“That’s right,” Dino said. “Promises are often implied.” Genevieve patted his hand. Dino might finally get laid.
“You stay out of this,” Stone said to him. He picked up a menu. “Let’s order dinner.” He waved his empty glass at a waiter.
Elaine came and sat down. “So, you going to the wedding?”
Stone didn’t look up from the menu. “I’m a victim of a conspiracy,” he said.
“We’re just all concerned about you,” Dino said, his voice dripping sarcasm.
Stone closed his menu. “Am I going to have to dine down the street somewhere?”
Elaine glared at him. “Not unless you want your legs broken,” she said.
A waiter appeared with Stone’s bourbon, then whipped out his pad. “What may I get for you?”
Stone ordered the green bean salad and the spaghetti carbonara and a bottle of the Mondavi Cabernet for the table.
“Elaine,” Genevieve said, “after next Sunday, you’re going to have to put crow on the menu for Stone’s benefit.”
Elaine laughed heartily. “Stone, you don’t think she’s gonna go through with it?”
“I have accepted her invitation to the wedding,” Stone said, “and I will accept whatever she decides next Sunday.”
Elaine laughed. “He doesn’t think she’s gonna go through with it.”
“Of course not,” Dino said.
Stone sipped his drink.
36
Stone got home late that night, having been somewhat overserved at Elaine’s. He reset the alarm system and took the elevator upstairs to his bedroom.
He took off his jacket and reached to hang it up with his other jackets, but something was wrong. His suits hung where he ordinarily hung his jackets. He shook his head, disoriented, then looked around: His jackets hung on the opposite wall, where he kept his suits. He felt slightly nauseated, as if he were on a rolling ship.
He opened the top drawer of the built-in chest of drawers, where he normally kept socks and found shirts. He opened the third drawer, where he kept shirts, and found sweaters. He had begun to sweat. Stone went into the bathroom and threw up.
He blew his nose, splashed cold water on his face and reached for a towel on the ring beside the sink. He found his cotton bathrobe there. The hand towels were lined up on the edge of the bathtub. He did not throw up this time; instead, he got angry.
He went back into his bedroom and looked around. Four oil paintings by his mother, Matilda Stone, that normally hung to his left were on the opposite wall. The nonmatching lamps on either side of his bed had exchanged places. He reached into a bedside table drawer for tissues to mop his brow and found condoms. The bedspread had been reversed. The small rug beside his bed was now at the foot.
He went back to his dressing room and undressed, hanging his clothes on hooks, to be dealt with the next day, then, after trying half a dozen different drawers, he found a nightshirt and put it on. He got into his bed and discovered it had been short-sheeted. He remade the bed, got into it and fell asleep.
He had nightmares.
Stone met Bob Cantor for lunch the next day at P. J. Clarke’s. “How was the Mayflower Inn?” he asked.
“Just lovely,” Cantor said. “Bonnie and I had a fine night there. Good dinner, too. You’re looking a little peaked, Stone. Drink too much last night?”
“Maybe,” Stone said glumly. “You know that circuit board you changed in the Connecticut alarm system?”
“Yes.”
“Change the one in my Turtle Bay house, too.”
“Uh-oh, somebody get into the house?”
“Yes, and more.”