Stone Barrington 06-11

it. He wanted her optimistic; otherwise, she’d come apart.
    They talked on into the evening, easily, the way people do who know each other well. Then Manolo brought the Bentley around, with Stone’s luggage already in the trunk.
    “Don’t stay any longer than you have to,” Arrington said, kissing him lightly. “And by the way, it’s time you sent me a bill. I can’t have you devoting all your working time to me, and after all, I’m a rich woman.”
    “I’ll probably overcharge you,” Stone said.
    “That would not be possible,” she said, kissing him again, this time more longingly.
    Stone allowed himself to enjoy it, and the drive to the airport passed in a haze of good wine and rekindled desire.
    He checked his luggage, got to the gate, and boarded with only a couple of minutes to spare. The flight attendant was closing the door to the airplane, when she suddenly reopened it and stepped back.
    Dolce got onto the airplane, and the flight attendant closed the door behind her.

Thirty

    S TONE WAS SITTING IN THE FIRST-ROW WINDOW SEAT OF the first-class section, and he watched like a trapped rabbit, as Dolce, cobralike, glided past, ignoring him, and took a seat somewhere behind him.
    “Would you like a drink, Mr. Barrington?” the attendant asked.
    “A Wild Turkey on the rocks,” he replied without hesitation, “and make it a double.” When the drink arrived, he drank it more quickly than he usually would have, and by the time the flight reached its cruising altitude, he had fallen asleep.

    Sometime in the night he awoke, needing the bathroom. On the way back to his seat, he looked toward the rear of the compartment and saw Dolce, sitting on the aisle three rows behind his seat, gazing unblinkingly at him. It was unnerving, he thought. He slept only fitfully for the rest of the flight.

    When the door opened at the gate, Stone was the first off the airplane, nearly running up the ramp into the terminal. His bags were among the first to be seen in baggage claim, and a driver stood by with his name written on a shirt cardboard. He pointed at the bags and followed the driver to the waiting car.
    He felt hungover from having the bourbon so close to bedtime, and the weather did not improve his mood. It was still raining heavily, the result of a close brush from a tropical storm off the coast, and even though the driver handled his bags, he got very wet between the car and his front door.
    He tipped the driver generously, opened the door, and stepped inside his house, shoving his bags ahead of him. He tapped the security code into the keypad and looked around. The stairs had been stripped of their runner, which was piled on the living room floor, on top of a fine old oriental carpet that had come with the house, both of them sodden. A smell of dampness permeated the place.
    He put his bags on the elevator and pressed the button, then he walked up the stairs slowly, surveying the damage, which, if not catastrophic, was still awful. Thank God for insurance, he thought. He walked into his upstairs sitting room, where there was more wet carpet, and watermarks on the wall next to the stairs, where the water from the breached roof had run down. At least it had stopped, he thought, though it was still raining hard outside. Billy Foote must have gotten the plastic cover over the roof. His beautiful house, nearly ruined. He thought about how hard he had worked to restore it. Now a few days’ rain …
    The security system beeped, signaling that Joan was arriving for work. He picked up a phone and buzzed her.
    “Hi. Was your flight okay?”
    “As okay as could be expected. Thanks for getting Billy over here.”
    “He did a good job. The insurance adjustor got here in a hurry, and he’s sending a roofer to bid for the job as soon as it stops raining, if it ever does, and the carpet cleaners are coming this morning to take away all the wet rugs.”
    Stone looked around his bedroom. “Tell them to throw away the carpet up here,” he said. “It’s time to replace it, I think, and the stairway runner, too. I do want to save the oriental in the living room, though.”
    “Okay.”
    “Any calls?”
    “None that can’t wait until this afternoon,” she said. “You probably need some sleep.”
    “That’s true. I’ll check with you later.” He hung up, got undressed, went into a guest room, where the carpets were still dry, and got into bed.

    He woke up around noon, showered, shaved, dressed, and went