Imperfect Strangers Page 11

  "And breakfast? It's part of the package."

  "If I'm late for work, you'll just delay getting your sketches," she said.

  "I can live with that." He put down his fork. "Let me make a couple of phone calls."

  CHAPTER 22

  The light twin aircraft set down gently; they had left Teterboro something over an hour before.

  "Where are we?" Cara demanded. She was blindfolded.

  "You'll have to guess," Sandy said.

  The airplane taxied to a stop before the little terminal, and the pilot cut the engines.

  "We'll meet you here at ten tomorrow morning," he said to the pilot, and the man nodded. Sandy took their two bags in one hand and Cara's arm in the other.

  "Can't I see where we are?"

  "Not yet." He led her to the little car, an old MGB convertible, stowed their bags and helped her into the front seat. When they were away from the airport he took off her blindfold.

  She looked around. "So, where is this?"

  "You don't recognize it?"

  "This is an eastern place; I'm a westerner."

  "It's called Martha's Vineyard."

  "I know about Martha's Vineyard," she said. "Where are we going now?"

  "To Edgartown," he replied. "I think you'll like it.

  He stopped the car in front of the house, a spic-and-span, two-story Victorian with a widow's walk, painted white with green shutters.

  "It's gorgeous," she said. "A bed and breakfast?"

  "It's mine," Sandy replied. "I bought it fifteen years ago." He got their bags, led her up the front walk, and opened the front door with his key.

  She stepped into the foyer and looked around at the old furniture and nearly bare walls. "You never got around to fixing it up, huh?"

  "I fixed up everything but the interior," he said. "I put a roof on it, replaced a lot of rotten wood, painted it, rewired and replumbed it. But you're right, the furnishings leave a lot to be desired. I was hoping maybe you could make some suggestions."

  "Oh, boy, could I make some suggestions!"

  "But don't worry about that now. Come on; I'll give you a quick tour, and then we've got someplace to go."

  "I thought we were there."

  "Sort of." He showed her the house's three bedrooms, his little study, and the kitchen. She seemed entranced with the place.

  "How much time do you spend here?"

  "Not as much as I've wanted to. Joan never liked the island, said there were too many tourists. She was right, of course, but the tourists mean there are some good restaurants and galleries, so I don't mind them."

  "Good point," she said. "Besides, I'm a tourist."

  "Okay, get into your swimsuit, and bring some jeans."

  "What now?"

  "Stop asking questions, and do as you're told."

  "Yessir," she said, saluting smartly.

  The little sloop cut through the water like a sharp knife, parting the small seas, heeling to the breeze. They sat up to windward, their feet on the leeward seat, while Cara helmed the yacht parallel with the beach.

  "Head in there," Sandy said, pointing to an indentation in the shoreline. He went forward and got the anchor ready, then, with hand signals, conned her to their anchorage. When he was sure the anchor had dug in he came aft to a waiting beer. "Very impressive," he said. "You know how to make a boat go to windward."

  "I grew up on San Francisco Bay," she said. "It comes with the territory, if you're my father's daughter. Ready for some lunch?"

  "Sure am." He set up the little cockpit table, and watched her arrange lunch on it.

  "So," she said, "how did you make all this happen on the spur of the moment?"

  "Pretty simple," he said. "I called Teterboro and ordered up the air charter, then I called Seth Hotchkiss at the filling station and asked him to put the battery in the car and leave it at the airport, and I asked him to pick up some lunch and leave it in the fridge. Easy when you know how."

  "Your talents never fail to amaze me," she said, kissing him. "I must remember to lay a big tip on the doorman at the Ritz-Carlton the next time I'm in San Francisco."

  "You think he was matchmaking?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "Who knows?"

  "I'll always be grateful to him, in any case."

  She clinked her beer can against his. "To doormen," she said. "And matchmakers."

  They sat on the deck at the Edgartown Yacht Club and sipped brandy. The sun was well down, and the stars shone in their millions.

