Son of Stone (2 page)

“So, we’re looking at a family reunion, huh?”

Stone grinned ruefully. “I never thought of it that way. Arrington and I have spent so little time together over the years.”

“So, how are you feeling about this?” Dino asked.

“Scared stiff,” Stone said.

A
rrington Calder awoke in her rented house in Virginia and immediately smelled the man lying next to her. It was odd how he had this consistent personal odor—not unpleasant, but certainly distinctive. He even had it immediately after showering. It was strange.

She carefully lifted his arm from across her body, because she didn’t want to wake him yet. Today, she had to have a conversation with him that she didn’t want to have and that he wouldn’t want to hear, and she was putting it off until the last minute. He was extraordinarily jealous, something she had found a little attractive when she had first started seeing, then sleeping with, him, after she had hired him to design her new house. He was prominent among Virginia architects and was a professor of architecture at the University of Virginia in nearby Charlottesville. His name was Timothy Rutledge.

She managed to slip out of bed without waking him and tiptoed across the bedroom, through the dressing room, where her packed bags, still open, awaited her departure, then into the bathroom, where she closed the door to shut out the sound of the shower. She washed her face, having not had time to do that the night before, because of his persistence.

She got into the shower and began to feel better. In a couple of hours she would be away from here for a while, and that would give him time for his ardor to cool.

She was washing her hair, her eyes closed against the shampoo, when he let himself into the shower. She tried to drive her elbow into his belly, but his arms were around her from behind, pinning hers to her body. He fumbled around, trying to enter her from behind, but she struggled free. “Get out!” she said, pushing him out the swinging glass door.

He stood on the bath mat, fuming. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded.

“Go down and start breakfast,” she said. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Why are your bags packed?” he asked.

“I’ll talk to you downstairs. Now go!”

Reluctantly, he went.

She rinsed her hair thoroughly, then shut off the water and felt for the bath sheet on the hook outside the door. She dried herself, then picked up the hair dryer and dried her blond hair, helping it into place with a brush. That done, she applied her makeup, then got into her traveling clothes, a pants suit. She picked up the phone in her dressing room and pressed a button for her son’s room. “Peter,” she said, “time to get up.”

He picked up the phone. “I’m way ahead of you,” he said. “I’m packing.”

“Good boy.” She hung up and went downstairs. Tim had prepared eggs, bacon, and toast, and she sat down and began to eat.

“Where are you going?” Tim asked. He seemed calmer now.

“To New York.”

“Why?”

“Family business.”

“You don’t want to tell me?”

“Not really. It’s none of your business. Eat your breakfast; I want you gone before Peter comes down.”

He made a stab at the food. “How long will you be gone?”

“Through Christmas,” she said.

“We’ll have to talk about the finishing touches on the house.”

“You can reach me on my cell phone,” she said.

“I had hoped we could spend Christmas together,” he said. “The three of us.”

“Tim, there isn’t going to be any three of us. Peter is visiting his father in New York.”

“I thought his father was dead.”

“That was his stepfather.”

He looked puzzled. “Vance Calder wasn’t Peter’s father?”

“He was not.”

“Then who is?”

“Please don’t concern yourself with my private life,” Arrington said. She stood up and put her dishes in the sink. “I have to finish packing now. We’ll be leaving soon.” She heard Peter coming down the stairs.

“Please leave quickly by the back door,” she said, taking his halfeaten breakfast and scraping it into the garbage disposal.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said, getting into his coat.

“Not unless it’s something about the house,” she replied.

He gave her an angry look, then he walked out the kitchen door.

Peter came into the kitchen. “What’s for breakfast?” he asked. He was fifteen now, big and mature for his age.

“What would you like?”

“Oh, I’ll just toast myself a muffin,” he said, opening the fridge.

“Will you be ready to go in half an hour?” she asked.

“I’m ready to go now, but my muffin isn’t.”

