Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 17

Sandy got a couple of hours' work done, then went home to prepare for his guest. He left her name with the lobby man, so she wouldn't be detained while he called upstairs, then he made a quick tour of the apartment to be sure the maid had done a good job; the woman had been slacking off since Joan hadn't been around to make sure she did her work. He plumped a few cushions, wiped the fingerprints off a glass coffee table, and pronounced the place ready.

He took a shower, dried his hair, and got into casual clothes-a soft flannel shirt, cavalry twill trousers, and a pair of alligator loafers that he hadn't often worn, because Joan hadn't liked them. He was nervous, and he considered having a quick drink, then decided against it.

The doorbell rang at seven promptly, and he saw that Cara Mason had dressed down a bit from her business suit, too. She was wearing a beige cashmere dress that suited her coloring very well.

"Come in," he said, showing her into the living room. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Some mineral water, if you have it; fizzy, please."

Sandy left her standing in the middle of the living room looking around, while he went to the wet bar for a bottle of San Pellegrino. He poured two glasses and handed her one. "What do you think?" he asked.

She looked at him. "Is there a room in the place that was done the way you wanted it?"

"Yes, my study; come with me." He led her into the room and watched her take it in.

"Yes," she said, "this is more like you."

"How can you tell? We've just met."

"I can tell," she said. "It's what I do." She seated herself on the sofa and opened a portfolio on the coffee table. "Come and look through my work, and see if there's anything in particular that you like."

He sat next to her and slowly flipped the pages. He stopped at a color photograph of a San Francisco living room, with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. "You've worked in San Francisco, too?"

"I grew up there," she said, "and until a year ago I was employed by a firm of architects. I did some independent work, too; this was one of the jobs."

"I like it very much."

"Would you like to live in it?"

"I don't think so."

"Keep looking."

He continued through the portfolio, looking at both San Francisco and New York rooms, and he was impressed. "I'm impressed," he said.

"But you didn't see anything that made you want to move in."

"No."

"Do you have some particular style in mind?"

"Not exactly; it's hard to explain."

"May I take a leap in the dark?"

"Of course."

"You'd like it if the apartment had the air of the most elegant, most comfortable men's club in the world."

He smiled. "You've nailed me."

"Just look at this room," she said. "It wasn't done hurriedly; everything in it looks chosen particularly, and you can't do that overnight. And it all works together."

"Thank you, I'm glad you like it."

"I think it would probably be best to order some traditional upholstered pieces-sofas and chairs-from a good house as a base and then pick out the accompanying pieces at good shops and auctions. I'd go for the best antiques you can afford."

"What sort of money are we talking about?"

"I haven't seen the dining room or the bedrooms, yet."

He spent half an hour showing her the rest of the apartment.

"I'm going to have a drink, now," he said, when they had returned to the study. "Will you join me?"

"I'll have a Scotch on the rocks," she said.

"Do you enjoy single malts?"

"I've never drunk one."

He poured them both a Glenlivet. "What do you think?" he asked when she sipped it.

"It's very… big, isn't it?"

"Actually, that's one of the lighter ones. It's an acquired taste."

"I think I could acquire it." She took another sip and set down her glass. "Now, you asked about money."

"I did."

"It depends a lot on what you're willing to spend for antique pieces and for pictures. Quite frankly, there's not a picture in the house I can stand, except what's in this room; they're mostly nautical, and I love them."

"Thank you; I agree about the other pictures. What does good antique furniture cost?"

"There's practically no limit, but I think we can find good pieces for, on average, between fifteen and thirty thousand dollars."

"And pictures?"

"Again, no limit, but if you're willing to spend, say, fifty thousand for four or five superb ones and five to twenty on a lot more, you'll be all right."

"Give me a total, ballpark figure."

"Between half a million and a million, depending on the pieces and pictures you choose."

"And your fee?"

"Ten percent of everything, furnishings and labor; but I'll save you at least that much with discounts and judicious buying."

"Agreed."

