Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 23

On Monday afternoon Sandy met with Sam Warren at the Mayfair Trust.

"Larsen's lawyer called this morning," Warren said. "He's come down to ten million, five. The lawyer took credit for talking him into being sensible, but he says ten million five is the least he'll take."

"We haven't even made an offer yet," Sandy said.

"True. I think the lawyer, when he looked at the deal, saw that Larsen was way out of the ballpark and talked him around. I also choose to ignore the bold talk about nothing less than ten million, five. We should just make our offer as if he'd said nothing."

"We still have to make a deal with Mike Bernini, before we can make our offer," Sandy said. "And I haven't heard from him."

"What's with the guy?" Warren asked. "You saw him, what do you think?"

"He didn't seem all that interested," Sandy replied. "I thought he'd jump at a new deal, but he didn't."

"Maybe he's a better negotiator than we think."

Sandy shrugged. "Maybe he just doesn't know what he wants."

"Lots of people are like that. Do you want me to put together an offer to him, just as a starting point, to get things moving?"

"No; if he doesn't want it, then I don't want him. I'm not going to beg the guy to come aboard."

The phone rang, and Warren picked it up. He listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Sandy. "It's your office."

Sandy took the phone. "Hello?"

"A couple of calls, Sandy" his secretary said. "Mike Bernini called; I know you were expecting to hear from him."

"Thanks, Becky," he said, scribbling the number.

"There was one other call; somebody named Bart. He wouldn't leave a last name." She gave him the number.

"Any idea who he is?" Sandy asked. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"He said you'd know."

"Thanks, Becky." He hung up, grinning. "Bernini called," he said to Warren. "You mind if I call him from here?"

"Go right ahead; I'm dying to know what he has to say."

Sandy called the number and asked for Bernini.,

"Sandy?" Mike Bernini asked.

"Yes, Mike."

"I'm glad you called back so quickly. First, I want to explain something; I know I didn't give you the reaction you wanted last week, and there was a good reason. My wife has been wanting to leave the valley. I wasn't happy at work, and that added to her doubts about staying in Napa, but we've talked it over, and I want to stay on if you buy out Larsen."

"That's terrific, Mike; I'm delighted to hear it."

"Everything depends on your offer, of course."

"Do you have a lawyer who can deal for you?"

"Yes."

"Have him call Sam Warren at the Mayfair Trust." He gave him the number. "Ask him to call first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll have the offer ready. They can work out the details."

"Great, Sandy; I hope we can come to terms."

"I hope so, too, Mike; I think we can really make something of this property. Everything depends on Larsen being reasonable, though; any offer I make you will be contingent on Larsen and I agreeing on a price and other terms."

"I hope it works. If it's any help to you, I think Larsen wants to sell badly."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind. We'll talk later in the week." Sandy hung up. "That's a load off my mind," he said to Warren.

"I'll put something together before five o'clock for your approval."

"Good. Sam, I've been admiring the pictures in your offices."

"Thank you, Sandy; we're very proud of them."

"Do you buy at auction?"

"No, we've bought everything in the place from a San Francisco dealer named Peter Martindale."

Sandy froze.

"He specializes in nineteenth-century English painting. I'll give you his number, if you like; next time you're out there go by his gallery. You're redoing your apartment, aren't you?"

"Yes, but I've pretty much decided on going with American painters."

"Well, if you change your mind, let me know."

Not bloody likely, Sandy thought.

Sandy left the bank and walked into Central Park, looking for a phone. He found one at the zoo, then dialed the number Martindale had left.

"Well, hello, Sandy," Martindale said. "How are you?"

"What do you want?" Sandy asked.

"I want you in San Francisco on Thursday; take the earliest plane you can get."

"Why?"

"Because I've worked it out. I'll pick you up at the Ritz at five o'clock in the Lincoln and brief you; then I have to get out of town."

"Thursday?"

"Don't disappoint me, my friend; the consequences would be devastating. And don't worry, it's going to be a snap; much easier than what I had to do." He hung up.

Sandy hung up, swearing. He walked around the zoo slowly, gazing blankly at the animals, feeling desperately sorry for himself. He had to find a way out of this, he thought. Every time he seemed to get his life in order, there was Martindale on the phone again.

He went back to his office. "Becky," he said to his secretary, "get me on a Thursday morning flight for San Francisco."

"Sure thing. A Cara Mason called; asked that you get back to her this afternoon."

He went to his desk and rang her number.

"Hi, Sandy," she said. "I'm afraid something's come up; do you think you could possibly wait until Monday for your sketches?"

"What's the problem?" he asked, trying to mask his disappointment.

"It's the Charleston job; I have to go to South Carolina tomorrow, and I won't get back until Sunday. I promise I'll have the sketches ready on Monday evening, though. Can we go over them at seven, then have dinner?"

At least she wanted to have dinner. "Sure," he said. "Monday evening at seven."

"Thank you so much for understanding," she said. "And I want to tell you again what a wonderful time I had over the weekend. I'll remember it always."

He felt a little better. "I'm glad. Have a good trip to Charleston, and I'll see you Monday evening."

"I'll look forward to it," she said.

Sandy hung up. Seven days until he could see her again. And he had something awful to do before then. If he could just get through the week, then maybe it would all be behind him when he saw her on Monday. He hadn't told her he was going to San Francisco; he didn't want anybody to know but his secretary. He'd have to arrange a meeting with Bernini or Larsen, something to legitimize the trip.