A Safe House

37

Stone and Dino had dinner at Georgette’s and split a goose.

As the main course arrived, so did another place setting. By the time it was in place, Lance was sitting in front of it. “Good evening,” he said.

“What on earth are you doing here, Lance?”

“Georgette’s goose is too much for two people. I thought I’d help out.”

“And I was thinking about goose sandwiches for lunch tomorrow,” Stone said.

“You won’t have time for lunch tomorrow,” Lance said. “The funeral.”

“Why not?” Stone asked. “I mean, whose funeral? Answer that one first.”

“Why, Jamie’s funeral or, as people prefer to call it these days, ‘memorial service,’ where her friends can celebrate her life after she’s dead. There won’t be a casket, just a plain silver urn from Cartier.”

“I didn’t know Cartier was in the urn business,” Dino said.

“You lead a sheltered life, Dino,” Lance said, sympathetically.

“Wait a minute,” Stone said. “Let’s rewind for a minute. How is this funeral happening?”

“You should ask yourself that question, Stone. After all, you made it happen.”

“Charlie Cole is behind all this, isn’t she?”

“No, Charlie is right out in front, leading like a drum majorette. That leaves only Jenna to get behind and push, and you, yourself, to get out of the way.”

“And when was I supposed to hear about this?”

“Why, the invitation has been engraved and is on your desk as we speak.”

“You put it there, didn’t you?”

“Stone, my firm does not operate a delivery service for messages from the beyond.”

“And where, may I ask, is Jenna?”

“At another restaurant just as good as this one. Celebrating, I should imagine. Her Strategic Services detail are the hosts, so she’s well protected.” Lance chewed a bit. “My, this goose is plump and tender and perfectly cooked.”

Stone tried it and could not disagree.

“I’ll bet we’re eating better than Jenna is,” Dino said.

Stone got home and found the envelope on his desk. Scrawled across it was a message: Don’t bother to RSVP, just show up.

He went upstairs to find Jenna curled up in his bed, quite naked.

“Well, hello there, as we say in Texas.”

“You’re not a Texan, are you?”

“Only as a punishment from a husband who hated me. I hail from Connecticut, a tiny village called Roxbury.”

“Tell me how all this happened.”

“Let’s wait a bit. I think you’ll appreciate it more after we’ve reconnected.”

“Ever the optimist,” Stone said.

But Jenna was right. Twice. And Stone was asleep before he could speak again.

They were eating breakfast.

“Charlie called and opined that we were just wasting time, with me sequestered in Key West, when we could be making noise in New York, where it counts.”

“How did she transport you and your menage?”

“We grabbed hold of a passing Strategic Services jet, and wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, we were at Teterboro. Charlie brought me to film 60 Minutes and then the boys threw me a little wrap party at Patroon — nobody wanted you there to breathe gloom and doom around, like a joy extinguisher. Then Charlie dropped me here. I still have my remote control for the garage and my key to the house. And you, you had a busy night!”

“I’ll never know how you managed that, until you’ve shown me again a couple of times.”

“Count on it, but right now, I’m saving myself for the funeral and the cameras.”

They made a well-planned entrance, as Fred delivered them to the front doors of the Little Church of the Twinkling Star, a name Stone found cloying, but he had to admit it suited the occasion. It was packed with a lot of people he didn’t know and a few he did. Some of both made short speeches, then Jenna thanked them all and spoke about Jamie’s sweetness and generosity. She held her emotions to a single, effectively managed teardrop, which every camera, still and live action, caught. The special lighting helped. Charlie Cole had apparently sprung for — or at least Stone had — the best lighting director on Broadway.

After the service, Stone arrived home with Jenna to find that he was hosting a lush luncheon for thirty or forty of the most favored funeral guests in his living room, dining room, and study. And the caterers were using the good china and crystal, too.

Afterward, the house was improbably still and silent.

“Where is your security detail?” Stone asked.

“At home with their families or out on the town, whichever they prefer. Charlie says I’m no longer a target, because if Wallace tried again everybody in the country would know who did it.”

“I hate to admit it, but Charlie is one hell of a security consultant, in addition to whatever else she does.”

“Freedom through publicity!” Jenna laughed, and they went up to bed.