Scandalous Behavior

9

Stone went up to the master suite, unpacked his things and arranged them in his dressing room, then he stretched out on his bed for a nap. Before he could close his eyes the phone on the bedside table rang. “Yes?”

“Mr. Barrington, it’s Mrs. Whittle. What time would you like dinner?”

“Seven-thirty?”

“Very good. In the library?”

“Yes, thank you.” He hung up and fell asleep. It was getting dark when the phone rang again. “Yes?”

“Where and what time are we dining?” Susan asked.

“Let’s meet in the library at seven, for drinks.”

“And what is the dress?”

“Since it’s in the library, I’ll wear a necktie.”

“That’s all the advice I need,” she said. “See you in ten minutes.” She hung up.

Stone looked at the bedside clock: ten to seven. He bounced out of bed, got into a blazer, gray flannels, and a striped tie, and walked down the stairs to the library, which he found empty, but with a fire alight and the card table set. The remaining half-bottle of the Batard-Montrachet was in an ice bucket beside the table and a bottle of Romanée-Conti La Tache was on the table, open and breathing. He was still trying to calculate the cost of the wine he was drinking that day when Susan swept in, wearing a black cocktail dress and gorgeous jewelry. “Evening, all,” she said.

“Evening. Drink?”

“You did such a nice martini at lunch, I’ll have that again, please.”

Stone mixed it, poured, and set it on a silver tray with his bourbon, then offered it to her. “Someone was kind enough to lay in a stock of Knob Creek,” he said.

“The staff are anticipating your wishes,” Susan replied. “It’s off to a good start, you are.”

They sat down on the sofa facing the fire, where a tray of canapés awaited them. “I’m beginning to feel at home already,” Stone said, “and it’s not even twenty-four hours that I’ve owned the house.”

“When I’m done here you’ll feel even more at home,” she said. “It’s a specialty of mine, making the owner feel at home in his house.”

“May I place an order with you?”

“Of course.”

“I like the king-sized mattress on my bed — very comfortable — but I would prefer a pair of extra-long twins that can be electrically adjusted. Also, I haven’t been able to find the television set.”

“Beds noted — I have a source. On your return from America, they will have been installed, and I’ll have fitted sheets for you, too. Do you like the Irish linen sheets?”

“Very much, as long as they’re changed or ironed every day.”

“I will convey that to Elsie. Mmmm, this is a very fine martini.”

“And the TV set?”

“It arises from a piece of antique furniture at the foot of your bed, and its remote control is in the bedside table drawer.”

“How long have you been working on this house?”

“About fourteen months,” she replied. “Of course, that includes waiting times for almost everything to arrive.”

“What have you done here that I can’t see?”

“Well, we’ve reupholstered seventy pieces of furniture, virtually everything except a dozen or so leather pieces that have worn well with age. We’ve replaced all the house’s main systems — boilers and air-conditioning system — refinished many of the mahogany and walnut pieces of furniture, installed a twenty-four-extension office-quality telephone system, new TV sets and DVRs in every bedroom, and in here, had the Steinway grand completely rebuilt and refurbished.”

“I didn’t know there was a piano. Where is it?”

“On a truck, on the way down, be here tomorrow. Where would you like it?”

“In this room, I think,” he said, pointing. “Over there.”

“It shall be done. Do you play?”

“A bit. I played my first gig in twenty years last Saturday night, in Positano.”

“Where in Positano? La Sirenuse, perhaps?”

“No, in a private house owned by a very important mafioso. My co-instrumentalists were a guitarist who is a policeman, a bassist who is an officer of the CIA, and a drummer who is the police commissioner of New York City. I also wore a false nose and mustache and pretended to be blind.”

She laughed. “That sounds like a fascinating story. Tell it to me, please, all of it.”

Stone gave her a fifteen-minute version of the events in Italy.

She couldn’t stop laughing. “Your girlfriend must be very grateful to you.”

“On the contrary, she punched me in the face at the first opportunity and hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“Why, the ungrateful bitch! Does she know about the reward you posted for her return?”

“Probably not, and I’m not going to tell her. Anyway, her stepfather has offered to reimburse me, and I have bashfully accepted.”

“Is your life always like this?”

“Only occasionally. It’s rather sedate, most of the time.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I have a better idea, I’ll show you.”

“And how would you accomplish that?”

“I will put you aboard my airplane on Monday morning, fly you to New York, with an overnight stop in the Azores, and you can stay as long as you like.”

“That’s a tempting thought,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”

“You’ve had your martini. All you need now is a glass of wine, and you can make a decision.”

She held out her glass. “I’ll settle for another martini — that should do it.”

When the martini was half gone she set down her glass. “You know, I have a couple of clients in New York that I could catch up with. What are the sleeping arrangements at your house?”

“Two large, electrically operated beds, hard by each other.”

“Hmmmmm. More thought. I’ll give you my answer in the morning.”

“I will wait with bated breath,” he said.

They finished their dinner, had brandy and coffee, then walked upstairs, paused at the top for a kiss, then went their separate ways.

The following morning, Stone lay naked in bed, sleeping soundly. He turned onto his side and encountered another naked body. He felt it, for identification purposes. “You’d better not be Charles,” he said, and got a loud laugh.

She rolled over to face him, and their bodies became entwined. “I accept your gracious invitation to come to New York with you,” she said, “pending confirmation of our carnal compatibility.”

“I’ll get right to work on that,” Stone said, kissing her.