45

Gala was sitting at a desk in the study of Stone’s Arrington house, her laptop on the desk. It was going well: she had her conclusion in mind now, and the dialogue in the final scenes was going well. Her cell phone rang. Without looking at it, she picked it up. “Hello?”

“Gala, it’s Boris. Please don’t hang up, I have something important to say.”

“What is it, Boris, and make it quick—I’m working.”

“First of all, I want to apologize to you for the trouble I’ve made. I’m very sorry, and I won’t do it again.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that.”

“I want to apologize to Mr. Barrington, too. I’d like to take both of you to lunch at the Bel-Air.”

“Boris, that’s crazy. Why would Stone want to have lunch with you?”

“I’ve been seeing a therapist,” Tirov said, “and she says it’s very important to my recovery that I personally apologize to everyone I’ve offended.”

“Then either your therapist is insane, or she has no idea how many people you’ve offended. It would take years for you to personally apologize to all of them.”

“I’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t I? Please do this for me. Ask Mr. Barrington if he will bring you to lunch at the Bel-Air. After all, I have to apologize to you, too.”

“All right, I’ll ask him, but I won’t recommend it.”

“That’s all I ask. I suggest tomorrow at one o’clock, in the Bel-Air garden restaurant. Later tomorrow afternoon, I have to leave for a location shoot. I’m starting a big Western, and I won’t be back for weeks.”

“I’ll ask him. Goodbye.” She hung up. He had broken her concentration; now she had to get her head back into the scene she was working on.

—

Stone stopped in. “Can you break for a bite?”

She closed the laptop. “Sure, I can use a break.”

“I’ll have lunch sent to the pool.”

They settled down at a table there, and the food arrived.

“Stone,” she said reluctantly, “I have to ask you a favor.”

“Sure, how can I help?”

“I had a call from Boris this morning.”

“Oh, no,” Stone groaned.

“It’s all right, it’s nothing bad.”

“What did he have to say?”

“He’s begun to see a therapist, and as part of his treatment she has insisted that he see the people he’s offended and apologize to them personally.”

“That sounds like a twelve-step program.”

“Maybe it is, I don’t know, but he’s begged me to bring you to lunch at the Bel-Air tomorrow, so that he can apologize to you.”

“I don’t want his apology,” Stone said. “I just want him to be absent from our lives.”

“I want that, too, and this may be the best way to accomplish it.”

“I’m not sure I could have lunch with him without stabbing him with a fork.”

“He was really very pathetic on the phone. I believe he’s sincere. And I know him well enough that he won’t let up until he’s seen us.”

“How about later in the week?”

“He’s leaving tomorrow afternoon to go on location for several weeks.”

Stone sighed. “I don’t want to see him—not yet, anyway. I’m still too angry with him. Next time we’re in L.A., maybe. When is he coming back from his location shoot?”

“He said several weeks.”

“I’m sorry, I know you want this, but I don’t really trust myself to see him, not even in a public place.”

“All right, I’ll tell him.”

—

When they had finished lunch, Gala called Tirov.

“Gala?”

“Yes.”

“Did you speak to him? Will the two of you join me?”

“I’m sorry, Boris, he has a business meeting tomorrow. He said perhaps next time we’re in L.A.”

“As you wish,” Tirov said, and there was ice in his voice.

“I’ll call you next time we’re in L.A.”

“My therapist says that if someone I’ve offended won’t meet me, then I should send a gift.”

“If you like, fine.”

“I’ll have it messengered to the Arrington tomorrow, before I leave for location. What suite number?”

“Just address it to Stone—the hotel will know. Have a good shoot.” She hung up and went back to work. The lunch break helped; she got her scene finished.

The following morning Gala finished her script. She read through it once more, and was pleased with how well it flowed. She e-mailed it to her agent, who would print and messenger the hard copy to the studio.

She and Stone had lunch by the pool again, and they celebrated her completion of the script with champagne.

As they were finishing lunch, the butler approached. “Mr. Barrington, please excuse me. A delivery came for you, from Tiffany’s. I put it on the table in the study.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “I’m not expecting anything.”

“I forgot to tell you,” Gala said. “When I told Boris you couldn’t have lunch, he said that his therapist had told him that if he couldn’t see someone to whom he was apologizing, he should send a gift instead. He’s always loved Tiffany’s—it’s probably a clock or a piece of crystal.”

—

When they had finished lunch, they went into the house, and Stone found a large sky-blue box on the study table, tied with a white ribbon. There was no card. He was about to untie the ribbon when he stopped and looked at the box carefully. It looked like every other Tiffany’s box he had ever seen: there were no marks or blemishes. He thought about it for a minute, then he sat down and got out his cell phone.

Gala came into the room. “Oh, is this the one from Boris?” She reached for the ribbon. “Shall I open it for you?”

“No!” Stone said, stopping her short. “Please don’t touch it.” He pressed a speed-dial button and waited.

“Billy Barnett,” a man’s voice said.

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“What’s up?”

“I had a lunch invitation from Boris Tirov yesterday. He told Gala his therapist wanted him to apologize to people he had offended.”

“Really?”

“I declined, and he said he would send a gift instead. It arrived a few minutes ago. It’s a large box from Tiffany’s.”

“Where is the box?”

“On a table in my study.”

“Have you touched it?”

“No.”

“Don’t. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Please let the front gate know I’m coming.”

Stone hung up, called the front gate and told them to let Billy in when he arrived.

—

Billy walked into the room without knocking, carrying a briefcase, and went straight to the box. He walked slowly around it, then lifted it carefully and peered at the bottom and set it down again. “Would you and Gala please leave the room?” he asked.

“Gala, please leave the room,” Stone said.

She started for the door, then stopped. “What about you?”

“I’m going to stay with Billy.”

She left the room and closed the door behind her.

“Are you sure?” Billy asked.

“If you’re staying, I’m staying.”

Billy set his briefcase on the table slowly, then opened it. He removed a small box cutter, placed his hand on top of the box, and pressed the box cutter against the side until it pierced the cardboard. Then he began sawing, until he had cut a circular hole about four inches in diameter. He then put the cut cardboard and the box cutter into the briefcase, bent over and sniffed at the hole. “Uh-oh,” he said. He removed a small flashlight from his briefcase and shone its bright light into the box, then he turned it off and stepped back. “There’s a piece of plastic explosive in there half the size of my hand—about four ounces, I estimate. Enough to destroy this room and kill anyone near it.”

“I’m glad I didn’t open it,” Stone said.

“It’s time to call the bomb squad,” Billy said.

“What’s the alternative?”

“I can disable it myself.”

“Safely?”

“I wouldn’t do it if I thought I’d get killed.”

“Then let’s leave the police out of it,” Stone said. “It would take me days to deal with them.”

Billy went back to his briefcase, removed a pair of wire cutters and the flashlight, and went to work. A minute later, he stood back. “All clear,” he said. “What would you like me to do with the explosive?”

“I don’t want it.”

“Then I’ll dispose of it, if that’s all right.”

“That’s all right,” Stone said.

Billy reached into the box through the hole he had made, removed a slab of what looked like modeling clay, put it into his briefcase, and closed it. He picked up the briefcase in one hand and the Tiffany’s box in the other. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Thank you, Billy,” Stone said.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Stone said.

Gala stuck her head in. “Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” Stone said. “My board meeting is tomorrow morning. Shall we go back to Santa Fe tomorrow afternoon?”

“Fine with me.” She left.

Billy spoke up. “Don’t you think it’s about time you dealt more positively with Tirov?”

“Perhaps it is. How would you advise handling it?”

“Let me give it some thought. I’ll call you.”