The sour cherry surprise

Des got the coffee going in the kitchen, which opened out into the dining room and living room to form one airy space. When she’d redone her little house overlooking Uncas Lake she’d wanted to take maximum advantage of the view and the light. Back when she shared the place with her friend Bella Tillis, the living room had served as Des’s studio. Here, she’d created her passionate, horrifying depictions of the murder victims she’d encountered on the job. Capturing their hollowed eye sockets and congealed brain matter on paper had been her way of dealing. But now that Brandon was back in her life, the living room was a proper living room with sleek black leather sofa, matching armchairs and glass coffee table. Her easel and 18? 24 Strathmore 400 drawing pad now resided down in the garage, formerly known as Cats Landing. But their gang of rescued strays had moved out when Bella had. Brandon hated cats. It was mutual.

Brandon’s very first night back Kid Rock peed in his $1,200 Il Bisonte briefcase.

The damp, windowless garage wasn’t nearly as desirable a studio space. But that wasn’t a big problem because Des had felt zero desire to draw lately.

Her Sig-Sauer was in the hall closet along with her shield and big Smokey hat. She snapped her holster onto her wide black belt, taking note of the fact that her uniform trousers, which had been snug a few weeks back, were now almost falling off of her hips. She wasn’t eating. It was that knot in her stomach. The one she always used to have before she’d met Mitch. The only time in her whole life it had ever gone away was when the two of them had been together.

Odd that she’d been dreaming about him just now when the phone rang. It had been three whole months since she’d given him back his grandmother Sadie’s engagement ring. Had to after Brandon had shown up on her doorstep and begged her to forgive him. He’d split up with Anita. Got himself transferred from D.C. back to Connecticut. And he wanted her back.

“Brandon, you don’t even know me anymore,” she had said.

To which he had said: “Yes, I do. You’re still the woman I fell in love with. We weren’t ready for each other, Desi. And we both got a little lost. But now we’ve found each other again.”

When he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her it was as if he’d never left. And she had never even known that overweight Jewish film critic from New York City named Mitch Berger. There was Brandon and there was no one else. He was everything she’d ever wanted. Everything. They belonged together. So she had forgiven him. That’s what you did when you loved someone. Okay, sure, their marriage had failed. But Des believed in their marriage. Believed in commitment. That was who she was. Life with Brandon was who she was. He had a new high-powered federal prosecutor’s gig in New Haven. Exciting plans to run for the U.S. Congress as the Democratic Party’s great black hope. They were getting along great. Life was good. It was all good.

Mitch hadn’t been a mistake. He was simply what she’d needed at the time. Just as her art had been what she’d needed. Her walk on the wild side. The one she’d never had when she was such a straight arrow at West Point. She would always look back on Mitch fondly. Dream about him, too, apparently. But that time in her life was over now. She was back to real.

When the coffee was ready she filled her travel mug and went out the side door to her Crown Vic, sipping the strong brew as she eased her way down the hill to the Boston Post Road, then south toward Old Shore Road. Soon it would be Des’s busy season here on the Gold Coast. After the Fourth of July Dorset’s sedate year-round population of 7,000 would swell to a boisterous 14,000. Right now, the historic shoreline village at the mouth of the Connecticut River, halfway between New York and Boston, was fast asleep in the hazy dark of night. Des drove with her high beams on, the eyes of night creatures shining at her from the brush alongside the deserted road.

She got off Old Shore Road at Turkey Neck Lane, which wended its way through meadows and marshland before it arrived at Sour Cherry Lane, onetime home of the landing for the ferry that in days of yore was the only way across the river to Old Saybrook. These days, Sour Cherry was a remote little enclave tucked away among the wild orchards that gave the lane its name. There were three weathered farmhouses, rentals, all of them. And perched high on a rocky ledge above them, a white-shingled mansion that commanded a view of the farmhouses, the river, Big Sister Island and Long Island Sound. There were lights on in the mansion.