3

WHEN STONE ARRIVED at his desk the following midmorning, the New York Post was lying on his desk, open to the “Page Six” gossip column, which was not on page six. His secretary, Joan Robertson, had left it there and had conveniently highlighted the passage:

Last night at dinner at the home of theater diva Gwen Asprey, the composer/producer Del Wood, whose reputation as a casting-couch Lothario is richly deserved, was given his comeuppance after having previously made advances on (including, we hear, a request for anal sex) and been rejected by a new girl in town, the beautiful and talented Carrie Cox. When Woodie, as he is known to some, began to tell the table of his thwarted attempt, Ms. Cox, who had, unaccountably, been seated next to him, dumped his own plate of red-sauce pasta into his lap and made a grand exit. The evening was greatly enjoyed by everyone present, except Mr. Wood. Incidentally, only that afternoon Carrie Cox had performed a brilliant audition for Mr. Wood and his backers that resulted in an offer of the lead in his new musical. Unfortunately, Woodie considered the transaction a trade instead of an offer, so the lovely Ms. Cox remains at liberty. (Other producers, take note!) Later in the evening, she was seen at Elaine’s in the company of local lawyer Stone Barrington. Out of the frying pan and into the fire!

Stone thought that the piece was a remarkably accurate account of events, for a gossip column, and he was surprised to see a very good photograph of Carrie Cox, in balletic flight, accompanying it. He wondered where the paper had found it on such short notice.

His phone buzzed. “Carrie Cox on line one,” Joan said.

He picked up the phone. “Is this the beautiful and talented Carrie Cox?” he asked.

“That’s what it says in the papers,” she replied, giggling. “You were right!”

“I’ve seen the Post,” Stone said. “How did they get it so accurately?”

“There was a message from them on my answering machine when I got home,” she said, “and I played the tape for them.”

“If the tape should ever be mentioned again, deny its existence and tell them you took notes after the conversation.”

“All right,” she said, “but I made them promise not to mention that, and they didn’t.”

“You’re a lucky woman, as well as a smart one.”

“Thank you, kind sir.”

“How about dinner this evening?”

“I’ve been invited to a dinner party,” she said. “Another prediction of yours come true. Why don’t you come with me?”

“You’re on. Where shall I pick you up?”

“I’m downtown, and you’re closer to the dinner; why don’t I pick you up? You can make me a drink around, say, seven?”

“You’re on again. Is this a necktie party?”

“Well, I hope I’m not going to be hanged.”

“For me, not you.”

“My mother always said a gentleman can’t go wrong by wearing a necktie, and tonight you’re supposed to wear a black one along with a dinner jacket.”

“Then wear one I shall. You have my card; see you at seven.”

“Bye-bye.” She hung up.

Joan was leaning against his doorjamb. “I don’t believe this,” she said.

 

 

 

CARRIE ARRIVED at seven on the dot, and Stone met her at the door.

“Oooh,” she murmured, looking around the living room. “I want the tour! How many bedrooms?”

“Five, and as many baths, with three powder rooms scattered around the place.”

“How long have you owned it?”

“Since I inherited it from my great-aunt. I did most of the renovation myself. Come on. I’ll show you this floor.” He took her through the living room, the dining room, and a garage. Finally he sat her down in the study and produced a half-bottle of Schramsberg champagne from the wet bar.

“Such wonderful woodwork and bookcases,” she said.

“My father built all of them. In fact, you could say that this house saved his career and his marriage. He was going door-to-door in Greenwich Village, doing whatever carpentry work he could find. This house bought him his shop and equipment and made him feel that he could earn a living at what he did best.”

“That’s a wonderful story,” she said.

“I haven’t heard your story yet,” Stone said, “except the part about Delano and Atlanta.”

“Ah, well, there is a bit more,” Carrie said. “After Agnes Scott College I went to the Yale Drama School for a master’s, then went back to Atlanta and married my college sweetheart instead of going to New York when I should have. That went bad pretty quickly, but I did last a few years before I divorced him.”

“How long ago?”

“Three years, when his property development business was at its peak. That improved my settlement. Now he resents me because he’s nearly broke.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Stone pointed out.

“Tell him that!”

“I hope I don’t have to.”

“Don’t worry; he’s well in my past.”

“So, after the divorce . . .”

“I danced with the Atlanta Ballet and worked in local theater and studied acting. I enjoyed it, but I wanted to try a bigger arena.”

“I’m glad you chose New York instead of L.A.,” Stone said.

She raised her glass. “So am I.”

“Tell me, where did the Post get the photograph?”

“I directed them to the Atlanta Constitution, which had done a piece on me last year.”

“I think you’re going to do well in this town.”

“From your lips to God’s ear,” she said. “I Googled you and read some of your old press.”

“Not all of it favorable,” Stone said.

“Oh, I don’t know. Like you say, they spelled your name right. I was confused about your connection to a law firm.”

“Woodman & Weld. I’m of counsel to them, which means I handle the cases they don’t want to be associated with publicly. They’re far too prestigious to be representing people who are involved in nasty divorces or have been accused of drunk driving or spousal abuse. Once in a while they throw me a nice personal-injury suit to settle, but I also generate a good deal of my own business.”

“Well, if I’m ever in terrible trouble, I’ll call you,” Carrie said.

“Don’t wait until then,” Stone replied. He looked at his watch. “Perhaps we’d better move along.”

“Yes, we’re already fashionably late,” she said, jumping gracefully to her feet.

They walked out into the spring night, hand in hand.