The sour cherry surprise

Agent Grisky wouldn’t go there. Just smirked at her and said, “See you tomorrow, Master Sergent Mitry. Really dig the hat. Can I have one just like it when I grow up?”

The first time Des had seen Bitsy Peck’s immense, natural-shingled Victorian mansion out on Big Sister she’d said to herself: People who aren’t named Martha Stewart don’t actually live this way. They don’t own houses with this many turrets and sleeping porches. They don’t enjoy such views of Long Island Sound in every direction. They aren’t surrounded by such amazing gardens. But they did. They were. It was all for real. Same as Mitch’s little carriage house nestled beyond those gardens was real.

The early evening sky over the Sound was a dusty pink when she arrived. Parked cars were jammed everywhere. And fifty or so very polite people were enjoying drinks out on Bitsy’s deep wraparound porch, where she was hosting the monthly get-together of the Dorset Town Committee, a nonpartisan group of highly influential locals. Among other things, the Town Committee endorsed candidates for the State Senate, State Assembly and U.S. Congress. Tonight was a chance for its elite members to get to know Brandon. It was not a campaign fundraiser-although he’d warned Des there’d be people there from the party, not to mention photographers from the newspapers. It was simply a chance for Dorset’s People Who Matter to hang with the man who wanted to be their next congressman. The district’s current representative to D.C. had failed to carry Dorset, so for Brandon this was highly fertile ground.

And it certainly didn’t hurt to have the town’s resident trooper on hand to introduce him around and smile oh-so-adoringly at her brown-eyed handsome man.

The event was casual dress, which for the men meant madras blazers and for the women meant whatever was being featured in the current Talbot’s catalogue that was neutral-colored and dowdy. Des wore an untucked orange linen shirt, trimly cut ivory slacks and gold sandals.

She met up with Brandon when he pulled into Bitsy’s driveway accompanied by a pair of hyper, narrow-faced party operatives. He looked relaxed and ready. Also ultra-preppy in his new khaki-colored suit from Brooks Brothers. Used to be Brandon was more of an Armani man.

He smiled broadly at her as he got out of the car. “You’re not wearing your uniform,” he observed, giving her a big hug.

She batted her eyelashes at him. “You noticed.”

“Desi, I thought we decided it wouldn’t hurt to remind these good folks that I intend to be their law and order candidate.”

“I never wear my uni when I’m off duty.”

“Then why did you ask me if you should wear it?”

“Because I wanted to hear what your answer would be.”

Brandon tilted his head at her slightly. “Well, you definitely made the right choice,” he conceded, looking her up and down. “Although it’s going to be difficult for me to keep my mind on politics.”

“Brandon, we have to talk.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Only because it is.”

“We’ll find a quiet spot on the porch in a little while. Right now

…” He took her hand as they climbed the porch steps, squeezing it. “Are you ready for this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she answered, taking a deep breath.

Together, they plunged in, Brandon towering over one and all at six-feet-six. Not that he was intimidating. The man could disarm anyone with his smile and rich, burgundy voice. Des introduced him straight away to Dorset’s snowy-haired first selectman, Bob Paffin, who still wasn’t totally comfortable having a resident trooper who was so young, female and black. And to Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux, the blond, blue-blooded attorney who felt just fine about Des-and soon hoped to unseat Bob Paffin. To Arthur Lewis, president of the local chapter of the Nature Conservancy, and Emma Knight, who ran Dorset’s No. 1 real estate agency. To the Inlands Wetlands commissioner and the commissioner of the Historic District. To the head of the school board, a mother of three whose oldest girl, Shannon, played on the Dorset High basketball team with Jen Beckwith. Des found herself wondering if Shannon had been at Jen’s Rainbow Party, and if so which color lip-gloss she’d worn.

There were platters of sweaty cocktail wienies and ice cold shrimp. Potluck dishes of ham and scalloped potatoes, tuna casserole and Mitch’s perennial favorite, American chop suey. All of which looked heavy and gloppy and way too much like warm vomit.