Fresh Disasters

17

Joan brought in the Post just before lunch. “Story, but no pics,” she said, handing the paper to Stone, opened at Page Six.

Stone read the piece:

ATTORNEY NESTLES WITH MISTRESS IN LOVE NEST,

BUT DEED TO NEST IN WRONG NAME

Ace lawyer Bernard Finger has been shacking up in a Park Avenue penthouse with his honey, Marilyn the Masseuse, for weeks, unbeknownst to his wife. (Note to Missus: New York is NOT a no-fault divorce state, so go for it!) The lovely Marilyn thinks the lovely nest is hers, but somehow the deed got registered in Bernie’s name. Wonder how that happened?

“Cute,” Stone said, “but why no photos?”

“I expect they’re afraid of a suit from ol’ Bernie,” Joan replied.

“They need have no fear with those pictures in their possession. No, something else is going on here.”

At the Post, Henry Stead was sitting at his desk when he spotted the process server, a short, plump man in a wash-and-wear suit. Henry waved at him cheerfully. “Over here, Arnie! I’ll accept service!”

Arnie waddled over to the desk and ignored Henry’s outstretched hand, holding the summons close to his chest. “How come you’re so anxious to get sued?” he asked suspiciously.

“Arnie, you of all people are in a position to know that we get sued all the time.”

“Well, yeah, but I’ve never seen anybody here look so happy about it.”

“It breaks up the day, Arnie. Gimme the summons.”

Arnie handed it over with some reluctance. “This goes against my experience of these things,” he said. “Ordinarily I have to chase people around if they know what I’m doing.”

“Gimme the clipboard, Arnie,” Henry said, extending a hand.

Arnie handed over a clipboard holding a sheet of paper with space for a dozen signatures. “Sign on line six,” he said.

Henry signed with a flourish. “That’s it, Arnie; your work is done. I’m sure that up in heaven an angel just got his wings.” He picked up a little bell on his desk and tinkled it. A copy boy sprinted toward him. “False alarm, Terry,” Henry said. “That was a heavenly bell.”

Terry came to a screeching halt. “Don’t pitch me no balks,” he said sullenly, turning away.

“That was an oxymoron, Terry,” Henry called after him.

With a last, untrusting glance, Arnie turned and trudged toward the elevators.

Henry ripped open the envelope and read the document. “Bingo!!!” he yelled, and everybody in the room turned and stared at him as he sprinted toward his boss’s office. He ran into the room without knocking, startling a man who had just taken a big bite of a corned beef and chopped liver sandwich on rye with Russian dressing. “Bernie Finger came through like a champ!” Henry yelled, holding up the summons so his boss could read it without getting chopped liver on it.

The editor made a monumental effort to swallow, but required a slug of celery tonic to choke down the mass. He wiped his mouth with two napkins. “Okay,” he said, when he was finally able to speak, “run the pictures. In color.”

Henry skipped back to his desk, happy in his work.

Stone was tidying up the kitchen when the doorbell rang. He picked up a phone. “Yes?”

“It’s Celia.”

Stone pressed the button that unlocked the front door. “Straight through the house and down the back stairs,” he said.

“I’m on my way.”

Stone made a quick check of the kitchen bar, which held a collection of liquor bottles, the ice bucket and a wine dispenser with two bottles of chilled white and two of red. He went to the stairway to meet her.

She came down the stairs in a fur coat, carrying two large grocery bags. He took them from her, set them on the kitchen counter, helped her off with her coat and hung it on a peg. She accepted a hello kiss.

“I’m sorry I didn’t meet you at the door, but it would have taken me twice as long before I could offer you a drink.”

“Do you have any champagne?” she asked.

“A rhetorical question,” he said, going to the fridge and removing a chilly bottle of Veuve Cliquot Grande Dame and working on the cork. “Can you grab a couple of flutes from over there?” he asked, nodding toward the china and crystal cabinet.

She was able to reach the top shelf with no difficulty and brought back the flutes.

Stone filled them, then filled them again when the bubbles had subsided. They raised their glasses and drank.

“That’s lovely,” she said. “I like it even better than Dom Perignon.”

“So do I,” Stone said. “Why didn’t you have the groceries delivered? I hate to think of you humping those bags around.”

“One bag was delivered; it was sitting on your doorstep, waiting for some homeless person to make his day. The other bag contains some of my preparations.” She set down her drink and began unpacking a sealed Tupperware container.

“And what is that?” he asked, peering through the cloudy plastic.

“That is boned chicken thighs, marinating in port as they have been for twenty-four hours.”

“I can’t wait,” he said.

“It’ll be on the table in forty minutes,” she said. “Starting from when we finish this glass of champagne.”

“I take it we should drink a red?”

“A full-bodied red, preferably a cabernet.”

“I have just the thing,” Stone said, going to the bar and bringing back a bottle. “I brought it up from the cellar in anticipation of your request.”

She peered at the label. “Phelps Insignia ’94; that should do nicely.”

“Can I help you do anything?”

She downed the rest of her champagne. “You can best help by keeping my glass full and otherwise staying out of my way.”

Stone refilled their glasses and sat down on a bar stool. “Proceed,” he said, retrieving a decanter for the wine.

And she did.

Forty minutes later they were dining on something she called poulet au porto, chicken in port with sliced green apples, saffron rice and haricot verts.

“God, this is good!” Stone enthused. “I can’t remember when anyone cooked for me, and I can’t remember ever eating anything as wonderful as this.”

“You say all the right things,” she replied. “You keep doing that.”

“I intend to.”

“You get to do the dishes,” she said, putting a last bite into her mouth and taking a sip of the wine.

“My housekeeper gets to do that in the morning,” Stone said.

“Does she serve breakfast in bed?” Celia asked.

“She does, on request.”

Celia smiled at him. “Good,” she said. “But first, we have to find the bed.”

Stone showed her where it was.