“The crew has the airplane ready. Thirty minutes.”

“I’m with you,” he said.

“Peter, I’m sending you ahead alone,” she said. “I have an appointment in Charlottesville, and it’s going to take the whole day. The airplane will come back for me.”

Peter shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

Arrington went back upstairs to close her cases. Everything was so good right now, except for this thing with Tim Rutledge. She would put an end to that over Christmas.

S
tone spent the morning actually working. Since his elevation to full partnership at Woodman & Weld, and since his appointment to the boards of Strategic Services and Centurion Studios, he had been required to read—and even understand—every bit of financial paper sent to him by the law firm and by both companies, so that he could intelligently discuss them at meetings. Today, he and Mike Freeman, chairman and CEO of Strategic Services, who also served on the Centurion board, would be meeting Leo Goldman, Jr., the CEO of the studio appointed a year before, when Rick Barron, longtime head of the studio, retired and became merely chairman.

Stone had taken only one accounting course in college, and he thanked God that he had not slept through it. Soon he could read a balance sheet with the best of them.

He had a sandwich at his desk, anticipating the arrival of Arrington Calder and her son, Peter. He buzzed his secretary, Joan Robertson.

“Yes, master?”

“I’m going to have this little boy on my hands for the better part of two weeks,” Stone said. “What the hell am I going to do with him? Children’s theater? Museum of Natural History? Boats on the pond in Central Park?”

“How old is the boy?” she asked.

“Twelve, I think.”

“Well, that lets out girls; he’ll still hate them. How about South Street Seaport? Boys love sailing vessels.”

“Good one,” Stone said, making a note. “More.”

“Ummm . . . Central Park Zoo?”

“Another good one. More.”

“Oh, God, I’ve been avoiding that for years.”

“You’ll love it, believe me. And that’s enough for three or four days. I’ll do some research. What are you doing for dinner tonight? Not Elaine’s, I hope.”

“Why not Elaine’s? He might see a movie star, or something. Anyway, Dino is bringing Ben, who’s just home from school for Christmas.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about what to do with him. After all, Arrington will be here, too, and she, at least, is accustomed to acting as a parent.”

“Don’t say ‘parent,’ ” he said. “Hearing it gives me the willies. I’ll be his host.”

“You’ll survive,” she said, then hung up.

Stone finished his sandwich, frequently checking his watch. Arrington’s Gulfstream III was due into Teterboro at noon, or so, and he had hired a driver and sent his car to meet them. So, he reckoned, they should be here about ... the upstairs doorbell rang . . . now. He took a deep breath, got into his jacket, and ran up the stairs to the front hall. One more deep breath, a big smile slapped on his face, and he opened the door.

A handsome young man stood there, wearing a tweed jacket and a necktie and holding a briefcase, the driver behind him with two more cases. What the hell?

“Uncle Stone?” the young man said.

“Peter? I wouldn’t have recognized you! Come in! Is your mother still in the car?”

Peter stepped in and shucked off his overcoat. “No, sir,” he said.

“Just put the cases on the elevator,” Stone said to the driver. “Then put the car in the garage, and you’re done.” He pressed a fifty into the man’s hand and closed the door.

“Now,” he said to Peter. “What did you just say?”

Peter handed him a sealed envelope, the back of which was emblazoned with the words “Calder Hall.”

“Come in, come in,” Stone said to the boy. “Have a seat while I read this.” He took a chair himself and tore open the envelope.

“I think mostly she’s just tired, Uncle Stone,” Peter said. “She said she’d call tomorrow.”

Stone stuffed the envelope back into his pocket. “Well, I guess it’s just you and me, then, Peter. And by the way, just call me Stone, okay? I’m not your uncle anyway.”

Peter managed a smile. “All right, Stone.”

“How old are you now?”

“Fifteen,” Peter said.

“My God, I somehow thought you were twelve.” He handed the boy the photograph of him.

