“Stone,” she said, “understand me clearly: I am not going to have my life ruled by some maniac who wants to harm us. I’ll tell you a story: I lived in London at the height of the IRA bombings a while back. I was having dinner with my parents at a little restaurant in Chelsea, when someone set off a car bomb next door. We all hit the floor, of course, but when the smoke had cleared, my father ordered another cup of coffee to replace the one that had blown away, and he sat there and finished it. ‘Never,’ he said, ‘never let people like that cause you to alter your existence in the slightest.’ Since that time, I never have, and I never will. I wouldn’t have left my friends’ apartment if I hadn’t been so anxious to get into bed with you.”

“Well, that was an awfully good reason,” Stone said.

“So you understand that I will not cancel my show.”

“I understand. I hope you understand that I’m going to do whatever I can to make it as safe a show as possible.”

“I’ll be happy to introduce you to Bergman; the two of you can discuss that.”

“I’ll be happy to meet him.”

They reached the inn and went upstairs to dress for dinner.

“It was an awfully nice day,” Sarah said, as she ran her bath.

“I suppose there are worse ways to see a place than with a real-estate agent who knows her stuff.”

She got into the tub. “Join me?”

“You betcha.” He climbed into the tub with her, but his mind was on the Bergman Gallery.

23

MR. AND MRS. HOWARD MENZIES ARRIVED at their Park Avenue apartment building for the first time and got out of a taxi. Mrs. Menzies was an attractive woman in her early fifties, dressed in a Chanel suit and very good shoes, her graying hair carefully coifed. Mr. Menzies was perhaps two or three years older than his new wife and was dressed in a gray, pin-striped suit that was, though of good quality, a little out of fashion.

“Oh, I’m so nervous,” Mrs. Menzies said. “I hope you’re going to like it.”

“My dear,” Mr. Menzies replied, “put your mind at rest. I have the utmost confidence in your taste and judgment.”

The doorman greeted Mrs. Menzies warmly.

“Oh, Jeff,” she said, “I want you to meet Mr. Menzies; he was abroad when we bought the apartment, and he’s seeing it today for the first time.”

“How do you do, Mr. Menzies,” Jeff said, shaking hands. “I’m sure you’re going to love the building.”

“I’m sure I will, too, Jeff,” Mr. Menzies replied, rewarding the doorman with a smile.

“Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you,” Jeff said.

“Darling,” Mrs. Menzies half whispered, “Jeff has been very helpful with our moving in.”