pulsepounding revelation.
“You are a total hottie, know that?” he said hoarsely, unable to take his eyes off her. “What are you doing with me?”
“Right now, I’m sitting down to dinner with you. After that I intend to use you for my own selfish physical pleasure.”
He held a glass out to her. She took it and they clinked glasses, gazing into each other’s eyes. “What shall we drink to?”
“How about proving everyone in town wrong?”
“I’ll drink to that.”
