Quick & Dirty

14

The helicopter rose from the pad and climbed to one thousand feet, just short of the overcast clouds, then headed for the shoreline. Once over the sea, the pilot descended to five hundred feet and followed the coast.

“I always ask him to fly low,” Morgan said. “I love the view this way.”

“Well,” Stone said, “there’s nothing to bump into.”

Three-quarters of an hour later the chopper slowed, flew over a large, shingle-style house, and made an approach into a tennis court, from which the net had been removed. Stone and Morgan alit, then two men ran onto the court and removed their luggage from the machine, then it lifted off.

“They’ll hangar it at the East Hampton airport,” Morgan said as she led Stone into the house.

The place was spacious without being overwhelming, and was beautifully decorated. “Mark Hampton did the decor,” she said, “years ago when my husband first bought the house. It’s nearly a hundred years old.”

They settled into a small sitting room off the big living room. “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

“A cup of tea would be nice,” Stone replied.

“Do you have a preference?”

“Earl Grey, if you have it.” It began to rain outside.

She ordered tea from a staffer. “I love it when the weather is like this,” she said, getting up and lighting a fire that had already been laid.

The tea and an assortment of cookies arrived, and Morgan poured, then settled onto the sofa next to Stone. “I’m so glad you could come,” she said.

“So am I, and I like this weather, too.”

“It makes the house cozier.”

They finished their tea, and she stood up. “Let’s go upstairs and unpack.”

Stone thought he knew what that meant, and he was right. They unpacked, undressed, she lit another fire, and they got into bed. Half an hour later they were spent and asleep.

When they woke up, darkness had fallen. They got dressed and went down to dinner, which was served on a small table in a handsome library.

“Give me your brief bio,” Stone said after the wine had been poured.

“Typical,” she said. “Born at my parents’ country house in Wiltshire, sent to Lady Eden’s School in London — all the fashion at the time — then a girls’ school near the country house, and a finishing school in Switzerland, where I was taught French and to cook and to set a table. There was no thought of university for me, but I insisted, and I got a first at Oxford. Then I went out and got my own job in a training program at an advertising agency. I spent a few years at that, along with a lot of partying with girls of a similar background and a lot of Hooray Henrys, then I met Mark, and the next thing I knew, I was married and living in New York.”

“Are your parents still living?”

“My father is. Mother died when I was sixteen.”

“Do you see him much?”

“Not really — once or twice a year. He likes his books and his horses in the country and his club in London. He does the Cowes Week regatta every other year, when they run the Fastnet Race. He’d rather I’d been a boy, and he never seems to know what to say to me. All in all, I’d say he prefers his own company to that of anyone else.”

“Would I like him?”

“When he decides to be charming, you would. He would find you exotic, because you’re an American — but acceptable, because you have a house in England and belong to the Squadron.”

“Do you love him?”

“Madly.”

“That speaks well of you.”

“Thank you.”

They moved to a leather Chesterfield sofa for brandy and gazing into the fire. Somehow he discovered that she wasn’t wearing underwear, and they entertained each other for a while, then went upstairs and entertained each other some more.

The following morning was brilliantly sunny and windy; they managed a short walk on the beach, before nearly freezing and running back to the house. They had a lobster stew for lunch and the warming of their bones.

The dinner guests began arriving a little after six. The first were a middle-aged couple named Joe and Martha Henry, then three more arrived: a man of about sixty, beautifully dressed and sporting an open-necked shirt with an ascot, something Stone could pull off, and a younger couple — an athletic-looking man of around thirty and his date.

“Stone,” Morgan said, indicating the older man, “this is Angelo Farina. And this is his son, Pio, and Pio’s friend Ann Kusch. All three of them are artists.”

Drinks were served, and people warmed themselves before the fire. When they were well thawed and well oiled everyone became gregarious, and Stone enjoyed their company.

At dinner, Stone was seated between Morgan and Ann Kusch, who seemed curious about him. “Where have I heard your name?” she asked.

“You tell me,” he replied.

“What do you do?”

“I’m an attorney, with Woodman & Weld.”

“My father, Antony Kusch, was a partner there until he retired a few years ago.”

“I remember him,” Stone said, “though I didn’t know him well. I work out of a home office, so I don’t see much of the partners.”

“Why do you work out of a home office?”

“When I first joined the firm I had already established my office, and I didn’t bother to move. It’s worked out well, though. I’m very comfortable there.”

“Now I know where I’ve heard your name — you were mentioned in a magazine piece about Holly Barker.”

“You know the secretary of state?” Morgan asked before Stone could blush and stammer a reply.

“We’re old friends,” Stone said.

Then someone changed the subject, for which Stone was grateful.

After dinner, over brandy, Stone and Angelo Farina fell into conversation. “You’re a painter, are you not?”

“I am,” Farina said.

“My mother was a painter — Matilda Stone.”

“Oh, yes, I know her work. She had a remarkable gift for bringing New York City to life in her paintings, particularly Greenwich Village.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “I’d like to see your work sometime.”

“I live just down the road. Why don’t you come around for coffee tomorrow morning? I’ll show you my studio.”

“I’d like that,” Stone said, then Ann Kusch came around again, and Stone turned his attention back to her.

That night in bed, when they had exhausted themselves, Morgan said, “You and Angelo got on very well. He doesn’t like many people.”

“He invited me around to his studio for coffee tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, good, then I’ll be rid of you while I’m talking with my decorator about curtains for the guest rooms.”

“Have you seen a lot of Angelo’s work?”

“Oh, yes, he and Mark were good friends. He used to be an art forger, you know.”

“Ah, that’s where I’ve heard the name.”

“He does his own work now, but he’ll whip you up a Monet, if you like, or an old master. He’s really quite brilliant.”