by Stuart Woods
“That’s perfect,” Peter said, in awe of what he was hearing. “I’d be happy for the whole score to be just your piano.”
“There are a few places where we could add a cello and a flute,” she said, “and I’d like a double bass in the more dramatic passages. There are kids at school who could play those parts.”
“Whatever you say. Play me the theme again.”
She began the passage, and Peter was swept into it. He closed his eyes and listened.
41
S tone was in his office when, from upstairs, he heard the sound of the piano. It sounded very nice, he thought, and he was glad he had it tuned twice a year. After a while the music stopped, and Stone thought that, in light of his conversation with Arrington, he should find out why. He got up and went upstairs.
“Good afternoon,” he said, startling the teenagers.
“Hello, Dad,” Peter said. “I’d like you to meet Hattie Patrick, my friend from school.”
Stone shook her hand. “Hello, Hattie. I liked what you were playing a minute ago.”
“I hope we didn’t disturb you,” she said.
“Not at all.”
“That was some of the music Hattie has written for the score of my movie, Dad,” Peter said.
“Wonderful. Peter, if you have a moment, there’s something I’d like to show you. Hattie, you can come along, too.”
He led them to the elevator and they rose to the top floor. Stone switched on a hallway light, then they walked into a sunny room at the rear of the house, overlooking the gardens. “Peter, I think you need more space for the things your mother is sending from Virginia, and I thought you might like these two rooms. The bedroom is over there,” he said, pointing.
“This is nice,” Peter said. “Hattie, do you like it?”
“Very much,” she replied. “You could make it beautiful.”
“You’ll need some bookcases, and maybe a built-in desk for your computer station,” Stone said, pointing.
“I can design those,” Peter said, “and we can get someone to build them.”
“I know a good cabinetmaker,” Stone said. “He used to work for your grandfather. Make some drawings, and we’ll get him in for a look.”
“Okay. Let me look around some more, then Hattie and I are going to watch my film together and make some notes for the score,” Peter said.
“Good,” Stone said. “I’ll be right next door.” He hoped Peter got the message.
Stone left them there and went down to the master suite, where he opened the Times and started on the Saturday crossword, always the toughest of the week.
Kelli Keane got home to her little apartment on Third Avenue in the Seventies and immediately went to her computer. She opened a program that searched apartment buildings for the names of tenants or co-op owners, typed in Park Avenue and Sixty-third Street and the name Hattie Patrick. In a matter of seconds she had a hit at 576 Park, a prewar co-op building, and Hattie’s name appeared along with those of her parents, Sean and Margaret. She thought the name Sean Patrick sounded familiar, so she Googled him and got the Patrick Group, a hedge fund that, according to their website, managed more than fifty billion dollars. Wow! Kelli thought.
For good measure she Googled Hattie and got more than she had expected. The girl was a star music student at Knickerbocker who had played piano recitals and earned good reviews at some of the city’s better venues. She had been the piano soloist a year before in a performance of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue and Concerto in F, with the New York Youth Orchestra at Carnegie Hall. Wow! again.
Just on the off chance, she Googled Peter Barrington and got zip. She tried Peter Calder and got zip, too. It was as if the kid had recently arrived from another planet.
Peter and Hattie sat on pillows on the floor at the foot of his bed and watched his film come to an end. Hattie now had a full set of notes.
“I know what I want to write now,” she said to Peter. “What I’d like to do is to record a rough track on film to make sure I’ve got the cues right, then I’ll write some additional parts for cello, bass, and flute, and when I have the piano part perfectly recorded, we’ll dub in the other instruments.”
“That sounds perfect,” Peter said. “How did you get so good at this so young?”
“The same way you got good at filmmaking,” she said. “I studied, then practiced all the time and played with other musicians whenever I could.”
“That’s not exactly how I got to be a filmmaker,” Peter said. “I just went to the movies a lot, then made a movie. What are you going to do after graduation?”
“I’ve been accepted at Juilliard,” she said, “to study composition. I’m not really interested in a career as a concert artist; I want more freedom than that.” She reached into her handbag and handed Peter a disc. “Here’s a present for you.”
Peter looked at the label. “ Rhapsody in Blue? It’s one of my favorites. So is Concerto in F. Can I put it on now?”
“No, it will just embarrass me,” Hattie said. “Listen to it when you’re alone.”
“All right.”
Stone knocked at the open door and came in. “Everything go well with the film?”
“Yes, Dad,” Peter said. “Hattie’s got what she needs now to write the whole score. And she gave me this.” He handed Stone the disc.
Stone read the label. “Carnegie Hall!” he said. “That’s very impressive.”
Hattie turned pink.
“She embarrasses easily,” Peter said. “She won’t even let me listen to it while’s she’s here.”
“I’ve heard it before,” Hattie said, getting to her feet. “And now I think I have to get home and walk the dog. I take him to Central Park about this time every day, and he’ll be expecting me.”
“I’ll walk you down and get you a cab,” Peter said.
The two went downstairs and got their coats.
