Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

"What now?"

"Stop asking questions, and do as you're told."

"Yessir," she said, saluting smartly.

The little sloop cut through the water like a sharp knife, parting the small seas, heeling to the breeze. They sat up to windward, their feet on the leeward seat, while Cara helmed the yacht parallel with the beach.

"Head in there," Sandy said, pointing to an indentation in the shoreline. He went forward and got the anchor ready, then, with hand signals, conned her to their anchorage. When he was sure the anchor had dug in he came aft to a waiting beer. "Very impressive," he said. "You know how to make a boat go to windward."

"I grew up on San Francisco Bay," she said. "It comes with the territory, if you're my father's daughter. Ready for some lunch?"

"Sure am." He set up the little cockpit table, and watched her arrange lunch on it.

"So," she said, "how did you make all this happen on the spur of the moment?"

"Pretty simple," he said. "I called Teterboro and ordered up the air charter, then I called Seth Hotchkiss at the filling station and asked him to put the battery in the car and leave it at the airport, and I asked him to pick up some lunch and leave it in the fridge. Easy when you know how."

"Your talents never fail to amaze me," she said, kissing him. "I must remember to lay a big tip on the doorman at the Ritz-Carlton the next time I'm in San Francisco."

"You think he was matchmaking?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Who knows?"

"I'll always be grateful to him, in any case."

She clinked her beer can against his. "To doormen," she said. "And matchmakers."

They sat on the deck at the Edgartown Yacht Club and sipped brandy. The sun was well down, and the stars shone in their millions.

"It's all so perfect," Cara said, sipping her cognac.

"It is now," Sandy replied. "It's as though some great piece of a puzzle fell into place."

She laid her head on his shoulder. "That's a lovely thing to say."

"Cara, don't you think you could give my little design job a lot more attention if you were living in the place?" He held his breath. This was precipitous, and he wasn't sure how she'd react.

She sat up and looked at him. "You're offering me the apartment? Are you moving?"

He laughed. "A little slow on the uptake, aren't you? I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh," she said, and her shoulders sagged.

"'Oh'? What kind of answer is that?" He hadn't really expected her to accept, but still, he was stung with disappointment.

"It's not an answer, it's a stall," she said. "I'm stalling so I can think for a minute."

"Take your time."

She did. She gazed out over the water at the moored yachts, bobbing at their moorings, and her face was inexpressibly sad. Finally she turned to him. "Please take this in the best possible way. After what's happened to us this week, your idea is perfectly logical; it's just that I can't."

"Give me your reasons," he said.

"I can't do that, either," she replied. "Not as fully as I would like."

"Some impediment?"

She nodded. "That's fair to say."

"Another man?"

She shrugged. "Sort of."

"Sort of a man?" Sandy asked.

"It's all the answer I can give you right now, Sandy. My life is in something of a muddle, and I have some straightening out to do before I can give you the answer you want." She put her hand on his. "Believe me when I tell you, I'd like nothing better than to go back to Sixty-third Street, pack up, and move in with you."

"If it's what you want, then do it," Sandy said.

"It wouldn't be fair to you, to both of us, really. I know this is hard to take, but you're just going to have to trust me. When I'm on my feet-in more ways than one-I'll tell you, and we can start from there. Will you wait until I tell you that?"

"How long?"

"I honestly don't know. There's no easy solution, but now that I have a motive to sort it out, I'll move faster. I hope you don't think that's too mysterious."

"It's pretty mysterious, all right, but I'll trust your judgment."

"Thank you, Sandy," she said, then kissed him.

He kissed her back. "There's no impediment to going back to the house and going to bed with each other, is there?"

She smiled and kissed him again. "None whatever."

The following morning they met the airplane and flew back toward New York, each silent and sad, lost to the other. When he dropped her off at Sixty-third Street, she kissed him passionately.

"Thank you, thank you," she said.

"Not at all."

"Can I show you some sketches on Wednesday?"

"Come to the office," he said, handing her his card.

"I'd rather come to the apartment," she said. "After all, it's what I'm designing."

He nodded.

"Seven o'clock?"

He nodded again, and she was gone.

On Monday afternoon Sandy met with Sam Warren at the Mayfair Trust.

"Larsen's lawyer called this morning," Warren said. "He's come down to ten million, five. The lawyer took credit for talking him into being sensible, but he says ten million five is the least he'll take."

"We haven't even made an offer yet," Sandy said.

"True. I think the lawyer, when he looked at the deal, saw that Larsen was way out of the ballpark and talked him around. I also choose to ignore the bold talk about nothing less than ten million, five. We should just make our offer as if he'd said nothing."

"We still have to make a deal with Mike Bernini, before we can make our offer," Sandy said. "And I haven't heard from him."

"What's with the guy?" Warren asked. "You saw him, what do you think?"

"He didn't seem all that interested," Sandy replied. "I thought he'd jump at a new deal, but he didn't."

"Maybe he's a better negotiator than we think."

Sandy shrugged. "Maybe he just doesn't know what he wants."

"Lots of people are like that. Do you want me to put together an offer to him, just as a starting point, to get things moving?"

"No; if he doesn't want it, then I don't want him. I'm not going to beg the guy to come aboard."

The phone rang, and Warren picked it up. He listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Sandy. "It's your office."

Sandy took the phone. "Hello?"

"A couple of calls, Sandy" his secretary said. "Mike Bernini called; I know you were expecting to hear from him."

"Thanks, Becky," he said, scribbling the number.

"There was one other call; somebody named Bart. He wouldn't leave a last name." She gave him the number.

"Any idea who he is?" Sandy asked. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"He said you'd know."

"Thanks, Becky." He hung up, grinning. "Bernini called," he said to Warren. "You mind if I call him from here?"

"Go right ahead; I'm dying to know what he has to say."

Sandy called the number and asked for Bernini.,

"Sandy?" Mike Bernini asked.

"Yes, Mike."

"I'm glad you called back so quickly. First, I want to explain something; I know I didn't give you the reaction you wanted last week, and there was a good reason. My wife has been wanting to leave the valley. I wasn't happy at work, and that added to her doubts about staying in Napa, but we've talked it over, and I want to stay on if you buy out Larsen."

"That's terrific, Mike; I'm delighted to hear it."

"Everything depends on your offer, of course."

"Do you have a lawyer who can deal for you?"

"Yes."

"Have him call Sam Warren at the Mayfair Trust." He gave him the number. "Ask him to call first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll have the offer ready. They can work out the details."

"Great, Sandy; I hope we can come to terms."

"I hope so, too, Mike; I think we can really make something of this property. Everything depends on Larsen being reasonable, though; any offer I make you will be contingent on Larsen and I agreeing on a price and other terms."