Worst Fears Realized

“Stone,” she said, “understand me clearly: I am not going to have my life ruled by some maniac who wants to harm us. I’ll tell you a story: I lived in London at the height of the IRA bombings a while back. I was having dinner with my parents at a little restaurant in Chelsea, when someone set off a car bomb next door. We all hit the floor, of course, but when the smoke had cleared, my father ordered another cup of coffee to replace the one that had blown away, and he sat there and finished it. ‘Never,’ he said, ‘never let people like that cause you to alter your existence in the slightest.’ Since that time, I never have, and I never will. I wouldn’t have left my friends’ apartment if I hadn’t been so anxious to get into bed with you.”

“Well, that was an awfully good reason,” Stone said.

“So you understand that I will not cancel my show.”

“I understand. I hope you understand that I’m going to do whatever I can to make it as safe a show as possible.”

“I’ll be happy to introduce you to Bergman; the two of you can discuss that.”

“I’ll be happy to meet him.”

They reached the inn and went upstairs to dress for dinner.

“It was an awfully nice day,” Sarah said, as she ran her bath.

“I suppose there are worse ways to see a place than with a real-estate agent who knows her stuff.”

She got into the tub. “Join me?”

“You betcha.” He climbed into the tub with her, but his mind was on the Bergman Gallery.

23

MR. AND MRS. HOWARD MENZIES ARRIVED at their Park Avenue apartment building for the first time and got out of a taxi. Mrs. Menzies was an attractive woman in her early fifties, dressed in a Chanel suit and very good shoes, her graying hair carefully coifed. Mr. Menzies was perhaps two or three years older than his new wife and was dressed in a gray, pin-striped suit that was, though of good quality, a little out of fashion.

“Oh, I’m so nervous,” Mrs. Menzies said. “I hope you’re going to like it.”

“My dear,” Mr. Menzies replied, “put your mind at rest. I have the utmost confidence in your taste and judgment.”

The doorman greeted Mrs. Menzies warmly.

“Oh, Jeff,” she said, “I want you to meet Mr. Menzies; he was abroad when we bought the apartment, and he’s seeing it today for the first time.”

“How do you do, Mr. Menzies,” Jeff said, shaking hands. “I’m sure you’re going to love the building.”

“I’m sure I will, too, Jeff,” Mr. Menzies replied, rewarding the doorman with a smile.

“Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you,” Jeff said.

“Darling,” Mrs. Menzies half whispered, “Jeff has been very helpful with our moving in.”

“Thank you so much for helping my wife, Jeff,” Mr. Menzies said warmly, slipping a hundred-dollar bill into the doorman’s hand.

They took the elevator to a high floor and got out. Mrs. Menzies slipped a key into her husband’s hand. “You open the door,” she said nervously.

“Of course, my dear.” Menzies unlocked the door, pushed it open, and allowed his wife to precede him into the apartment. He was immediately struck by the warmth, comfort, and beauty that his wife had brought to the decorating of the apartment. He followed her from room to room, admiring what she had chosen and occasionally spotting an old, familiar piece of furniture or a picture that he had chosen years before. The apartment was only six rooms, but perfect for a childless, middle-aged couple. They had views across Park Avenue to the park and down the avenue. “It must be beautiful at Christmas,” he said, “with all the trees lining the avenue.”

“I’m told it is,” she replied. “We’ll have to wait a few months to find out.”

He took both her hands in his. “My dear, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the way you have put the place together. It feels as if we have always lived here.” He kissed her lightly.

“It was my great pleasure to do this for you,” Mrs. Menzies said. “I’ve done all the other things you asked me to do, as well. Shall I fix you a drink, and we’ll talk about them?”

“What a very good idea,” Menzies replied. “May I have a martini? I haven’t had a martini for such a long time.” He took a seat on the living-room sofa and relaxed, while his wife puttered at the wet bar.

She returned with a tray containing two martinis and some canapes that she had prepared earlier, in anticipation of her husband’s homecoming. She set her drink on the coffee table, then brought an accordion file to the sofa, before taking a sip. “Here are the legal documents,” she said, “all in perfect order. Here are the ownership papers for the apartment; and here are the bank and brokerage statements, arranged by date. And here are your passport and driver’s license applications. Your appointment for the driving test is tomorrow at three.”

Menzies looked quickly through the documents. “You are a wonder!” he exclaimed. “Everything is exactly as I wished it to be. Now, my dear,” he said, taking her hands in his, “what about your personal arrangements?”

“I did everything exactly as you asked. I brought nothing from my old apartment here – not so much as a teacup.”

“And everything at your old apartment is in perfect order?”

“Absolutely perfect. There is nothing new there; only my old things. I intend to give everything to the Salvation Army.”

“Now tell me this, dear, and this is most important. Have you told anyone of your move here?”

“Not a soul.”

“Have you done anything to alert any of your friends or neighbors that you were about to move?”

“Nothing. No one knows.”

He patted her cheek and kissed her again. “Good girl.” He polished off his martini. “Now, if you will forgive me, I must do some work in my study for a while.”

“I’ll start cooking dinner, then,” she said.

“Oh, no; I’ve already made a reservation at a very good restaurant for dinner. It will be my surprise; can you be ready at eight?”

“Of course! I look forward to it. Now, you go and do your work. My soap opera is on now, and I never miss it.”

“Good, good.” Menzies gathered up the papers and went to his study, a handsome, book-lined room – books that he had collected for many years. He closed the door behind him, set the papers on his desk, sat down behind it, picked up a phone, and dialed a number. “I’m here,” he said to the man who answered. “Yes, all is well. Be downstairs in” – he looked at his watch – “three-quarters of an hour, exactly.” He hung up the phone and went to work, examining each of the legal documents in minute detail. It was perfect. He looked over the copy of his combined credit report, stretching back the usual seven years. Every payment on every account had been made on time. He leafed through the stock-account statements, though he was already very familiar with them. The balances, at the end of the previous month, totaled just over fifteen million dollars, and the market had gone up since then. He felt a wave of contentment at the thought of his wealth.

A copy of that day’s Wall Street Journal sat on the desk. He folded it and opened a desk drawer, looking for an envelope and finding it exactly where he had asked her to put it. She really is a good organizer, he thought. He stuffed the newspaper into the envelope, sealed it, and wrote in large letters on its outside “Mr. Smith” and an address. He glanced at his watch, then returned to the living room. “My dear,” he said, “there is one more matter to which I must ask you to attend, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, no, Herbie,” she said. “I don’t mind at all.”

“Ach!” he exclaimed, raising a forefinger.

“Oh, I’m so sorry – Howard.”

“That’s better; you must never forget. Now come, we’ll go downstairs, and I’ll explain on the way.” He led her out of the apartment and onto the elevator. “Take this envelope,” he said, handing it to her.

She accepted the envelope. “Mr. Smith,” she said.