Son of Stone sb-21

by Stuart Woods

  “Did I mention that this conversation is being recorded?” Stone asked.

  Rutledge hung up.

  Stone looked up to see Arrington standing in the doorway.

  “That was very good,” she said. “Very professional. Were you really recording him?”

  “Yes,” Stone said.

  “Was he angry?”

  “Yes. He kept saying he didn’t understand why you wouldn’t see him.”

  She nodded. “It figures. He was a perfectly nice person, until he heard your name.”

  “From whom did he hear it?”

  “From me. I told him that Peter and I were spending Christmas with you. He demanded to know who you were, and I told him you are an old friend. That didn’t help. He started asking questions about you, and I cut him off.”

  “How long had you been seeing him?” Stone asked.

  “Since shortly after construction started on the house. It was foolish of me, I guess, to become involved with someone who worked for me, but you weren’t around, and I was lonely.”

  “Does Peter know him?”

  “They’ve met once. I’ve kept him away from Tim.”

  “Well, let’s let sleeping dogs lie,” Stone said. “He’s been warned.”

  17

  P eter put on his overcoat and gloves, tucked his leather envelope under his arm, left the house, first making sure his key was in his pocket, walked up to Third Avenue, and hailed a cab. “Two-oh-five West Fifty-seventh Street,” he said to the driver, looking at the address written on the back of his father’s card.

  The driver said nothing to him but talked rapidly into his cell phone in a language that Peter thought was Arabic or Urdu. The man drove as quickly as possible in the traffic, and arrived at the building in ten minutes. Peter paid and tipped the man, as his father had told him to, and got out of the cab. It was, he reflected, the first time he had been in a New York City taxicab alone. He walked into the building and was greeted by a man in a uniform.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes, please. I have an appointment with Miss Letitia Covington.”

  The man picked up a phone. “Your name?”

  “Peter Ca-Barrington,” he said, correcting himself quickly.

  The man announced him, gave him the apartment number, and told him to go up.

  Peter got on the elevator and pressed the correct button. He checked his hair and the knot in his tie in the car’s mirror and exited into a vestibule. Before he could ring the bell the door opened and he was greeted by a uniformed maid.

  “I’m Peter Barrington,” he said, and she took his coat and led him into a sunny living room facing Fifty-seventh Street. A handsome, gray-haired woman of an age he could not determine sat in an armchair.

  “Peter? I’m Letitia Covington,” she said, indicating that he should sit on the sofa next to her chair.

  “How do you do, Miss Covington,” he said. He shook the offered hand, which was cool and dry, and sat down.

  “Would you like tea?”

  “Thank you, ma’am, yes.”

  “Milk or lemon?” she asked, reaching for the pot on a silver tray before her.

  “Lemon, please, and two sugars.”

  The woman smiled to herself and poured.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Peter said, accepting the cup.

  She offered him a tray of pastries. “Something to eat?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Well, now,” she said, “I’m told you are interested in attending Knickerbocker Hall.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “Tell me why?”

  “My goal is to be a film director,” he replied, “but my last school had only a limited program.”

  “I see. I’m told you just graduated. How did you come to graduate in December?”

  “I was an advanced student, and at the end of the last term I had an oral examination on the high school curriculum with six faculty members, and they decided to graduate me. They said they had nothing further to offer me, and I agreed with them.”

  “You must be very bright.”

  “They tell me so.”

  “Peter, have you ever had an IQ test?”

  Peter felt his cheeks color. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And what was your score?”

  Peter gulped. “I… believe it was one hundred sixty-one,” he said.

  She laughed. “You mustn’t be embarrassed about that,” she said. “That’s a very high score. You might avoid telling people about it, though, unless they corner you, as I did.”

  Peter smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And why do you wish to be a film director?”

  “Well, my stepfather was an actor, and I grew up around a lot of film people when we lived in Los Angeles, and I liked them. Then I started seeing a lot of old films and reading about them, and pretty soon, it was about all I could think about. I guess I was around eight then.”

  “And what was your stepfather’s name?”

  “Vance Calder,” Peter replied.

  Her face brightened. “Ah, I met him a few times,” she said. “He was charming, and, of course, he was one of our best film actors.”

  “Miss Covington, I would appreciate it if we could keep his name between us.”

  She looked surprised. “Why?”

  “Because, ever since we left Los Angeles, people have treated me differently because of his name, and I’ve never liked it. If I go to Knickerbocker, I want to be just Peter Barrington.”

  “I understand perfectly,” she said, “and I admire you for not using his name shamelessly to advance yourself, the way that many children of famous people have done.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Have you brought any of your work?” she asked.

  Peter opened his leather envelope. “Here is a screenplay I’ve written,” he said.

  “Give me a moment,” she said, then opened the folder and began to read quickly, turning the pages. She stopped and looked up. “That is an excellent first scene,” she said. “I particularly like the dialogue. I’ll read it all later.”

  He handed her his DVD. “I’ve edited the first seventy minutes,” he said. “I expect I’ll finish it soon.”