“I was twelve when this was taken,” he said.

“When did you turn fifteen?”

“Nearly a year ago. I’ll be sixteen next month.”

“Sixteen!”
My God
, he thought.
Has it been that long
?

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t call me sir, either. Let’s just be friends. How tall are you?”

“Five feet eleven and a half inches, si—Stone.”

“That’s tall for fifteen—er, sixteen—isn’t it?”

“I think so. The doctor told me I’ll be well over six feet.”

“I expect you will. And your voice has already changed; you’re a baritone.”

“It happens, I guess. I sounded pretty funny for a while there.”

“I expect you did. Did your mother tell you I have a friend who’s a policeman, Dino Bacchetti?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Dino has a son who’s . . . about your age, and we’re having dinner with them tonight.”

“At Elaine’s?”

“Your mother told you about Elaine’s?”

“She told me a
lot
about it. She said it was her favorite place in New York.”

“Is this your first visit to New York?”

“Yes, it is. My folks always left me at home when they came here.”

“I think you’re going to like it,” Stone said. “Come on, let’s go find your room.”

They got onto the elevator, rode up two floors, and entered the smallest guest room, adjacent to Stone’s master suite. He hadn’t wanted the boy to feel lost in one of the bigger rooms.

“Have you had lunch?”

“Yes, they fed me on the airplane,” he replied.

“What do you think of your mother’s new Gulfstream?”

“Wow!” Peter said.

“Exactly. Now, I have to go to a meeting with the new head of Centurion Studios in a few minutes. Why don’t you get unpacked and watch some TV?”

“You’re seeing Mr. Goldman? Stone, I’d like very much to meet him. May I come with you? I’m a film student.”

Stone was taken aback, but what the hell? Goldman couldn’t object to meeting the son of Vance Calder, his studio’s greatest star. “Of course, Peter. I’ll be glad to have you come along. Go ahead and get settled, then come down to my office, on the bottom floor. We’re due at Centurion’s New York office in forty-five minutes.”

“I’ll be down in fifteen,” Peter said, unsnapping a suitcase and starting to hang up jackets and suits.

Stone went back to his office, shaking his head. What a shock! The kid was nearly a man in both appearance and manner!

S
tone and Peter arrived at Centurion’s Fifth Avenue offices on time. Peter was carrying a slim leather envelope-style briefcase, and Stone wondered what was in it. They were asked to wait for a moment while Leo Goldman finished a conference call to the coast.

“You’re a film student?” Stone asked Peter. “In high school?”

“We have only one film class at school, so perhaps I should have said, ‘student of film.’ ”

“I see. What part of film most interests you?”

“I want to direct,” Peter replied.

Of course, Stone thought. Everybody wants to direct. “Good,” he said.

“Mr. Goldman will see you now,” the secretary said, just as Mike Freeman walked in.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, shaking hands with Stone.

“We had a short wait anyway,” Stone replied. “Mike, this is Peter, Arrington’s son.”

“Of course,” Mike said, shaking the boy’s hand. “I heard a lot about you from your mother on a flight across the country in her new airplane.”

“Yes, she told me you helped her find and buy it,” Peter said.

They walked into a large square room, which was decorated with abstract paintings. Leo Goldman, Jr., rose from his chair and pumped everybody’s hand. He was short, stocky, and balding, and he waved an unlit cigar when he talked.

“And this is my friend Peter,” Stone said. For some reason, he didn’t mention Peter’s last name. He wasn’t sure why.

“Good to see you, Stone, Mike. And Peter, I’m very glad to know you.”

Peter nodded and managed a shy smile.

“Peter is a student of film,” Stone said, “and he wanted to meet you.”

“Yes, Mr. Goldman,” Peter said, “I’m an admirer of your work as a producer, particularly
Chain Letter
.”

Goldman looked surprised. “Well, Peter, you have an eye for quality, but perhaps not for commercial success. That one was my worst turkey.”