The sour cherry surprise

We don’t have a TV. Meggie and Susan don’t believe in it. But I should be able to download your new show from your Web site. So be careful what you say. I’m going to be watching you, mister!

Anyway, I just wanted to say hi and tell you not to worry about me. I’m fine. I think about my dad an awful lot even though he’s gone. But Meggie says that’s an okay thing to do. He would want me to remember him, and I shouldn’t fight it. So I’m not.

I think about you a lot, too. Can you come and see me some time? Alone? Don’t bring what’s-her-face with you, if you don’t mind. Your English girlfriend. See, I still believe that you and Trooper Des are supposed to be together. I will believe this for as long as I live.

Your pal, Molly p.s. It’s only summer training camp and your Knicks already suck.

The early morning fog hung low over Santa Monica, totally obscuring the ultra-expensive view of the Pacific from Mitch’s twelfth-floor balcony. In the heat of the day the dense fog would gradually morph into a gassy, sepia-tinted haze that smelled of rotten peaches. Just another spectacular day in paradise, Mitch reflected gloomily as he stood there in his complimentary Four Seasons terry cloth robe, sipping his coffee. He had yet another production meeting scheduled for this morning. This after huddling for hours and hours yesterday with the network suits-who had then taken him to dinner at some fashionable place in Malibu with Miss Hawaii and her Dodger soon-to-be husband. He felt bleary-eyed, sluggish and flabby today. Too many meetings. Too much rich food. He needed to hit the health club downstairs. Instead, he padded back inside his suite and started poring over his notes for today’s meeting.

His bedside phone rang. It was the concierge calling from down in the lobby. “Mr. Berger, I’m sorry to disturb you so early but there’s a young lady here at the front desk who says you’re expecting her. A Miss Naughton?”

“I certainly am,” Mitch exclaimed, brightening instantly. “Send her right up, please.”

Cecily had finally made it down from San Francisco for a little full frontal pas de deux. Perfect timing on her part. Hurriedly, Mitch gathered up the newspapers and clothes that were strewn everywhere. The place was halfway presentable by the time he heard her tapping at the door.

“Welcome to L.A., luv!” he called out, flinging it open.

It wasn’t Cecily.

Des Mitry stood out there in the hall, a leather shoulder bag thrown over one arm and an 18-by-24 inch drawing pad tucked under the other. She wore a pale yellow linen shirt, jeans and an exceedingly wary look.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, staring at her in shock.

“I was on my way to Disneyland. Thought I’d pay you a visit. Bella told me where I could find you.”

He shook his head at her, dumfounded. “Des, what is this?”

“Okay so there’s something I wanted to say to you,” she confessed. “I flew in on the red-eye to say it. May I come in or do I have to do it out here?”

Mitch let her in, eying her up and down. He hadn’t gotten a real good look at her the night he rescued her from that root cellar. “You’ve gotten awfully skinny, you know.”

“Back at you, relatively speaking.”

“I’ve been working out with a trainer a little.”

“You’ve been working out with a trainer a lot. I guess this means I don’t call you doughboy anymore. What’ll I…?”

“You can make it Armando, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

“Can I order up some coffee or anything for you?”

“No, I’m fine,” she said, standing there before him.

Yet again his skin started to tingle all over that way it did whenever he was near her. It never did that when he was around Cecily. Mitch didn’t wonder why. He knew why. “Bella told me you’d given that up,” he said, glancing at the drawing pad under her arm.

“I just started up again on the plane. Got me some crime scene photos of Richard Procter that I’m working from. It feels good, although the stewardess sure did give me some funny looks.”

“I hear you nailed the Sullivans for killing him. Which I still can’t believe.”

“Believe it.”

“Good job, master sergeant. I guess this means you don’t need my help anymore.”

“Not true. You’re the one who cracked it.”

“I did? How so?”

“It was something you said-about how you can’t turn your feelings on and off like a faucet. Richard kept babbling some words at me on the beach that made no sense. Nor did his behavior. Not until you said that. Then the whole case fell right into place. Couldn’t have done it without you. So give yourself a big pat on the back.” She paused to clear her throat before she added, “It dawned on me that I never thanked you for saving my life.”

“You flew all of the way out here to say thanks?”

“Some things you don’t say over the phone.”

“It was no big deal.”

“It was a huge deal.”

“Molly was the real hero.”

Her face broke into a smile. “How is Molly?”

“I just got an e-mail from her. She’s great. Des, have you got a place to stay while you’re out here? I can call the concierge if you’d like.”