Imperfect Strangers Page 10
"Sandy sat in the San Francisco restaurant, Postrio, and looked across the table at Mike Bernini. "So," Sandy said, "what do you think?"
"I think it's interesting," Bernini said,
"That's all? Interesting?"
"Well, I haven't looked around; I mean, I don't know what else is available in the industry."
"Mike, the industry is in a state of shock at the moment, because of the phyloxera business. You're working at one of the few vineyards that's ahead of the game on that point. As I understood things, your principal difficulty has been your relationship with Larsen."
"That's right," Bernini replied, "but how do I know I won't have a similar relationship with you?"
"For a start, I don't approach the business of winemaking as chemistry; I believe it's an art and that you're an artist."
"I'd want a free hand," Bernini said.
"I'm not going to give you a free hand, and neither is anybody else. I'm not unknowledgeable about wine, and if I own a vineyard I'm going to want the product to meet my expectations in terms of both quality and marketability. If you and I disagree as to what direction the winemaking should take, I'm going to make the final decision. What I can promise you is that I will respect your abilities and give you every opportunity to meet the requirements I set. If I want a big wine, I'll expect you to make a big wine and not a thin one, but my requirements are not going to be either impossible or unreasonable."
Bernini looked uncertain.
Sandy leaned forward on his elbows. "Mike, I want you to go home and think about what you want to do with the rest of your life. If you want to be in the construction business or the computer business or some other business, then go do it. But if you decide you want to make wine, then I'm offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. I have an expanding business in New York and London to run, and I'm not going to have the time to look over your shoulder while you do your work. My intention-and I'm perfectly willing to put this in writing-is to work with you to define a set of parameters for what we want to do and what we think is possible to do, and then let you get on with it. I think that, together, you and I can build a great winery that the world will admire, and in so doing, we can both make enough money to keep us in the style to which we'd like to become accustomed."
"All right, I'll think about it," Bernini said.
"I'm going to want an answer next week," Sandy said. "If I'm going to buy this vineyard without you, then the negotiations are going to be very different. But if you want to do this-really want to do it-then just say so and we'll get your lawyer and my bankers together and work out a deal that's right for both of us." Sandy glanced at his watch. He had already paid the check, and he had only another five minutes to spare. He stood up and offered Bernini his hand.
Bernini got up and shook hands. "I'll call you next week, Sandy," he said.
Sandy left the restaurant. Parked at the curb was a Lincoln Town Car with his name on a card in the window; the driver was leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette.
"I'm Mr. Kinsolving," he said to the man, then got into the back seat. "Let's go."
The driver got into the car and drove away from the restaurant.
Sandy could see the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror. "So?" he asked.
"I guess you thought you got lucky, didn't you?"
Sandy didn't say anything.
Martindale chuckled. "I can just see the scene; you arrive at the gallery, and there's all this mess, and you think God has saved you from this awful fate."
"What the hell happened?"
"I don't know, for sure; I think perhaps Helena asked Sally to meet the customer, and she just got unlucky. They've arrested the guy, you know."
"No, I didn't know; I don't read the San Francisco papers every day."
"Black kid, eighteen or nineteen; walked in and popped her, then took the cash and the gun. They found the gun on him when he got busted in a dope deal. Pity it wasn't Helena, huh?"
Sandy remained quiet. He felt trapped, and he resisted the temptation to bolt from the car. Martindale was driving aimlessly around the city.
"You're awfully quiet, Sandy."
"I don't have anything to say, really. What's next in your plans?"
"Oh, my plans haven't changed; they've just become more difficult. Helena has moved in with Saul Winner."
"Winner? Is that the painter she's been seeing?"
"Yes."
"I've seen his work at the Modern, in New York."
"Oh, yes; Saul is a very important artist. He lives in one of those big old houses on Nob Hill, and he even has some security. It's going to take some time for me to work out just how your job should be done. Can you come to San Francisco on a notice of, say, a day or two?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Well, then, I'll just work something out, find a time when she's regularly away from Winner's house, and when I have it all together, I'll call you."
"I'm not going to be at your beck and call, you son of a bitch," Sandy said.
Martindale stopped the car, then turned in his seat and stared at Sandy. "You'd better understand this right now," he said. "This is going to happen when I say it's going to happen, or you're going to suffer some terrible consequences. Do you understand me?"
Sandy gritted his teeth. "I understand you."
"I hope so," Martindale said. "You see, you're in this position because you care what happens to you. I, on the other hand, don't give a damn what happens to me, not at the moment. That gives me a very large advantage in dealing with you."
Sandy didn't reply but he knew Peter Martindale was right: he cared desperately what happened to him, and it was the only reason he was playing Martindale's game.
Martindale drove Sandy to the Ritz-Carlton and deposited him under the portico. Sandy watched him drive away. He experienced an urge to chase the car down and strangle the man to death, but he knew he was in no position to do that. He could only wait and hope for a way out.
CHAPTER 20
Sandy picked up Cara Mason at her East Sixty-third Street town house for their Saturday night dinner date, and Cara asked him in for a drink. She led him past two offices to an upstairs living room, where a tall blonde woman waited for them.
