“It’s all right,” she said. “By the way, do you need to rent a dinner jacket? I know a place.”
“Nope. I brought one, just in case.”
“Always prepared, aren’t you?” She finished off her omelette, took his plate, poured him a large mug of coffee and stood up. “I’ll get this stuff back to the galley, and I’ll see you on the afterdeck later.”
“Okay.” Stone watched her go, then he got up, showered, put on a swimsuit, grabbed a terry robe from the closet and walked back to the fantail. Callie was already stretched out on a chaise, wearing only her bikini bottom, reading.
“Hi, want something good to read?”
“Sure.”
She tossed him a book. “I just finished it. It’s great.”
Stone looked at the book: Tumult by Frederick James. “Oh, yes, I read some pages yesterday. Starts well.”
“Ends well, too. Enjoy.”
Stone read through the morning, broke for sandwiches and closed the book at five.
“Good?”
“Good.”
“Thad liked it, too. He had me send the author an invitation to the party tonight, but we never heard from him. I guess his publisher didn’t forward it.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get over to the house and brief the caterers,” she said. “I’ll see you at the party.”
“Think I’ll have a nap,” Stone said. He went back to his cabin and slept for half an hour, then he shaved, showered and dressed in Vance Calder’s ecru raw silk dinner jacket, a silk evening shirt and a black tie. He walked back to the house and through the central hallway, dodging frantic caterers and decorators, got into his borrowed Mercedes E430 convertible and drove into town. Shortly, he pulled up in front of Liz Harding’s house. He walked across the driveway, his evening shoes crunching on the pea gravel. The doorbell was set in an intercom box. He pressed it and it made a noise like a telephone ringing.
“Hello?”
“It’s Stone.”
“Oh, Stone. The door’s unlocked; let yourself in, and I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“Okay.” She clicked off, and Stone opened the door and walked into the house. It was quite beautiful, Queen Anne in style, not terribly large, but made of good materials—marble floors, walnut paneling, beautiful moldings. He found the living room and continued to explore, ending up in a handsome little library with many leather-bound volumes. A small bar had been set up on a butler’s tray, and he poured himself some chilled mineral water, then he wandered around the room. A collection of silver-framed photographs rested on the mantel, and Stone inspected them. They were all of Liz Harding with a handsome, silver-haired man, clearly Winston Harding, taken in various cities and on various beaches.
“He was handsome, wasn’t he?” she said.
Stone turned and found her standing in the doorway, wearing a white silk dress and a gorgeous diamond necklace, with matching earrings. Her hair was blond again.
“Yes, he was, and you are very beautiful,” Stone said.
She came and gave him a little hug, careful not to muss her makeup. “And so are you,” she said. “That’s the most beautiful dinner jacket I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you,” Stone replied. He decided to stop telling people that the clothes were Vance Calder’s, and to start taking credit himself.
“Would you like a drink before we go?” she asked.
“I think we’re already fashionably late,” he replied. “Why don’t we just go to the party?”
She took his arm, and he led her out to the car.
“Drive slowly,” she said. “The hair.”
“I like it blond.”
“So do I. It’s my natural color.”
“I remember.”