“And what was the consensus?”
“That it was something of a sexual nature. Courtney Borio happened to be gay. He had a longtime thing going on with a fellow up in Chester. Anyhow, when Courtney first took J. Z. under his wing there was a lot of whispering that J. Z. might be… so inclined. When Kimmy upped and left him like she did, well, the whisperers thought they knew why. Not that anyone actually knew. But it made for a good, juicy story.”
“What do you think happened, Bitsy?”
“I think J. Z. broke that poor girl’s heart. Don’t ask me how, because I have no idea. But I do know that J. Z.’s a breaker of hearts. He always has been. He can’t help himself. That man can be
… difficult. In fact, some people think that in order to get along with him you have to be able to speak psycho. Not true. But he’s not all there. Still stoned on drugs half of the time, if you ask me.”
“And yet you keep hiring him. Why?”
Bitsy’s blue eyes locked on his and held them. “Because this is Dorset, Mitch. We may not be perfect. Far from it, in fact. But we always take care of our own. Never, ever forget that.”
CHAPTER 4
A narrow dirt road snaked its way through the meadows and tidal marshes of the Peck’s Point Nature Preserve, a peninsula that jutted out into Long Island Sound at the mouth of the Connecticut River. The dirt road ended at a barricade. Beyond it was the narrow, wooden causeway out to Big Sister Island. Des inserted her coded plastic security card to raise the barricade and then eased her cruiser thumpety-thump-bumpety out to the forty acres of Yankee paradise that Mitch was lucky enough to call home. There were five precious old Peck family homes out on Big Sister, not counting his caretaker’s cottage. A decommissioned lighthouse that was the second tallest in New England. A private beach and dock. A tennis court. There was fresh, clean sea air. There was peace.
Quirt, Mitch’s lean, mean outdoor hunter, came darting over to bump her leg with his hard little head as she climbed out of the car. Quirt was one of the two rescued strays she’d convinced Mitch to adopt. Des bent down and stroked him, feeling herself relax for the first time since she’d driven away from the Captain Chadwick House.
She kept a yellow string bikini at Mitch’s that was positively indecent. She went inside the house, kicking off her shiny, black shoes. Peeled off her uni and ankle socks. Put the tiny thing on. She left her horn-rims on the bathroom shelf. Didn’t need them. Didn’t need to worry about her hair either, which she wore short and nubby. She grabbed a towel and started down the sandy path to the beach, feeling the sun-warmed sand between her toes.
Mitch was sitting on the float a hundred feet out, with his feet dangling in the water and a bottle of beer in his hand. The beer cooler sat beside him. He waved to her. Des waded in, then dove underwater and swam toward him, welcoming the water’s delicious coolness all over her body. She surfaced and pulled herself, wet and shiny, up onto the float, stretching her fine self out next to him.
“Sorry, miss, but this is a private float. You’ll have to pay a toll.”
She leaned forward on her elbows and kissed him softly on the mouth. “Will that do?”
“We’ll consider it a modest down payment.”
Mitch pulled a Corona from the cooler and opened it for her. She took it from him, her eyes eating him up. She still could not get over how hard and cut he was. He’d been a flesh prince when she first fell for him-man boobs and all. Not anymore. He was a hunk.
She took a long, grateful drink of her beer, sighing contently. “I have been missing you all day, Armando.” Which was her pet name for him now that doughboy no longer applied.
“Back at you, master sergeant. What took you so long anyhow?”
She told him about Augie, her voice rising with anger as she described the ugly little public scene he’d provoked.
Mitch studied her curiously. “You’ve dealt with drunks like Augie a million times. Why are you letting him get under your skin?”
“You mean aside from the fact he’s a racist, sexist boor?”
“Seriously, why are you?”
She took another drink of her beer. “Because he was on the job. I don’t like seeing what’s happened to him. But enough about that fool. How was your day?”
“Great. I ran into an old flame. She lives right here in Dorset now. We’re invited over for drinks tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry, you just said what?”
He leaned over and kissed her, this time long and lingering. “Beth lived across the hall from me when I was a kid. She was a single mom. I looked out for her boy Kenny. Used to drag him to see old movies with me. He’s a computer geek up in Cambridge now. Comes here every weekend because-get this-he’s engaged to my yoga teacher, Kimberly. She’s Beth’s neighbor at the Captain Chadwick House.”
“So this would be Beth Breslauer?”
“Her name was Lapidus when I was growing up,” he said wistfully. “To me, she’ll always be Beth Lapidus.”
“Mitch, I would swear you’re blushing right now.”
“Am not.”
“No, no, you totally are. Is something going on between you two that I should know about?”
“Why would you say that?”
“You just called her an old flame, remember?”
“Des, she was my very first big-time crush. I was thirteen and she was this incredibly sexy divorcee with knockers out to here.”
Des glanced down at what was inside of her bikini top. Or, more precisely, wasn’t. “Since when are you into knockers out to here?”
“All thirteen-year-old boys are into knockers out to here. Who was yours?”
“Who was my what?”
“First big-time crush.”
Des stretched out on her back, gazing dreamily up at the milky blue sky. “George Michael. I had posters of that man plastered all over my room.”
“Was this back when he was still with Wham or had he already embarked on his trailblazing solo career?”
“Hey, did I chump you about your first crush?”
“Yes, you did. And I’m very mad at you.” He ran his hand up her smooth, bare flank, caressing her. “Very, very mad.” Now he was licking the dried salt from her belly button. “Absolutely, positively furious.” His tongue sliding lower and…
“Mitch, they can see us!”
“Who can?”
“The eye in the sky. Google Earth, NASA, whoever.”
“Let ’em watch. Maybe they’ll learn something.”
She sat up, rearranging her teeny top. “I’ll race you inside.”
“What’s in it for me if I win?”
“Oh, I think you know.”
They were barely in the door before they were out of their suits. They jumped into the shower together and washed off the sand, hands all over each other. And then they were up in his sleeping loft taking it nice and slow and tender. It wasn’t about performing. It was about them. And, God, was them something good.
As dusk approached they lay there in each other’s arms, eyes glittering, unable to keep the silly grins off of their faces, not even trying. Mitch’s indoor cat, Clemmie, lay curled up between them, purring. A sea breeze had picked up, cooling the airy little cottage.
“Can I interest you in some dinner, master sergeant?”
“You can interest me in just about anything right now.”
Mitch put on a T-shirt and shorts and went outside to fire up the grill. She got into his No. 15 Earl the Pearl Knicks jersey and stretched out on a lawn chair, sipping a cold glass of Sancerre while he raided his garden for fingerling potatoes, tomatoes and basil. He put the potatoes on to boil, then flopped down in the lawn chair with a beer. They gazed out at the water, so comfortable with the island’s quiet and each other that they felt no need to talk.