Worst Fears Realized (Stone Barrington 5)

“A difference in philosophies, as your father put it.”

“Papa liked you,” she said.

“He made me believe he did. I liked him, too.”

“It is impossible not to like Papa, if he wants you to.”

“A family trait.”

“What are your ethnic origins?” she asked.

“English on both sides, if you can call that ethnic.”

“Ah, yes, Barrington sounds very English.” She cocked her head. “I find it difficult to believe that you were ever a cop.”

“The NYPD found it difficult to believe, too. I didn’t exactly fit in. Dino once told me that the NYPD was a fraternal lodge, and I never joined.”

“Tell me about your family history.”

“Both sides of my family, the Barringtons and the Stones, came from English Midlands to Massachusetts in the early eighteenth century and established themselves in the weaving trade. In the nineteenth century, that grew into the textiles business. They were quite prosperous. My father had no wish to enter the family business; he loved woodworking, and it was all he wanted to do. His father, however, insisted that he go to Yale. My mother was sent to Mount Holyoke, to study art. When the stock market crash came, in twenty-nine, both families pretty well crashed with it. My father left Yale and moved to New York, where he met my mother, who was living in Greenwich Village, painting.

“They had known each other as children, and when they met again, they fell in love. My father began going house to house with his tools, looking for handyman’s work. Eventually, he was able to open a small woodworking shop, and over the years he established a reputation as a maker of fine furniture. They had many left-wing friends, and my father actually joined the Communist Party during the Depression.”

“I’m doing the math; they must have been quite late in life when you were born.”

“Yes; I came as something of a surprise.”

“Whatever happened to the family in Massachusetts?”

“It petered out, I suppose. My father was disowned for being a Communist; my mother was disowned for marrying my father. The only family member I ever had any real contact with was a great-aunt, on my mother’s side, who, when she died, was kind enough to leave me her house in Turtle Bay.”

“This is an honorable background,” she said, “except for that business about Communism. But many good people were hoodwinked into joining in the thirties, I suppose.”

“He never regretted holding Communist views. He regretted what the Party turned out to be.” Stone looked at her narrowly. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m being interviewed for some position?”

“Perhaps you are, but not the one you are thinking of. I am a Catholic, and my father is a devout Catholic; I’m allowed only one husband.”

“Somehow, I can’t imagine you with a husband,”

“Neither could my husband, after we’d been married a while.”

“So what position am I being interviewed for?”

“I haven’t decided,” she said. “Why haven’t you asked me any questions about my family?”

“I told you, I’m psychic; I already know what I need to.”

“You mustn’t joke about such things with an Italian girl; we take them seriously.”

“I will always know more about you than you will want me to know,” Stone said, and he hoped she would believe it, even if it weren’t true. He thought he saw a tiny flicker of fear in her eyes.

“Please,” she said.

They finished their first course, and Stone took their entrée, a crown roast of lamb, from the hot box under the table. Stone tasted the red wine and poured it.

“It’s not Italian,” she said, sniffing her glass.