“I think it would be extremely rude for me to turn up there unannounced, so take me back.”
“Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud, Stone; this will be fun!”
“Not for me, and very probably not for Sarah.”
“I won’t take you back.”
“Then let me out of the car, and I’ll find my own way back.”
“Oh, really, Stone; can’t you ju
st go along with this?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Oh, all right,” she said, picking up the car phone and dialing a number. “Hello, Sarah? It’s Monica. Yes, sweetie. I have to tell you the funniest thing. Last night, I had a blind date with someone you know, Stone Barrington.” She listened for a moment. “No, I’m not kidding; he’s over here on business and he met Erica and Lance, and they invited him to dinner.” She listened again. “He’s very well indeed, and I thought that, if it’s all right with you, I’d bring him down for the weekend.” She listened. “Wonderful! I’ll go get him, and we’ll be down in a couple of hours. See you then.” She hung up the phone. “There, she said she’d be delighted to see you. Satisfied?”
“I suppose I am,” Stone said, but he was still feeling uncomfortable about it.
“I may as well tell you this, too.”
“What?”
“Dinner tomorrow night is to celebrate her engagement.”
“Swell,” Stone said. “Are you sure she said it was all right for me to come?”
“She did, said she’d be delighted. She’s marrying a man named James Cutler, who’s something big in the wine trade. Sweet man, very handsome.”
“Monica, if, when we arrive at the house, Sarah is surprised to see me, I’m going straight back to London.”
“Stone, you heard me speak to her. Please relax, it will be all right.” They had reached the Chiswick Roundabout, and she turned toward Southampton, flooring the Aston Martin and passing three cars that were going too slowly for her taste.
“How often do you get arrested?” Stone asked.
“Hardly ever.”
“Do you still have a driver’s license?”
“Of course I do.”
Soon they were on the M3 motorway, and Monica was doing a little over a hundred miles an hour.
“Beautiful country,” Stone said. “Why don’t we slow down and see it?”
“Oh, all right,” she said, taking an exit. “We’ll go the back roads; it’s more fun that way anyhow.” Shortly they were on a winding country road that was perfect for sports-car driving, and Monica was driving it very well.
Stone was happier at sixty than at a hundred.
“Do you like art?” Monica asked. “I mean, apart from Sarah’s pictures?”
“Yes, I do; my mother was a painter.”
“What was her name?”
“Matilda Stone.”
“You’re kidding! I know her work very well; she did those marvelous cityscapes of New York, especially Greenwich Village.”