  “You mean it’s already shot?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Peter, did anyone help you write this?”

  “Well, I had a faculty adviser, but he wasn’t much help. He was a music teacher.”

  She smiled. “I see. I was going to ask you if you knew exactly what a film director does, but you obviously do. Why Knickerbocker?”

  “I’ve read about the program, and I think it suits what I want to do very well.”

  “Tell me what you want to do, beyond directing.”

  “I want to learn to work with actors and direct theater.”

  “And how do you propose to learn to work with actors?”

  “By becoming an actor myself,” Peter replied. “My role model is Elia Kazan.”

  “Ah, yes, Gadge,” she said. “That was his nickname, but he didn’t like it. I didn’t know that until I read his autobiography. Have you read it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Peter replied. “Twice.”

  “I see. And what do you want to do after graduation from Knickerbocker?”

  “I want to go to the Yale School of Drama,” Peter replied, “for the same reasons I want to go to Knickerbocker.”

  “Peter, I’ve no doubt that you would fit in perfectly at Knickerbocker,” she said. She picked up a folder and handed it to him. “This is an application. Please fill it out and return it to me with a copy of your birth certificate and your transcript from your previous school.”

  Peter handed her the documents. “I have those right here,” he said. “May I fill out the application now?”

  She laughed again. “Yes, you go right ahead. Do you have a pen?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Peter said.

  “I’m going to give you a few minutes to
complete the application, and then I’ll come back,” she said, rising.

  Peter stood with her, and she left. He opened the folder and began to fill in the blanks.

  Letitia Covington went into her study, sat down at her desk, picked up the phone and dialed the number of the headmaster of Knickerbocker Hall, who lived on the floor below her. “Arthur,” she said, “it’s Letitia.”

  “Good afternoon, Letitia. How did you know to find me at home?”

  “Because I know what a lazy old fart you are, and that you often leave school early.”

  “I come home to do paperwork,” he protested. “They won’t leave me alone if I’m at school.”

  “I want you to come up here right now,” she said.

  He laughed. “What’s up, Letitia?”

  “I have a candidate for you, sitting on my living room sofa, filling out his application, right now.”

  “Letitia, you know we have a waiting list.”

  “You’re going to forget all about that when you meet him,” she said. “Now get your ass up here!” She hung up and went back to the living room.

  Peter rose as she entered and handed her the folder.

  “Already finished?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I put my birth certificate and my transcript in the folder, along with a recommendation from the headmaster.”

  The doorbell rang, and the maid led in a man wearing a seedy cardigan and a necktie loose at the collar.

  “Peter, this is Arthur Golden, our headmaster at Knickerbocker.”

  Peter stood and offered his hand, noticing that he was taller than Golden. “How do you do, sir?”

  “Sit down, sit down,” Golden said. “I’m not accustomed to good manners from students.”

  “I’m afraid, Arthur,” Miss Covington said, “that Peter doesn’t know how to behave any other way.” She handed him the screenplay. “Read the first scene,” she said. “We’ll wait.”

  Golden sat down, put on the glasses that hung from a string around his neck, and began to read. Finally he stopped and began asking Peter all the questions Miss Covington had asked him.

  When Peter had dutifully answered them all, Golden looked at Miss Covington and nodded. “Peter, I’d like you to come to the school tomorrow morning, meet some people and have a look around. Please bring your parents, if you like.”

  “I’d like that very much, Mr. Golden,” Peter replied.

  “Don’t wear a jacket and tie,” Golden said. “You’ll frighten the other students.”

  18

  P eter ran into Stone’s office, breathless. “I think I got in!” he shouted. “Miss Covington was just great, and she made the headmaster, Mr. Golden, come up to her apartment to meet me!”

  Stone helped him off with his coat and steered him to the sofa. “Sit down and take a few deep breaths,” he said, and got the boy a bottle of water from the fridge.

  Peter gave him a blow-by-blow account of his meeting. “I’m going to the school tomorrow morning. They said you and Mom could come, too!”

  “I’m available,” Stone said, “and I’m sure your mother is, too.”

  That evening they attended The Lion King, which Stone liked much better than he thought he would, and they dined at Sardi’s. Stone explained the history of the restaurant, and they played at recognizing the faces in the caricatures hung in rows on the walls. Peter did better than Stone.

  Later, as they climbed into bed, Stone pulled Arrington close to him. “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you, too.”

  “Good. Will you marry me?”

  She pushed him back and looked at him. “Stone, are you just trying to make an honest woman of me?”

  “Among other things. In addition to all the other good reasons for getting married, I don’t think Peter ought to have to explain our relationship to people.”

  “What about this separate living in New York and Virginia?”

  “That’s still to be negotiated, after we’ve settled the basic question.”

  “Yes, I’ll marry you,” she said, “gladly and with enthusiasm.” They kissed for a long time.

  Finally, Stone broke free. “Wait right here,” he said, getting up.

  “Did you think I was going somewhere?”

