Worst Fears Realized

afford to hire many people on my cop’s salary.”
    “And you had gotten yourself shot and were recovering.”
    “Right.”
    “Where was it?”

    “In the knee.”
    “Oh, yes; no place important, then.”
    Stone laughed. “So I retired from the force on a full-disability pension—I was nudged in that direction, if the truth be known. I was being awkward about a case I was working on, and somebody decided I shouldn’t be there anymore.”
    “You were always the most unlikely policeman.” Sarah laughed.
    “That’s pretty much what the NYPD thought.”
    “So then what did you do? Live off the fat of the land?”
    “I had my law degree, so I boned up and took the bar exam. I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld.”
    “I know that name; a prestigious firm, I believe. What does ‘of counsel’ mean?”
    “It means I handle their clients’ more delicate problems. I work out of an office in my home rather than from the firm’s offices.”
    “Sounds intriguing.”
    “It sometimes is.”
    “Are you prosperous, then?”
    “More so than I had ever dreamed I would be. The house is finished and furnished; I live very nearly in the lap of luxury.”
    “You’re certainly dressing better,” she said, stroking his jacket.
    “I’d like to think I’m doing everything better,” he said.
    “That remains to be seen.” She chuckled, her voice low. She stood up. “Come into the kitchen with me and watch me cook.”

    “I’d love to,” he said. “May I make a phone call first? I promised I’d call Dino.”
    “Of course; there’s a phone over there.” She pointed.
    Stone went to the phone and dialed Dino’s number; he got an answering machine. “Dino, it’s Stone; I’m in Sarah’s apartment.” He repeated the number. “Everything seems all set downstairs; Anderson is running the elevator. Don’t call me unless it’s important.” He hung up, grabbed the champagne bottle, and followed Sarah toward the kitchen.

13
    THE KITCHEN GLEAMED WITH RESTAURANT-quality appliances and granite countertops. Sarah seated Stone on a stool where he could watch, then she went to the huge range, poured a generous dollop of olive oil into a skillet, and while it was heating, chopped some plum tomatoes, garlic, and fresh basil. When the oil was sizzling, she dropped half a dozen slices of Italian bread into it and fried them on both sides. She arranged a small platter with the bread slices, then spooned the mixture of tomatoes, garlic, and basil onto each slice. She picked up the platter and headed for the door.
    “Follow me,” she said.
    Stone grabbed the bottle of Amerone and followed her through a swinging door and into a charming little corner dining room, where the table was already set for two.
    “This is where the family dines,” she said. “There’sa much larger dining room through there, with a table that seats eighteen.” She nodded at the door.
    Stone lit the candles on the table, and they sat down facing the windows, which overlooked Central Park and the lights of the city to the south. He poured them both a glass of wine and raised his glass. “Happy reunions,” he said.
    “Hear, hear,” she replied, sipping her wine. “Oh, this ishuge . What is it?”
    “An Amerone.”
    “Luscious. Now eat your bruscetta.”
    Stone sliced off a chunk of bread and put it into his mouth. “Wonderful,” he said. “It’s so simple, but it’s really terrific.”
    “Glad you approve. I told you I learned a lot in Tuscany.”
    “Where exactly were you?”
    “In the Chianti country, north of Siena and south of Florence.”
    “Do you know I’ve never been to Europe?”
    Sarah looked shocked. “I don’t believe it.”
    “When I was a cop, I couldn’t afford it, and now I always seem to be too busy.”
    “We will cure that condition,” she said. “Just as soon as my show is launched.”
    “That might be fun,” he replied, swallowing the last of his bruscetta.
    “It certainly will be, I assure you.” She took away his plate. “The main course is in the oven; I’ll be right back.”
    Stone sipped his wine and gazed out over the park. He loved his house, he thought, but it didn’t have views like this.

    Sarah returned with a hot crockery dish. “Cannelloni,” she said, serving him the little crêpes, stuffed with ground pork. She spooned a creamy sauce over them, then served herself.
    “You should give up painting for cooking,” he said.
    They ate slowly, then Sarah brought out cannoli for