Stone Barrington 06-11

waiter told her, “but if you’re really hungry, you can order at the bar.”
    She went back to the bar and looked it over. At one end were two construction workers, still in their hard hats, who apparently didn’t want to go home. In the middle was a clutch of admen who seemed to be ordering a fourth drink, and at the other end was a woman alone, taking off her coat. She took a seat two stools down from her and ordered a Wild Turkey, remembering to use her American accent.
    “A bourbon drinker?” the woman next to her asked. “You must be from the South.” She was dressed in business clothes, and a combination briefcase and handbag rested on the bar beside her. She was reading Page Six of the New York Post.
    “Nope, Midwesterner,” Carpenter said, not unhappy to have somebody to try her legend on.
    “Been in New York long?”
    “Actually, I live in San Francisco. I’m just here on business.”
    “One of my favorite cities,” the woman said.
    “One of everybody’s,” Carpenter replied, smiling. “What do you do in the city?”
    “I’m a lawyer.”
    “What firm?”
    “I left a job last week, and I’m just starting the search.”
    “Any luck so far?”
    “I had two interviews today. One looked fairly promising. You know a firm called Woodman and Weld?”
    “I know about them. I have a friend who does some work for them.” Carpenter sipped her bourbon and asked the bartender for a menu. “Join me?” she said to the woman. “I’m eating here, since there’s not a table available.”

    “Sure,” the woman said, looking at the menu. “I think I’ll have the strip steak, medium rare, with home fries. I’m hungry.”
    “Me too,” Carpenter said. “Two strip steaks, medium-rare, home fries,” she said to the bartender. “And a bottle of a decent Cabernet. You choose.”
    The bartender nodded and went away to place the order.
    “I never thought I’d hear a Californian let a bartender choose a wine for her,” the woman said, laughing. “Every left-coaster I know has a mental list of boutique wines that nobody east of Las Vegas ever heard of.”
    “Actually, I’m not all that interested in wine, though I’m happy to drink it. I let the guys order.”
    “What’s your favorite restaurant out there?” the woman asked.
    “Postrio,” Carpenter replied.
    “Oh? I thought that was closed.”
    “Nope. They’ve redone it, and they have a new chef. It’s wonderful.” Carpenter made a mental note to find out if the restaurant was really closed. She couldn’t go around making obvious mistakes, even if she was just practicing the legend.
    “Where are you staying in New York?” the woman asked.
    “At the Carlyle.”
    “Pretty expensive for business travel, isn’t it?”
    “I’m a senior vice-president of the company, so I rate the good hotels and first-class air travel,” Carpenter replied.
    “That’s great.”

    “It ain’t bad,” Carpenter said, wondering if she was stretching the Americanisms too far. “What part of town do you live in?”
    “Uptown, East Eighties.”
    “I like the Upper East Side,” Carpenter said.
    Their steaks arrived, and both dug into their dinners.
    “Not a bad wine,” the woman said, turning the bottle to see the label.
    “Jordan Cabernet.”
    “Yes, it’s a nice one.”
    “Maybe asking the bartender to choose isn’t such a bad idea.”
    “See? I told you. Have you lived in the city long?”
    “Four years,” the woman replied.
    “Is it easy to meet men here?”
    She shook her head. “So many, yet so few.”
    “That’s how I feel about San Francisco,” Carpenter said. “All the good ones are married, or gay—or both.”
    The woman laughed. “It’s the same here.”
    They finished their steaks.
    “Dessert?” the bartender asked, taking away their plates.
    “What do you recommend?” Carpenter asked.
    “I like the walnut apple pie, with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream.”
    “Sold!”
    “Make it two,” the woman said, “though I’ll regret it tomorrow when I weigh myself.”
    “Never weigh yourself,” Carpenter said.

    They finished their apple pie, and Carpenter asked for the check. She paid it with one of her Susan credit cards. “This one’s on me,” she said.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Susan Kinsolving,” Carpenter said, offering her hand.
    “I’m Ginger Harvey,” the woman said. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee somewhere?”
    “Thanks, but I’ve had a long day, and I’m really tired. Maybe I’ll