“I am a researcher by nature.”
“Is that a Swedish trait?”
She took a chair. “More a personal one.”
Stone sat beside her. “You were born and raised in New York, right?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get to be so Swedish?”
“By way of genetics, since both my parents are Swedish, and by nature, acquired in my summers in that country as a girl. I had many opportunities to compare, and I found Swedes to be better role models than Americans.”
“In what ways?”
“First, you were going to tell me the story of how you acquired this house.”
“Ah. By a rather torturous route. My parents were natives of western Massachusetts, where their own parents were engaged in the weaving of woolen cloth, on rather a large scale. The two families were close, and by the time they were teenagers, my father and mother were deeply in love, somewhat to the alarm of their respective parents.”
“Too young?”
“That, and my father’s ambitions. He was destined for the law at Yale, where generations of Barringtons had matriculated, but he wanted more than anything to be a carpenter and a maker of furniture, which they considered to be beneath their station in life. Then there was the subject of his social and political views.”
“Which were?”
“Probably more Swedish than American — very left-leaning. The two young people were forbidden to marry. By this time my father was professing communism, in its purer form. This caused my father’s parents to disown him.”
“How harsh!”
“It was. Then they eloped, and my mother was disowned by her parents for marrying my father, and the schism was complete. They moved to Greenwich Village, where my mother’s gift for painting blossomed, and my father became a handyman, calling door-to-door at people’s houses, toting his toolbox, seeking work and finding enough to allow him to, eventually, acquire his own woodworking shop and to begin thinking about having me. During those early years they were secretly helped along by my maternal grandmother’s widowed sister, her aunt Eloise, who owned and lived in this house.
“Eloise helped them most by commissioning my father to make all the doors, bookcases, and wood furniture for the house, over a period of years. It became a showcase for him and allowed him to add the word ‘designer’ to his job title. When Aunt Eloise died, in her nineties, she willed the house to me.”
“How lovely!”
“It was lovely, but in her later years the infrastructure had aged along with her, so a very thorough renovation was required, and having trained at my father’s knee, I did much of the work myself, getting into considerable debt along the way.
“Then, when I was rescued from the NYPD by Woodman & Weld, I earned enough to pay off the debt and complete the job. Recently, the smaller house next door was for sale, and I bought it to house my secretary, housekeeper, and butler.”
“You have a butler?”
“Yes, he was originally a gift from a French friend of mine, who sent him to me for a year, then I hired him. His name is Fred, and you’ll meet him when he drives us to dinner.”
“This bourbon drink is getting better,” she said, glancing at her watch, “but I think we should have our second one at the restaurant.”
“Ever punctual,” Stone said, ringing for Fred.
14
Fred dropped them at Patroon, and they found Dino and Viv waiting for them. “Marisa, you remember Dino and Viv from our dinner in Maine.”
“Of course,” Marisa replied, shaking their hands and sitting.
“I ordered you both a Knob Creek,” Dino said.
“Then it’s a good thing that Marisa is a new convert to bourbon, or I’d have to drink it myself.”
“You’ll get around to it anyway.”
“Marisa,” Viv said, “you spoke so little at our introductory dinner that we hardly got to know you. I’m glad you’re here tonight, so we can make up for that.”
“You are very kind,” Marisa replied.
Their drinks arrived.
“Skoal,” Dino said, and they raised their glasses.
“By the way,” Viv said to Marisa, “I’m personally handling your security, so please call me if there’s something you’d like changed.” She pushed her business card across the table. “Our company name is Strategic Services.”
“Security?” Marisa asked. “What does that mean?”
“People with guns,” Viv replied, “except when you’re with Stone.”
“Do you have a gun?” Marisa asked Stone.
“I do.”
“I don’t see it.”
“It’s cleverly concealed.”
“This is all very un-Swedish,” she replied.
“You’re in New York, not Stockholm,” Viv said. “Sometimes we have to take precautions.”
Stone pushed her drink at her. “It will be easier to tolerate once you’ve had a drink.”
She laughed and took a big swig of the bourbon.
“You see?” Stone said. “She’s thoroughly acclimated.”
“What does this ‘security’ entail, besides men with guns?”
“You, your father and two brothers will have two people each,” Viv said. “I’ve arranged for both of yours to be women — it makes things less tense in the ladies’ room.”
“Also,” Stone said, “except when Fred is driving us, when you leave the clinic you will always travel in a Strategic Services car.”
“Is all this really necessary?”
“We very much hope not,” Viv said, “but we must, in the circumstances, be prepared should it become necessary.”
“For how long?”
“At least until the stock buyout is complete,” Stone said. “Perhaps a bit longer.”
“Is doing business always this dangerous?”
“It’s not about business,” Stone said, “it’s about the ego of one man, a fellow called Erik Macher, who recently took charge of St. Clair Enterprises after the untimely death of Christian St. Clair.”
“Untimely? Does that mean violent?”
“Unfortunately, yes. He opened a package that contained a bomb.”
“Who sent the bomb?”
“It was an integral part of the package and would have been safe, if he had known the procedure for opening it.”
“I’m sorry, none of this makes any sense at all,” Marisa said. “Perhaps we should change the subject.”
“Willingly,” Stone said. “Marisa was brought up in both New York and in Sweden, and she takes the Swedish part to heart, especially about being candid.”
“Are the rumors true about Swedish women?” Dino asked.
Viv kicked him under the table.
“What? I’m just curious.”
“The rumors are all true, Dino,” Marisa said. “But Stone and I have already got over that hump.” She caught herself. “So to speak.”
Everybody laughed, and what with the drinks, all tensions disappeared.
Fred drove them home, and Stone took Marisa up in the elevator to the master suite. “The intervening floors are guest quarters,” Stone explained.
“I hope I’m not being relegated to a guest room.”
“Certainly not!” The elevator door opened and he led her to the master suite.
“Oh, this is very nice! And I get my own dressing room and bath?”
“You do,” Stone said, placing her bag inside.
“Does this mean we can’t undress together?” she asked. “I like watching you undress.”
“You are welcome in my dressing room anytime,” Stone said. “It’s right over there.” He pointed.
She stepped inside her dressing room and undressed, emerging quite naked. “I didn’t bring a nightgown,” she said.
“That’s just fine. I would only have to remove it, anyway.” He stepped into his dressing room and took his clothes off, while she watched approvingly.