  Stone padded across the bedroom to his dressing room, where he pushed back some suits and opened his safe. He felt around at the rear of the steel box until he found it, then he locked the safe, went back to Arrington, and handed her the box.

  She looked at him, mystified, then opened it, revealing the ring inside, along with a matching diamond wedding ring.

  “It’s not as big as your old one,” Stone said, “but it’s more, ah, tasteful.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” she said. “When did you buy this?”

  “Before our planned trip to the islands,” he replied. “I had planned to give it to you when we were in St. Marks, but we didn’t quite make it there, at least, not together. It’s been in my safe ever since.”

  Arrington slipped it on. “It’s perfect. What is it, six carats?”

  “Five and a bit, nearly flawless.”

  “You couldn’t afford this in those days.”

  “I managed. Now it seems like a good investment; it would cost five times as much now.”

  She sat up in bed next to him, naked, looking nymph-like, looking at her ring on her finger. “We have some things to work out.”

  “Yes, we do. Before we start, remember that I have a career in New York, more than ever.”

  “I am cognizant of that,” she said. “But you have to remember that I’m building a new house, and that it’s almost finished. I have work to do there, and I’ll want to spend a lot of time there. I admit, I’m enjoying New York more than I did when I last lived here, and I love your house, too.”

  “You have a fast airplane,” he said. “You can come and go as you wish. I hope you’ll miss me, though.”

  She sighed. “I’m sure I will. And I think we should go ahead with the hotel project in Los Angeles.”

  “All right.” Arrington’s house in Bel-Air rested on eighteen acres, and Stone had put together a plan to develop it as a hotel. “Do you think you’ll have to spend a lot of time there?”

  “No, I don’t. I’ll make the architects and landscapers come to New York or Virginia with their plans, and I’ll try not to go until my house there is finished.” Part of the deal was that the developers would build her a house on the hotel grounds.

  “Sounds good.”

  “You and Woodman amp; Weld have done a superb job of putting my affairs in order. That’s why I think I can go ahead with the project.”

  “On behalf of Woodman amp; Weld, I thank you. You have a lot to thank Mike Freeman for, too. He’s put together a great group of investors and brought in the hotel management group, too.”

  “I’ll write him a note on my best stationery,” she said.

  “Order some new stationery tomorrow,” Stone said.

  “That brings up another problem, a very big one,” she said.

  “Stationery?”

  “Yes. I cannot be Arrington Barrington.”

  Stone burst out laughing. “This could wreck the whole thing, couldn’t it?”

  “It certainly could.”

  “I have a solution.”

  “I hope so. Tell me.”

  “Your maiden name is Carter; call yourself Arrington Carter Barrington. You could even hyphenate it, if you’re feeling posh.”

  “Arrington Carter Barrington. That makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”

  “All you needed was a little air between the two names.”

  “Lots of people use names like that these days,” she said, repeating it.

  “They do, don’t they?”

  “When do you want to get married?”

  “Well, for purposes of our visit to our son’s new school tomorrow, I think we should style ourselves Mr. and Mrs.”

  “Good idea.”

  “After we s
ee the school, we can run down to City Hall and pick up a license, then we can speak the vows at our leisure.”

  “Listen, Stone, we have to be very careful, very private about this. I don’t want to see stories in the newspapers about us. That might make things difficult for Peter, if he has to start explaining his new name to people.”

  “We’ll do it as secretly as possible, and let people find out as it comes up.”

  “You’ll want Dino for best man, won’t you?”

  “Yes. Whom do you want for maid of honor?”

  “I don’t know; I’ll have to think about it. I don’t have a lot of girlfriends.”

  “No rush.”

  She stretched out in his arms again. “Arrington Carter-Barrington,” she said. “With a hyphen. Will you be Stone Carter-Barrington?”

  “Ah, no.”

  “Oh, all right.” She kissed him for a long time, then nature took its course.

  19

  S tone went down to the office for a few minutes before leaving for Knickerbocker Hall, and Joan buzzed him. “Seth

  Keener on one,” she said.

  Stone picked it up. “Good morning, Seth.”

  “Morning, Stone. A couple of things: it seems the New York State legislature is going to pass a no-fault divorce law sometime soon. We have to decide whether to wait for that or go ahead with the present petition.”

  “The present petition has been filed; let’s stick with it. It might even get resolved more quickly, because of the impending no-fault law; some cases might be withdrawn to wait for no-fault.”

  “All right. The other thing: I’m hearing rumors that 60 Minutes is about to do an investigative piece on the island of Monoto.”

  This was the Pacific enclave of the wealthy where Stephanie Fisher and her brother had run after looting the family firm. “What does that have to do with the divorce?”

  “I’m not sure. It depends on how big an effect the program has.”

  “I don’t think it matters what effect the show has. The petition is filed. If you know anybody who can rush it, that’s fine with me and, I’m sure, with my client.”

  “Okay, I’ll get on it.”

  “Does Stephanie know about 60 Minutes?”