by Stuart Woods
“Just one glass for you three,” Arrington said. “With your parents’ permission, Hattie.”
“Just one,” Margaret Patrick said.
“Sure,” Dino echoed.
“Dino,” Stone asked, “maybe now would be a good time to deliver the mail?”
Stone and Dino each produced an envelope and handed it to his son. “We don’t know what the letters say,” he said.
Peter and Ben turned over the envelopes and inspected them.
“They haven’t been opened,” Dino said.
“We may as well,” Peter said, tearing open the envelope and reading the letter.
“Read it to us,” Stone said.
Peter held up the letter and read, “ ‘Dear Mr. Barrington, I am pleased to tell you that you have been accepted to the Yale School of Drama for the fall term. Your friend Mr. Bacchetti has been accepted, as well.
“ ‘I congratulate you both, and we look forward to seeing you this fall. You will receive a packet of information at a later date that you will need for enrollment and to help with arranging housing.’
“It’s signed by the dean,” Peter said.
“Mine says the same,” Ben said. Both boys stood there, looking astonished.
“Now we have something to toast,” Stone said. “To Ben and Peter, may they get everything their parents hope for from their education.”
There was laughter and applause, and everyone drank.
“Excuse me,” Sean Patrick said, “but our daughter Hattie has an announcement.”
Everyone grew quiet. Hattie stood and, holding her champagne flute, said, “Before Christmas I applied to both Juilliard and Yale to study music. I was accepted to both, and I have chosen Yale for my studies.”
Another uproar and more drinking. Peter and Hattie hugged each other, and she gave Ben a hug, too.
During the next hour they emptied four bottles of Krug ’99, and then Somes called them to dinner, opening the double doors that led into the dining room. They were served a salad, then a silver cart was wheeled in and Somes carved two rib roasts for them.
When they were on coffee, Somes’s wife, Marlene, who was the chef, came in and was introduced, fetching a round of applause.
They walked across the hall to the walnut-paneled library and were served coffee and cognac.
“If it were summer, we’d do this on the front porch,” Arrington said, “but in winter, it’s nice to be by the fire.”
Somes came in and put a couple more logs in the large fireplace.
They talked until after ten, then everyone went upstairs to their rooms.
“You’re going to have to perform again,” Arrington said, as she closed the door behind them.
“I’m up for a command performance,” Stone said, taking her in his arms.
47
S tone was wakened by a sharp knocking on their bedroom door. “Mom? Dad?”
Arrington stirred. “I told him we’d all go riding this morning,” she said.
“Right after breakfast, Peter,” Stone called back. “Say, eight o’clock?”
“I’ll meet you downstairs at eight,” Peter replied, then went away.
“What time is it?” Arrington asked.
“Six-thirty.”
“Then breakfast will appear momentarily.” She got up, slipped into a dressing gown, and unlocked the bedroom door. A moment later someone knocked, and she opened the door. Somes came in pushing a hotel-style table on wheels, and he set it up before the fireplace in the sitting room, while Arrington and Stone brushed their teeth. They ate hungrily.
“I’m so glad the college acceptances came when they did,” Arrington said.
“It worked out perfectly, didn’t it? And Hattie had a nice surprise for us. I don’t think Peter knew.”
“We’re not going to be able to keep them out of bed together, you know,” Arrington said.
“I suppose not,” Stone said. “Maybe we’d better yield to reality and get the three of them an apartment together in New Haven.”
“Oh, I’m not sure the Patricks would go along with that,” Arrington said. “You’d better let me feel things out with Margaret before you bring up that subject.”
“I will leave the matter in your capable hands,” Stone said, with relief.
They met Peter, Ben, and Hattie downstairs at eight.
“My folks are still asleep,” Hattie said. “I couldn’t get them up.”
“My dad, too,” Ben said, “and I heard snoring from the Eggerses’ room.”
The five of them walked out to the stables, where a groom had saddled horses for them, and soon they were trotting along a trail, with Peter in the lead. Shortly, they broke out into open fields and were able to canter.
“No jumping of fences, anybody,” Arrington called out. “I’m not having anyone’s broken neck on my conscience,” she said to Stone, who was riding alongside her, feeling more and more comfortable on his mount.
“Are my riding pants tight enough?” he asked Arrington.
“Oh, I already checked them out,” she replied, laughing. “They’re perfect, and so is your ass.”
They rode for most of the chilly morning. Virginia was nowhere near as cold as New York, but it was nippy. Arrington gave them a tour of Champion Racing Farms, and they stopped at the big stable, met the horses, and watched them work out on the track.
“That big gelding out front is going to win the Derby for us this year,” Arrington said. “His name is Valentino.”
They were back at the house in time for lunch, which they had at a long table in the big kitchen, with another fire going.
After lunch, Arrington excused herself. “I have a party to get ready for,” she said to her guests. “Everyone’s coming at six.”
“May I help?” Margaret Patrick asked.
“Are you any good with flowers?” Arrington asked. “The florist’s truck will be here any minute.”
