The sour cherry surprise

He said it as they were being whisked away to the Shoreline Clinic together, his arm wrapped around her, making her feel safe and loved. He said it as she sat there on the examining table, an eleven-year-old doctor shining a bright light in her eyes and asking her to look up, down and sideways. The doctor told her what she already knew-that she had a concussion and needed it to take it slow for a few days.

“She’ll take it slow,” Brandon promised.

Otherwise, Des was fine. Shockingly so. Her blood pressure was a textbook 126 over 78, her resting pulse rate a steady 74. Des knew why. Hell, yes, she knew-because Mitch had come through for her. Risked his life to save hers. He cared. He still cared… “You can’t turn it on and off like a faucet.”… As simple as that.

And hello, more than a tiny bit complicated. Not exactly helpful to discover that it was Mitch, not Brandon, who’d been in her heart as she lay there in that root cellar waiting to die. Des had already had her chance with Mitch and blown it. And now he’d given his own heart to someone else, according to Bella. A British dance critic-slash-bitch named Cecily. So it was too late for a do-over. Which Des accepted. Had to accept. Because it was what it was. Besides, Brandon was by her side right now being so supportive and sweet. She belonged with Brandon. And she was going to make it work with Brandon. She was determined to make it work.

“We are taking the phone off the hook when we get home,” he told her as the doctor was patching up her head wound. “You are going to sleep in tomorrow. And I am bringing you breakfast in bed.”

She smiled at him, stroking his cheek gently. “Careful, baby, I could get used to being spoiled.”

“Get used to it. Your man wants you to.”

Brandon made good on his promise, too. He let her sleep sinfully late. And he really did serve her breakfast in bed-orange juice, bacon, eggs and toast. Brandon had never been the greatest of cooks. But she forced down every greasy, lukewarm bite, yumming enthusiastically as he hovered over her, plumping her pillows. She still had herself an awful headache, as well as that persistent ringing in her ears. But she felt sinfully decadent as she lay there sipping her second cup of coffee. And was genuinely touched by the way Brandon was fussing over her. He kept the local newspapers away from her. She wasn’t ready for them. Instead, she leafed her way through the New York Times and Boston Globe, barely noticing the headlines. Nothing was taking place in the outside world that seemed to matter to her.

Until, that is, one particular item in the Globe caught her eye. And held it.

As he left for work Brandon made her promise that she’d take it easy today. Des promised him she would. She was real convincing, too.

But once he was out the door Des switched into action mode. Dialed 411 for Moodus. Had herself a good, long talk with someone who she’d been wanting to speak with for a couple of days. Then she climbed into a fresh uniform, got in her cruiser and started back to Sour Cherry Lane with her head spinning. And not because of any damned concussion.

The thunderstorms of last night had passed over. The day was clear and bright, with puffy white clouds and a cool, fresh breeze blowing off of the Sound. Des rolled down her windows and savored it, knowing there wouldn’t be many more days like this before the sweltering humidity of summer settled in.

The Procter house was a shattered, sodden wreck. There was broken glass everywhere. Virtually every pane of every window had gotten blown out in the firefight. The window frames and front door were in pieces. The weathered cedar shingles nothing more than splinters and shards.

Des rolled up to find all three generations of Beckwith women hard at work out on the front porch. Patricia, who had cared for Richard Procter a great deal. Kimberly, who had been ga-ga over him. And Jen, the born achiever, who never, ever smiled. Jen was helping her mother sweep the broken glass into a trash barrel. Patricia was taking a tape measure to the windows and jotting down her findings on a yellow legal pad.

Des got out of her Crown Vic and tipped her big hat at the regal old woman. “What do you intend to do now, ma’am?”

“Fix it up, naturally,” Patricia answered. “Then re-let it. I was assured by a highly reputable contractor this morning that it’s still structurally sound.”

“And it has one heck of a fine root cellar, I happen to know.”

Patricia paused from her measuring to cast a critical eye at Des. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal, young lady. I’m surprised to see you back at work so soon.”

“I’m fine, ma’am.”

“I’m told that Carolyn Procter has been informed of Clay Mundy’s death,” Patricia said. “Her sister, Megan, doesn’t believe in shielding loved ones from bad news. A belief that I happen to share. I’ve never abided coddling.”

“How did Carolyn take the news?”