“I’m sorry, I know you want this, but I don’t really trust myself to see him, not even in a public place.”

“All right, I’ll tell him.”

—

When they had finished lunch, Gala called Tirov.

“Gala?”

“Yes.”

“Did you speak to him? Will the two of you join me?”

“I’m sorry, Boris, he has a business meeting tomorrow. He said perhaps next time we’re in L.A.”

“As you wish,” Tirov said, and there was ice in his voice.

“I’ll call you next time we’re in L.A.”

“My therapist says that if someone I’ve offended won’t meet me, then I should send a gift.”

“If you like, fine.”

“I’ll have it messengered to the Arrington tomorrow, before I leave for location. What suite number?”

“Just address it to Stone—the hotel will know. Have a good shoot.” She hung up and went back to work. The lunch break helped; she got her scene finished.

The following morning Gala finished her script. She read through it once more, and was pleased with how well it flowed. She e-mailed it to her agent, who would print and messenger the hard copy to the studio.

She and Stone had lunch by the pool again, and they celebrated her completion of the script with champagne.

As they were finishing lunch, the butler approached. “Mr. Barrington, please excuse me. A delivery came for you, from Tiffany’s. I put it on the table in the study.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “I’m not expecting anything.”

“I forgot to tell you,” Gala said. “When I told Boris you couldn’t have lunch, he said that his therapist had told him that if he couldn’t see someone to whom he was apologizing, he should send a gift instead. He’s always loved Tiffany’s—it’s probably a clock or a piece of crystal.”

—

When they had finished lunch, they went into the house, and Stone found a large sky-blue box on the study table, tied with a white ribbon. There was no card. He was about to untie the ribbon when he stopped and looked at the box carefully. It looked like every other Tiffany’s box he had ever seen: there were no marks or blemishes. He thought about it for a minute, then he sat down and got out his cell phone.

Gala came into the room. “Oh, is this the one from Boris?” She reached for the ribbon. “Shall I open it for you?”

“No!” Stone said, stopping her short. “Please don’t touch it.” He pressed a speed-dial button and waited.

“Billy Barnett,” a man’s voice said.

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“What’s up?”

“I had a lunch invitation from Boris Tirov yesterday. He told Gala his therapist wanted him to apologize to people he had offended.”

“Really?”