Cold Paradise

5

Stone was wakened by a slight jar and the screech of rubber on pavement. He opened his eyes to see airport buildings rushing past the airplane’s windows as the pilot deployed the thrust reversers.

“You slept very well,” Callie said. She was back in her seat.

“It’s one of the things I do best,” he replied.

“I guess I’ll have to figure out the other things for myself,” she said, with a little smile.

The airplane taxied to a stop in front of a terminal, and the copilot came out of the cockpit and lowered the airstair door. A lineman entered the airplane, and the copilot showed him where the luggage was stored.

Stone followed Callie down the stairs to a waiting car, a Jaguar XK8 convertible, top down. The lineman was stowing their luggage in the trunk and behind the seat.

“Hop in,” Callie said.

Stone got into the passenger seat, and a minute later they were out of the airport, rolling east. The temperature was in the mid-seventies, and the sun was shining brightly.

“Quite a difference from New York, huh?” Callie said.

“Where are we now?” Stone asked.

“We’re in West Palm, and in a couple of minutes we’ll cross onto the island of Palm Beach, if traffic isn’t too screwed up on the bridge. They’re replacing it, and it’s taking forever.”

Traffic was screwed up on the bridge, and it took forever before they were waved across and Callie was able to drive quickly again. They passed between a double row of very tall royal palms.

“This your first trip here?” she asked.

“Yes, it is. In fact, the only place I’ve ever been in Florida is Miami- twice, both times to pick up people in handcuffs.”

She looked at him. “What kind of lawyer are you?”

“One who used to be a cop.”

She made a few quick turns and suddenly, they were on the beach, driving past huge, ugly stucco mansions. “Thought I’d give you a little tour on the way to the house,” she said. “That’s Mar a Lago over there- the home of Marjorie Meriwether Post, now owned by the awful Donald Trump. He’s turned it into a club. Some of these palaces have tunnels to the beach.” She turned down Worth Avenue. “This is the shopping heart of Palm Beach,” she said. “All the famous stores are here.” They drove past Saks Fifth Avenue, Ralph Lauren and dozens of smaller shops.

“Where is the Everglades Club?” he asked.

“Down at the end. Why do you ask?”

“I have a lunch date for tomorrow at a place called Renato’s, which is supposed to be across the street.”

“Here comes the Everglades Club on the left,” she said, “and on the right is a little alley full of shops, and Renato’s is at the end.”

“What’s the Everglades Club?”

“Palm Beach’s most desirable club, or the snottiest, depending on your point of view.”

“And what is your point of view?”

“It’s the snottiest. Not only are Jews not allowed as members, they can’t even visit as guests, and I’m half-Jewish.”

“I didn’t know that sort of thing still existed in this country.”

“You’ve led a sheltered life,” she said. She turned left and began driving through a series of quiet streets, lined with large houses and sheltered by tropical vegetation.

“This is beautiful,” he said.

“Certainly is. The most desirable houses are either on the beach or on the Inland Waterway, which in Palm Beach is called Lake Worth. Thad’s place is on Lake Worth. It’s more sheltered for the boat.” Shortly, she turned the Jaguar through a large gate into a circular drive and stopped before a palazzo that seemed to have been airlifted from Venice. “Here we are. Leave the luggage. Somebody will get it.”

Stone followed her to the huge double front doors. She pushed and a door swung back to reveal a central hallway that ran straight through the house. The hall was a gallery, hung with large oils. Stone recognized a Turner.

“Oh, good,” she said. “They’ve finished redoing the hall.” She led Stone out the back door and into gorgeously planted gardens.

Stone looked back. “You’d never know the house was under construction,” he said.

“The outside is all finished, now, so all the equipment and tools are inside.” They passed through the gardens and onto a broad lawn, beyond which Lake Worth gleamed in the sunlight.

Blocking most of the view, however, was a very large, very beautiful old yacht.

“That’s Toscana,” Callie said.

“She’s glorious.”

“She was built in Italy in the thirties. Thad spent two years both restoring her to her original condition and almost invisibly modernizing every system on board.”

“How big is she?”

“Two hundred and twenty-two feet, but with only seven cabins, so everyone aboard can be comfortable. Thad gives me the smallest one, but that’s bigger than the big cabins on lesser yachts.”

A small Hispanic young man wearing a smart uniform of white shirt and shorts came down the gangplank to meet them.

“Stone, this is Juanito, Toscana’s chief steward. Juanito, this is Mr. Barrington.”

