Son of Stone sb-21 Page 12

  “Come on, tell me the whole thing.”

  “Someone got ahold of a copy of our marriage license.”

  “That’s a public record. What else?”

  “Well, they’ve figured out that we were married at Eduardo’s house and about the mayor, too, but they’re afraid of printing anything about that for fear of angering some of Eduardo’s friends.”

  “So far, so good. Is there more?”

  “They’ve figured out that I’m Vance’s widow and that I have a son.”

  “None of this is really a secret,” Stone said. “Nobody could make very much of that.”

  “They might, if they can count,” she said.

  Stone thought about that. “I think we might have that covered with the change of birth certificate.” He thought some more. “Is Prunella Wheaton a friend of yours, too?”

  Arrington shook her head. “No. I met her once, when I was lunching with a group of women in L.A. She and Vance had an affair when they were very young, long before I knew him.”

  “And Wheaton didn’t say where she heard all this?”

  “No, she said it was just a rumor.”

  “Did you get the impression that it was somebody at the Post? Because that’s where Wheaton’s column runs in New York.”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Apart from sharing this rumor, did Wheaton ask you any questions?”

  “Just girl stuff. She congratulated me on the marriage and asked how Peter is.”

  “What did you tell her about Peter?”

  “She asked where he was in school, but I dodged that one.”

  “What else?”

  “She asked where I’m living, and I said in New York, then I made an excuse and got off the phone.”

  “I think that was a good idea,” Stone said. “I think this rumor may be a fiction and that Wheaton is the one who’s interested. Why would a gossip columnist warn you that another gossip columnist is interested in you? This doesn’t pass the smell test.”

  “What should we do?” Arrington asked.

  “Let me make a couple of calls,” Stone said, “then we’ll make a plan.”

  “What sort of plan?”

  “I don’t know yet, but we don’t want to be caught off guard if she calls again, or if someone else does.”

  “I see.”

  “Did you confirm where and when the wedding took place and that the mayor performed the ceremony?”

  “No, but I didn’t deny it, either.”

  “For somebody like Wheaton, the lack of a denial is as good as a confirmation. You go upstairs and lie down, and don’t answer the phone for a while. Let Joan deal with it.”

  Arrington stood up, and they hugged. “Thank you for being so calm,” she said. She got into the elevator and went upstairs.

  Stone called Bill Eggers. “Do you know Prunella Wheaton?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Eggers said. “I’ve been at a couple of dinner parties where she happened to be, but I’ve always tried to bore her rigid when she tried to talk to me. Sometimes being boring is the best defense with somebody like that.”

  “Wheaton has caught wind of our wedding and its circumstances. Apparently, she’s afraid to mention Eduardo, but we might see the mayor’s presiding in print.”

  “He won’t like that,” Eggers said. “Rupert Murdoch will get an earful.”

  “Wheaton knew Vance Calder, and she met Arrington once. She was digging for information about us and Peter. I figure we’re covered on the birth certificate, but I’d like for you or someone to call Peter’s old school and warn them about giving out any information about him, especially his age.”

  “I see where you’re going,” Eggers said. “I’ll take care of it, and I’ll talk to the attorney in Virginia who’s handling the name change.”

  “Good, Bill, I appreciate that.”

  “Do you want me to have someone call Wheaton?”

  “No, don’t do that; it will just pique her interest.”

  “Right.”

  Stone hung up and called Joan in. “Arrington got a call from Prunella Wheaton today,” he said.

  “That old bat? What did she want?”

  “She said she’d heard a rumor that someone is prying into our lives, but I think that she’s the one doing the prying.”

  “If she calls back, I’ll squash her like a bug,” Joan said.

  “No, don’t do that. Put on your sweet act.”

  “What sweet act?”

  “The one you use when you want something from somebody you hate.”

  “But I don’t want anything from her; it’s the other way around.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh.”

  “Arrington is always out shopping or at a meeting or taking a nap, or something. Always take her number, but we won’t call back. Be careful about giving her any information at all.”

  “I won’t give her the time of day.”

  “But be sweet about it.”

  “Butter won’t melt in my mouth.” Joan went back to her office.

  Stone went upstairs to check on Arrington, who was stretched out on the bed but awake. “When Peter was born was there a birth announcement?”

  She shook her head. “No, Vance told the publicity department at Centurion that he wanted no mention of it in the press.”

  “How about the columns? Did any of them print anything?”

  “No, nothing at all. I spent much of my pregnancy in bed-doctors’ orders-so I wasn’t seen around town with a belly.”

  “Good,” Stone said. He had a feeling that they were now going to learn how good a job they had done with Peter’s name and age change.

  31

  T he following afternoon Stone attended the meeting between Hank Hightower and his people and Eggers’s department heads at Woodman amp; Weld. He drank a double espresso after lunch, which kept him from dozing off and having his head strike the conference table at an inopportune moment. Too many facts about the insurance business traveled into one ear and out the other, without stopping in his brain. Once or twice he was called on to nod sagely or speak an encouraging word, and at the end of the meeting, when everyone stood and shook hands and walked to the elevators together, he was of the impression that the meeting had gone very well and that a new and important client was in the offing.