  "It's all so perfect," Cara said, sipping her cognac.

  "It is now," Sandy replied. "It's as though some great piece of a puzzle fell into place."

  She laid her head on his shoulder. "That's a lovely thing to say."

  "Cara, don't you think you could give my little design job a lot more attention if you were living in the place?" He held his breath. This was precipitous, and he wasn't sure how she'd react.

  She sat up and looked at him. "You're offering me the apartment? Are you moving?"

  He laughed. "A little slow on the uptake, aren't you? I'm not going anywhere."

  "Oh," she said, and her shoulders sagged.

  "'Oh'? What kind of answer is that?" He hadn't really expected her to accept, but still, he was stung with disappointment.

  "It's not an answer, it's a stall," she said. "I'm stalling so I can think for a minute."

  "Take your time."

  She did. She gazed out over the water at the moored yachts, bobbing at their moorings, and her face was inexpressibly sad. Finally she turned to him. "Please take this in the best possible way. After what's happened to us this week, your idea is perfectly logical; it's just that I can't."

  "Give me your reasons," he said.

  "I can't do that, either," she replied. "Not as fully as I would like."

  "Some impediment?"

  She nodded. "That's fair to say."

  "Another man?"

  She shrugged. "Sort of."

  "Sort of a man?" Sandy asked.

  "It's all the answer I can give you right now, Sandy. My life is in something of a muddle, and I have some straightening out to do before I can give you the answer you want." She put her hand on his. "Believe me when I tell you, I'd like nothing better than to go back to Sixty-third Street, pack up, and move in with you."

  "If it's what you want, then do it," Sandy said.

  "It wouldn't be fair to you, to both of us, really. I know this is hard to take, but you're just going to have to trust me. When I'm on my feet-in more ways than one-I'll tell you, and we can start from there. Will you wait until I tell you that?"

  "How long?"

  "I honestly don't know. There's no easy solution, but now that I have a motive to sort it out, I'll move faster. I hope you don't think that's too mysterious."

  "It's pretty mysterious, all right, but I'll trust your judgment."

  "Thank you, Sandy," she said, then kissed him.

  He kissed her back. "There's no impediment to going back to the house and going to bed with each other, is there?"

  She smiled and kissed him again. "None whatever."

  The following morning they met the airplane and flew back toward New York, each silent and sad, lost to the other. When he dropped her off at Sixty-third Street, she kissed him passionately.

  "Thank you, thank you," she said.

  "Not at all."

  "Can I show you some sketches on Wednesday?"

  "Come to the office," he said, handing her his card.

  "I'd rather come to the apartment," she said. "After all, it's what I'm designing."

  He nodded.

  "Seven o'clock?"

  He nodded again, and she was gone.

  CHAPTER 23

  On Monday afternoon Sandy met with Sam Warren at the Mayfair Trust.

  "Larsen's lawyer called this morning," Warren said. "He's come down to ten million, five. The lawyer took credit for talking him into being sensible, but he says ten million five is the least he'll take."r />
  "We haven't even made an offer yet," Sandy said.

  "True. I think the lawyer, when he looked at the deal, saw that Larsen was way out of the ballpark and talked him around. I also choose to ignore the bold talk about nothing less than ten million, five. We should just make our offer as if he'd said nothing."

  "We still have to make a deal with Mike Bernini, before we can make our offer," Sandy said. "And I haven't heard from him."

  "What's with the guy?" Warren asked. "You saw him, what do you think?"

  "He didn't seem all that interested," Sandy replied. "I thought he'd jump at a new deal, but he didn't."

  "Maybe he's a better negotiator than we think."

  Sandy shrugged. "Maybe he just doesn't know what he wants."

  "Lots of people are like that. Do you want me to put together an offer to him, just as a starting point, to get things moving?"

  "No; if he doesn't want it, then I don't want him. I'm not going to beg the guy to come aboard."

  The phone rang, and Warren picked it up. He listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Sandy. "It's your office."

