Insatiable Appetites

22

Dolce was tidying up her apartment in anticipation of the arrival of her guest when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“I’m in a cab,” Father Frank Donovan said. “Twenty minutes, according to the driver.”

“I’ll have a drink waiting,” she said. They hung up, and she went into the kitchen and opened the package from the liquor store: two bottles of Bushmills Black Label Irish whiskey.

She took them to the bar and filled the ice bucket from the machine.

All was ready when the bell rang. She opened the front door and threw herself into his arms. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, then looked him up and down. “And in civvies!”

“I didn’t want the doorman to think I’m visiting to hear your confession,” Frank said. He handed her a thick envelope. “They asked me to deliver this to you.” He set his suitcases inside the door and closed it behind him.

She led him into the living room and tossed the envelope onto the sofa without looking at it, then went to pour them a drink.

“What a beautiful place,” Frank said, looking around.

“There’ll be more pictures on the walls in a day or two,” she said. “I asked the convent to pack up all my work and air-freight them to me. Do you know, I’ve got more than sixty completed canvases, not counting the ones that weren’t good enough.” She handed him his drink and poured herself one, then sat on the sofa, where she encountered a lump.

“What’s this?” she asked, pulling the envelope from beneath her.

“It’s what the doorman asked me to deliver.”

She ripped it open and read the covering letter, then looked at the check. “It appears I’m now a very rich woman,” she said, waving the check. “Papa’s estate has been probated.”

“I congratulate you,” he said, clicking his glass against hers.

“Goodness,” she said, fanning herself with the envelope. “This is going to take some getting used to.” She took a swig from her drink. “I hope you have no duties but me while you’re here.”

“Oh, I’ll have to suit up and swing by the archdiocese at some point. A courtesy call, to justify spending a week in New York.”

“We have a week!”

“We do.”

“Whatever will we do with ourselves?” she asked, kissing him and tugging at his necktie.

“We’ll think of something,” he said, kissing her back and scratching a nipple through her silk blouse.

Stone’s doorbell rang, the signal from Fred Flicker that his guest was on the way up. Stone slipped into his jacket and went downstairs in time to greet Carla Fontana in the living room.

“What beautiful paneling and bookcases,” Carla said, looking around.

“My father designed and built it all,” Stone replied. “It was a commission from my grandmother’s sister, who owned the house. She left it to me. The pictures in this room are all by my mother, Matilda Stone.”

Carla looked at the pictures and took her time. “Just beautiful,” she said. “Haven’t I seen some of her work at the Metropolitan?”

“You have.” He led her into the study and offered her a seat on the sofa. “What can I get you?”

“A martini, please. How soon you forget!” They had met a few weeks before in Paris when she had interviewed him on the occasion of the opening of the new Arrington hotel there.

“That was remiss of me,” Stone said, taking a frosty bottle from the freezer and filling a martini glass. He handed it to her and poured himself a Knob Creek.

“My goodness,” she said, staring at the wall next to the bar, where the Modigliani now hung. “Have you looted a museum?”

“No, that is the bequest of a friend who recently passed away.”

“That would be Eduardo Bianchi?”

“How did you know?”

“Do you think I don’t read my own newspaper? He had quite an obit — nearly two pages.”

“He certainly did, for a man who most people didn’t know existed.”

“I met him once, in my publisher’s office, when I was still based in New York. I remember noticing that the boss put on his jacket to receive him, which he normally did only when the president or the cardinal visited.”

“Eduardo had that effect on people.”

She sipped her martini. “That is the coldest thing I ever tasted.”

“It’s been in the freezer, waiting for you. I make martinis and gimlets by the bottle. It’s easier that way.”

“How does one make a gimlet?”

“One pours six ounces of vodka from a seven-hundred-and-fifty-milliliter bottle, replaces it with Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice, puts it in the freezer overnight, then serves.”

“Simple enough. I’ll remember that.”

“Not as simple as pouring a glass of bourbon,” he said.

“Where are we dining?” she asked.

“At Patroon, a few blocks from here.”

“I’ve heard about it, never been.”

“Good. Any news from your contact?”

“I’ll tell you about it over dinner,” she said. “For now, let’s just drink.”