  “I thought that went very well,” Eggers said, as Stone walked with him back to his office, “and that we may have a new and important client in the offing.”

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Stone replied. “I was very impressed with how you made it possible for me to attend the entire meeting without having to voice an opinion or make any other substantive contribution.”

  “And that double espresso kept you bright-eyed,” Eggers remarked. “I must pour that stuff into all our people before after-lunch meetings.”

  “Cocaine might work, too,” Stone suggested.

  “Well, we wouldn’t want anyone to giggle or break into song, would we?”

  “You have a point.”

  “I want to congratulate you, Stone,” Eggers said. “In the space of a year you have brought three large and profitable clients into the fold. That’s an impressive achievement, even if you did have to marry one of them.”

  “I regret that I have but one bachelorhood to give for my firm,” Stone replied.

  “I’ve spoken to the attorney in Virginia, who has already accomplished the name change in that state. The petition was advertised in a weekly publication aimed at tobacco farmers, so it is unlikely to be noticed by gossip rakers. Our partner here, who is a board member of Peter’s old school, has had a discreet word with the headmaster. No information of any kind about Peter will be conveyed to anyone outside the school, which, in any case, is their longtime policy on privacy for students.”

  “Thank you, Bill. By the way, Peter got a letter from Yale after he left for school this morning.”

  “Good news?”

  “Joan tri
ed to get me to let her steam it open, but I resisted. I think, whatever information it contains, it would be best if Peter were the first to read it.”

  “Well, let me know,” Eggers said. “I think I’m more nervous about this than you are.”

  “Peter feels that both he and Ben Bacchetti are very well qualified to be accepted at Yale, and that the interview, should they be invited for one, will be the crucial test.”

  “How did they do on the SATs?” Eggers asked.

  “Ben did extremely well in all three categories, coming out with a combined score of 2140 out of 2400.”

  “And Peter?”

  “He aced the thing.”

  “A 2400?”

  “That’s right. They both did lots of activities in prep school as well, including working for charities, which is looked upon with favor these days. Ben was the editor for his school paper and wrote a column, and Peter has a nearly complete film to show.”

  “You’d think that would get them into any school in the world,” Eggers said.

  “Who knows?” Stone replied. “It was a lot easier when you and I were applying to NYU Law School. These days you can’t know how these admissions committees work.”

  “Do they have backup schools?”

  “Ben has already been accepted to Columbia, but Peter has no backup.”

  “It might not hurt if he did.”

  “The better I get to know Peter, the more I realize that he habitually assesses the possibilities and alternatives of any situation and chooses what he thinks is the best path. If he felt he needed a backup, he’d have one.”

  “He has a lot of confidence.”

  “He calls it structured optimism.”

  Eggers laughed. “I like that.”

  “Let’s hope Yale likes it, too.”

  “What are you doing this evening?”

  “Ben’s off to Choate next week, and we’re having an eighteenth birthday party for him at the house. I’ve rearranged my gym to provide a dance floor, and we’ve hired a DJ, and they’ll all eat in the kitchen.”

  “Are you chaperoning?”

  “Joan and Helene, my housekeeper, are handling that; they’re a lot tougher than either Arrington or I would be. I’m setting the motion detectors on the first floor so that if anybody tries to make it to a bed, the alarm will go off and lights will flash.”

  “Smart move. Good luck.”

  Stone got back to the house in time to be there when Peter returned from school. Joan handed him the letter, and he carried it to Stone’s office.

  “I got a letter from Yale,” he said, holding it up.

  “Good,” Stone replied.

  “I’m going to read it now.”

  “Good idea.”

  Peter stared at the envelope a little longer, then he picked up a letter opener and carefully slit the envelope flap and removed the letter. He unfolded it and read aloud: “‘Dear Mr. Barrington, we are in receipt of yours and Mr. Benito Bacchetti’s applications and their relevant enclosures. We have scheduled an admissions committee meeting for 11:00 AM this Friday, the 7th, and we invite you and Mr. Bacchetti to be interviewed at that time. If this is seriously inconvenient, please phone my office to make other arrangements.’”

  Peter flopped down on the couch and heaved a huge sigh. “Wow!” he said. “It’s signed by the dean of the School of Drama.”

  “I’ll drive the two of you up to New Haven on Friday morning, if you like,” Stone said.

  “I like,” Peter replied. “Ben likes, too. Holy cow, I have to call him!”

  “Call him from your room, if you will. I have work to do here, and I don’t want to listen to your squeals.”

  Peter ran up the stairs, waving the letter.

  Joan came in. “I was listening,” she said. “This is so great!”

  “Isn’t it?” Stone said. “Where’s his mother?”

  “Out shopping.”