"Sandy," Cara said, "I'd like you to meet my partner, Thea Morgenstern."
"How do you do," Sandy said, shaking the attractive woman's hand.
"Thea and I share the house as well as the business," Cara said.
Thea Morgenstern spoke up. "I'm sort of the house mother here; I have to meet all of Cara's dates to be sure I approve."
"Thea-" Cara began.
"And do you approve?" Sandy asked.
"Sweetheart," she said, pouring a Scotch, "with the kind of design job you've given her, I'd approve of the hunchback of Notre Dame."
"Thea!" Cara exclaimed, with comic shock. "Sandy, I apologize for my partner. She's far too interested in money."
"I have a great deal of respect for money, myself," Sandy said, laughing.
"I've seen Cara's sketches of your job," Thea said, "and I think you're going to be delighted."
"That's more than I've seen," Sandy said.
"And you won't just yet," Cara broke in. "Not until I'm ready, and that will be next week sometime."
"You're going to love it," Thea said. "So masculine, and yet, I think any woman would be very happy in it." She arched an eyebrow at Cara, who blushed.
"Sounds perfect," Sandy said. "What else are you girls- excuse me-ladies-"
"Women," Thea said.
"What else are you women working on?"
"Well, there's Cara's South Carolina job," Thea said.
"You're doing something in South Carolina?" Sandy asked. "I didn't know you ranged so far afield."
Cara looked uncomfortable. "A town house in Charleston, but don't worry, it won't interfere in the least with your project."
"I'm so glad," Sandy said, smiling to put her at ease. "And Thea, what are you working on?"
"We haven't gotten into the wine shop," Cara said, "so lay off, Thea."
"We should do that soon," Sandy said. "It's going to entail a trip to London."
"Take her away," Thea said.
"Not just yet," Cara exclaimed. "Thea would sell me into white slavery for a job, Sandy, and I think I'd better get you out of here before she embarrasses me further."
"Ready when you are," Sandy said. "Thea, a pleasure to meet you; I'm going to be keeping your partner very busy for a while."
"You do that, Sandy," Thea replied, shaking his hand again. "Do what you will with her."
"Thea!" Cara grabbed her handbag and led Sandy out of the house. In the car, she laughed. "Thea's something of a character, as you can see."
"I liked her," Sandy said. "Have you known her long?"
"Since we were children. We grew up together."
"In San Francisco?"
"Yep. Where are you taking me for dinner?"
"Cafe des Artistes. I know you've probably been a hundred times, but I do love the place."
"Actually, I've never been there."
"You amaze me; it's one of New York's landmarks."
"Well, I guess I've led a sheltered life," Cara said. "That, my lady, is coming to an end," Sandy proclaimed.
They were seated in a good corner of the old restaurant, and Cara handed him her menu.
"I place myself in your hands," she said.
"You're a smart woman," Sandy replied. "Let's start with a pair of Champagne fraise des bois," he said to the waiter.
"Mmmm," she said when she had had her first sip. "It's like strawberry champagne."
"Just a little dash of wild strawberry liqueur at the bottom," Sandy said.
"And what are we going to have for dinner?"
"We'll start with the table of charcuterie behind you there."
"It all looks wonderful."
"And then, for a change of pace, I think we'll have the bourride."
"What's bourride?"
"A sort of fish stew, with lots of garlic."
"I love garlic."
"As long as we both have it, we're all right."
"And what will we drink with the bourride?"
"Something special, something I sent over this afternoon: a bottle of very old white burgundy, a Le Montrachet, '55."
"That, I've heard about," she said, "but I've never had it."
The wine arrived as she spoke, and after the ritual of tasting, a glass of golden liquid stood before each of them. Cara tasted hers.
"I've never tasted anything remotely like it," she said. "I didn't even know white wines lived that long."
"If they're very lovingly cared for," Sandy said. "This one has been in the same spot in the same cellar for about twenty years. In fact, I bought the wine with the cellar."
"You buy cellars?"
"I own several. I'm always looking for more storage space for wines, and I prefer cellars to warehouses. I'll give you a tour one of these days."
"A tour of cellars," she said, sipping her Le Montrachet. "No one has ever been so romantic."
"There's nothing more romantic than good wine growing old in a deep, dank cellar."
"I'll take your word for it."
They sat, sated, amid the ruins of an assortment of desserts, sipping another white wine.
"And what is this one?" she asked. "It tastes like honey."
"It's a Chateau Coutet, 1961; a very great white Bordeaux."
"It's the perfect ending to the evening," she said.
"No, it isn't," he replied. "There are other appetites yet to be satisfied."
She gazed across the table at him. "Yes," she said.
Sandy beckoned the waiter. "Check!" he called.
CHAPTER 21
When Sandy woke, his first sensation was of pain, then of numbness; his left shoulder hurt, and the fingers on that hand were numb. He opened his eyes and his vision was filled with a tangle of auburn hair. The top of Cara Mason's head was a lovely sight, he thought.
