Free Son of Stone by Stuart Woods Page B

man, as his father had told him to, and got out of the cab. It was, he reflected, the first time he had been in a New York City taxicab alone. He walked into the building and was greeted by a man in a uniform.
    “May I help you?”
    “Yes, please. I have an appointment with Miss Letitia Covington.”
    The man picked up a phone. “Your name?”
    “Peter Ca—Barrington,” he said, correcting himself quickly.
    The man announced him, gave him the apartment number, and told him to go up.
    Peter got on the elevator and pressed the correct button. He checked his hair and the knot in his tie in the car’s mirror and exited into a vestibule. Before he could ring the bell the door opened and he was greeted by a uniformed maid.
    “I’m Peter Barrington,” he said, and she took his coat and led him into a sunny living room facing Fifty-seventh Street. A handsome, gray-haired woman of an age he could not determine sat in an armchair.
    “Peter? I’m Letitia Covington,” she said, indicating that he should sit on the sofa next to her chair.
    “How do you do, Miss Covington,” he said. He shook the offered hand, which was cool and dry, and sat down.
    “Would you like tea?”
    “Thank you, ma’am, yes.”
    “Milk or lemon?” she asked, reaching for the pot on a silver tray before her.
    “Lemon, please, and two sugars.”
    The woman smiled to herself and poured.
    “Thank you, ma’am,” Peter said, accepting the cup.
    She offered him a tray of pastries. “Something to eat?”
    “No, thank you, ma’am.”
    “Well, now,” she said, “I’m told you are interested in attending Knickerbocker Hall.”
    “Yes, ma’am, I am.”
    “Tell me why?”
    “My goal is to be a film director,” he replied, “but my last school had only a limited program.”
    “I see. I’m told you just graduated. How did you come to graduate in December?”
    “I was an advanced student, and at the end of the last term I had an oral examination on the high school curriculum with six faculty members, and they decided to graduate me. They said they had nothing further to offer me, and I agreed with them.”
    “You must be very bright.”
    “They tell me so.”
    “Peter, have you ever had an IQ test?”
    Peter felt his cheeks color. “Yes, ma’am.”
    “And what was your score?”
    Peter gulped. “I . . . believe it was one hundred sixty-one,” he said.
    She laughed. “You mustn’t be embarrassed about that,” she said. “That’s a very high score. You might avoid telling people about it, though, unless they corner you, as I did.”
    Peter smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
    “And why do you wish to be a film director?”
    “Well, my stepfather was an actor, and I grew up around a lot of film people when we lived in Los Angeles, and I liked them. Then I started seeing a lot of old films and reading about them, and pretty soon, it was about all I could think about. I guess I was around eight then.”
    “And what was your stepfather’s name?”
    “Vance Calder,” Peter replied.
    Her face brightened. “Ah, I met him a few times,” she said. “He was charming, and, of course, he was one of our best film actors.”
    “Miss Covington, I would appreciate it if we could keep his name between us.”
    She looked surprised. “Why?”
    “Because, ever since we left Los Angeles, people have treated me differently because of his name, and I’ve never liked it. If I go to Knickerbocker, I want to be just Peter Barrington.”
    “I understand perfectly,” she said, “and I admire you for not using his name shamelessly to advance yourself, the way that many children of famous people have done.”
    “Thank you, ma’am.”
    “Have you brought any of your work?” she asked.
    Peter opened his leather envelope. “Here is a screenplay I’ve written,” he said.
    “Give me a moment,” she said, then opened the folder and began to read quickly, turning the pages. She stopped and looked up. “That is an excellent first scene,” she said.