Son of Stone

by Stuart Woods

  “We’ll see,” Eggers said, “and we’ll see you on Friday in Virginia. Arrington is putting us up, and Mike, too.”

  “See you then.” Stone hung up as Herbie came back in.

  “Allison is very nice,” he said.

  “When’s the wedding?” Stone asked.

  “Oh, come on, Stone. I’m not that bad.”

  “Oh, yes, you are,” Stone replied.

  Herbie turned red. “Well, we are having dinner this weekend.”

  Stone laughed.

  46

  On Friday morning Stone went down to his office, and Joan handed him a letter for Peter from the Yale School of Drama.

  “I wanted to open it,” she said, “but I didn’t.”

  Stone called Dino. “Did Ben get a letter from Yale this morning?”

  “Yeah,” Dino said, “but I haven’t given it to him yet. Eduardo called, though, and said there would be good news today.”

  “Peter got his today, too.”

  Early Friday afternoon, Stone packed Peter and Ben and their luggage into the car and drove out to Teterboro. The Patrick family met them in the lounge at Jet Aviation, and they walked to the ramp just outside, where the Mustang awaited them. There was half an hour of stowing luggage and doing a preflight inspection, and Peter walked around the airplane with Stone, as he pointed out various items for inspection.

  Stone settled the Patricks and Ben in the four rear seats, and put Peter in the copilot’s seat, then he closed the door, gave the group a briefing about seat belts, the emergency exit, and oxygen masks, buckled himself in, and started through his checklist. Peter followed him with the copilot’s copy, and Stone pointed out each item on the instrument panel as he checked it. Finally, Stone called the tower for his clearance, wrote it down, entered the route into the flight computer, and got permission to taxi to runway one. Stone talked Peter through the whole procedure, then, when they were cleared for takeoff, explained what was going to happen. He pushed the throttles all the way forward and started down the runway. A minute or so later, at two thousand feet, they were handed off to New York Departure and began their climb.

  “I want to learn how to do this,” Peter said.

  “When you’re a little older,” Stone replied. “In the meantime, you can read the flight and avionics manuals.”

  “I want to learn now,” Peter said.

  “You’re learning how to fly to Virginia now,” Stone replied. “In two or three years, you’ll be able to do it yourself. Learning to fly goes better when you have a reason to have an airplane. You’ll be at university, and you won’t need to fly anywhere for a while.”

  “Oh, all right,” Peter said. “Can I talk on the radio?”

  “Listen on the way down, and you can do the radio work on the way back. Radio procedure is an essential part of flying, and the key to it is to know what the controller is going to say next. Soon, we’ll get a clearance to a higher altitude, so you can expect that.”

  The controller called and cleared them to their cruising altitude of thirty-four thousand feet, and Stone showed Peter how to change the altitude in the autopilot and start the climb.

  “The autopilot really flies the airplane, doesn’t it,” Peter asked, “and you just tell it what to do?”

  “Correct, but you also have to be able to do everything manually, if the autopilot fails for some reason.”

  “Has it ever failed?”

  “Not in this airplane, yet, but in my old airplane I once had a complete electrical failure and had to hand-fly it into Teterboro, using a handheld radio.”

  “Wow,” Peter said.

  “They don’t often let you do a visual approach at Teterboro,” Stone said. “They like everybody lined up on the instrument approach. I had to declare an emergency to get permission for a visual that day.”

  An hour later they were descending into Charlottesville, and once on the ground they taxied to Arrington’s hangar, where the Gulfstream was kept. One of the pilots was waiting for them with a large van. He stowed their luggage and drove them to the house, forty minutes away, while a worker put the Mustang into the hangar with the G-III.

  There was a buzz in the van when everyone saw the driveway, lined with a dozen huge oak trees on each side, and at the end, the house, perched on a little rise.

  “This is very impressive,” Sean Patrick said.

  “Most of these trees predate the original house,” Stone said. “Arrington bought three or four other mature trees and had them moved here to fill in any gaps. They seem to have taken root successfully.”

  Arrington met them on the front porch, and introductions were made. “The photographer and crew from Architectural Digest just left,” she said to Stone. “They seemed to get everything they wanted.” She led the party into the house and gave them a quick tour of the ground floor—a broad hallway that ran through the house, with twin staircases on either side; a big drawing room and the dining room to the right; to the left the library and the kitchen at the rear of the house. When that was done she led everyone upstairs and showed them to their rooms, while staff delivered the luggage. She let everyone know that drinks would be in the drawing room at six-thirty.

  “We’re at the end of the south wing,” she said, taking Stone’s hand. She led him into the master suite, a sunny sitting room and bedroom, with a dressing room and bath on each side.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Stone said, looking around. “You were right: the house looks as though it has always been here and we’ve always lived in it. Except for my empty dressing room.”

  “That will get filled as time goes by,” she said.

  “I’m sure it will,” Stone replied.

  “Now,” she said, taking his hand and leading him toward the canopied bed, “we have two hours until drinks, and you’re going to be very busy.”

  In a moment, they were naked in bed. “God, how I’ve missed you,” she said.

  “I know exactly how you feel,” Stone said.

  There was a knock on the door. “Mom?” Peter called, and tried to open it, but she had locked it.

  “Later, Peter!” Arrington shouted back.

  “The other houseguests have arrived,” Peter yelled.

  “You’re appointed host. The butler will find them rooms.”

  “How many bedrooms are there?” Stone asked.

  “Ours, Peter’s, and five more,” she said, “but at the moment you may concern yourself only with this one.”

  At six-thirty the whole group, including Mike Freeman, Bill Eggers and his wife, and Dino gathered in the large living room, and the butler, who was introduced as Somes, poured champagne for everyone, even the children.

  “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 eve
rything 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

  Stone 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 métier,” 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

  Arrington 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.