“Watching a rerun of NCIS, what else?”
“Is he wearing his jacket in the house?”
“He is. I was thinking I might burn it when goes to bed-except I swear he never does. You get Winston home okay?”
“I did. Someone cut a hole in the fence between the two properties. That’s how he got in.”
“Did Winston do it?”
“He says not. I did find wire cutters in his toolbox, but my money’s on a tabloid scuzzball.”
“I’d believe that. I’ll tell the Granthams in the morning. Thanks for the heads up.”
“Da Beast was a lot nicer than I was expecting him to be. I kind of liked him, I must confess.”
“He can be very likeable. He can also change gears uber-fast.”
“So shall we talk menu for tomorrow night?”
“Serve whatever you want, Mitch. I won’t be eating a single bite.”
“That’s my girl. Have I told you recently how adorable you are?”
“I’m not feeling very adorable right now.”
“Beg to differ, thinny.”
“Sleep tight, doughboy.”
His stomach was rumbling. He’d never managed to eat any dinner. He cooked himself up those grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches he’d been starting to make and devoured both sandwiches while he trolled on his computer.
Sure enough, twenty-seven seconds of shaky video-phone footage of the heavyweight Clarence Bellows- Winston Lash bout was already up and streaming on a high-traffic celebrity gossip site, which was calling it a “rumble” between a member of Da Beast’s “crew” and “an unidentified, pajama-clad man.” Mitch couldn’t believe how far the goalposts of the news business had shifted. Editors used to wait until they had an actual story before they ran the visuals. Now the raw video was the story. By morning it would go viral, which did Tyrone Grantham no good. Then again, his cousin Clarence hadn’t done him any favors either.
Mitch washed up in the kitchen, but was still way too wired to sleep, so he opened another Bass and put on Anywhere, Anytime, Anyplace, a circa-1949 recording by John Lee Hooker and his Coast To Coast Blues Band. He powered up his monster stack, grabbed his sky blue Stratocaster and sat in on “Come Back Baby,” laying down his riffs behind John Lee’s low, seductive growl, bare toes wrapped around his wah-wah pedal as he reached for it, found it, felt it.
It was nearly three by the time Mitch climbed up to his sleeping loft and burrowed under the covers. He was asleep instantly. And swore his head had barely hit the pillow when his phone started ringing and ringing on the nightstand.
He groped for it, groaning. “Hello?…”
“Rise and shine, Boo-Boo! Everybody out of the sack!” His father sounded up as a pup. Always did. “Hey, I didn’t wake you, did I? You said you get up early.”
“I-I do, but…” He let out a huge yawn, blinking. “Pop, it’s still dark out. What time is it?”
“Five-thirty.”
“Are you getting ready to leave the city?”
“Nope. We’re here.”
“ Where here?”
“At the foot of your causeway. But we can’t get out to the island. There’s a barricade blocking our way. You have to hit a buzzer or something?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“So hit it already, will you?”
“Wait, you’re here?” Mitch’s brain was still not quite firing on all its cylinders. In fact, he thought the chances were good that he was actually still asleep. “What time did you leave the city?”
“We set the alarm for two-fifteen. Had our coffee and All-Bran, locked up your apartment good and snug and were out the door by three o’clock sharp. Are you going to raise this barricade or what?”
“Sure, sure. Right away…” Mitch staggered downstairs and hit the buzzer by the front door, his bleary eyes still swollen half-shut. He threw on a T-shirt and shorts and ran a hand through his mop of curls. Flicked on the porch light. Sure enough, they were pulling up in the driveway in a rented Ford Focus.
He went out into the muggy pre-dawn warmth and hugged and kissed them both. It had been nearly a year since they’d made it up from Vero Beach.
“Is Desiree here?” Chet demanded to know. “It’s fine by us if she is. You don’t have to hide her in a closet. We’re all grown ups.”
“She’s home with her dad. He’s recuperating from bypass surgery, remember? And I don’t have any closets.”
“What’d he say?” Chet was hard of hearing but refused to acknowledge it. Just talked really loud. Pretty soon everyone else was, too.
“He said he doesn’t have any closets,” Ruth told him.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Everyone has closets.”
“We can’t wait to meet her, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, when are we going to meet her, Boo-Boo?”
“Tonight. We’re all having dinner here. And… could you do me a huge favor and not call me Boo-Boo in front of Des? I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“But I’ve called you Boo-Boo your whole life.”
“I know this, Pop.”
“And Maisie never minded that I called you… ouch!” Chet yelped as Ruth’s elbow collided with his ribs. “Okay, son, if that’s how you want it.” His eyes fell on Mitch’s Studey. “Hey, your truck is sa-weet. What year is it?”
“A ’56.”
“Sa-weet. I haven’t seen one of those babies in years. Can we take it out for a spin? Come on, let’s take it out for a spin.”
“Pop, are you high on greenies or something?”
“He’s just excited,” explained Ruth. “We’re happy to see you.”
“Likewise. Come on in. I’ll make us some coffee. And when the sun comes up I can show you around the island. Then I’ll take you to your bed and breakfast. Sorry I can’t put you up here, but it’s real tiny, as you’ll see.”
They followed him inside, gazing around as he flicked on the lights.
“Man oh Manischewitz, this place is straight out of an American history book,” Chet exclaimed. “Did George Washington sleep here?”
“Actually, he slept on Sour Cherry Lane before he crossed the Connecticut River. It was a ferry landing in those days.”
“No closets, Ruthie. He wasn’t kidding.”
“Of course he wasn’t kidding.”
Mitch got his first good look at his parents now-and their appearance alarmed him. They weren’t ancient. His dad was sixty-four, his mom a year younger. Yet both of them had… shrunk. His dad had always proclaimed himself to be six feet tall on the button. Yet Mitch towered over him, even barefoot. Chet had always been stocky, too. But he’d been on such a strict diet to bring down his cholesterol and blood pressure numbers that he actually looked gaunt. He wore his salmon-colored Florida slacks way up near his armpits. The lines in his face were deeper. His salt-and-pepper hair was more salt than pepper. He was still his same old peppy self. Mister Go-Go- Go. But he came off less like Chet Berger and more like Jiminy Cricket.
Was it he who had the grapefruit-sized tumor?
Or was it his mom-who had turned into one of those stooped little white-haired ladies that Mitch always offered his seat to on the subway. Ruth wore a pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck. Once a librarian always a librarian. She had on a floral-patterned blouse, pink slacks and a pair of those bone-colored walking shoes that are the official footwear of AARP members who reside in the Sunshine State. Mitch’s mom was a shy, sensitive woman. But very direct. She said what she meant-just did so in a much quieter voice than his dad.