"We should be able to get you some money back, too. The things your wife chose-both the furniture and the pictures-while maybe not to your taste or mine, are auctionable. She obviously wasn't stupid."

"No, she wasn't. What do you think I could get for them?"

"Two or three hundred thousand, I should think."

"Whatever you can get for them at auction, I'll add to my budget."

She smiled broadly. "I like your style, Mr. Kinsolving."

"Sandy."

She raised her glass. "Cara."

"Cara, would you like me to fix us some dinner here, or would you rather go out?"

"I'll take my chances with you."

"Come into the kitchen; I'll see what's in the larder."

Sandy found some smoked salmon and eggs in the refrigerator, and some caviar, too. He scrambled the eggs with the salmon, made some toast, and served the caviar as an appetizer, straight, with little silver spoons. "Would you prefer champagne or vodka with your caviar?" he asked.

"Champagne, please."

He went to the wine cabinet and found a bottle of Krug '83. "This should have enough age on it to make it interesting," he said, working the cork from the bottle.

She tasted it. "Mmmmm," she breathed. "What's the word I'm looking for?"

"Yeasty," he said.

"Yes. You are in the wine business, aren't you?"

"I am, for my sins."

"Well, you must have sinned a lot to be doing this well at choosing drink," she said, raising her glass.

"Thank you, ma'am."

They ate the caviar, then the eggs and salmon.

"It all goes together so beautifully," she said.

"Thank you; it was meant to."

"Tell me something about your background," she said.

"Grew up in Weston, Connecticut, went to Exeter and Amherst, met my wife in college, got her pregnant, married her-in that order-produced a son. Advertising for a couple of years, then joined my father-in-law's liquor business and eventually started the wine division. He died six weeks ago and left me the wine division."

"When did your wife die?"

"Five weeks ago."

"How?"

"She was murdered."

Cara put down her glass. "Do you mind telling me about it?"

He related the events of that Saturday night.

"That's terrible," she said.

"Yes, it was."

"Were you devastated?"

"I was numb. I have, in fact, remained numb, until tonight."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that this dinner is the first pleasant social interaction I've had with another human being since it happened."

"Were you and your wife very close?"

"We had grown apart over a very long time."

"Do you miss her?"

"No, I do not. I'm glad to have my son, though; he's finishing up a residency in cardiology at Lenox Hill Hospital."

"You're a very direct man, Sandy."

"It's a waste of time to be any other way. Now you."

"I told you I grew up in San Francisco. Went to Berkeley, studied architecture, but discovered I was more interested in the inside of buildings than their structures. Joined my father's firm as a designer; when he died and the firm closed, I went to another."

"Ever married?"

"Once; for three years. A mistake."

"Whose?"

"Mine."

"You're pretty direct, too, Cara."

"We're in agreement on that point," she replied.

"Good. Cara, I'm very attracted to you. In fact, I'd be very pleased if you would come to bed with me right now."

She shook her head. "Too soon," she said. "But please don't think that's a flat turndown. You're a very attractive man."

"Thank you."

"I want your job, Sandy, but I won't sleep with you to get it."

"You've got it, on your qualifications and what you've suggested to me. As beautiful as you are, I wouldn't spend a million dollars just to get you into the sack. You can decide whether you want to sleep with me quite independently of the job."

She smiled, but said nothing.

"Would you like some coffee?"

She glanced at her watch. "Thank you, no. I've had a long day, as you have, and I could use some rest." She stood up. "Do you mind if I go now?"

"Yes, but I can live with it."

"I'll come back tomorrow when you're not here and make a floor plan and some rough sketches. Will you tell the doorman to let me in?"

"Yes, of course."

"I'll have something for you to look at in a week or so."

"I wouldn't like it to be that long before I see you again. How about dinner this weekend?"

"Saturday is good for me."

"And for me."

He retrieved her portfolio and walked her to the door.

"Good night," she said, offering her hand.

He took it. "Good night, and go safely. I'll look forward to Saturday," he said.

"So will I," she replied.