“You’ll have to forgive my father, Mitch,” she said, gripping his hand firmly. Her manner, like her gaze, was direct and no-nonsense. “He’s of that age where he says whatever comes into his head, just like one of my second graders. He’s always wandering off, too. Father, you can’t just take off without telling us. Jim’s been waiting to take you to the doctor.”
“Now where are those apple-butter tubs…?” Hangtown muttered, ignoring her completely as he clumped his way over toward the loft ladder. “I always pay my honest debts.”
“Father, you were supposed to be in New Haven at eight o’clock. Father, be careful up there! Father…?”
“Damned doctors,” Hangtown groused as he made his way slowly up the ladder. “What’s he going to tell me I don’t already know? I need a new hip, two new knees. Got to stop smoking and drinking-if I don’t I’m going to die. Well, guess what? I’m going to be taking myself a nice long dirt nap any day now, and there’s not a goddamned thing anyone can do about it except grab a shovel.”
“Please don’t talk that way,” she said fretfully. “You know I don’t like it. Father…?” Moose followed him up into the loft, sighing with exasperation.
As the two of them began thudding around up there Mitch heard another set of footsteps approach. And now Wendell Frye’s other daughter came striding across the dirt floor toward Mitch, who immediately drew in his breath.
Takai Frye wasn’t just pretty. She was exotically, stunningly beautiful-without a doubt the sexiest woman he had ever been face to face with in his life. And he was someone who had interviewed Uma Thurman. Takai was uncommonly tall, slim and long-limbed. And decidedly Asian, with gleaming slanted eyes, silken skin, a perfect rosebud mouth and a face that was all angles and planes and cheekbones. She wore her jet-black hair cropped at her chin, her nails long and painted black. Her thumbs were unusually long and narrow, more like index fingers than thumbs. She wore a shearling jacket that must have cost three thousand dollars over a black turtleneck sweater, stirrup pants and ankle boots. She carried a black leather appointment book in one hand, a cell phone in the other.
“Well, well, I have to admit you’re a cut above the usual skeegie characters the old man drags home.” Takai spoke in a clipped, somewhat mocking manner, as if there were invisible quote marks around everything. She possessed major attitude. Clearly, she was used to being smarter, richer and prettier than anyone else she came in contact with. “At least in outward appearance you are,” she continued, circling Mitch as if he were a farm animal at auction. “You’ve shaved, run a comb through your hair. You have a decent, relatively clean sweater on. You’re amply fed…” She poked him indelicately in the tummy with a talon. “More than amply, in fact.” Now she gave him a final once-over, a probing examination that seemed to scan the size of his IQ, bank balance and sexual equipment. “Yes, I would say you’re a cut or two above his usual dump crowd.”
“In Dorset we don’t say ‘dump,’ ” Mitch pointed out. “We say recyclable waste transfer station.”
Takai drew back, raising an eyebrow at him haughtily. “I suppose he promised you that you could stay in one of the cottages for as long as you like, free of charge. And that one of his two-count ’em two-lusty daughters would make passionate love to you in the night. Cook you a hot breakfast. Mend your filthy socks. Well, forget it, Buster Brown. None of that is ever going to happen.”
“The subject of bearing my round, healthy children also came up. At least I think it did-he mentioned the word seed.”
Takai peered at him suspiciously. “You don’t sound like his usual swamp Yankee either. I’m beginning to think that we have a case of mistaken identity.”
“In movies, they call this a meet-cute,” Mitch said. “Honestly, I just brought an antenna home for him, is all. And I already have a home of my own on Big Sister, an apartment in New York, a job, a book contract, an investment portfolio and…” Mitch trailed off, wondering why he was trying to justify himself to Takai Frye. She’d instantly gotten under his skin, that was why. “And I know how to mend my own socks.”
Overhead, Hangtown and Moose were still thudding around in the loft, sending trickles of dust down upon them.
“Wait, I know who you are,” Takai exclaimed, switching her thermostat all the way from icy to toasty warm. “You’re Mitchell Berger. I’ve heard of you. Christ, who hasn’t? You’re one of our local celebrities. I’m Takai. It’s so great to finally meet you. And I’m really sorry if I seemed bitchy, but Father needs protecting.” She pulled a slim black leather card case out of her jacket pocket and handed him her business card. “When you outgrow that starter cottage of yours, and you will, call me, okay? I’m the number-one property mover in town.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mitch said, shaking his head at her.
“Nonsense,” she insisted, looking at him through her eyelashes. “There’s no room there for you to expand.”
“I don’t want to expand. My goal in life is to get smarter, not bigger, and I… Why are you staring at me like I have three heads?”
“Do you have any idea what would happen to our society if everyone were like you?” Takai demanded.
“Yes, we’d all be a lot better off.”
“Wrong! Upward mobility is the American dream. God, if everyone was happy with what they had, our economy would utterly collapse. We’d have breadlines.” Her cell phone rang now, cutting her off. “Yes, yes?” she barked into it. “Fine, not a problem. I’ll show them where to plant it… I know… I’ll be right there. Ten minutes.” She shut it off and turned back to Mitch, shaking her pretty head. “You have no idea how demanding these new power nesters can be. They want it all and they want it now. My God, they think nothing of spending fifty thousand on a trophy tree. A tree.”
Mitch couldn’t tell if she was disgusted by this or awed. Possibly she was both. He also found himself wondering about her. With her looks, famous name and obvious ambition, Takai Frye could write her own ticket in New York, Los Angeles, anywhere. Why was she still here in sleepy little Dorset?
Hangtown was making his way back down the ladder now, clutching a battered copper bucket in one hand. “Don’t let princess sell you a house, Big Mitch.”
“He won’t,” Takai objected, pouting. “He’s decidedly un-American.”
“I know, that’s why I like him.” Hangtown handed him the bucket. It was solid and heavy, and would fetch real money at an antique store. “That do the trick?”
“Perfectly, but are you sure you can spare it?”
“He has seven more just like it up there,” Moose said wearily, descending the ladder. “Father, you have to leave right now or you’ll be late.”
“I guess that tour will have to wait, Big Mitch,” Hangtown said apologetically. “Hey, how about tonight? Can you come over for dinner?”
“I’d like that very much.”
“Outstanding! Bring a girl. You got a girl?”
Takai let out a sharp laugh. “Of course he does, Father. Haven’t you heard?” Clearly she had.
This was the downside of small-town life, Mitch reflected. Being talked about behind your back by people you didn’t even know. “As a matter of fact I do, but she’s tied up tonight.”
“Too bad,” said Hangtown. “Come stag, then. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“Father!” scolded Moose.
A crusty old hippie appeared in the barn doorway now. He had a graying ponytail, a wisp of a beard, eyes that were bloodshot and suspicious, skin that was sunburned and leathery. Cords of muscle stuck out on his wrists. It was impossible to place his age. Mitch guessed he was somewhere between fifty and sixty-five. He wore a filthy denim jacket, torn jeans and oil-stained work boots. In a sheath on his belt he carried a large knife. “Let’s get it on, Chief,” he said to Hangtown in a rasping voice. “Else we won’t beat the rush-hour traffic over the bridge.”
“Not you, too,” Hangtown said sourly. “Say hello to Mitch, Big Jim.”