Morning, Noon and Night. Сидни Шелдон

sebadas.’ Fried fritters filled with fresh cheese and grated lemon rind, dusted with bitter honey and sugar.

      ‘Bene, signor.’ The waiter walked away, impressed.

      As Stanford turned to talk to Sophia, his heart suddenly skipped a beat. Near the entrance to the restaurant two men were seated at a table, studying him. Dressed in dark suits in the summer sun, they were not even bothering to pretend they were tourists. Are they after me or are they innocent strangers? I mustn’t let my imagination run away with me, Stanford thought.

      Sophia was speaking. ‘I’ve never asked you before. What business are you in?’

      Stanford studied her. It was refreshing to be with someone who knew nothing about him. ‘I’m retired,’ he told her. ‘I just travel around, enjoying the world.’

      ‘And you’re all by yourself?’ Her voice was filled with sympathy. ‘You must be very lonely.’

      It was all he could do not to laugh aloud. ‘Yes, I am. I’m glad you’re here with me.’

      She put her hand over his. ‘I, too, caro.’

      Out of the corner of his eye, Stanford saw the two men leave.

      When luncheon was over, Stanford and Sophia and Dmitri returned to town.

      Stanford headed for a telephone booth. ‘I want the Crédit Lyonnais in Paris …’

      Watching him, Sophia spoke to Dmitri. ‘He’s a wonderful man, isn’t he?’

      ‘There’s no one like him.’

      ‘Have you been with him long?’

      ‘Two years,’ Dmitri said.

      ‘You’re lucky.’

      ‘I know.’ Dmitri walked over and stood guard right outside the telephone booth. He heard Stanford saying, ‘René? You know why I’m calling … Yes … Yes … You will? … That’s wonderful!’ His voice was filled with relief. ‘No … not there. Let’s meet in Corsica. That’s perfect. After our meeting, I can return directly home. Thank you, René.’

      Stanford put down the receiver. He stood there a moment, smiling, then dialed a number in Boston.

      A secretary answered. ‘Mr Fitzgerald’s office.’

      ‘This is Harry Stanford. Let me talk to him.’

      ‘Oh, Mr Stanford! I’m sorry, Mr Fitzgerald is on vacation. Can someone else …?’

      ‘No. I’m on my way back to the States. You tell him I want him in Boston at Rose Hill at nine o’clock Monday morning. Tell him to bring a copy of my will and a notary.’

      ‘I’ll try to –’

      ‘Don’t try. Do it, my dear.’ He put down the receiver and stood there, his mind racing. When he stepped out of the telephone booth, his voice was calm. ‘I have a little business to take care of, Sophia. Go to the Hotel Pitrizza and wait for me.’

      ‘All right,’ she said flirtatiously. ‘Don’t be too long.’

      ‘I won’t.’

      The two men watched her walk away.

      ‘Let’s get back to the yacht,’ Stanford told Dmitri. ‘We’re leaving.’

      Dmitri looked at him in surprise. ‘What about …?’

      ‘She can screw her way back home.’

      When they returned to the Blue Skies, Harry Stanford went to see Captain Vacarro. ‘We’re heading for Corsica,’ he said. ‘Let’s shove off.’

      ‘I just received an updated weather report, Signor Stanford. I’m afraid there’s a bad storm. It would be better if we waited it out and – ‘

      ‘I want to leave now, captain.’

      Captain Vacarro hesitated. ‘It will be a rough voyage, sir. It’s a libeccio – the southwest wind. We’ll have heavy seas and squalls.’

      ‘I don’t care about that.’ The meeting in Corsica was going to solve all his problems. He turned to Dmitri. ‘I want you to arrange for a helicopter to pick us up in Corsica and take us to Naples. Use the public telephone on the dock.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Dmitri Kaminsky walked back to the dock and entered the telephone booth.

      Twenty minutes later, Blue Skies was under weigh.

Chapter Four

      His idol was Dan Quayle, and he often used the name as his touchstone.

      ‘I don’t care what you say about Quayle, he’s the only politician with real values. Family – that’s what it’s all about. Without family values, this country would be up the creek even worse than it is. All these young kids are living together without being married, and having babies. It’s shocking. No wonder there’s so much crime. If Dan Quayle ever runs for president, he’s sure got my vote.’ It was a shame, he thought, that he couldn’t vote because of a stupid law, but, regardless, he was behind Quayle all the way.

      He had four children: Billy, eight, and the girls – Amy, Clarissa, and Susan, ten, twelve, and fourteen. They were wonderful children, and his greatest joy was spending what he liked to call quality time with them. His weekends were totally devoted to the children. He barbecued for them, played with them, took them to movies and ball games, and helped them with their homework. All the youngsters in the neighborhood adored him. He repaired their bikes and toys, and invited them on picnics with his family. They gave him the nickname of Papa.

      On a sunny Saturday morning, he was seated in the bleachers, watching the baseball game. It was a picture-perfect day, with warm sunshine and fluffy cumulus clouds dappling the sky. His eight-year-old son, Billy, was at bat, looking very professional and grown up in his Little League uniform. Papa’s three girls and his wife were at his side. It doesn’t get any better than this, he thought happily. Why can’t all families be like ours?

      It was the bottom of the eighth inning, the score was tied, with two outs and the bases loaded. Billy was at the plate, three balls and two strikes against him.

      Papa called out, encouragingly, ‘Get ’em, Billy! Over the fence!’

      Billy waited for the pitch. It was fast and low, and Billy swung wildly and missed.

      The umpire yelled, ‘Strike three!’

      The inning was over.

      There were groans and cheers from the crowd of parents and family friends. Billy stood there disheartened, watching the teams change sides.

      Papa called out, ‘It’s all right, son. You’ll do it next time!’

      Billy tried to force a smile.

      John Cotton, the team manager, was waiting for Billy. ‘You’re outta the game!’ he said.

      ‘But, Mr Cotton …’

      ‘Go on. Get off the field.’

      Billy’s father watched in hurt amazement as his son left the field. He can’t do that, he thought. He has to give Billy another chance. I’ll have to speak to Mr Cotton and explain. At that instant, the cellular phone he carried rang. He let it ring four times before he answered it. Only one person had the number. He knows I hate to be disturbed on weekends, he thought angrily.

      Reluctantly, he lifted the antenna, pressed a button, and spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘Hello?’

      The voice at the other end spoke quietly for several minutes. Papa listened, nodding from time to time. Finally he said, ‘Yes. I understand. I’ll take