  “I didn’t think I could make him wait until she returned to open the letter. He would have exploded.”

  32

  A t the appointed time for Ben’s birthday party, Stone and Arrington had a pizza delivered and repaired to the master suite, where they watched Peter’s film, rapt.

  Halfway through, Stone put down his glass of beer. “He did this by himself?”

  “He and the other boys,” Arrington replied, “but knowing Peter, I’m sure he took the weight of it on his own shoulders.”

  “I didn’t know he had acted in it, too.”

  “Neither did I. He’s good, isn’t he?”

  “He is, and so is everything else. Now I see why Leo Goldman at Centurion was so impressed.”

  They continued to watch until the final fade-out, then Stone put on some music. “You know that Peter sent his screenplay and the DVD along with his application to Yale, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Arrington said.

  “When Leo called me and wanted to buy the film, I insisted that he return his copies to me and keep absolutely quiet about the film, but now I don’t think it can be kept quiet. They’ll see it at Yale, and word is bound to get around that the thing is, well, brilliant.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yes.”

  A faint throbbing could now be felt from three floors below.

  “The party seems to be at its peak,” Stone said.

  “I’ve told them to have everybody out of the house by eleven,” Arrington said.

  “I hope there’s still a house left by then,” Stone said.

  Early on Friday morning Stone got the two boys into the car and started for New Haven. Ben had stayed the night before. They reached New Haven in plenty of time, and Stone followed the map that Peter had printed out from the Internet. They found the administrative offices, and took seats in the waiting room. Ben was called in first for his interview.

  “Peter,” Stone said, “your mother and I watched your film last night, and we thought it was absolutely terrific.”

  “Thank you, Dad.”

  “You remember our conversation about Leo Goldman liking it, and how I asked him to keep it a secret?”

  “Sure.”

  “Somebody at Yale, maybe more than one person, has seen it by now, and it may be difficult to keep it quiet.”

  “It had occurred to me that that might happen,” Peter said, “but I thought my chance of being accepted here would be better if they saw it.”

  “I expect that’s right, but you might see if you can find out how many people have seen it and ask them to keep quiet about it.”

  “I can ask, I guess,” Peter said.

  Forty minutes passed, and Ben came out of his interview. “They’ll be ready for you in a minute, they said.” He plopped down beside Peter. “Whew!”

  “Was it tough?”

  “Not exactly, but they sure had a lot of questions. They didn’t like it that I hadn’t done any sort of audition, but they seemed to like it that I want to study production and get an MBA. They have a program for that.”

  “Good,” Peter said.

  A woman came and took Peter down a hall to a large office, where two men, one of them the dean of the school, and a woman waited. Introductions were made, and they all sat down at a small conference table.

  The woman began. “Peter, please tell us why you want to study at the Yale School of Drama.”

  “For the past seven months,” Peter said, “I’ve read up on about fifteen schools, and I concluded that Yale has the best program. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Do you know anyone who has attended here?” she asked.

  “No, but I know that Elia Kazan trained here, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the best possible recommendation.”

  “Have you read his autobiography?”

  “Yes, twice,” Peter replied.

  “You’ve indicated in your application that you want to study both acting and directing. Why?”

  “My intention is to direct, but I’ve enjoyed the acting I’ve done in school productions,
and if I’m going to direct, I’ll need to understand how actors think and how to work with them. I’m interested in everything you teach here, but I suppose I have to concentrate on something, so I chose acting and directing.”

  “You understand, don’t you, that this is a professional school, and that it’s very time-consuming, so you won’t have an opportunity to take a lot of college courses simultaneously.”

  “Yes, I understand that, but by the autumn I will already have taken all of the standard liberal arts curriculum, and I’ve done most of the reading required to get a BA.”

  The three exchanged a glance. “I see,” the woman said. “Who are your favorite writers?”

  “Mark Twain and Jane Austen,” Peter replied without hesitating. “In the theater, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, and Noel Coward.”

  She smiled. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard an applicant mention Coward,” she said, half to herself. “What have you read that you would most like to direct?”

  “I’d like very much to make a film of Pride and Prejudice,” he said. “I know it’s been done, but it seems to get redone every generation or so.”

  “What would you like to direct onstage?”

  “My own plays,” he replied.

  “Have you written any plays?”

  “My screenplay was originally intended for the stage, but my faculty adviser cautioned me against that.”

  “Why?”

  “Since the script is about two students murdering a teacher and getting away with it, I think he thought the school’s board would be reluctant to see it performed with parents present.”

  That got a laugh from all three. The dean spoke up. “Since your film doesn’t have titles yet, I didn’t realize that you had acted in it, as well as directing, until I saw you this morning. Did you find that difficult?”

  “Not as difficult as I had feared. I already had all the dialogue in memory, so I didn’t have to worry about that. It was mainly a matter of organizing the setups and preparing in advance so that I wouldn’t waste scene time.”

  “You seem to have shot everything in existing light,” the dean said. “Why?”