Peter was back in ten minutes, and he came into the master suite.
“You want to listen to Hattie’s recording?”
“Sure,” Stone said. “Put it in the player over there.” He pointed. He tossed Peter the remote for the other side of the electric bed. “Get comfortable,” he said. Peter inserted the disc.
The music started, and Stone turned up the volume to concert level.
The two pieces finished, and they were both silent for a moment.
“That was breathtaking,” Stone said after a moment.
“It sure was.”
“Did you know she was that good before today?”
“I heard her improvise some stuff in a recital hall at school, but I’m astonished.”
“Is she going to pursue a concert career?”
“No, but she’s going to study composition at Juilliard this fall. She says she doesn’t want a career as a concert artist.”
“I don’t blame her,” Stone said. “That’s quite a girl, Peter. Hang on to her, if you can.”
“I wonder if Yale has a music school,” Peter said.
42
S tone was in bed the following morning with the Sunday
Times when Peter came into the room. “Good morning,
Dad,” he said.
“Good morning, Peter. Did you sleep well?”
Peter looked a little sheepish. “Not all that well.”
“Ah,” Stone said, “thinking about Hattie?”
“Well, yes.”
“Tell you what: Ben is off to Choate tomorrow morning; why don’t you and I and Ben and Dino have dinner at Elaine’s, and you can ask Hattie to join us.”
“Terrific!” Peter said. “She’s never been to Elaine’s, and she wants to go.” He ran out of the room, then quickly returned. “I know that she usually has dinner with her parents on Sunday nights. May I ask them to join us, too?”
“Of course,” Stone said. “Let me know how many to book for.”
Peter ran out and returned in ten minutes. “Everybody’s aboard. There’ll be seven of us. I wish Mom were
here.”
“So do I.” As if on cue, the phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hey, there,” Arrington said.
“Hang on, I’ll put you on speaker; Peter’s here, too.” He pressed the button and Peter came and sat on the edge of the bed.
“How’s the house coming along?” Stone asked.
“Beautifully,” she replied, “if I do say so. I did a brilliant job of packing at the old house, and everything is going right into place. We’re hanging pictures tomorrow.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Stone said. “Peter has a new friend.”
“Yes, I do,” Peter said, then launched into a monologue about Hattie and how brilliant she was.
“Whew!” Arrington said when he finally paused. “That’s the longest I ever heard anybody talk without taking a breath!”
“She’s quite a girl,” Stone said.
“Well, Peter, why don’t you ask her down for our housewarming? It’s next Saturday night. You can ask her folks’ permission at dinner tonight, and tell them they’re invited, too.”
“That would be wonderful, Mom,” Peter said.
“Come down on Friday, so we’ll have all of Saturday and Sunday together,” Arrington said. “You can fly back on Monday morning. Will the school let you do that?”
“I pretty much make my own schedule,” Peter said.
“Stone, you’d better take Peter to get a new tux. His old one isn’t going to fit. And don’t forget to get some riding clothes for yourself. I’ll have the perfect horse for you.”
“I’ll do that.”
“I can’t wait for you to see the house. It’s going to look like it’s always been here and we’ve always lived here. Architectural Digest is coming on Friday to photograph the place.”
“Who’s doing your PR?” Stone asked.
“I am. Paige Rense, the editor, is an old friend.”
“Are they going to photograph us?” Stone asked.
“No, just the house.”
“When will the piece run?”
“I don’t know; not for some time, I expect. They have a long lead time.”
“Well, I suppose everything will be more settled by then.”
“Mom,” Peter said, “I’ve got a new room upstairs.” He told her about his plans for his suite.
“That sounds perfect for you, Peter. May I speak to Stone alone for a moment?”
“Sure. Good-bye, Mom. I’ll see you on Friday.” He padded back to his own room.
“Is he gone?” Arrington asked.
“Yes, we’re alone.” Stone picked up the phone. “What’s up?”
“There’s something I have to tell you about,” she said.
“All right.”
“Tim Rutledge will be around this weekend for the photo shoot and for the housewarming, of course. He’s from an old family in the county, and everyone here will know him.”
“Okay,” Stone said. “I don’t have a problem with that, as long as he behaves himself.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want any scenes at the party.”
“It’s not a problem for me,” Stone said.
“Well, it’s a problem for him. I’m afraid he didn’t take the news of our marriage very well, and you may not find him exactly friendly.”
“That’s all right. I don’t need to be friends with him.”
“I want you to be nice to him, no matter what he says or does,” Arrington said.
“I try to be nice to everybody,” Stone said.
“Tim can sometimes be difficult,” she said. “He’s quick to anger, and sometimes intemperate in his remarks.”
“So I may have to slug him, if he acts up?”
“Don’t you dare. Remember, he’s in tight with most of the people who’ll be here, who are my neighbors, and I want you to exercise some forbearance. I don’t want him to be able to say an unkind word about you that anyone would believe. Remember, you only have one opportunity to make a first impression, especially with the local gentry. I want you to be not just charming but gallant.”
