The sour cherry surprise

“Not everyone gets sixteen hundred on their SATs and scores a hundred points a game. It’s okay to fail.”

“Now you sound just like my shrink.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No way. I mean, there’s a guy I used to like but they’re all such immature assholes.”

“Most of them.” Des turned in at Patricia Beckwith’s mailbox now. As she started up the steep, twisting driveway she could feel the girl shrink into the seat, both knees jiggling. “Was he one of the boys at your party tonight?”

Jen nodded her head, swallowing.

The driveway crested at the top of the hill and circled around in front of the big house, which was one of the oldest center chimney colonials in Dorset, dating back to the early 1700s. The porch light was on, as promised. Des pulled up out front and parked. From where they sat she could see the lights of Old Saybrook across the river.

“Jen, I wear a lot of other hats besides this big one. If you ever want to sit down over a cup of coffee, call me, okay?”

Jen didn’t respond. Just took the card Des offered her and stuffed it into her book bag.

Patricia Beckwith stood out on the front porch waiting for them in a blue silk robe and red and white striped pajamas, her feet in a pair of sheepskin slippers. She was a tall, straight, silver-haired woman of rigid dignity. About seventy-five, with a long, seamed face and wide-set blue eyes. It was a face unaccustomed to spontaneous laughter and smiles. It was the face that Jen had inherited.

“Real sorry about this, Nana,” the girl murmured as she slipped past her into the house.

“As well you should be, young lady.” Patricia didn’t sound angry. Her voice was surprisingly gentle.

The entry hall had an umbrella stand with a mirror. A grandfather clock that wasn’t running. A steep, L-shaped staircase that led up to the second floor.

“I’ve made up the room next to mine,” she called to Jen, who was already halfway up the stairs. “We shall have a proper talk in the morning.”

“Whatever you say.” Jen paused on the stairs and added, “Nice meeting you, trooper.”

“Make it Des. And I meant that about the coffee, you hear?”

Jen nodded her blond head. “I hear you. Thanks.” Then she went up to her room and shut the door.

“Why was she thanking you?” Patricia demanded to know.

“For listening, I suppose.”

“To what, her feverish adolescent rants? Did you know that a psychiatrist has put that girl on happy-happy pills? What rubbish. Jen’s a bright, healthy young woman who excels at anything she sets her mind to. She’s a born achiever. Has a wonderful life ahead of her. And instead of enjoying it she pops pills and sits in a room three times a week whining to a total stranger. We all have problems in this life. When you have a problem, you solve it. And if you’re unhappy, well, get used to it. Life isn’t for sissies.”

“Mrs. Beckwith, you and I need to have a talk.”

“Certainly.”

She led Des into a small, paneled parlor that was stuffy and smelled of old books and mold. The ceiling was very low in there, the beams exposed. There was a walk-in stone fireplace. One entire wall of built-in bookcases crammed with hardcover books. There was a chintz loveseat and matching wingback chair. Next to the chair was an end table that had a collection of Edith Wharton stories on it along with an open box of chocolate-covered cherries, a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry and a half-empty wine goblet.

A gray-muzzled dachshund was dozing in the chair. Patricia picked it up and sat with it in her lap, the dog not so much as stirring. Des sat on the love seat, twirling her hat in her hands.

“Now what is this all about, trooper?” There was a fixed brightness to the old lady’s gaze that was meant to intimidate, and did. “And kindly do not pander to me. I cannot abide people who treat me like a doddering old fool. Speak plainly and accurately and we shall get along fine.”

“Jen was throwing a party at her house. There was alcohol. And no adult supervision on the premises.”

“An obvious failure on my part,” Patricia conceded readily. “Jen is studious and sensible-nothing at all like her mother. I had no idea she was planning any such party.” She took a small sip of her sherry. “Tell me, was there sexual activity?”

“Of a sort, yes.”

Patricia’s gaze turned icy. “Just exactly what sort?”

“That’s something I’d prefer to discuss with her mother.”

“And you shall. I have the phone number of the inn where Kimberly is presently shacked up with her married chiropractor. She will return to Dorset on the very first ferry tomorrow morning if I have anything to say about it. And believe me, I do. I allow her to live in their cottage rent-free. I provide health insurance for her and Jen both. I paid for Jen’s car. I intend to pay for her college education. Furthermore, it is I who you’ve phoned at two a.m. So you will kindly provide me with the details.”

Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “There’s a game the kids play. They call it a Rainbow Party. It’s, well, think of it as an X-rated version of Spin the Bottle.”