Stone Barrington 06-11

large handbag for something, and Stone leaned away from her, fearing she might come up with a weapon.
    She came up with a lipstick and began applying it. “I want to be with my husband,” she said, consulting a compact mirror.
    “Your husband is dead,” Stone said through clenched teeth.
    “You look perfectly well to me,” she replied, gazing levelly at him.
    “Dolce …”
    “And how is the murderess, Mrs. Calder?”
    “Dolce …”
    “I think I will be quite happy when they put her away.”
    “Dolce …”
    “Vance was such a lovely man, and we were such good friends. I think it would be terribly unfair if she got away with it.”
    “Dolce, stop it!”
    “My goodness, Stone, keep your voice down. We don’t want a public scene, do we?”
    Stone decided to treat this as a negotiation. “Just tell me what you want,” he said.
    Her eyebrows shot up. “What I want? Why, I want whatever my darling husband wants. What do you want, dear?”
    “I want to end this little charade of yours; I want us to go our separate ways in an amicable manner.” He paused and decided to fire the last arrow in his quiver. “I want to be with Arrington.”
    Her eyebrows dropped, and her eyes narrowed. “Believe me when I tell you, my darling, that I will never, ever allow that to happen, and you had better get used to the idea now.”
    Stone felt his gorge rising, but the waiter appeared with their lunch, allowing him to cool down for a moment before continuing. “I don’t understand,” he said.
    “You asked me to marry you, did you not?”
    “Yes, but …”
    “And I married you, in Venice, did I not?”
    “That wasn’t a legal marriage.”
    “Oh, Stone, now you’re beginning to sound like a lawyer.”
    “I am a lawyer, and I know when I’m married and when I’m not.”
    “I’m afraid not, sweetie,” she said, attacking her lobster salad. “You seem unable to face reality; you’re in complete denial.”
    Stone nearly choked on his soup.
    “ I am in denial?”
    “A serious case of denial, I fear.”
    “Let’s talk about denial, Dolce. I’ve explained to you, in the clearest possible terms, that I no longer wish to continue my relationship with you. I’ve explained why.”
    “I seem to remember your saying something about that, but I hardly took you seriously,” she said.
    This was maddening. “Dolce, I do not love you; I thought I did for a while, but now I realize I don’t.”
    She laughed. “And I suppose you think you love Arrington?”
    “Yes, I do.” Funny, he hadn’t said that to Arrington.
    “But Stone, how can you love a woman who has murdered her husband? How do you know you won’t be next?”
    “That’s a very strange thing for you to say,” Stone said under his breath, trying to control his temper. “I seem to remember that you once had a husband who is now dead of extremely unnatural causes.”
    “That was the business he chose, if I may paraphrase Don Corleone, and he had to live with it.” She speared a chunk of lobster. “Or die with it. You might remember that.”
    “I chose a different business, and I am choosing a different woman.” My God, he thought, what do I have to say to get through to her?
    Dolce shook her head. “No, Stone; you haven’t yet come to the point where you have to make a real choice.” She chewed her lobster. “But you will.”
    “Is that some sort of threat, Dolce?”
    “Call it a prediction, but take it any way you like.”
    “Why would you want a man who doesn’t want you?” he demanded. “Why do you demean yourself?”
    She put down her fork, and her eyes narrowed again. “You do not know me as well as you will after a while,” she said, “but when you do come to know me, you will look back on that remark as dangerous folly.”
    “That’s it,” Stone said, putting down his spoon. “One last time, for the record: I do not love you; I will not marry you; I have not married you. I love another woman, and I believe I always will. I want nothing more to do with you, ever. I cannot make it any clearer than that.” He stood up. “Good-bye, Dolce.”
    “No, my darling,” she replied smoothly, “merely au revoir. ”
    “Dolce,” he said, “California has a very strong law against stalking; don’t make me publicly humiliate you.” He turned and walked out of the café.

    All the way back to the studio he ran the conversation through his head, over and over. It had been like talking to a marble sculpture, except that a