“That is my metier,” Margaret replied, and she followed Arrington from the room. Hattie tagged along, too, and so did Bill Eggers’s wife.
Somes appeared. “Mrs. Barrington won’t allow cigars in the house,” he said, “but we do have some port.”
“By all means,” Stone said, and the decanter was brought and passed to the left around the table. Ben and Peter were allowed a dram.
“So, Stone,” Bill Eggers said, “are you going to leave the law and become a Virginia gentleman?”
Stone laughed. “I am unqualified for that role, by upbringing, education, and inclination.”
“Well, you certainly have the property for it,” Mike Freeman said.
“Yes, and I have the feeling I’m going to have a hard time keeping Arrington in New York for more than a few days at a time, especially when spring comes.”
“That could be a good thing for a marriage,” Eggers said. “My wife spends much of the summer in the Hamptons, and I go out on weekends. That way, she maintains her tan, and I get some work done.”
“I may take some time off this summer,” Stone said, “to take Arrington and Peter up to Maine.”
“Oh, yeah,” Peter said. “And you’re going to teach me to sail.”
“I am indeed. Ben, you and your father are invited, too.”
“You’re not getting me in a boat,” Dino said.
“You never know, Dino,” Stone replied. “You might even like it.”
After lunch, the men drifted off to their rooms, and Stone had a look around the house, where the women were arranging huge quantities of flowers in crystal vases all over the ground floor. Some musicians arrived-a string quartet, it seemed-and set up in the main hallway, next to a Steinway grand.
Stone wandered upstairs, undressed, and stretched out for a nap. The riding had been tiring, and he had a sore ass. He stirred a little when Arrington came upstairs and crooked a finger at her.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “I’m going to take a very long bath and then take a very long time to get dressed. It’s four o�
�clock, and I’m not sure I can get it all done by six.” She vanished into her dressing room.
Stone lay on his back and gazed drowsily at the ceiling. He had no feeling of ownership of this place-not even a feeling of Arrington’s ownership. Instead, it felt as if they had checked, en masse, into a very luxurious country inn. He dozed.
He was awakened an hour later by the string quartet, the sound making its way through the thick door. He struggled out of bed, showered and shaved, and got into his tuxedo. When he came out Arrington was sitting at her dressing table in her bra and panties, doing something to her hair. He exposed the nape of her neck and kissed her there.
“You know what that does to me,” she said. “If you aren’t careful, I’ll have to start all over.”
“All right, all right,” he said. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.” He wandered down to the library, past the string quartet, who appeared to be rehearsing, or perhaps just playing for their own amusement.
He poured himself a small Knob Creek and took a chair by the fire, happy to have a moment to himself before the bash, with the music lending atmosphere.
48
A rrington walked into the library at the stroke of five forty-five and poured herself a Knob Creek.
“You’re a bourbon drinker? I’m still learning about my new wife.”
“I’m looking for a more instant buzz than champagne will give me,” she said. “I can’t face all these people sober.” She sank into the chair opposite him.
“I’ve never seen you look more beautiful,” he said. “We have to get a picture taken, since we’ll never be this young again.”
“What a nice way to put it!” she laughed. “Don’t worry, there’ll be a photographer; in fact, he’s already arrived and is stationed outside, to get people as they enter.”
A car door slammed outside.
“Oh, oh,” she said, tossing off the rest of her bourbon, “here they come. Why is someone always early? Haven’t they ever heard of fashionably late?”
“Fortunately, they are your friends,” he said, “so I cannot be blamed for their swinish conduct.”
“I’ll blame you if I want to,” she said, getting up. “Come on, time to play host.”
Stone made his bourbon vanish and followed her into the main hall. The quartet started up, on cue, with “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.”
Somes opened the door, and the first half dozen of their guests entered. Introductions were made, while a maid made their coats disappear, and Stone heard spoken, for the first time in his life, the words “And this is my husband.”
The seventh person through the door was a tall, slender man with a head full of graying hair and a supercilious expression.
“Stone, this is our architect, Timothy Rutledge. Tim, this is my husband, Stone Barrington.” Those unfamiliar words again.
Stone extended his hand, and Rutledge gripped it lightly by the fingers, as if he were warding off a bone-crushing handshake. “How do you do?” he said, as if he didn’t care how Stone or anyone else did.
“Good to meet you,” Stone lied. “You’ve done a very fine job on the house.” That was the truth.
One corner of Rutledge’s mouth turned up slightly. “You’re very kind to say so,” he replied, as if kindness were a curse.
Arrington forestalled any more conversation between them by taking Rutledge by the arm and introducing him to someone else.
Once the flood of arrivals subsided from a river to a trickle, Stone grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing silver tray and circulated, mustering all the charm at his disposal. He was greeted, in most cases, by some warmth, and in others, by a trace of sleet. He would have to ask Arrington later what caused the dividing line. The eyes of the women invariably darted from console to chandelier to carpet, while the men, mostly, looked for a waiter bearing booze, and they didn’t seem to care what kind.
