Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 21

of Strategic Services, who also served on the Centurion board, would be meeting Leo Goldman, Jr., the CEO of the studio appointed a year before, when Rick Barron, longtime head of the studio, retired and became merely chairman.
    Stone had taken only one accounting course in college, and he thanked God that he had not slept through it. Soon he could read a balance sheet with the best of them.
    He had a sandwich at his desk, anticipating the arrival of Arrington Calder and her son, Peter. He buzzed his secretary, Joan Robertson.
    “Yes, master?”
    “I’m going to have this little boy on my hands for the better part of two weeks,” Stone said. “What the hell am I going to do with him? Children’s theater? Museum of Natural History? Boats on the pond in Central Park?”
    “How old is the boy?” she asked.
    “Twelve, I think.”
    “Well, that lets out girls; he’ll still hate them. How about South Street Seaport? Boys love sailing vessels.”
    “Good one,” Stone said, making a note. “More.”
    “Ummm . . . Central Park Zoo?”
    “Another good one. More.”
    “The Lion King?”
    “Oh, God, I’ve been avoiding that for years.”
    “You’ll love it, believe me. And that’s enough for three or four days. I’ll do some research. What are you doing for dinner tonight? Not Elaine’s, I hope.”
    “Why not Elaine’s? He might see a movie star, or something. Anyway, Dino is bringing Ben, who’s just home from school for Christmas.”
    “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about what to do with him. After all, Arrington will be here, too, and she, at least, is accustomed to acting as a parent.”
    “Don’t say ‘parent,’ ” he said. “Hearing it gives me the willies. I’ll be his host.”
    “You’ll survive,” she said, then hung up.
    Stone finished his sandwich, frequently checking his watch. Arrington’s Gulfstream III was due into Teterboro at noon, or so, and he had hired a driver and sent his car to meet them. So, he reckoned, they should be here about ... the upstairs doorbell rang . . . now. He took a deep breath, got into his jacket, and ran up the stairs to the front hall. One more deep breath, a big smile slapped on his face, and he opened the door.
    A handsome young man stood there, wearing a tweed jacket and a necktie and holding a briefcase, the driver behind him with two more cases. What the hell?
    “Uncle Stone?” the young man said.
    “Peter? I wouldn’t have recognized you! Come in! Is your mother still in the car?”
    Peter stepped in and shucked off his overcoat. “No, sir,” he said.
    “Just put the cases on the elevator,” Stone said to the driver. “Then put the car in the garage, and you’re done.” He pressed a fifty into the man’s hand and closed the door.
    “Now,” he said to Peter. “What did you just say?”
    Peter handed him a sealed envelope, the back of which was emblazoned with the words “Calder Hall.”
    “Come in, come in,” Stone said to the boy. “Have a seat while I read this.” He took a chair himself and tore open the envelope.
    Stone, I’m sorry to tell you this at the last minute, but I had a bad day yesterday, and my doctor has put me into the hospital, where they’re running some tests. I hope this is not a recurrence of the cancer, but I’ll know soon. In the meantime, take good care of our boy, and remember, don’t tell him anything. I’ll be in touch.
     
    Fondly,
Arrington
    “I think mostly she’s just tired, Uncle Stone,” Peter said. “She said she’d call tomorrow.”
    Stone stuffed the envelope back into his pocket. “Well, I guess it’s just you and me, then, Peter. And by the way, just call me Stone, okay? I’m not your uncle anyway.”
    Peter managed a smile. “All right, Stone.”
    “How old are you now?”
    “Fifteen,” Peter said.
    “My God, I somehow thought you were twelve.” He handed the boy the photograph of him.
    “I was twelve when this was taken,” he said.
    “When did you turn fifteen?”
    “Nearly a year ago. I’ll be sixteen next month.”
    “Sixteen!” My God , he thought. Has it been that long ?
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And don’t call me sir, either. Let’s just be friends. How tall are you?”
    “Five feet eleven and a half inches, si—Stone.”
    “That’s tall for fifteen—er, sixteen—isn’t it?”
    “I think so. The doctor told me I’ll be well over six feet.”
    “I expect you will. And your voice has already changed; you’re a baritone.”
    “It happens, I