“Welcome aboard,” Juanito said. “Mr. Barrington is in cabin number two. Mr. Thad phoned to say he was coming.”

“I’ll show him aboard,” Callie said. “Our luggage is in the Jag.”

Juanito found a handcart and ran off toward the house.

Stone followed Callie into the main saloon, and it was as if they had stepped into a much earlier decade. “My God,” he said, “it might have been launched yesterday.”

“Yes, Thad did a really good job on the restoration. Come on, I’ll show you to your cabin. Thad has given you the best one, after the master stateroom.” She led the way down a central passage off the saloon and opened a heavy mahogany door on the starboard side. “Here you are.”

Stone stepped into a cabin paneled in mahogany, with white painted trim. There was a carved marble fireplace on one side of the room, with a sofa and a pair of chairs facing, and behind them, a large bed with a canopy, trimmed in nautical-looking fabric. Out the large porthole was a view of the water. “Marvelous,” he said.

“Your bath is in here,” Callie said, switching on a light. More marble, with a large tub and a separate shower stall. “I’ve never seen anything like this vessel,” Stone said, “although I once sank a yacht nearly as large.”

“Run her on the rocks?”

“No, I was just angry with her owner.”

Callie looked at him, unsure whether he was serious. “I wouldn’t mention that to Thad,” she said. “You might make him nervous.”

Juanito appeared with Stone’s luggage. “May I unpack for you, Mr. Barrington?”

“Thank you, Juanito, yes.”

“And would you like your suits pressed?”

“Thank you again.”

“My cabin is down the hall,” Callie said, grabbing the single small duffel that had accompanied her. “Why don’t you poke around, take a look at Toscana? Dinner at eight all right? I booked from the airplane.”

“Fine. How are we dressing?”

“It’s an elegant place, and the crowd will be elegantly dressed, at least, as they define elegant.”

“See you a little before eight,” Stone said. He left Juanito to do his work and began to explore the big yacht. There were two other cabins on the starboard side, and another three on the port side. Stone took a narrow staircase up a deck and emerged under a broad awning covering an expanse of teak decking. The superstructure was forward, and a set of doors led to what he suspected was the master stateroom. He took another staircase and came to the bridge, where a man in his mid-thirties, wearing the same white uniform as Juanito, except with more stripes on his shoulder boards, was sitting at the chart table.

“G’day,” the young man said with an Australian twang. “You must be Mr. Barrington.”

“That’s right,” Stone said, offering his hand.

“I’m Gary Stringfellow, the captain,” he said.

“Good to meet you.”

“Juanito show you to your cabin?”

“Yes, I’m just having a look around. This is quite some bridge.” It was all mahogany and brass.

“Yes. In the rebuilding, we tried to keep it much as it was when the yacht was built, except, of course, we have every piece of modern gear known to man.”

“I can see that.”

“Wander at will,” Gary said. “I have some work to do. Just let Juanito know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, I will.” Stone continued his tour, working his way forward to the stem, then aft to a broad sundeck, where he shucked off his coat, loosened his tie and collapsed into a chair.

Juanito appeared, as if by magic, bearing a silver tray and a frosty glass. “I thought you might like a gin and tonic,” he said.

“Thank you, Juanito. You’re psychic.” Stone took the drink, and Juanito disappeared, only to return a moment later with a cordless phone.

“A call for you, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

Stone accepted the instrument. “Hello?”

“If’s Bill. How was your flight?”

“You’re full of surprises, Bill, I’ll give you that.”

“I had meant to brief you before you met Thad, but there was no time. I take it you understand his problem?”

“Yes, it’s sort of like being back in high school-the geek wants to date the beauty queen.”

“Thad is impulsive, but he takes these things seriously. Do the best job for him you can, and it will react to your benefit.”

“It already has,” Stone said. “After all, I’m sitting on a yacht in Palm Beach with a gin and tonic frozen to my fist, while you’re in New York, freezing your ass off.”

“That was unkind.”

“It’s no fun being in Florida in winter if you can’t gloat a little.”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, Stone, take this assignment seriously, all right? Thad is very important to the firm. We’re doing all the legal work on his IPO, and I’m his personal attorney. Clients don’t get any bigger than Thad Shames.”

“I get the picture,” Stone replied.

“Keep me posted,” Eggers said, “and don’t let anything go wrong.” He hung up.

Stone put his feet up, sipped his drink and watched the yachts sail by. This was wonderful. Tomorrow he’d find the girl and she and Shames would live happily ever after. What could possibly go wrong?