“All you want; I’m a good listener.”
“This isn’t for publication, not even for a mention.”
“It’s nothing to do with the trial, then?”
“Nothing; purely personal.”
“Cry away.”
“My girl was supposed to meet me at the airport; we were coming together. She missed the flight because of a meeting at The New Yorker—she’s a magazine writer, like Jim—and before she could get on the next day’s flight, the blizzard happened.”
“That was bad luck.”
“It gets worse. The subject of her piece was Vance Calder. She went to L.A. with him for more interviews.”
“Uh-oh.”
“You said it.”
“She’s not your girl anymore?”
“Worse; she’s now Mrs. Vance Calder. They were married yesterday; I got a fax.”
“Hoo! Well, at least you lost her to somebody spectacular.”
Stone shrugged. “I wonder if that’s better than having her run off with a CPA?”
“What’s her name?”
“Arrington Carter.”
“Jesus; I know her.” Kramer shook her head. “Well, a little, not much. She is very beautiful.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
She started. “Does anybody know about this?”
“Just you and me.”
She looked at her watch. “I wonder if I can still make tomorrow’s paper.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Stone said.
Kramer fell back into her chair. “Oh, shit, I promised, didn’t I?”
“You promised. Anyway, it’s not your kind of story, is it?”
“No, but it would have been nice for the Chronicle column, which is the nearest thing the Times has to gossip, and nobody would have believed that I could get the beat on the story.”
“Leave the Calders in peace,” Stone said. “They’re holed up, hoping that somebody like you won’t find them until they’re ready to spring the news themselves.”
“Well, that’s the last story I expected to get in St. Marks.” She looked up. “Here comes Jim.”
“Don’t mention Arrington to him.”
“Okay.”
Forrester ambled up and sat down, tossing a business card onto the table. “Well, thanks a lot, Stone; you got me into a conversation with a life insurance salesman.”