Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 21

and I have the feeling I’m going to have a hard time keeping Arrington in New York for more than a few days at a time, especially when spring comes.”
    “That could be a good thing for a marriage,” Eggers said. “My wife spends much of the summer in the Hamptons, and I go out on weekends. That way, she maintains her tan, and I get some work done.”
    “I may take some time off this summer,” Stone said, “to take Arrington and Peter up to Maine.”
    “Oh, yeah,” Peter said. “And you’re going to teach me to sail.”
    “I am indeed. Ben, you and your father are invited, too.”
    “You’re not getting me in a boat,” Dino said.
    “You never know, Dino,” Stone replied. “You might even like it.”

    After lunch, the men drifted off to their rooms, and Stone had a look around the house, where the women were arranging huge quantities of flowers in crystal vases all over the ground floor. Some musicians arrived—a string quartet, it seemed—and set up in the main hallway, next to a Steinway grand.
    Stone wandered upstairs, undressed, and stretched out for a nap. The riding had been tiring, and he had a sore ass. He stirred a little when Arrington came upstairs and crooked a finger at her.
    “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “I’m going to take a very long bath and then take a very long time to get dressed. It’s four o’clock, and I’m not sure I can get it all done by six.” She vanished into her dressing room.
    Stone lay on his back and gazed drowsily at the ceiling. He had no feeling of ownership of this place—not even a feeling of Arrington’s ownership. Instead, it felt as if they had checked, en masse, into a very luxurious country inn. He dozed.
    He was awakened an hour later by the string quartet, the sound making its way through the thick door. He struggled out of bed, showered and shaved, and got into his tuxedo. When he came out Arrington was sitting at her dressing table in her bra and panties, doing something to her hair. He exposed the nape of her neck and kissed her there.
    “You know what that does to me,” she said. “If you aren’t careful, I’ll have to start all over.”
    “All right, all right,” he said. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.” He wandered down to the library, past the string quartet, who appeared to be rehearsing, or perhaps just playing for their own amusement.
    He poured himself a small Knob Creek and took a chair by the fire, happy to have a moment to himself before the bash, with the music lending atmosphere.

48
    A rrington walked into the library at the stroke of five forty-five and poured herself a Knob Creek.
    “You’re a bourbon drinker? I’m still learning about my new wife.”
    “I’m looking for a more instant buzz than champagne will give me,” she said. “I can’t face all these people sober.” She sank into the chair opposite him.
    “I’ve never seen you look more beautiful,” he said. “We have to get a picture taken, since we’ll never be this young again.”
    “What a nice way to put it!” she laughed. “Don’t worry, there’ll be a photographer; in fact, he’s already arrived and is stationed outside, to get people as they enter.”
    A car door slammed outside.
    “Oh, oh,” she said, tossing off the rest of her bourbon, “here they come. Why is someone always early? Haven’t they ever heard of fashionably late?”
    “Fortunately, they are your friends,” he said, “so I cannot be blamed for their swinish conduct.”
    “I’ll blame you if I want to,” she said, getting up. “Come on, time to play host.”
    Stone made his bourbon vanish and followed her into the main hall. The quartet started up, on cue, with “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.”
    Somes opened the door, and the first half dozen of their guests entered. Introductions were made, while a maid made their coats disappear, and Stone heard spoken, for the first time in his life, the words “And this is my husband.”
    The seventh person through the door was a tall, slender man with a head full of graying hair and a supercilious expression.
    “Stone, this is our architect, Timothy Rutledge. Tim, this is my husband, Stone Barrington.” Those unfamiliar words again.
    Stone extended his hand, and Rutledge gripped it lightly by the fingers, as if he were warding off a bone-crushing handshake. “How do you do?” he said, as if he didn’t care how Stone or anyone else did.
    “Good to meet you,” Stone lied. “You’ve done a very fine job on