STONE GOT TO HIS FEET at Patroon, but Ken Aretsky, the owner, was already assisting Cilla Scott down a step or two and restoring her knee scooter to its proper place. He waved to give her a target.
She made it with a few deft pushes of her other foot.
“You look as though you were born on that thing,” Stone said, helping her to be seated.
“It feels like that long,” she replied. “I’m going to try tippy-toe tomorrow.”
“Don’t rush it,” Stone advised, “you could screw up things and make them worse.”
“Do they sell alcoholic beverages in this restaurant?” she asked.
“My apologies. What would you like?”
“A very dry Belvedere vodka martini, olives.”
The beverage was rushed to her.
“Two-legged days,” she said, raising her glass.
“I’ll drink to that, but you’re supposed to wait four days before you try.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll wait until day after tomorrow.”
“I had occasion to be introduced to your husband today,” he said.
She looked surprised. “Where?”
“In my office.”
“He doesn’t even know your name,” she said. “At least, not from me.”
“Then he has a spy in your camp.”
“What ensued?”
“I explained to him that Herb Fisher, not I, represents you. He seemed unable to make that leap. Perhaps you could tell him that?”
“I already have. Herb had his first meeting with Donald’s attorney today. I’m told it went well.”
“Then nobody told Donald. He’s very upset about the deal offered him.”
“Herb says my offer is more than a court would give him. I hope Terry Barnes can make him understand that.”
“His judgment was probably impaired by alcohol. He called later in the day and offered to arrange a boxing match at the Athletic Club, in which he and I would duke out a settlement.”
She placed her face in her hands. “That is so embarrassing,” she said. “Please accept my apology.”
“You’ve nothing for which to apologize. He was hanging out near my house, so Fred went out and had a word with him.”
“Your Fred? That darling little man?”
“That darling little man reduced Donald to a quivering heap with a single blow from an umbrella,” Stone said. “Two passing police officers got him into a cab and sent him home, wherever that is.”
“The Athletic Club,” she said. “He’s taken a room there. I hope he’ll take the opportunity to sober up.”
“Is he an alcoholic?”
“Borderline, maybe. I’m not sure. He drinks to excess when angry or unhappy.”
“That must be most of the time these days,” Stone observed. “Still, I suppose he must have his charms or you wouldn’t have married him.”
“He used to, really he did. Strangely enough, the success of his fund in a rising market seemed to depress him. I suppose he realized that it was Daddy’s money, and mine, he was riding on.”
“The realization of one’s inadequacies can be a trigger for depression, I suppose.”
“Are you speaking from experience?” she asked.
“Inadequacies? Me? I assure you, I am a perfectly adequate person, if imperfect. On rare occasions, I can even rise above adequacy.”
“Good to know,” she said, taking a gulp of her martini. “God, that’s good.”
“Tell me,” Stone said, “what’s your game plan?”
“For how far ahead?”
“The next few months, say.”
“One: get divorced. Two: get housed. Three: decorate housing. I haven’t gotten much further than that.”
“Those seem reasonable short-term goals.”
“I’ve never really had long-term goals; I pretty much just wait for long-term to happen, then deal with it.”
“Okay, let’s see if you can look further ahead. Describe what you would like your circumstances to be a year from now.”
“My circumstances? Still rich—richer, in fact, when I combine Daddy’s estate with Mother’s, which has been my only money, so far, exceeding any real need, except supporting Donald. Daddy liked it that way, because he could hang on to every dime of his own until the end. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he’d found a way to wire-transfer it all ahead.”
Stone laughed. “So he didn’t coddle you?”
“Oh, he did, from time to time, but I’ve always been very good at coddling myself without the help of others. Are you rich?”
Stone managed not to choke on his bourbon. “Yes, fairly.”
“The reason I ask is: If I’m going to end up supporting you, I’d rather know about it now than wait to find out. All I know about you is that you drive a Bentley—rented? borrowed?—that you are acquainted with a doctor, a divorce attorney, and a Realtor, and that you are known to the management of this restaurant. The rest is a blank slate.”
“I own the Bentley, and please don’t concern yourself: There are no conceivable circumstances under which you might ever have to support me.”
“You understand my concern?”
“Yes, but what does your intuition tell you?”
“My intuition lies to me all the time. Who are you?”
“I believe it’s the custom in this country to get to know people by talking to them, not by inquisition. If that’s not sufficient, you can hire a private detective and have me investigated, which is probably what your father would have done in the circumstances. For the moment, however, all you need to know is what’s on the menu.”
She looked at the menu. “Caesar salad, strip steak medium rare.” She put it down. “Where do you live?”
“A ten-minute walk from here, Turtle Bay.”
“Ah, yes, you did mention that.”
“I did.”
“In which house?”
“I own two houses there, one for staff.”
“Are those the only houses you own?”
“No, I also own houses in Los Angeles, Paris, London, Key West, and the South of England, with appropriate furnishings in each. I also own a jet airplane, a small yacht, and a partnership in a larger one. I don’t think you’ll ever be called upon to give me anything more boisterous than a necktie at Christmas, which I will return and exchange for one I like.”
She threw up her hands in surrender. “Forgive me, that was a shitty thing to say to you. I suppose my wounds haven’t healed yet from my last and only experience with a long-term relationship.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Nearly eight years.”
“It sounds like long enough.”
“More than long enough,” she replied. “I should have dumped him halfway through. Are you now or have you ever been married?”
“I was married.”
“Ended in divorce?”
“Ended in death, hers.”
“Again, it’s my turn to apologize.”
“It was a perfectly straightforward question.”
“Why do you have so many houses?”
“Because I can. Anyway, I’ve always loved houses, and there came a time when I figured out that if I saw one I liked, I could buy it, just write a check. I’m trying to stop, but I can’t make any promises.”
“Promise me nothing,” she said, “and I’ll never be disappointed.”