  Sandy took the phone. "Hello?"

  "A couple of calls, Sandy" his secretary said. "Mike Bernini called; I know you were expecting to hear from him."

  "Thanks, Becky," he said, scribbling the number.

  "There was one other call; somebody named Bart. He wouldn't leave a last name." She gave him the number.

  "Any idea who he is?" Sandy asked. "Doesn't ring a bell."

  "He said you'd know."

  "Thanks, Becky." He hung up, grinning. "Bernini called," he said to Warren. "You mind if I call him from here?"

  "Go right ahead; I'm dying to know what he has to say."

  Sandy called the number and asked for Bernini.,

  "Sandy?" Mike Bernini asked.

  "Yes, Mike."

  "I'm glad you called back so quickly. First, I want to explain something; I know I didn't give you the reaction you wanted last week, and there was a good reason. My wife has been wanting to leave the valley. I wasn't happy at work, and that added to her doubts about staying in Napa, but we've talked it over, and I want to stay on if you buy out Larsen."

  "That's terrific, Mike; I'm delighted to hear it."

  "Everything depends on your offer, of course."

  "Do you have a lawyer who can deal for you?"

  "Yes."

  "Have him call Sam Warren at the Mayfair Trust." He gave him the number. "Ask him to call first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll have the offer ready. They can work out the details."

  "Great, Sandy; I hope we can come to terms."

  "I hope so, too, Mike; I think we can really make something of this property. Everything depends on Larsen being reasonable, though; any offer I make you will be contingent on Larsen and I agreeing on a price and other terms."

  "I hope it works. If it's any help to you, I think Larsen wants to sell badly."

  "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind. We'll talk later in the week." Sandy hung up. "That's a load off my mind," he said to Warren.

  "I'll put something together before five o'clock for your approval."

  "Good. Sam, I've been admiring the pictures in your offices."

  "Thank you, Sandy; we're very proud of them."

  "Do you buy at auction?"

  "No, we've bought everything in the place from a San Francisco dealer named Peter Martindale."

  Sandy froze.

  "He specializes in nineteenth-century English painting. I'll give you his number, if you like; next time you're out there go by his gallery. You're redoing your apartment, aren't you?"

  "Yes, but I've pretty much decided on going with American painters."

  "Well, if you change your mind, let me know."

  Not bloody likely, Sandy thought.

  Sandy left the bank and walked into Central Park, looking for a phone. He found one at the zoo, then dialed the number Martindale had left.

  "Well, hello, Sandy," Martindale said. "How are you?"

  "What do you want?" Sandy asked.

  "I want you in San Francisco on Thursday; take the earliest plane you can get."

  "Why?"

  "Because I've worked it out. I'll pick you up at the Ritz at five o'clock in the Lincoln and brief you; then I have to get out of town."

  "Thursday?"

  "Don't disappoint me, my friend; the consequences would be devastating. And don't worry, it's going to be a snap; much easier than what I had to do." He hung up.

  Sandy hung up, swearing. He walked around the zoo slowly, gazing blankly at the animals, feeling desperately sorry for himself. He had to find a way out of this, he thought. Every time he seemed to get his life in order, there was Martindale on the phone again.

  He went back to his office. "Becky," he said to his secretary, "get me on a Thursday morning flight for San Francisco."

  "Sure thing. A Cara Mason called; asked that you get back to her this afternoon."

  He went to his desk and rang her number.

  "Hi, Sandy," she said. "I'm afraid something's come up; do you think you could possibly wait until Monday for your sketches?"

  "What's the problem?" he asked, trying to mask his disappointment.

  "It's the Charleston job; I have to go to South Carolina tomorrow, and I won't get back until Sunday. I promise I'll have the sketches ready on Monday evening, though. Can we go over them at seven, then have dinner?"

  At least she wanted to have dinner. "Sure," he said. "Monday evening at seven."

  "Thank you so much for understanding," she said. "And I want to tell you again what a wonderful time I had over the weekend. I'll remember it always."