He experimented with moving his shoulder to see if he could get the blood flowing in his fingers, but when he moved, she moaned and snuggled closer. She lifted her head and opened an amazingly green eye.
"Yes?" she asked hoarsely.
"It's just that my arm is asleep," he said.
"Oh," she said. "Just a moment." She climbed on top of him, then rolled off on the other side. Now her head was on his right shoulder. "Better?"
"Much. But I still have a problem."
"What's that?"
"I have to go to the bathroom."
"You don't really want to be in bed with me, do you?" she asked, digging him in the ribs.
"I very much want to be in bed with you," he groaned, "but-"
"All right, I'll let you go to the bathroom, if you'll come right back."
"I promise."
She rolled off his arm and put a pillow over her head.
Sandy ran to the bathroom and ran back. He dove under the covers and pulled her close to him again.
"That was quick," she said.
"It doesn't take long."
Her hand snaked under the covers and felt for him. "That's not all that doesn't take long," she said, giggling.
"You're right," he said. "Now, what are you going to do with it?"
Cara rolled on top of him and sat up, holding him firmly in both hands. "Well, let's see," she mused, running a finger along the length of him. "Ooo, that got a response, didn't it?"
"It did," he panted.
"Well, let's see if it will fit in here." She lifted her buttocks, then slowly sat down on him.
"It fits," he breathed.
"I'll bet I can make it smaller," she said, moving slowly up and down. "Not right away, I hope, but eventually." She moved faster.
Sandy sat up and put his arms around her. "That's it," he said. "Make it smaller. Eventually." He kissed her, tugging at her lips with his teeth, playing with her tongue. "Oh, my!" he said suddenly, "It's about to get smaller!" He fell back onto the bed, arching his back, matching her strokes.
Cara gave a short, sharp yell, quivered for a moment and fell forward onto his chest. "My God!" she panted. "That worked wonderfully, didn't it?"
"Wonderfully," he managed to say while trying to let his breathing return to normal.
They lay locked together for another five minutes, he stroking her hair, she kissing his chest and neck.
"This is wonderful," Sandy said at last.
"No, it's better than wonderful," she said. "I just can't think of the word right now."
"Has it been a long time?" he asked.
"Long time," she replied. "Forever."
"Why?"
"You weren't around."
He laughed. "You must have had other offers."
"They weren't you. You seem to be perfect, Sandy Kinsolving. Is there something terribly wrong with you that I don't know about?"
"Probably, but I never know what a woman thinks of as terribly wrong. What do women want, anyway?"
"This," she said, snuggling closer.
"That's all?"
"That's it, mostly."
"Funny, that's what men want, too."
"I'm hungry," she said.
"Me, too."
"My turn to cook," she said, raising her head and looking at him. She laughed. "Your hair is funny."
"So is yours," Sandy replied.
She clapped both hands to her head and leapt from bed, running toward Joan's bathroom.
Sandy got up, brushed his hair, slipped into a robe and found one for her. He looked around the room. It was oddly bare, but he was very glad that he had removed Joan's things a few days before. He left the robe on the bed for Cara and went to his own bathroom. He shaved and showered, and as he dried himself he caught the aroma of bacon frying. He found his slippers, splashed
on some cologne and headed for the kitchen.
Halfway there, he remembered the papers. He walked to the front foyer, reaching it just as the elevator doors opened. His son was standing in the car, holding the Sunday New York Times.
"Morning, Dad," Angus said, stepping from the elevator.
"Ah, morning, Angus," Sandy replied, gulping.
"Something wrong?"
Sandy shook his head.
"You look funny."
"Funny?"
"You look guilty, like I'd caught you at something." He sniffed the air. "Uh, oh," he groaned. "You got lucky didn't you?"
"I don't know that I'd put it quite… Yes, I got lucky. Would you like to meet her?"
"I don't guess you're up for tennis this morning, then?"
"Probably not."
"Maybe it would be better if I met her another time," Angus said, grinning.
"You're a good son," Sandy said.
Angus handed him the newspaper. "Have a nice Sunday." He pressed the elevator button.
"Thank you, kiddo. We'll talk tomorrow?"
"You bet." The elevator doors slid open, Angus stepped aboard, still grinning. "Congratulations," he said as the doors closed.
Sandy laughed and padded toward the kitchen. The table was set for two, and Cara had found a plastic rose somewhere and put it in a little vase. There was a pitcher of orange juice on the table, and she was struggling with a champagne cork. He took the bottle from her and opened it. "A Buck's Fizz?" he asked.
"A what?"
"Champagne and orange juice."
"That's a mimosa."
"In London, it's a Buck's Fizz; I like it better. You just missed meeting my son."
Her face registered shock. "Like this?"
"He figured out the situation and very kindly excused himself."
"Obviously a well-brought-up young man."
"Certainly."
They dove into breakfast silently, exchanging only glances.
"What are you doing for lunch?" he asked finally.
"I haven't even finished breakfast," she protested.
"This will take a little planning; I need an answer."
"I'm all yours-if I can go home and change."
"You're on. What are you doing for dinner? You won't have to change."
"Oh, all right."