On Monday morning a gossip columnist in the News had the story:
The Barron Harknesses are calling it a day, after more than twenty years together and two children. We hear the ice age crept up on the marriage long ago, and the split is just a final acknowledgment of reality.
Insiders say that Barron is being uncommonly generous, that Charlotte Harkness is getting both the house in Easthampton and the ten-room Fifth Avenue digs, where Barron has long been chairman of the cooperative’s board.
We hear, too, that as part of their agreement, a certain other apartment owner has to leave the building immediately, surely a new wrinkle in divorce settlements.
Since Barron has never been seen squiring ladies around town, speculation on his paramour centers on the Continental Network – insiders figure it must be somebody at the office. Watch this space.
Stone threw the newspaper at the wall, then concentrated on forming the scab again. The phone rang.
“Hi, it’s Bill. I just wanted to let you know that the outcome of Friday night’s little opus has been most satisfactory for my client.”
“I read the item in the news,” Stone said. “I’m happier than you know that it worked out so well for her.” He did his best to mean this.
“Woodman is delighted, too. He was very, very nervous about your being involved in something like this, and it’s unlikely he’ll want to do it again soon, but he asked me to express his gratitude.”
“Tell him I was glad to be of help.”
“I’ve got nothing on my plate at the moment that I might need you for, so take it easy for a while. Why don’t you take a vacation? The islands or someplace?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a lot more work to do on the house; I’ll use any free time for that. I have to get an office together, too.”
“Right, whatever you say. I’ll let you know when I have something else for you.”
Stone hung up and glanced out the window. A moving van had pulled up outside, and furniture was being loaded into it. Feldstein was moving out of the downstairs professional suite. That suited Stone fine; he’d need the space now.
For the rest of the week, Stone turned his attention to the study. When the books had all been unpacked, dusted, and arranged on the shelves, he waxed the floor, then unrolled the beautiful Aubusson carpet that had come back from cleaning. He got the old desk, now refinished, back in its place, then hung two of his mother’s paintings, along with some of his great-aunt’s pictures. By Saturday, the room gleamed, but it looked as though someone had always lived in it.
Stone spent a month on the professional suite, ripping out the partitions Feldstein had installed for his treatment rooms, hiring a plumber to replace the old pipes, ducting the new central heating into the space, and stripping and refinishing the original oak paneling. He finished up with a reception room and two offices, plus a storeroom for a copying machine and supplies. He had a discreet brass plate made for the front door that read THE BARRINGTON PRACTICE. He would install it when news of his passing the bar exam came.
He began thinking about a secretary, but, before he could place an ad, Bill Eggers came up with someone who wanted to return to Woodman amp; Weld after raising children. She was a plump, motherly woman named Helen Wooten, very bright and capable, and she suited his needs perfectly. Not having much else for her to do yet, he put her in charge of his personal finances and the construction costs on the house. She began saving him money immediately.
Bill Eggers arranged a three-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage on the house that let him pay off his old bank loan and gave him the funds to complete work and furnish the house and office.
Three months passed. Cary never called.
Every couple of weeks he had dinner with Dino, usually at Elaine’s. Elaine liked Dino; he made her laugh.
“Stone,” Dino said one evening, “you’re not going to believe this.”
“What?”
“I’m thinking of getting married.”
“You’re right, I don’t believe it.”
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p; “A girl from the neighborhood. We know each other since grammar school.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Mary Ann Bianchi, a good Italian girl.”
Stone turned to Elaine. “He’s hallucinating.”
“I think you’re right,” Elaine said. “It must be the Sambuca; he’s had too much.”