A bit after seven, when Arrington judged that enough lubrication had been passed among her guests, she nodded at Somes, who produced a silver bell and walked around the house, singing, “Dinner is served. Dinner is served in the dining room!”
The string quartet sawed away on some Vivaldi while the guests rushed the dining room and the buffet on the groaning board. Half an hour later they were distributed around the ground floor on furniture, the stairs, and on the floor, scarfing up filet of beef or wild salmon and allowing Somes to repeatedly refill their flutes.
Stone shared a small sofa in the living room with a plump, beautifully coiffed Virginia matron named Vilia.
“A beautiful name,” he said. “I’ve always loved the Lehar song.”
“From my mother’s favorite operetta,” she said, smiling broadly at his recognition.
“I once saw a production of The Merry Widow, due to circumstances beyond my control, entirely in Finnish.”
“And how did that come about?” she asked.
“Well, I was in Helsinki at the time, and I was one of at least two Americans in the audience. I know, because they sold us both the same seat. We compared tickets, and he wandered off somewhere.” He looked up to see a woman passing the piano who appeared distinctly of New York and not Virginia. She was tall, slender, and wore a tight, low-cut black dress with a slit up her leg nearly to the illegal limit. She looked vaguely familiar, but out of context. He thought about it and couldn’t place her. As he watched, she set down her flute and produced, from God knew where, an iPhone, and began snapping pictures of the room, in a manner more befitting a backyard barbecue than a haut monde Albemarle County soiree. She was joined by a lanky young man who reminded Stone of Rutledge, the icy architect, and who, apparently, told her to put away the electronics. She reclaimed her champagne and trailed him from the room, teetering on six-inch heels.
Kelli Keane was having the time of her life. She had been to some good parties, but never anything quite like this. There were men dressed in red hunting jackets, for Christ’s sake, over their black ties, and women in ball gowns! Kelli had a very good memory, and she digested as many names as she could, for matching later with her photos. David was being a prick about the pictures, but she had snapped shots in every room before he stopped her. A change in the music turned her head.
Two members of the string quartet had exchanged a violin and a cello for a guitar and a banjo, and they were executing an enthusiastic reel. They finished to a big round of applause from the guests, then recovered their original instrumentation and began playing “Good-Night, Ladies,” apparently the signal for the gentry to put down their glasses and get the hell out. The butler and three maids appeared, carrying armloads of coats and, miraculously, found their owners. Twenty minutes later, Kelli and David were in their rental car, headed back to the inn.
“You were naughty to take photographs,” David said.
“Then I’ll make it up to you by being naughty when we get to the inn,” she said, stroking the inside of his thigh with her long nails.
Stone said good night to some guests then turned and spotted Arrington, who had been backed into a corner by Tim Rutledge, and Stone did not like the desperate expression on her face. Stone walked over to them, shouldered Rutledge out of his way, and held his arm out to Arrington, who took it and walked away with him. As they passed Somes, Stone said to him, through a clenched smile, “Find Mr. Rutledge his coat, now.”
They walked into the library, now empty of guests. “What was that all about?” he asked.
“Oh, it was nothing,” she said. “Just Tim being Tim.”
Stone nodded toward the gun cabinet near the fireplace. “I hope those are loaded,” he said.
“My father always kept them that way,” she replied, “but you keep your hands in your pockets.”
49
T hey lay on their backs in bed, naked, holding hands.
“Well,” Stone said, “that seemed to go very well.”
“Did it?” Arrington asked, sighing. “I hardly noticed. I didn’t have the time.”
“Tell me about T
im Rutledge,” he said. “What did he want from you?”
“Guess,” she said.
“Was that all?”
“Was that all?!”
“Not to undervalue your virtue, but somehow it seemed more complicated than that.”
“He wants not just my virtue but my house and my fortune.”
“Did you explain that those things were already committed?”
“I did so, and succinctly, but he wouldn’t take ‘No, not now, not ever, now get out!’ for an answer. You arrived just in time.”
“Are there any other former lovers lurking about that I should be wary of?”
“No, and he is included in that category because, for a year, you weren’t around.”
“I wasn’t invited.”
“Well, I was busy, I guess, and he was around. Constantly.”
“Did you give him hope for the future?”
“I did not. On the contrary, I actively and explicitly discouraged any thought of the future.”
“Good. Then I don’t have to feel sorry for him.”
“Oh, he’ll have moved on to someone else by next week-probably a married woman, that being his specialty. He’s known among the local matrons as ‘The Prong.’”
Stone laughed.
“Oh, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Arrington said. “We have a family plot in the local churchyard. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Is that where you wish to rest for eternity?”
“It’s quite pretty, really.”
“I always thought I’d like to be scattered somewhere.”
“After cremation, I suppose.”
“Yes, cremation obviates dismemberment.”
“Scattered where?”
“Someplace beautiful. Off the dock at the Maine house would be nice.”
“I liked that house,” she said. “The cousin who bequeathed it to you had very good taste in houses.”
“Yes, he did.”
