“Funny you should ask,” she replied. “I’m a baker.”
Peter jumped in again. “Now it’s Vanessa who’s being modest,” he said. “She owns a chain of bakeries around the city called Baker’s Half Dozen.”
“I’ve seen them,” Stone said. “They always look inviting.”
“That’s what everyone says about Vanessa,” Peter said.
“Thank you, Peter,” Vanessa said. “Now, it’s time for you to get to know the guest on your right.”
Peter obediently turned to his other guest.
“Peter is just trying to be helpful,” Vanessa said, “but he can be a pain in the ass sometimes.”
“Do you have to get up at four o’clock in the morning to bake bread?” Stone asked.
“Fortunately not. I passed that chore on to others a few years ago.”
“Then you don’t have a good excuse for leaving this party early?”
“I don’t need an excuse to leave a dull party,” she replied. “I just walk out. But this promises to be an interesting dinner.”
“I’ll do what I can to help,” Stone said.
Peter turned back toward her. “Oh, I forgot to mention that Stone works for the CIA, too.”
“Please explain that, Stone,” Vanessa said, “so I won’t have to speak to Peter again.”
“Once again, Peter exaggerates,” Stone said. “I advise the director of the Central Intelligence Agency from time to widely separated time.”
“And what sort of advice do you give him?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the director that question, since I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“How disappointing.”
“Oh, only on subjects related to the Agency. Otherwise, I’m an open book.”
“I very much doubt that,” she said. “You look quite mysterious to me.”
Stone laughed. “No one has ever said that to me before.”
“Give me your sixty-second bio,” she said.
“Born Greenwich Village, attended the local schools, including NYU and its law school. Passed on the practice of law in favor of becoming a police officer—until I took a bullet in the knee, and the department used that as an excuse to invalid me out. Old law school buddy came to the rescue and offered me a job with his firm; the CIA asked me for advice. I think that brings me up to date. Your turn.”
“All right. Born on the Upper East Side, year classified. Attended the local schools, then one on the Upper West Side called Columbia. Grandfather died and left an old family business, a bakery. I took it over and built it into Baker’s Half Dozen.”
“That was skimpy,” Stone said. “I want more.”
“Then you’ll have to do it over dinner on another occasion,” she replied, fishing a card out of a tiny handbag.
Stone reciprocated. “I’ll call,” he said.
“I’ll count on it.”
“You’re neglecting me,” a woman’s voice said from behind him.
Stone turned to find a beautiful woman, probably in her mid-sixties, seated on his other hand; he introduced himself.
“I’m Betty Baker,” she replied. “You’ll have to be nice to me—I’m Vanessa’s mother.”
“I’ll be very nice to you, and not just because you’re Vanessa’s mother.”
“Well,” she said, “this has suddenly become a promising evening.” She talked so well that Stone never got around to Vanessa again. Not until they moved into the living room for coffee and brandy did he lose Betty.
Tessa materialized beside him. “I was surprised to see you talking to the silver fox instead of the redhead,” she said.
“The silver fox was captivating. How was your evening beside Mr. Chekhov?”
“Somewhat less than captivating.”
“Then you’ll have to write down some notes for me to pass on to Lance Cabot tomorrow.”
“I’ll do that, but not until tomorrow,” she said. “Mr. Chekhov has taken up quite enough of my time for this evening.”
Stone looked over her shoulder to see Vanessa Baker making her way toward the front door, in company with her mother. They both winked at him.
34
Stone was awakened the following morning by a scratching noise, which turned out to be the sound of a pencil on paper. Tessa handed him the page. “For Lance,” she said.
Stone rang for breakfast, then turned his attention to her report. “Splendid,” he said. “And what school taught you to apply pencil to paper so beautifully?”
She scrunched down beside him, fondled his genitalia, and said, “I believe we have time before breakfast to put this to use, and it appears to agree with me.”
Stone could not deny her. They were just reaching a climax when the dumbwaiter bell rang.
“What exquisite timing,” Tessa said.
“And, once again, I ask you: How did you learn to take notes so rapidly and perfectly?”
She heaved a sigh as he got out of bed to retrieve their tray. “Oh, all right: I attended a language school, and I spoke the language so badly that they taught me a new skill instead.”
“What was the language?” he asked.
“Russian.”
“And who . . .”
She held up a finger to stop him. “Sorry, I’m eating now.” She took a big bite of muffin and chewed thoughtfully.
* * *
—
Stone shaved, showered, gave Tessa a kiss, and went down to his office, depositing Tessa’s notes on Joan’s desk with instructions to scan and e-mail them to Lance Cabot.
He had hardly sat down at his desk when his iPhone buzzed.
“I’m scrambled,” Stone said.
“These are perfectly beautiful notes,” Lance said.
“I thank you on behalf of the note taker.”
“Ah, it was the lovely Tessa, wasn’t it?”
“I cannot deny that. I think I’m beginning to see at whose language school she learned to do that.”
“It’s a sort of backup skill we teach to those who are not born linguists,” Lance said. “I wish we taught it to all our students, because then I could read their reports so much more easily.”