  He felt a little better. "I'm glad. Have a good trip to Charleston, and I'll see you Monday evening."

  "I'll look forward to it," she said.

  Sandy hung up. Seven days until he could see her again. And he had something awful to do before then. If he could just get through the week, then maybe it would all be behind him when he saw her on Monday. He hadn't told her he was going to San Francisco; he didn't want anybody to know but his secretary. He'd have to arrange a meeting with Bernini or Larsen, something to legitimize the trip.

  CHAPTER 24

  Sandy sat in the Four Seasons Grill, across from his son, and sipped a good burgundy.

  "So," Angus said, "there's a lady in your life."

  "There is," Sandy said, "although she's just barely in."

  "You haven't nailed her down, then?"

  "Tell you the truth, she doesn't seem nail-downable, at least right away. She says she's got some sorting out to do in her own life before she's ready for any sort of commitment."

  "You don't have a thing to worry about," Angus said. "How could she resist you? You're handsome, charming, and rich!"

  "You're right, of course," Sandy replied.

  Angus grinned. "I'm rich, too!" he crowed.

  Sandy lifted his glass. "To being rich," he toasted.

  "I'll drink to that," Angus said.

  "How about you? Anything happening in the woman department?"

  Angus blushed. "Funny you should ask. There's a girl in my class that I've seen a lot of lately."

  "Why haven't I met her?" Sandy asked, wounded.

  "When I say 'see a lot of,' I mean mostly studying. And when I say 'in my class,' I mean she's finishing at the same time. She's a surgical resident, actually."

  Sandy started. "When do you finish?"

  "On Friday."

  Sandy had forgotten. "Good God! Is there some sort of graduation ceremony, or something? I've got to be in San Francisco on Friday."

  "Relax, Dad, there's no ceremony to feel guilty about missing. We just finish work, pick up a certificate and we're out of there."

  "Whew!" Sandy sighed.

  "What takes you to San Francisco?"

  "I'm buying a vineyard-at least, I hope I'm buying it. Negotiations are underway."

  "That sounds exciting."

  "It really i
s. It's something I've wanted ever since I got interested in wine. I've always though of wine as the perfect partnership between God and man-God provides the right soil and climate and weather; man supplies the agricultural and winemaking skills, and above all, the drinking. God is generous; he doesn't ask for any of the wine."

  Angus laughed and looked at the liquid in his glass. "I don't think I'll ever drink wine again without thinking of that."

  "To change the subject, have you done anything about that business idea of yours?"

  "Not yet. I wonder if I'm going off half-cocked; the idea doesn't seem quite so great as it did at first."

  "It sounded like a good idea to me; it ought to be more fun than just practicing cardiology."

  "Maybe you're right; in any case I think I'll take a couple of weeks off, first."

  Sandy had a good thought. He took out his checkbook, wrote a very large check and handed it to Angus.

  "Jesus!" Angus said, shocked. "What's this for?"

  "I want you to do something for me."

  "What?"

  "You were going to take your grandfather's and your mother's ashes to Scotland, weren't you?"

  "Yes. I'd planned to go next week."

  "I want you to keep going."

  "Keep going where?"

  "Anywhere you want to go. Take your girl with you; see Europe, see the world. I don't want you back in this city until September, at the very earliest."

  Angus gazed at the ceiling. "You know, I did sort of have this fantasy about picking up a Porsche at the factory and touring a bit."

  "Great idea! Do it!"

  "Three months?"

  "Make it four!"

  "Four months?"

  "Listen, Angus, I know you; you're like me. You'll start this new business, and you'll give it your life for years. This is the first time since you were twelve that you don't have to be anywhere on Monday-not at school, not at college, not at med school, not at the hospital. For the first time ever, you're your own man. Take some time, travel, enjoy yourself. It'll be a long time before you'll feel this free again."

  Angus looked at him. "There's a Porsche dealership a few blocks from here, isn't there?"

  "I believe there is."