Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 16

Sandy walked out of the front door of the hotel into the bright sunshine, rested, fresh, and looking for his car.

"Mr. Kinsolving," the doorman said. "Your driver has just phoned in; he's had a flat on the freeway, and he looks to be a good half-hour late. Shall I phone for another car, or will you take the hotel car with our compliments?"

Sandy looked at the stretch limousine with the back door open. "That will do nicely," he said.

"I hope you won't mind sharing with another guest."

"Of course not."

The doorman put the luggage into the trunk, and Sandy climbed into the forward rear seat, just to have the experience of riding backward. A moment later a long female leg entered the car followed by a tall woman. She gathered herself into the rear seat and opened a New York Times.

Sandy looked her over quickly: mid-thirties, auburn hair to the shoulders, hazel eyes, good clothes. He thought of saying something, but she seemed purposefully absorbed in her Times.

Sandy, himself, was more interested in his San Francisco paper, which he had just bought in the hotel lobby. He flipped through the pages impatiently, looking for the story. It was on page three, and small; nothing much new from the earlier evening's television report, except that the police had disclosed that a cash box had been found in a wastebasket two streets away. Sandy hoped it wasn't the same basket in which he'd deposited his disguise. The gallery's owner still had not been located and thus not interviewed. The woman across from him finished the first section of her Times and placed it on the seat beside her.

"Excuse me," he said. "May I have a look at your Times?"

She glanced at him briefly and nodded.

"Thank you." He dove into the newspaper and remained there all the way to the airport, except for an occasional surreptitious glance at his distant traveling companion.

Sandy checked in at curbside, but the woman followed her bags inside the terminal. Probably off to Europe or Asia; the last he would see of her. He realized, to his surprise, that she was the first woman he had found attractive since the moment he had heard about Jock Bailley's stroke.

He reached the gate just as first-class boarding was announced, took his seat and ordered orange juice. He was pleased, a few moments later, to see the woman from the car pass his seat and enter the tourist compartment. Pity she wasn't flying first class, he thought.

Twice during the flight he got up to go to the john and caught a glimpse of her in a seat a few rows back, her long legs spilling over into the aisle. He noted that she was not wearing a wedding ring.

At LaGuardia the limo driver was waiting with Sandy's name scrawled on a piece of cardboard. He beckoned the man to follow him to baggage claim, and the wait was nearly half an hour. The woman stood across the carousel, waiting just as impatiently as he. Her bags came a moment before his, and he hurried to catch up with her as she walked toward the taxis. As he had expected, there was a long line, and she looked annoyed.

"May I offer you a lift into town?" he asked. "Seems the least I could do, since I shared your car in San Francisco."

She turned a looked at him. "Where are you going?"

"Madison and Seventy-fourth, but the driver will drop you wherever you're going."

"Thank you, yes," she said, offering him a tiny smile.

He held the door of the car, a sedan this time, as she got in. Neither of them had a newspaper now.

"My name is Sandy Kinsolving," he said, offering his hand.

She took it. "I'm Cara Mason."

"Where are you headed, then?" he asked as the car pulled into traffic.

"Sixty-third, between Park and Madison."

"Nice block; have you lived there long?"

"A while."

"What brings you to New York?"

"I live here."

Oops. He was nervous. "Of course. What do you do in the city?"

"I'm an interior designer."

"With a firm?"

"With a partner."

"What do you specialize in?"

"Everything from the domestic to the industrial."

"Are you any good?"

She turned and regarded him coolly. "I'm very good indeed."

"As it happens, I'm in the market for a designer."

She looked doubtful. "Really?"

"Are you available?"

"For design work?"

Sandy reddened. "Just that."

"When?"

"Immediately."

"Why are you interested in me? As a designer, I mean."

"As it happens, you're the only interior designer I know, and I have to start looking somewhere. Do you think you could show me some examples of your work?"

"I suppose so."

"Not if it's an imposition," he said, looking out the window.

"What sort of work are you looking to have done?"

"I have a fourteen-room apartment that was decorated by my late wife. Our tastes didn't agree."

"I expect I could give you a few ideas."

"I also have a wine business on Madison Avenue that needs attention. Some years ago I bought an old shop in London that looks simply wonderful. What I had in mind was making the New York shop look more like the London one."

"Do you have a business card?" she asked.

Sandy fished one from his wallet and handed it to her. "And you?"

She rummaged through her purse. "I'm afraid I don't have a card with me," she said. She produced a pen and scribbled her name and number on a sheet of paper, ripped it from her notebook, and handed it to him.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Sandy would have asked her to dinner, but he had the feeling that the invitation would blow his chances with her. Best to start with business.

"When could you bring over some photographs of your work?" he asked.

"Would this evening be convenient?" she replied.

Sandy smiled. "Around eight? I can probably rustle up something to eat."

"I may be busy later," she said. "Let's make it seven; by then I should know more about my schedule."

Sandy handed her another card, this one with his home address. "Seven it is."

"Just there, driver," she said, pointing to a slim brownstone with heavily lacquered front door and a huge brass knocker.

The driver opened the door, and Sandy got out to say goodbye. He was taller than she, just. "See you this evening."

"Thanks for the lift," she said, following the driver to the door. She unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

When Sandy got back into the car, he discovered that he was short of breath and trembling. Had it been so long since a woman had done this to him? He nodded. It had. He began thinking about the evening and how to put Ms. Cara Mason at her ease in his home. It had been a long time since he had had a date that wasn't simply an assignation. He was going to have to rediscover some social skills.