“All right, I’ll wait until we’re alone to slug him. You know, I think I still have my old cop’s blackjack somewhere. I’ll dig it out.”
“Oh, stop it!”
“All right, all right, I won’t harm a hair on his architectural head, and I’ll charm the locals right out of their socks.”
“That’s better.”
“Does Peter know him?”
“No, Peter was at school when I was seeing him, so they’ve met only once, briefly. Be careful what you say about Tim when you’re around him.”
“Is there anybody else to whom I have to show forbearance?”
“Practically everybody,” she said. “It’s an inbred society down here, and they’re not likely to display any genuine warmth toward a stranger. They’ll be nice, because I’m a local girl, but believe me, they would have been much happier with me if I’d married Tim Rutledge.”
“Well, I’m not going to give you up just to please them.”
“You’d better not give me up for any reason!”
“You, my love, are a keeper,” Stone said with feeling.
“And so are you,” she said.
43
K elli Keane got to work on time and ran into Prunella Wheaton on the elevator.
“Come see me,” Wheaton said. “I may have a little something for you.”
“Certainly,” Kelli replied. She dropped her coat at her desk and walked back to Wheaton’s office, looking forward to her delicious coffee.
“Come on in,” Wheaton said. “Coffee’s on.”
Kelli took her usual seat. “You’re looking lovely today,” Kelli said. “As soon as I can afford it I’m going to start asking where you shop for clothes. To know now would just hurt.”
Wheaton laughed. “The way you’re going, that will happen soon enough, and maybe what I’ve got for you will help.” She handed Kelli a cup of coffee.
“I’m all ears.”
“I found out where Arrington Calder Barrington is.”
Kelli sat up straight. “Oh? Spa? Mental hospital?”
“Neither,” Wheaton said. “She’s in Virginia, where she has been living during the years since Vance’s death. She was born and raised in Albemarle County, and she’s just built a house there. She’s getting it ready for a housewarming next Saturday night.”
“How on earth did you learn that?” Kelli asked.
“I had dinner with a friend last night, and he works at Architectural Digest. They’re photographing it on Friday for the magazine, and my friend says it’s going to be really something. It seems that a little over a year ago, Arrington bought Champion Farms, a racehorse breeding establishment in the county. A house had existed on the property since the mid-eighteenth century, but it burned down early in the 1920s. Arrington unearthed the plans for the house in the University of Virginia Library, and an architecture professor there drew plans for a nearly identical new house on virtually the same footprint as the old one, but with all mod cons, of course. It’s going to be the showplace of the county.”
“Wow, that sounds marvelous. Now, how am I going to get an invitation to that housewarming?”
“I think that’s reaching a bit, my dear, but there is another way you can get a very good look at it.”
“Tell me,” Kelli said, eagerly.
“Well, first of all, you have a lunch date today with a handsome young man-in fact, the person I had dinner with last night. He’s the son of an old friend of mine, and you’re meeting him at twelve-thirty at the Harvard Club. Do you know where that is?”
“West Forty-fourth, next door to the New York Yacht Club.”
“That’s right,” Wheaton said. “His name is David Rutledge. Now go do yourself some good.”
Kelli walked into the Harvard Club and surveyed the scene: to her left was a reception desk, and the door ahead of her, through which she now walked, opened into a large lounge with a fireplace and a lot of comfortable furniture strew
n about. She looked around and saw a man coming toward her-tall, very slim, early thirties, dressed in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, a blue chambray shirt, and a brown knit tie. A thick mop of sandy hair fell across his forehead. He had his hand out.
“Kelli Keane?”
“And you’re David Rutledge,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Shall we go in for lunch?” He led her into the dining room, a gothic glory with an enormously high ceiling and a quiet buzz from the tables. A headwaiter seated them near the fireplace. “What would you like to drink?” he asked.
“Oh, just a glass of Chardonnay,” she said. “I do have to go back to work later.”
He ordered the wine and a martini for himself, and they clinked glasses. She was showing some cleavage, and he was noticing. “Prunie speaks highly of you,” he said.
“That’s sweet of her. She says your mother is her old and dear friend.”
“My grandmother, actually; they were classmates at Stanford. Tell me about you. Where did you spring from?”
“I sprang from West Chester, Pennsylvania, and I worked on the paper in Philadelphia right out of Bennington, then I came here last year. How about you?”
“Charlottesville, Virginia, Herald Academy in Jamestown, UVA School of Architecture, then an MBA at Harvard. I went to work at Architecture Magazine right out of school, then moved to Architectural Digest six years ago. I was promoted to executive art director right before Christmas.”
“Congratulations! That sounds like a wonderful job.”
They chatted on through lunch, played who-do-you-know (nobody), then over a second drink warmed to each other.
She waited for him to bring it up, and he didn’t, so finally she said, “Prunie tells me you’ve got an interesting shoot next weekend.”
“Yes, we do.” He told her about the history of the house. “The architect is a cousin of mine, Tim Rutledge. He teaches at UVA.”